#art/writing challenge

[pixiefeatherkw3]

I have a little art/writing dynamic if anybody wants to join:

!!Make your local Cold smile!!

Yes. That's it. It doesn't matter how, doesn't matter what type of smile. Your Cold doesn't even have a mouth? WHO CARES?! nothing can stop the cold little freak.

[martyfive]

SHHH… ma’s looking for you!

[inkskinned]

i hate to say it because i'm neurodivergent and a chronic-pain-haver but like... sometimes stuff is going to be hard and that's okay.

it's okay if you don't understand something the first few times it's explained to you. it's okay if you have to google every word in a sentence. it's okay if you need to spend a few hours learning the context behind a complicated situation. it's okay if you need to read something, think about it, and then come back to re-read it.

i get it. giving up is easier, and we are all broken down and also broke as hell. nobody has the time, nobody has the fucking energy. that is how they win, though. that is why you feel this way. it is so much easier, and that is why you must resist the impetus to shut down. fight through the desire you've been taught to "tl;dr".

embrace when a book is confusing for you. accept not all media will be transparent and glittery and in the genre you love. question why you need everything to be lily-white and soft. i get it. i also sometimes choose the escapism, the fantasy-romance. there's no shame in that. but every day i still try to make myself think about something, to actually process and challenge myself. it is hard, often, because of my neurodivergence. but i fight that urge, because i think it's fucking important.

especially right now. the more they convince you not to think, the easier it will be to feed you misinformation. the more we accept a message without criticism, the more power they will have over that message. the more you choose convenience, the more they will make propaganda convenient to you.

[ervotica]

hot rod — a.donaldson & p.zweig

pairings; art donaldson x fem!reader, patrick zweig x fem!reader, art donaldson x patrick zweig

summary; patrick comes to visit you and art at college. he finds college life is a lot more adventurous than once anticipated

warnings; mdni, 18+ only, SMUT, threesome, overstim, oral (m receiving), sub leaning!reader and art, more dom leaning!patrick, established throuple, polyamory

a/n; i’m not so sure how i feel about this tbh. i love the dynamic though so i pushed through even when it got away from me a little🥲 there will be another drabble for older!art and his pretty girl soon!!

you and art fuck until you’re brain dead and passed out from exhaustion. always have. neither of you possess an off switch, and when patrick’s not there to rein the pair of you in, things get a little… messy.

his cum is dried in your hair, the sticky substance smeared across your cheek, his knuckles still wet with slick.

patrick walks in, full belly laughs and peels you from art’s sweat soaked form, gives your cheek a pinch when you stir and whine.

he doesn’t clean you up because he likes to leave you naked whenever he has the opportunity — which is more often than not. seriously, you two need close supervision.

he just carries you with him to that shitty little armchair in art’s dorm, the room still stinking of sex and the humid summer air clinging to your skin; art shines with perspiration where he’s face down on the bed.

pat makes do with the lack of room, hooking a bare leg over the backs of your thighs until you’re squeezed snugly against his torso, face smushed to his chest. you’re snoring, and it makes patrick smile, slumping down in his chair to rest his lips against your cheekbone.

you wake slowly, eyes sticky and crusted over with exhaustion. your face is almost nestled beneath patrick’s armpit where you’ve been writhing in slumber and you grumble at the scent of sweat, layered with cheap aftershave. his hard-on presses to the center of your stomach and you can feel everything— the curve it makes now it’s hard and weeping, the feel of the spongy head, the vein that runs through the middle.

“you smell, pat,” you grumble, reaching up blindly to snatch the cigarette from between his teeth and take a long pull from the stick.

“yeah, well you’re not so hot yourself, babe. the whole room reeks.” he reaches down to tug on a loose strand of hair at the crown of your head. “there’s cum in your hair.”

“not my fault.” you stretch upward like a cat, curling into patrick’s chest. “where’s art gone?”

“still sleeping, baby.” he lights another cigarette, sacrificing the first one to you - still resting between your lips - and the clicking of the lighter draws your head upward to gaze through heavy lashes at him.

“come to bed,” you murmur, kissing his knuckles. your free hand coasts a long line across his jaw and you dig your thumb beneath his ear, giggling when he scrunches his features and relents, and pushes you to stand with a swat to your naked backside.

art curls into you instinctively when you roll onto the mattress, your hand threading through the curls atop his head. you scrub sweeping circles across his bare back and he hums a pleased sound, smearing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. patrick splays himself over the pair of you, all long limbs that sit askew to cover as much of your naked frames as possible.

art squints through the yellow light that illuminates the room, bright and artificial on his sensitive eyes. your movements against him don’t halt, a slow, rhythmic, loving sweep of your hands that he’s come to look forward to in moments like this. his jaw tilts upward as he mouths at your neck like a starved man, like you haven’t just gone five rounds and collapsed from overstimulation.

“you two need supervision,” patrick snorts. you quirk a bemused brow. “i’m serious, look at what you’ve done to each other! you look like you’ve been mauled.”

“jealous, much?” art mumbles sleepily, the sound muffled through your skin. you’re laughing and it splits your expression in two, eyes crinkled with amusement as the strawberry blonde boy snipes at patrick.

“should’a come to college with us, pretty boy,” you giggle. “could’a had this twenty four seven.” you dip your head until your brow presses to art’s. “poor pat, with no one to stick his dick in. how will he ever cope?”

