#danny lyon

[joeinct]

Gloria, Santa Marta, Colombia, Photo by Danny Lyon, 1972

[chantssecrets]

Bob Dylan on the back porch of the SNCC office in Greenwood, Mississippi on July 2, 1963 (less than a month after the murder of Medgar Evers). Photo by Danny Lyon.

[matchpointfaist]

[mike faist masterlist]

*indicates smut/adult content

mike faist rpf ↴

masterlist here

art donaldson ↴

tennis court smau

closer*

olympic art! drabble*

talk talk smau one, two

mechanic art*

cindy lou who

buy me presents*

mistletoe*

our house

drunk calls

loser! art*

vampire*

size kink*

bones and all*

goodbye means you're losin me for life*

sugar talkin isn't working tonight*

tears run down my thighs*

we were so happy, why not mix it up*

thought sleeping with you might help me decide*

manchild*

the lakes*

illicit affairs*

invisible string*

peace*

mad woman

tear you apart*

seven*

mirrorball

the last great american dynasty*

the one*

ballet! art*

tsitp au*

miss americana and the heartbreak prince*

guilty as sin*

lovergirl one, two

making you dinner

hunger games one, two*

physiotherapist one, two*

loser art smau*

breeding*

coach art*

european vacation*

anobrain

rockstar art one, two*

jealousy jealousy*

tennis coach*

i'm a giver*

i'm still your boy*

close enough to feel you*

promises*

shy reader

apollo and devotee*

million dollar man*

pr relationship one, two

first time*

character study

lazy day with dilf art*

theater reader one, two

dazzling starlet, bardot reincarnate

honeymoon ave*

camgirl one, two*

pride and prejudice*

pretty woman*

dodge mason ↴

degradation*

skinny dipping

tried to change the ending, peter losing wendy

reckless driving*

valentine's day

come back to our place, baby, don't be afraid of our love*

take it like a taker, baby i'm a giver!*

connor murphy ↴

size kink*

hoax*

it's not living if it's not with you

swan song*

matilda

cheerleader reader*

new girl

me and you together song one, two

danny lyon ↴

my coney island baby*

nurse reader

riff lorton ↴

best friends

rich girl reader one, two, three, four

teacher reader

roger sharpe ↴

rhiannon*

romancing*

[sowhatfaist]

am i right or am i right

[outofeverythingthisnamewasleft]

El Segundo Barrio (the Second Ward) in El Paso, Texas, June 1972. Danny Lyon.

[ambrcia]

arms arms arms 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

[lascitasdelashoras]

Danny Lyon - Namiquipa, Chihuahua, Mexico, 1972

[musingsofheaven]

BLESS THIS MESS

summary: cruel intentions inspired but make it stanford, tennis and country clubs. pretty lies, perfect masks, and a bet between the two of them that’s will lead into something more deeper.

pairings: art donaldson!sebastian valmont/lucien belmont x reader!kathryn/caroline merteuil.

warnings: 4.6k words. mature themes. non-biological step-siblings. emotional manipulation. power imbalance. voyeurism. recorded sexual acts. sexual self-indulgence. toxic relationship dynamics. d/s undertones. morally gray behavior.

note: this one’s been living in my head rent-free ever since i rewatched the movie. i swear i’m not like them (promise), but i love writing about fucked-up people. so i might keep this going. (if people like it) should i make a specific tag for it? (and reposted… the last one is shadowbanned.)

Introducing… Reader!Kathryn/Caroline Merteuil. You’re the sweetest girl at Stanford. Everyone says so. Because how could they not say that? You just have that face that people… People feel comfortable being with, the one people trust. That soft, approachable, pretty, not intimidating… God no! You don’t even have a resting bitch face, and not too sexy, just right. Your lips? Always glossed but not over-lined and not messy. Never messy. Your lashes curled, and you even have extensions, but not the kind that will cover your beautiful eyes. You have a smile on your whole face like you mean it. You practiced smiling perfectly so that people don’t know it’s fake. You smile and pretend you don’t know what they want from you.