“you could help me out, sweets,” he deadpans, the nickname saccharine and sour on his tongue all at once. art watches you through heavy lids. you huff, biting playfully at art’s lip before you tilt your head to face patrick,

“okay,” you chirrup. art’s quick to sit up, separating from your warmth in favour of nuzzling against patrick. patrick tips his chin down, slanting his lips against the blonde boy’s.

meanwhile, you’re working his cock through his shorts, palming the muscle until it chubs up beneath your hand, drooling a wet patch through the fabric. patrick groans, hips rolling up into your touch when you hook your fingers beneath his waistband and tug his cock free.

he moans into art’s mouth and your mouth goes dry at the sight. you’ve always loved to watch them like this, the way they get lost in each other, the way they start fervently pushing into one another’s space until patrick inevitably makes the first move and sticks his tongue down art’s throat.

patrick turns to putty beneath art’s roaming touch, huge paws that squeeze and grope and push at every inch of skin they come into contact with, not stopping even as you press your face to the seam of patrick’s balls, inhaling the sweat-soaked musk that creeps up your nostrils.

art’s hand snakes downward, flicking over pert nipples and ridges of muscle before he’s flicking a thumb over the weeping slit of his cock. patrick’s back bows into an arch as you lave your tongue over his sack, humming into the sensitive skin, full and heavy and begging for release. his hips rock upward into you as you seal your lips over him, eyes heavy with lust as art comes down to meet your mouth over his mushroom head.

it’s filthy and messy, downright pornographic as art licks over patrick’s cock, tongue pressing flat against the corner of your mouth and letting his spit pool there. you’re moaning - unable to help yourself - pressing your face forward to slant your lips over art’s fully. it’s all spit and drool as you lick into art’s mouth, the heady taste of the brunette boy still on your tongue, and then patrick’s bracing a hand against each of your heads and easing his cock through the seam where your spit slick mouths mesh.

you gasp and your damp lashes flutter, heavy with tears, and art’s tugging you frantically by your waist, pressing your bare chest to his own as patrick throws his head back and groans, shallow thrusts deepening. his breath stutters out in short, sharp bursts, chest heaving when your face slides down, down, down, all the way to the base of him until your pretty plump lips are wrapped around his sack.

you suck it into your mouth just as art takes patrick down his throat, the head of his cock bulging through the hollow of art’s throat as spit stretches and bows from the corners of his lips and lands in globs across your face.

you’re too drunk on the pleasure to care, the vibrations of your little sounds shooting right through patrick until you feel his balls tighten; he groans, long and loud, pushing closer to the pair of you as his cock pulses rhythmically and he releases down art’s throat.

you push your way through until your mouth is on art’s again, tongue licking into his mouth to taste patrick, wanting to be marked, claimed by both of them. his lips part, nose pressing to your cheek, and then he’s lifting you into his lap, his cock an angry red and pressed to the seam of your thigh.

patrick groans. there’s no fucking way he’s hard again.

“no more, you horndogs!”

[bernard-the-rabbit]

Oh alice..you would have loved Tim pls don't end up like him <3

[artsbaby]

warnings: f!reader, cunnilingus, pussydrunk!art.

Art Donaldson. The man of the hour.

The same man that should have been ready by now. To attend the clubs gala that was being hosted in his honour. But how could he?

His hand holding your thigh apart. The other holding your hand in his. Placing feather light kisses on the back of your hand to your knuckles. The innocent kisses soon turn sinful as he turns his head to place the same soft attention on your clit.

You suck in a breath. Lips parted as you looked down at him, hand squeezing his till your fingertips were white. He looked satisfied, so satisfied.

His tongue flicking and gathering your arousal untill he swallowed it down like it's a treat. Taking your clit between his lips as he sucked, grazing his teeth softly against it. You let out a mewl. Head tilting back.

"Art— baby", you moaned. The sheets clinging to your skin as you arch your back. The room filled with whines and moans. Not just yours.

It didn't take long before Art was moaning against your cunt. Each lick and suck accompanied with a moan or whimper. As if the taste was something he craved more than his will to live.

If he could shove his face in your cunt and not be able to breathe, he'll gladly take that if it meant he could taste you for hours on end. Till his lips are numb and face drenched with spit and your arousal.

His tongue trailer down your folds as it settled on your entrance. His free hand spreading you open for him to look and fuck, he could look at her for hours.

He placed a kiss on your clit again, making you shut your eyes. Sharp intake of breath. Your hole clenched around nothing. Making him smile and bite his lips. "So greedy. . .", he muttered before licking a long stripe up again.

His tongue delving into your hole as far as he could. Moving the muscle like he knew he could. His nose pressed against your clit making your hips squirm.

You opened you eyes as you looked down at him. His eyes already on you. You clenched around his tongue. His brows furrowed, his eyes hazy. Like he could die right now and he'd swear that he could be the happiest man dying.

The room filled with the sinful noises of slurping, whines and muffled moans. Along with the ringing of his phone that demanded his presence at the party.

[artdcnaldson]

NEED art and patrick to find out I'm a virgin and offer to teach me how to kiss and how to fuck and use eachother as examples and guide me and tell me I'm doing a good job and reward me for being such a good student and come back later and quiz me to see if I remember everything they taught me ugh obsessed with them individually and as a unit

This has lived rent free in my mind for literally forever. I can’t stop thinking about it, it haunts my every waking moment.

Rating: E (18+)

Warnings: Making out, Handjob lessons, guys being pervs, not a love triangle they just all want to fuck each other

A/N: unedited bc I wrote this while on the clock okay whatever. Enjoyyyy and if u want me to continue this lmk >:)

“I think it’s sweet,” Patrick said, and you could hear the amusement in his voice, practically dripping from every syllable. “The last American virgin. You belong in a museum.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed your empty Taco Bell cup at him— the ice rattled and it leaked a puddle of condensation onto the ground. “You could try not to be a dick about it.”

Art’s dorm room was hot and sticky thanks to a faulty AC, which meant the three of you lounging on the floor by his open window, sucking down soda watered down by melted ice cubes. You were down to a T-shirt and shorts, they were down to their boxers. It wasn’t lost on you that it was an intimate situation to be in— barely dressed, crammed into the shoebox of a dorm. And of course Patrick had dug his fingers in until you admitted your secret— you had made it all the way to college totally unfucked.

Patrick leaned forward, smiling the smarmy smile that tended to wear at your last nerve. “So you’re a virgin, but like,” he leaned in, so close you could feel body heat radiating from him. He dropped his voice, just above a whisper. “How much of a virgin, really? You’ve at least gone to third, right?” You glared, but shook your head.

“Second?” Art supplied, suddenly jumping in with an eager sort of curiosity.

“What? No, I don’t even know what that means,” you admitted. You sighed before you spoke up. “I’ve only ever kissed one guy and one girl, and it was during a game of spin the bottle, like, junior year.”

“How?” Patrick asked.

Your brows furrowed. “How? I spun the bottle, it landed on the person, I leaned in, put my lips against theirs, and that was it.”

Patrick sighed. “Just fucking show me how.” He looked at you expectantly, inching even closer.

With an annoyed sigh, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his— mouth closed, lips firm. When you sat back, Patrick and Art were both grinning.

“What?” You asked with a frown.

“That’s how you kiss on the playground in elementary school,” Art said, unable to contain his laughter. “C’mere.”

You crawled forward, stopping in front of the blond. His hand settled on your jaw, coaxing you forward.

His lips met yours softly, sweetly. It was easy to lose yourself in the feeling of Art’s mouth, in the gentle brushes of his lips against yours and the way he held your face so tenderly.

The feeling of his tongue pressing against the seam of your lips was strange, but you welcomed it, letting him lick into your mouth.

Each pass of his tongue against yours drew you deeper and deeper into it, into him. You moved into his lap without realizing it, kissing him with sweet, timid laps of your tongue.

Art pulled back first, his cheeks soft and pink and so pretty. “See? That’s how you’re supposed to kiss someone. That was really good.”

You laughed softly, and moved off of his lap sheepishly. Patrick leaned forward, brushing your hair back, holding your face in his hand.

“Okay, show me what Art showed you,” he instructed, then leaned in.

Kissing Patrick was different than kissing Art. He was hungrier, more insistent. His tongue pressed into your mouth like he wanted to chart every inch. You did your best to match what he offered, to kiss the way Art had just shown you, sweetly, like you really meant it.

And you did mean it. Patrick’s hands moved along your side, up until they cupped your tits through your shirt. You moaned softly into his mouth— the sound was muffled, met with a moan of his own. He gave an experimental squeeze of your tits and you whined softly. So he did it again, amused by the pretty, sweet noises you mewled out.

Patrick was getting hard, pressing against your thigh. It was a new sensation that you were hyper aware of as you unconsciously ground yourself against him.

You pulled back first, cheeks burning hot after you remembered Art was right beside you. You tucked unkempt hair behind your ear, smiled bashfully. “How was I?”

“Good,” Patrick said.

At the same time Art supplied, “So good.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Okay. Cool.”

Art was squirming, fidgeting, holding a pillow over his lap. Patrick was less covert— opting to openly adjust himself, drawing more attention to the fact that he was hard. You rolled your eyes and stole the nearest cup you could find, sipping at watered down Mountain Dew.

“Do you want me to leave?” You teased, raising an eyebrow. Your teeth dug into the plastic straw as you looked between the two of them.

Art stammered, mortified, but Patrick just smiled dizzyingly over at you. “I can teach you something else. You got to first base, so why don’t you steal second?”

You rolled your eyes, but heat flared behind your cheeks. Jesus Christ, he was such a smug asshole. “I still don’t know what that means,” you said, feeling a little embarrassed.

He grinned and mimed jerking off. Your eyes widened, and you laughed softly. “That would be weird,” you said, half-believing it. “Like, if I did jerk one of you off, that leaves one of you just watching.”

You glanced at Art, who looked just as interested as Patrick did, and your heart stammered nervously. “What if I show you how you do it on Art? Look at him— he’s the perfect little practice dummy.” Patrick reached over, pinching at Art’s cheek until the blond kicked his shin.

“Show me?” You echoed. “Like… you’re going to do it to him, and I do it to you?”

Patrick nodded, leaning into Art’s side, his smarmy smile dissolved into something needier. Art swallowed hard, lips parted slightly as he looked over at Patrick.

Patrick’s lips met his slowly, hungrily. You watched wide eyed as Patrick deepened the kiss, as Art eagerly accepted the other boy’s tongue into his mouth.

Patrick threw the pillow out of Art’s lap and sent it careening into the desk on the opposite side of the room. Your eyes widened at the sight of Art, hard and tenting his boxers. Patrick palmed him in his large hands making the blonde whimper into his mouth and buck up, seeking friction.

You swallowed hard, biting down on the straw as you watched Patrick tug at the elastic of Art’s boxers. Art lifted his hips to allow Patrick to tug them down his thighs, just enough to expose his cock to both of you.

“See,” Patrick gasped, leaning back from their kiss. Art chased his lips fruitlessly, mouth ajar, waiting for more. “He’s so fucking easy. Come feel.”

You moved closer, looking at Art for permission. When he nodded, you reached out, letting your fingertips graze the soft skin of his shaft. He exhaled a shuddery breath, eyes fluttering shut. Patrick’s hand covered yours, guiding you to squeeze around his length.