You RSVP early, you make them feel special because, aw, you remembered! You send handwritten notes using an expensive pen and it shows how expensive it is. You bake when you’re stressed, of course, you know how to bake. Your mother made you take lessons for it to cure your boredom because she couldn’t give you attention. Making the actual shit from scratch and leaving extras in the kitchen like some fairy. You show up to worship on Sundays with a notebook in your designer bag and you make sure that your hair is fixed enough to show your face like you’re ready to listen, to repent, to believe.

You wear dresses that hug your curves and touch past your thighs. It looks sweet, but not slutty, never slutty… unless it’s for parties. But not much that your soul will show. You love that beige heels. Don’t start with pink nails… always your color. Not a single hair tie on your wrist, that looks cheap. You are not cheap. When you hug people, you mean it. Or do you? Maybe you are rolling your eyes behind their back when you hug them. When you speak, you’re careful. You don’t want the wrong people to hear you talking shit, right? You never drink too much. You don’t black out drunk like other girls. Pretty girls know how to handle their liquor, you always say. Never talk too loud. The whole world doesn’t need to hear your voice. Never post anything that could get you called out, or canceled. Your digital footprint is so squeaky clean, that it makes your stalkers angry when they can’t find anything about you.

You are, to put it simply, perfect.

And the thing about being perfect is? Everyone wants a piece of you.

They want to be you.

Or they want to be inside you.

Either works.

It’s not old news to you when you overheard that line because it happened more than once, blurt out like a joke but meant like a prayer.

“Dude, I’d sell a kidney to fuck her.”

“I wanna be her or be in her. I don’t even care which. Is that too lesbian to say?”

“She’s, like… wife material. Just look at her. But she’s also…? Kind of terrifying.”

You always play dumb. You love to make people think you’re some dumb girl. You just tilt your head. Blink at the words you are hearing. You give a sweet smile like you don’t know what they’re talking about. That’s part of it. That’s what makes it work because you act clueless.

You are the definition of classy. Elegant. Polished. That’s what they call you. The kind of girl their moms would trust because of how you present yourself and how your reputation reflects and their daughters side-eye in secret because your name has been brought up to compare to them when they do shit and their mother found out. They think you run your sorority because you're kind, you’re a leader, and you’re inspirational. Well…

They think your power comes from being likable. That’s adorable. So fucking cute.

It’s hidden behind the curtains how you move every piece like a chess. They don’t see the way how you play girls off each other while you hand them the tissues because they teared up. You knew they would cry because you made sure to hit the right spots. The way you just play dumb and act you like don’t see how those stupid frat boys humiliate themselves just to talk, sit, or get a piece of you. You will hear those girls change their tone when they asked how you do it, meaning, how you stay so nice, so cool, so together, and you just bat your lashes and smile like you are saying that it’s a secret, like it’s luck, like you didn’t a personal notes, journal, or board to plan every goddamn inch of it. Maybe people will tell you to have OCD when they discover how obsessed you are with details when you plan something.

Because being the perfect girl? That’s not luck.

It’s precision. It’s strategy. It’s control.

But hey, what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Like they don’t know that you blackmailed three girls off your rush list this rush season alone. It didn’t cause any scandal, not really. It didn’t happen accidentally. You pulled the trigger as if you already knew the weight of consequences, you don’t have consequences, only them because they fucked you up.

The first girl? She just happened to hook up with one of your girls' boyfriends. What a home wrecker. She’s sloppy, too sloppy. She left with hickeys and even got caught on someone’s finsta at 3AM in his hoodie, sneaking out of the house in Rowan Neighbourhood. Such a reckless girl. What's worse is you don’t enjoy it much because you don’t have to dig for that one. You just watched your sister cry in the bathroom stall and thought, what a shame that bitch did that to your girl. She would’ve looked cute in your color if she got accepted. But the betrayal? Off brand. You don’t need another stress. So you crossed her off the list with a note beside her name saying she’s a home wrecker bitch. Sent her that cute letter of yours saying that she’s “not the right fit.” Before you sent your sister’s cheating ex-boyfriend a screen recording of her DMing one of the frat pledges two nights later. You have to put a little extra touch.