He was warm under your touch, silky soft, pulsing in your grip. Your heart hammered just at that— at the feel of him in your hand. “Feels nice, huh? Knowing how much he wants you.” You nodded, then slid your fist up, testing the waters. Art moaned softly, throbbed in your grip, aching for more. Patrick smiled like the cat who got the cream. “Hands off, just watch me.”

Patrick spat into his hand and replaced your hand with his own. The second Patrick curled his fingers around Art and started stroking him slowly, the blond was mewling for more. “Fuck,” he moaned, his forehead knocking against Patrick’s, mouth open, panting. “That’s good, feels good.”

You watched Patrick rub his thumb over Art’s tip, eyes widening as Art really whimpered for it, hips thrusting up into Patrick’s fist, chasing more of the pleasure the brunet offered.

“You get it now?” Patrick asked. You nodded quickly, and he tugged down his own boxers. “Fuck, okay— fucking show me.”

Your heart hammered with nerves, but you nodded. You held your hand out and spit into it, mimicking what Patrick had done before you wrapped your hand around his cock.

He felt bigger in your hands, but you didn’t say that. One, you worried it might piss Art off, and two, he didn’t need the ego boost. And he was slick, beading precum at his tip so each pass of your hands felt slicker and slicker.

And you couldn’t help but want to be an asshole. “You’re wet like a girl,” you said with a smirk, gliding your thumb over his tip.

And he was shameless, nodding with a sly grin. “That means I like you.” He panted, moaning softly. “Besides, I bet your fucking panties aren’t dry right now.”

Well, fuck. You tried to ignore the rush of heat in your belly that those words caused, to focus only on the glide of your hand on Patrick’s cock— up and down, copying his pace on Art, copying the ways he’d squeeze and twist his hand.

Art was moaning, rutting up into the tight sheath of Patrick’s fist, the muscles of his abdomen tensing and relaxing in unsteady jerks beneath his soft skin.

“Fuck— switch, switch,” Patrick said quickly. Art whined when Patrick stopped touching him, but it was ignored. “Want you to feel it when he comes.”

He guided your hand back onto Art’s cock and nodded for you to move. “Fuck, your hand’s so soft,” Art groaned. “Faster, faster, fuck—“ He was practically begging. You swallowed, increased the pace, squeezed him a little tighter.

Art was touching Patrick— jerking him off while you brought him closer and closer to finishing. Patrick leaned in, kissed you deeply, pulled Art in too until the three of you were a mess of tongues and lips and spit and hands.

Art came first— coating your hand in warm, slick cum, throbbing in your grip. He was panting into your and Patrick’s mouths, moaning softly as you continued to slowly work him through it. Patrick came next, once Art redoubled his effort, focused on making Patrick add to the mess covering your hands.

Patrick was loud, pornographic, messy. Art brought a cum covered hand between his lips, cleaning it up. Your eyes widened.

“Art, c’mon, you’re scandalizing her,” Patrick said, like you weren’t even there.

“Shut up,” you said, shoving him. He laughed and pulled his boxers back up. Art followed suit, and the three of you were left gross and sweating in the heat. You wiped your hand off on one of their discarded shirts and gave a sheepish smile.

They sat there, expectantly. Waiting for you to make the next call. There was a level of want in you, need, but the thought of asking for them to take care of it was mortifying. “Do you want to watch a movie or something now?”

[newrochellechallenger2019]

line cook!art donaldson headcanons ‎𐂐◯𓇋

line cook!art who lights his cigarette with the flames of the cooker before going out for his break and you think it's the hottest thing you've ever seen

line cook!art who always makes extra fries for you whenever it's on an order, sometimes you let him playfully feed you one

line cook!art who fucks you slow and tender, who loves nothing more than watching you slowly come undone on his cock

line cook!art who steals alcohol from the kitchen and the two of you share the bottle after a long shift

line cook!art who makes you a mean grilled cheese for breakfast when you wake up tangled in his sheets

line cook!art who deftly ties your hair up before you give him a blowjob, cracking jokes about 'health and safety'

line cook!art who after you sleep together, he always moves your tickets to the front of the line

line cook!art who has got a sleeper build and you only notice his arms when he's grabbing stuff from the back or leaning on the doorframe

line cook!art who doesn't eat anything on shift because he's 'only hungry for your pussy'

tags: @ellaynaonsaturn @blastzachilles

[jesuistrestriste]

nsfw (18+) cw : switch(sub leaning)!art donaldson, switch!fem!reader, art is a sensitive softie, dry humping, cumming in pants, mutual orgasms, fluff, porn with some plot

wc : 3.3 k

"Did you have fun?"

Art's words sound out softly against the background hum of his car's engine. You rub your hands together between your thighs, trying (and failing) to properly warm them up after being in an ice rink for over an hour. You look to him from the passenger seat and smile at his slightly eager-to-please tone, your cheeks burning from the cold. You should have worn a scarf.

"Yeah," you hum, "I did.. I haven't been ice skating in forever, it's been years.."

He laughs softly and nods, almost sheepishly, "yeah, same.."

-

It's the end of November, nearing the start of December, and tennis season is well over. Art still goes to the indoor courts pretty consistently, but he's decided to shift all of his focus to you now that he has the free time to spare.

The two of you met about a month and a half ago; he'd been rushing to meet Patrick at some restaurant near campus, and he had slammed right into you when he'd been looking down at his phone to text Pat back. Wide blue eyes met yours and his tender hands had come up instantly to steady you on your feet as he stuttered out at least five 'im so sorry's. Somewhere in between those apologies, he'd gotten ridiculously lost in your features. The way your lashes batted up at him, the soft smile on your lips, the way you chuckled at his idiotic carelessness.

And you had forgiven him pretty quickly, so that helped.

The whole thing was incredibly cliche; the both of you could see that now.

He'd gotten your number that day only because he had practically begged to get you a coffee sometime to make up for the whole ordeal. His wind-swept blonde curls and furrowed brow made him look just like a dumb little puppy, pleading with you to keep him and collar him, so it wasn't hard for you to rationalize giving him your digits then and there. He seemed genuinely sweet, unlike so many other guys at Stanford. You'd give it a shot.

Seven dates later, and you two were officially toeing the line between "what are we?" and "let's move in together". Art, in particular, was completely infatuated. He would always look at you like you were the only reason he was breathing and moving. It was a little bit insane how hard and fast he fell for you.

And so he resisted the urges.

The ones that would coil in his lower stomach when he held your hand, and the ones that would throb in his veins when he pressed his lips to yours. All of them. He'd move at your pace. He wasn't one to push.

-

You nod and smile, before you pull your clasped hands from your lap and attempt to blow hot air in between them. Art's car was taking longer to warm up than normal.

He watches you for a moment before he shakes his head and tugs his hands out of his coat pockets.

"I told you to bring gloves," he jokes lightly, reaching over to envelop your hands in his warm palms, his calloused fingers curling over yours.

Your face heats slightly, and you chuckle as you look down to his grasp on you. After a long beat, your eyes raise to look up to his again, and he swallows thickly before his left thumb strokes over one of your knuckles. The little touch, the gesture, is so him. Always wanting to provide and comfort, but never wanting to risk shaking the foundation.

He’s never made the first move, it was always you.

"Thanks," you breathe out, your gaze darting just momentarily down to his pink lips.

It's hard for you to ignore the way he quickly wets them while the tense silence hangs in the air.

Art's feeling a steady thrum of tightness in his chest. How is it that he still gets nervous around you? He's kissed you lots of times before now.

And yet, here he was: still shy, still tense, still nervous.

"No problem," he whispers, hearing his heartbeat pound in his ears, "is.. is this better..?"

A gentle nod from you is all he perceives before he feels the warmth of your lips press against his own, and the tension that’s been brewing all evening finally reaches its boiling point.

He melts into it instantly, into you; leaning in to breathe into your open mouth when you pull back for just a moment to tilt your head the other way. His hands leave their position around yours, and move to clutch your waist as he pivots in the driver's seat to face you more. He's never felt so on-edge in his entire life, the sensation of a familiar sort of hunger starting to ignite in his belly.

Your touch moves to the back of his head, pulling off his thick beanie and tossing it to the back of the vehicle as you kiss him with rapidly increasing passion. You feel his tongue slip out to lick over your bottom lip, and you slack your jaw to let him taste you better. He laves his soft tongue over yours, moaning into your mouth. You swallow that noise down, and the next one that comes right after; just like you always do.

He tastes faintly like sweet peppermint gum, which he had been anxiously chewing earlier on this particular date in order to self-soothe. You had just looked so pretty with the cold first nipping at your skin when he came to pick you up; it scrambled his brain on the spot.

"Ahh," he whines shakily as he feels you tug his head back, your left hand tenderly fisting his curls, "hngh.."

You hum and smirk before you lean in to lick over his neck. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop any more needy sounds from spilling out, and his hands pull at the sides of your coat. Shit, he can feel himself swelling in his jeans. For a second he thinks the zipper might pop.

Once your tongue finds his weak-spot, right below his ear, he's jerking forward in his seat and letting out a choked moan. His hips rise desperately, trying to seek out some sort of friction, but all he can feel is his cock rubbing against the inside of his briefs — not nearly enough to put out the fire in his gut.

"You okay?" you breathe out lowly between kisses to his pulse, "this okay?

He nods feverishly. A reflexive buck of his pelvis follows suit.

"Can we... I dont know-" you whisper against his skin, and Art thinks he might die. He's so keyed up right now, he'd do anything to get to feel you under all of the layers.

"Please."

And there it is. He couldn't even stop himself before the word was already out and drifting into the minimal space left in between your bodies. You pause your lips and pull back to look to his eyes.

A hand moves from his hair to his cool cheek. "I- I'm ready to do more... If you are too, I mean.."

He's nodding before you even finish; and his pupils dilate into big, black, iris-eclipsing saucers as his brows pinch up and he whispers back to you.

"I want to touch you," he trembles, "I really, really, really wanna touch you..."

You feel a sticky heat cling to the inside of your panties.

Ugh, he's always good at making you feel this way, even if in the past it was relatively unintentional. Sometimes he's been too innocent for his own good.

"Can I?" he whispers, breaking apart your thoughts, like the very syllables have been beaten out of the depths of his desires.

You let out soft sigh through parted lips, taking in the look on his face before you're crawling over the center console and into his lap. Your body settles comfortably over his thighs, and then your head bumps up against the roof of the car. You make a slight noise of surprise, ducking down with a soft giggle, and Art's right hand instinctively raises to protectively cup the spot on your head that had hit the interior. He looks up at you, letting out a breath of a laugh before lifting his brows to wordlessly ask if you're alright.

You kiss him again instead.

He gasps and swallows as he feels you further straddle him, and his hands move to start unzipping your puffer as he kisses you back. It's easier said than done when his hands are shaking, but he manages and then helps you shrug off the coat before it gets tossed into the oblivion to meet his hat from earlier.

A string of spit connects your mouth to his as you pull back, and he drinks in the sight of you above him; your thermal long-sleeve clinging to your skin so tight that he can see the outline of your bra underneath.