Oh don’t get started with the second girl. It’s humiliating when you find out. She had an academic record from high school that looked clean, too good to be true. Your guts just told you something is wrong so you ran it through the software your ex-boyfriend built you to find dirt about someone. Cheating scandal. What in the hell? Almost expelled for buying an exam answer key from a user from Reddit. As usual, covered up. By who? Her parents. Use a donation move. Money is power. But you smiled when you found it. Nothing screams “walking scandal” like an academic shady record before you even step into college. Of course, you could be a little bit dramatic. You printed out the report you found and put it in her rush envelope with a sticky note, a pink one, saying, “Maybe next year.” You don’t want girls who cheat in your circle anyway.

Ah. The last one. Well, this is kind of funny and petty. She clumsily spilled a full glass of red wine on your white silk Valentino at a welcome dinner for the rush. You noticed the nervous hands. Shaking apology. Hm. You didn’t yell even yell, didn’t scream at her face even if you wanted to, didn’t even flinch. Just smiled with teeth… nodding before you said, “Don’t worry about it.” Then her name was gone off the list the moment the dinner was over. That dress was custom-made only for you. She was clumsy. It will be funny if it’s not on a special day or when you won’t get humiliated. It’s not that deep, you know that, but deep enough to be memorable, enough to remember the stains on your dress. People don’t like humiliation especially when you have an image in that place. If you let one girl get away with embarrassing you in public by just acknowledging and accepting her awful apology, the rest will start to think they can too. You can’t have that. Never.

You didn’t lie. Well, not that they can catch your lie, right? You didn’t threaten. Not in a way they can pick up that it’s a threat you are saying. You didn’t even raise your voice.

You just let them spiral on their own.

Stanford runs on the image. Reputation. Control. You don’t want to be a social suicide. Ew. You don’t just maintain yours, you crochet it little by little like a kid needs a hobby to focus on. Your hands are clean, it’s like you wear expensive princess gloves just not to let them get dirty. Your hands? They never touch anything directly. Everything goes through someone else because they are desperate to do your favors. You let everyone else dirty theirs trying to reach you.

Because you’re the girl everyone wants to be.

Or be inside.

Or both.

And they will never know how ugly it gets underneath.

Except him.

And when something calls for a messier touch?

You have Art.

Your stepbrother, unfortunately. Stanford’s favorite golden boy. Tennis prodigy. He’s good to the point you will wish he would shove his racket inside you and rearrange your guts. Even he walks in soft clothes, all sweat and baby curls, and the kind of smile that every grandmother loves? Expect that people are giving him the fuck me eyes. But he’s yours. Not officially, not publicly. He’s yours in all the ways that count. He knows that too.

He follows you. Lapdog is the word you will describe him. Too eager to please you. Too desperate. You use that in your favor. You send him out like a dog in heat. He fucks who you tell him to fuck. Mostly the girls from your list. Sometimes the ones you hate. And he records them. What a sick fuck, people will say if they know it.

Not for blackmail. (Okay, sometimes for blackmail.)

You give him the name and a smile. Sometimes it’s just a text saying, “Kappa legacy. Show me if she moans loud enough compared to when she's talking shit about me.”

What’s good about him is he does. He always does.

The first time he sent you the video of the girl you asked him to ruin, the video was shaky, awful quality, and loud. You watched it once. Just once. That’s it. But you saved it.

Now there’s a folder named, “Summer files.” Lame folder name but with a history behind it. One summer when the first time he… yeah. But it’s password-protected. Only you and him have access.

You know that sometimes he fuck around in and out of campus not just for the blackmail anymore, just because. But mostly for you. For your eyes. For your enjoyment. Because he knows what it does to you. He finds it hot, and he gets off by it. Just because you like seeing it.

He’s aware you watch them at night. Your hand under your panties. Legs spread in your sheets, head thrown back while you’re flicking your pretty fingers with pink-colored nails over your clit as he fucks some girl in the recording with a camera angled just right. Sometimes, he looks straight into his phone when he’s inside them. It’s like he’s pretending it’s you. Like he’s thinking about you when he groans, low and pretty, when he holds back a whimper. His hand gripping their hip while they whine like they’re the lucky ones. Oh, they’re not. You enjoy watching those girls fall apart over someone you can control with your fingers around his throat and your voice in his ear.