You lean in once more and kiss his jaw twice before letting your hands wander down to help him take off his own jacket. Once it's off and on the car floor with the other pieces of discarded clothing, your palms move up under his shirt to caress his bare skin. You feel his abdomen shudder as your nails graze the pale flesh there.

"Where do you want me?" he asks breathlessly, his eyes already glazed over with arousal and a wish to please you.

"Anywhere.."

".. Here..?"

His hands reach up to palm your breasts over your top, and he relishes in the soft moan it elicits from you. The sound of it rings out in his head and then he can't help but whimper as he leans into your body, his cheek to your jaw. Art's hands slither hastily under your shirt and then to your back before he fumbles with the clasp of your bra. You smirk softly and fondly as you feel him struggle, and you decide to maneuver your touch up to the back of his neck. Your fingertips tease the back of his hair. Teasing turns to stroking, and suddenly you're petting him to ease his nerves. If he had a tail, it'd definitely be wagging; you can feel him buzzing with eager energy all over.

Once the bra is popped open, he gently pulls back to look up to your eyes and then he's huskily whispering up at you, "can I take this off of you?"

"Yeah, take it off-"

He doesn't waste a second once he sees you raising your arms, nearly tearing the top in the process of getting it up and over your head. The bra comes off quick right after; he doesn't even notice that it's red (his favorite color). With how much is going through his head, it's a miracle he can even manage to undress you without losing it...

The moment that you're bare in front of him from the belly-button up, he sags back in his seat and takes you in. His lips parted in a gentle 'O'. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." he moans lowly, his palms pressing to your lower stomach before they slide up and cover your soft tits, "you're so beautiful, oh my god.."

You moan when you feel him start to knead your breasts under his tender touch, nipples pebbling in response, and you roll your head back with pleasure.

"You're.. s-so sweet," you groan.

He squeezes your chest again before he leans in and presses a kiss to the right side, and a kiss to the left (it's only fair). He looks up to you through heavy lids before he surges forward with a renewed sense of passion and attaches his lips to one of your nipples.

"Shit-!" you gasp, and your hands tighten in his blonde locks, "ugh, don't stop, Art.. that feels nice.."

He moans around your squishy flesh and then his eyes flutter shut as he flicks his tongue over your bud and suckles. His mouth is warm and wet and perfect. His teeth brisk your sensitive skin.

A sharp moan slips from your lips in response, and then your hips jerk over his quickly. Just once; just enough. It's denim on denim, thick fabric dulling the sensations, but god- the pleasure bites perfectly at the both of you.

Art can barely process how good it feels before he's drooling around you over his tongue and rolling his own body up, trying to meet yours again. Wordlessly begging you to keep going.

Please, please, please do it again.

You breathe heavily and then rock down over his lap again, chasing the stream of electricity that it sends up your spine from your cunt. There's a mess of slick seeping from you as you push your clothed clit against Art's bulge, humping him like some sort of depraved teenager, but it's going to get you there.

Hell, it's getting you there quicker than you thought.

"Ooh, fuck," he hiccups out against your skin, releasing your breast from his mouth as his eyes fly open and then promptly roll back into his head, "ohh god, oh g-god.."

You rock a bit faster over him, a little moan escaping with each needy motion, and you move your hands to hold his shoulders for leverage. You feel him wrap his toned arms around your middle.

"Sh-Should I move too?" he gasps.

You can feel his thighs quivering.

If you really focus, you can even feel his dick throbbing in the confines of his pants.

"Yeah, ohh, yeah.. yeah, move, move.”

In an instant, Art's hips are grinding up to meet yours while his hands move urgently to hold your waist. He buries his face into your neck and tries to bounce you on his lap in his grasp. Up, down, up, down, over and over and over. Like he’s fucking you; buried deep inside your oozing pussy.

"you feel so good," he breathes out, hardly taking enough air into his lungs to get the words out, "this feels... f-feels so good.. ohhh-"

A few stuttered whines slip from your mouth and then you're working harder to press yourself further down over his erection, trying your best to relieve the scorching heat building in your core. More, more, more, you just need more.

"fuck me..!"

It tumbles from you unexpectedly, and the young man under you chokes on a guttural groan that's already halfway out. His nose crinkles with pleasure, and he swivels his hips harder to rub his boner against your crotch. He tries to speak, he really does, but all of the words get swept away on broken, strung-out whimpers that clog his throat.

You two are fogging up all four windows in his car, and anyone who's looking on from the outside will know exactly what's going on just from the shaking alone.

"Shit, you're gonna make me—“

Art cries out as he digs his heels down into the mat below the pedals; his toes curling as he registers the rapid feeling of boiling tension brewing in his balls, seeping out and pulling his limbs taut against yours. He's so close.

"—you're gonna- 'm gonna come—“

He tries to warn you, shuddering when he hears you squeal in response, and he has to force his eyes open and crane his neck back so that he can savor the sight of you falling apart on top of him when he tips over. A small part of him wishes he was being hugged by your tight, gummy walls; but this was perfect for now. It was what you wanted, so it was what he wanted too.

"Fuck, Art! I'm almost—!"

The sound of his name coming out of you like that sends him spiraling, his cock pulsing in his boxers with want.

"Me too, me too, oh god, pleasepleaseplease-"

You two are rutting and thrashing against each other like a couple of animals, breathing heavy and moaning as you both try to maintain eye contact in those split few seconds before everything fades away.

"Can I come?" he trembles, and you can see wetness glistening over his lash line, threatening to spill. He can’t say it now, but he's barely holding it all in.

For you, he'd wait.

Even if it felt impossible.

You speed up your humping, the seam of your jeans slotting perfectly against your swollen clit as the warmth of his cock sends you hurtling towards the finish line. You nod down at him, moving your hands from his shoulders to his flushed face, "yes, god, please come with me!"

It only takes three more snaps of his pelvis against yours before the both of you are gasping and crying out simultaneously as the hot coils burst loose; Art's back arching up from the seat as you curl over his chest and yelp. He's moaning, voice cracks and all, as his legs shudder under your seat over them. His hands fly up to hold you close, almost like he's scared you'll somehow slip away.

"fuckyesfuckyesfuckyes, please, god, i'm coming so hard..!”

He whimpers helpessly, feeling sticky heat bloom against his kicking length as each wave of his orgasm floods his system. It's wholly all-consuming, his vision whiting out around the edges before he has to squeeze his eyes shut and give up the sight of your face as you climax. He thinks he might legitimately pass out.

You're left wheezing over his lap, groaning pitifully as you feel a wave of slick and wetness drench your underwear while the height of your own peak ebbs, and you finish yourself off fully against his thigh as you come down. One of your hands reaches down to rub yourself over the soaked fabric, and you twitch before falling forward into his frame.

You both jolt a bit while the aftershocks keep you feeling pleasantly numb, but it's blissful.

It's completely and utterly blissful; it just feels right.

Him being so close to you, you being so close to him. Sharing something so deeply intimate and yet feeling so comfortable and so safe— it was like something clicked into place.

One of Art's hands reaches to your upper back, rubbing it comfortingly as he tries to steady his breathing.

".. Woah," he whispers in awe, fingertips tracing soothing patterns on your skin, "that was.. really.. haah.."

A little shiver passes through him and he then decides to cut himself off before he lets slip something dumb and ruins everything.

You gain some semblance of consciousness back and lift your head upright slowly, gazing down to him. His hair’s a mess, his blue eyes shining with low lids, and his bottom lip looks freshly bitten.

"That was really good," you chuckle breathily, finishing his sentiment for him. You were good at that- helping him feel whole.

He just nods and you get to watch his cheeks turn a deeper shade of red.

"I... I was thinking.." he starts, only to shy away from your gaze by looking down.

"Yeah..?"

You stroke his hair, pushing it back from his sweaty forehead.

"Well, I just, we've been, like, 'seeing each other' or whatever," his eyes reluctantly raise again to look up into yours, "and, I just thought that.. we might..."

"We might...?" you smile as you urge him to speak up for himself.

He can only muster a soft, shy chuckle at first.

"I just thought that we might be.. together.."

Your breathing catches, only for a moment, as the word—and the weight of it—sits heavily in the dense air being kept trapped in by the car's doors. Art swallows thickly.

"You wanna be together?" you whisper, barely audible.

He seems hesitant to answer that.

But he does anyway.

"Yeah, I do."

A soft smile creeps onto your face, and then you lean in to brush your lips against his. He closes his eyes in preparation for a kiss, but it doesn't quite come. They flutter back open, and his fingers twitch idly on your lower back.

Please say something, he thinks. He's holding his breath.

You murmur against his mouth, delicate and earnest, with a shrug almost gracing your shoulders as you speak to him. You want to let him know that he doesn't have to be scared to tell you what he wants.

That it's okay.

That you want the same thing.

"Okay.. then let's be 'together'.."

[angstober]

Welcome to another year of Angstober! We're delighted to unveil the prompts for this year of angsty, spooky fun.

What is Angstober?

Angstober is a yearly October challenge with 31 angst-themed prompts to inspire you to create. The challenge is open to all sorts of creative work - writing, art, edits, whatever you want - in whatever medium you want. Original work or fanworks? Whatever you feel inspired for!

How do I take part?

Tag your works with #angstober2024 and the day of the prompt (e.g., #day 01) to share on tumblr. Feel free to @ us directly in the post as well! To share your work on AO3, add it to the Angstober 2024 collection.

You can post your works whenever - early or late - and use as many or as few prompts as you feel inspired for! We'll do our best to reblog as many works to the @angstober blog as we can.

Is there a banner to post my work with?

Absolutely!

Anything else?

Nope. Happy Angsting!

2024 Prompt List

Again

2. Countdown

3. Self-Destruction

4. Blood

5. Do Better

6. Medication

7. “You Still Don’t Get It.”

8. Growing Pains

9. Promise

10. Humiliation

11. Wake Up

12. Rotten Touch

13. Shaking

14. Only Around You

15. False Hope

16. No One Else To Turn To

17. “Shhh…”

18. Falling Stars

19. Tear-Stained Cheek

20. Spare Me

21. Abandoned

22. Crocodile Tears

23. Safe/Unsafe

24. Dark Sunrise

25. You’re No Better

26. Persuasion

27. Curled Up

28. Perfect

29. Get Out

30. Nothing Else To Tell You

31. It Ends Here

[jordiemeow]

Two guys for every girl. Once you boys get started you’ll be at it for hours. Come on boys, I know you’re not damn cowards.

pairing: art donaldson x reader x patrick zweig

summary: vying for one of the bridesmaids at their best friend's wedding gets a little out of hand, but they're tennis players. they aren't above some friendly competition.

warnings: smut, threesome, a trip to paris, throat fucking, drunk sex, tbh i'm lazy just generally 18+

Acting as bridesmaid for a girl you grew out of in college wasn’t really how you planned to spend your summer. Attending dress fittings, rehearsal dinners, bachelorette parties… but hey, free booze is free booze. And Megan’s fiancé Adam (soon-to-be husband) splashed out to pay for all the matching dresses. You reassure yourself you would have felt bad turning her down when she asked you to be a part of her bridal party.