But it’s not about them. It never is. And will never be.

You exactly get it. So much. You want the girls fucked up by him in a deeply perverted, obsessive, deranged way. Like the videos aren’t about the girls, not really. It’s more like the girls are just props for him to use while he lets her watch the position she wants to be in. Lucky them. And him? You want him sweaty and wrecked and yours, even when he’s inside someone else’s cunt.

She doesn’t cum despite him fucking other girls—she gets off on it. It’s fucked up way to get yourself to work. You can’t just fight your morals when you are watching your screen when he’s inside someone else, working her open, making her cry, and none of it means anything. Because it’s not about the girls. The girls are just there so she can watch him. Just wet holes, nothing more than meat to show off what you trained him to do. The way he fucks now? The way he groans? Chokes? Slams into them just right? That’s not natural. That’s how you like to be fucked by him. He’s just practicing it through other girls because you don’t let him do it in you.

That’s your voice in his head, your grip still ghosting his throat. He can still hear your words when he manages to get a little taste of you. He learned all that from you. And now he performs it like a dream, putting on a show for the only person who matters. You. It’s not arousing because he’s with someone else, it’s arousing because he’s still yours while doing it.

Every thrust is proof. Every moan is your reward. He could be inside a thousand different girls, and it wouldn’t matter, not as long as you’re the one watching. That’s what makes you come and shake until your thighs hurt. That’s what makes you pant and twitch and grind your slick fingers between your legs, gliding it between your slit while his voice cracks in the dark of your room while you are listening to him through the tapes he sent you. He’s fucking them, sure. But he’s doing it for you.

The fun part is when you watch them with him too, sometimes. Not always. In your room. On your laptop. He’s always fidgety when he’s watching it beside you like he’s anxious. His leg bounces like he’s gonna lose his mind because you are too close.

It’s quiet. The only thing you can hear is the sounds from your laptop. No touching. He’s so desperate to do it though. No talking. He doesn’t need it. Just you, legs crossed, eyes on the screen, biting your thumb like you’re bored. Some poor girl cries his name into the sheets like it’s a prayer while he’s thrusting deep inside her and pushing the girl’s head on the pillow. Mean.

You think he likes that? You think he likes being watched by you. No… scratch that, you know he does.

After all, he’s the only one who sees how dirty it all gets. How unhinged you can be.

You make the rules. He breaks them. For you. Always for you.

You tell yourself it’s about the power. The control. The game. But deep down, you know that’s a lie. It’s about him. It’s always been about him. The way his back flexes when he fucks. You can see the muscles and you just want to scratch that back. The way he grips their hips like he’s afraid they’ll float away. It made you think how he will hold your hips. Will he make it bruised so you will remember it? Will he hold it tight as he slams his cock deep into you so you won’t move around and he can fuck you the way he likes? The sweat on his neck, you want to lick that. The flush on his chest. The way his jaw clenches and his voice catches when he’s close. You know when he’s really close, when he’s orgasming for real. No fake grunts, not performance, but real, guttural, cracked-open moans that only you know how to read. You don’t even need sound anymore. You can see it all in his face.

You’ve watched the tapes. All of them. You don’t miss a video. It’s like when he put another video in the shared folder? You will quickly get notified. You have favorites that you watch more than once. (One of your favorite is when he fuck one girl from your sorority and he have the nerve to fuck her in your sheet) Some so many times you’ve memorized the order of his thrusts. And it’s not to study them. Not anymore. You study him. You know every vein on his cock, it’s disgusting the way you zoom it when you are watching the video. You know every freckle on his shoulders, every twitch of his fingers when he’s holding back. Every time he glances into the lens, you know exactly who he’s thinking about. It’s not her. It’s you.

He doesn’t touch the girls the way he touches you. They don’t get that treatment from him. But you do. You can tell when he’s faking it. When he’s fucking just because he’s trying to finish what she said to him, hips moving just enough to pass, eyes flat, mind somewhere else. The way he looks more on the camera. And you know exactly where that somewhere else is because that’s when you’ve been texting him. (He always message you when he’s going to start recording in his phone. You both don’t video call, no. He just records on his phone while you send them) During. Sometimes just one word at a time: slower. say her name. touch her throat. good boy. No emojis. No punctuation. You know he can see the messages in his notifications even though the sounds are silent. Just on vibrate. And he does it. Of course he does. Because he knows you’re watching.

When he nods, just barely, just enough to let you know he got the message although you don’t see it. You squeeze your thighs together and whimper without sound because you can only imagine what’s he’s doing with the girl. After all, he will only show the tapes after he fucked them.

The girls don’t matter. They never did. Why would they even matter to you? They’re faceless, replaceable , nothing but background noise to frame the real subject. He’s the center. The reason. Your brother. Your masterpiece.

Sometimes you come before he does when both of you watches it together. Bite the inside of your wrist just to stay quiet, panting into your sheets while he’s still pounding into someone else in the background of your laptop like it means something. And still, you keep watching. You like it too much. You don’t look away. You can’t. Just. Can’t. You don’t come for her. You don’t even come for you. You come for him. For the way his rhythm falls apart when he’s close. For the way he bites his lip like he’s trying to hold your name back. For the fantasy you’ve fed yourself so many times it feels like truth—that he’s not really fucking her at all. He’s fucking you, just through someone else’s body, just until you finally let him have the real thing.

You know he wants it. He yearns of it. Its’s too obvious anyway. You see it in how eager he is to please. To perform. Sometimes you just want to tease him about starting an OF because he basically has the talent for it. To be good for you. He thinks you’re the camera. But no. You’re the mirror. He’s always been looking into you.

And god, you love it. You love being the reason. The center of him being crazy. The god behind the curtain, legs sticky, heart steady, watching your perfect boy ruin someone else just to make you feel something. You’re not the audience. You’re the director. The producer. The pervert in the front row, getting off behind the curtain like it’s a private showing just for you. And you. do get off every time.

And the worst part? You don’t even feel guilty.

You feel alive.

And sometimes, only sometimes, you reward him.

Like the night he got that footage of the girl you couldn’t stand. You loved that one. He did a good job. She ended up whining and babbling through her orgasm like a dumb little puppy in his tape. You let him stay over that night. Pulled him into your bed. You didn’t say thank you, didn’t kiss him. You just tugged his shorts down and stroked his dick off while still watching the screen with you.

It’s filthy. Your hand is slick with his pre cum. So wet like a girl. Your eyes never leave the video. The girl crying. Him pounding her cunt from the back. You? Silent while rewarding him for a job well done.

You didn’t even look at his face until he came. You just run and circled your thumb on the slit of his tip while squeezing his cock. And him? He bit your neck a little too hard afterward. He even left a hickey, but you let him. He earned it.

He thinks he’s the corrupted one.

Thinks he’s the problem.

Thinks he’s dark for wanting you to see all of it. For wanting you to see him.

But that’s the joke.

He was already fucked before you. He’s already messed up. You know it. He knows it. You just made him honest about it. You made him embrace it around you. Taught him how to weaponize it. How to use it to his advantage. Put a mirror to his want and made him stare until he broke skin. It’s not sex. Not really. Just control. Yours. Always.

And maybe that’s why he comes to you that night like he’s got something to offer. (He always has, sometimes you just made hints feel he doesn’t) Like he’s got chips to play with when he’s already flat on the floor, bleeding out beneath your heel like a bunny that has been abandoned by his owner.

He leans in, smelling like cigarette smoke and some girl’s perfume he never even touched. Voice low like a secret, cigarette hanging loose between his fingers like a hedge in a fucking movie, and says, “About that little wager of yours?”

There’s that twitch in your smile. The one you trained to look polite. Your eyes twinkled. Curiosity sparkling. But you know. You fucking know, he’s already lost. He just doesn’t know it yet. He never does. And that’s the part that turns you on the most. Both of you like to play.

“Count me in,” he adds, with that cocky smirk that means he thinks he’s a game changer in this. Thinks he’s playing the game like you didn’t design the fucking whole thing, put the puzzles together, and made it possible to happen.

You don’t answer right away. You just hum while you trace the neck of your wineglass in a slow and lazy motion. You tilt your head like you’re thinking of continuing it or not. He stares. He always stares. You were made to be looked at.

“What are the terms?” he finally asks, and god, even his voice sounds fucked. Like it’s straining to stay casual. Like he’s grounding himself. Like it’s already halfway into a whimper. He always seems trying to hold back a moan when he’s around you is he not?

“If I win…” you start, and then you leave it. Just hang it in the air like a mystery. Heavy. Sticky. Sweet. Enough to tease him and you can already see it on his expression. The way his mouth parts a little and nods.

Then you finish it, “Then that hot little car of yours is mine.” Yeah, you know he loves it so much because it comes from his father.

He goes still, thinking, thinking, and thinking while jaw twitching, tongue pushing against his inside cheek like he’s trying to process it. Tries to act cool. Fails. You see it all, the flicker in his eyes, the pulse in his neck. You can see him getting worked up. Angry? Irritated.

“And if I win?” he manages, voices rough and deep.

You lean in like you’re gonna kiss him. Face inches close to him. But you don’t. You just stay close to him. You just breathe across his cheek and lean more so you can whisper in his ear, “I’ll give you what you’ve been obsessing about ever since our parents got married.”

And that? That’s the piece of chess you don’t say with a smirk. You say it flat. Mean. Nonchalant. Almost mocking. Like truth.

He stiffens, and you swear you can feel the temperature shift. Maybe he’s just turning you on.

“Be more specific,” he says, but it sounds like begging. He always begs.

You laugh. “In English…”

“I’ll fuck your brains out,” you smirk at him, almost testing him if he will quickly agree. He always does. Always. You feel like you wouldn’t be persuading him that much.

Silence. But not the empty kind. The kind that crackles. The kind that begs.

He doesn’t look at you. Not directly. Just somewhere near your mouth. “What makes you think I’d go for that bet?”

You shrug like it’s boring. Like it’s easy. He always agrees to the bet. Especially that price? She knows how badly he wants to fuck her in her pussy, deep, and her clenching him around his cock. She knows he dreamt of it.

“That’s a 1956 Jaguar roadster.” He huffs a laugh, but it sounds hollow. Like he’s already halfway to yes.

You tilt your head and say it. “Because I’m the only person you can’t have, and it kills you.”

That gets him. Gets him good. You watch it happen, his throat working around nothing, his fingers twitching, the way his knees shift like he wants to crawl under the table and beg. He masks it with a defensive “No way.”

But you lean back. Spread your legs just slightly beneath the table like it’s a reflex. Like you want him to look. Like you want him to lose. You even lift your skirt a little so he can see enough of your see-through panties that are hugging your cunt, which made your clit can’t breathe.

“You can put it anywhere.”

And that’s the fucking break. That’s when he snaps.

His mouth parts, eyes going blown black, and he breathes the words out like a fucking prayer.

“You got yourself a bet, baby.”

And just like that, you win again.

You don’t feel guilty. Not when you’re the one he wants. Not when every girl he touches is just a poor man’s version of you, so easy, so grateful, so forgettable. You don’t feel guilty because he’s the one sending you videos at 2 a.m., saying her name with your face in his head. Because he comes back to you every time, he always does even when he’s pretending not to. Even when he’s fucking someone else, he’s thinking of you.

You don’t feel guilty because you’re not the sidepiece, you’re the goddamn center of him. And you know it. You count on it. Let them call it twisted. Let them say it’s cruel. You don’t care. You’ve never cared. Because what you have is bigger than guilt, bigger than shame, it’s power, and it’s permanent. He’ll never shake you. Not when every orgasm is a confession. Not when every breakdown has your name buried in it. You don’t feel guilty. You just get horny and turned on.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