Sure, you hadn’t talked as much over the last few years… but you were inseparable, once upon a time. She clearly hasn’t changed, considering the several breakdowns about table placements and flower arrangements you’ve witnessed over the last few weeks. And you doubt you’ll be best friends after this, but it’s nice to rekindle with someone who was a major part of your life, even if it’s not permanent.

The ceremony itself is beautiful. A beautiful stone chapel, austere lines evoking the early Christian churches of Rome; warm lights bathing the princess gown-sporting bride in an amber glow, stained glass windows glinting behind the wedding party as they read out their “I do’s.” The only modern element of the ridiculously elaborate wedding (yeah, Adam has to be fucking loaded) is the absence of any organ to reflect Megan’s aversion of them. But really, the harp just makes them seem that much more pretentious.

It’s the type of wedding children dream of. But there’s two people who clearly couldn’t give two shits about the white roses or the music being played as your friend walks down the aisle: the groomsmen. One blonde and one brunette, the latter of which is clearly bored of this entire thing, tuning out what the priest has to say and letting his eyes wander.

“Patrick, pay attention,” Art hisses under his breath from where he’s standing behind Patrick, and in clear view of his friend’s lack of interest in the upcoming vows. Considering the congregation makes up of several hundred people (who are definitely just here for the reception and Instagram stories), it’s embarrassing for him to be associated with a disinterested fool.

“Oh, I’m paying attention,” Patrick mutters back, with a low whistle that makes Art wince. “Just not to Adam and his gold-digging bride.”

Despite initially feeling the need to jump to their friend’s defence and insist he was perfectly capable of finding a wife—Megan was lovely, as far as Art was concerned—that train of thought vanishes as soon as he follows Patrick’s gaze to the opposite side of the altar. Standing behind the bride and her maid of honour, one of the most beautiful women he’s ever had the privilege of laying eyes upon… you.

He’s not sure how you manage to pull off the bridesmaid dress that the rest of the poor ladies seem to be drowning in, but god, you look gorgeous. A vision in pastel pink, even with that hideously large flower embellishment clinging to your left shoulder. Maybe Patrick had been right about Megan being a bitch for the last two years; nobody who loves their friends willingly puts you in something like that. And yet, against all odds, he’s ready to drop to his knees and worship you right here on the chancel. A true angel, illuminated by the mural of Mother Mary shining through the window. How anyone is paying attention to the bride when you’re standing right there clutching your bouquet of flowers is beyond him.

Patrick’s thoughts are far less pure, of course. Daydreaming about the sound your dress would make when he tears a slit up the back to see what colour your panties are. Fisting his hand in your hair and pulling those ringlets out of your pretty little flower pins, because why would you need those to hold it up when he has a perfectly good hand right here? Bent over the altar, crying out his name like he was your god, and not the Christian deity Father John was currently droning on about watching over Megan and Adam’s nuptials.

Both of them are half-hard in their slacks by the time they hear the priest rejoice, "You may now kiss the bride." Neither of them mention the way they adjust themselves in sync while stepping down to congratulate their friends and take wedding photographs.

Art gets to stand beside you in the pictures. He tries to make small talk about the happy couple, but his throat feels like it's closing up and he already knows he's going to look flushed in the picture album by the end of this. He swears he almost passes out from embarrassment when you regard him with a pitiful look as he stammers over his words trying to tell you he thinks your hair looks lovely.

If the looks Patrick keeps sending his way are any indication, he's royally screwed this up. And that little smirk he flashes as you rush off to gush at the viewfinder suggests he is absolutely going to pay for that fumble later.

He does.

—

"Dibs," Patrick announces, nursing a champagne flute and eyeing you from the opposite side of the reception venue.

Another intricately decorated hall with a local, well-known DJ Adam has connections with. Neither of them would care about the music if it weren't for the fact you looked so fucking good swaying your hips and grinding against another woman to Don't Cha by The Pussycat Dolls. They don't have girlfriends, but yeah, if they did... they'd wish she was hot like you.

"I talked to her first," comes Art's instant protest. He's already downed three glasses by now to quell his nerves, but it's only serving to make him more antsy. At least he probably won't remember any of this come morning.

"Yeah, and look where that got you," he snorts in return, mimicking the pity grimace you had given when Art restarted his sentence for the fifth time. That deflates Art's sails somewhat, and he mutters something about his friend being a dick under his breath.

"Fine. Go talk to her, then. I'll just sit here all by myself and wallow in my own self pity at a celebration of love. Knowing I am forever doomed to be alone."

Patrick shoots him a flat look for that, and Art visibly deflates. Yeah, that was a little dramatic, but he's tipsy and moping about how socially inept he is when it comes to pretty women at weddings. Give him a break.

"Nah, she'll talk to me first. We've been making eyes at each other for thirty minutes. I don't have to do anything."

"So... you aren't going to go talk to her?"

Given Art perks up a little at that, Patrick should probably be a little more sceptical. But he just shakes his head, sipping from his champagne and watching you laugh and excuse yourself from twirling around the floor with that other bridesmaid.

"Cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool…” Art hums in reply. Patrick doesn't even get the chance to reply before he's shooting off across the venue to catch you by the refreshments table.

Oh, that's how he's playing this. But Patrick said he wasn't going to talk to you, so it's his fault, really. That's how Art justifies it to himself as he dodges and weaves through dancing couples, tripping over his feet a few times in a bid to get to you.

"Does dibs mean fucking nothing to you?" Patrick hisses as he catches up to Art, just as the pair reach you.

"Hey," Art slurs, a lopsided smile on his face as he pointedly ignores his friend's complaint. "You look... really beautiful. I know I told you that earlier, but you're like... an angel."

Smooth, Donaldson. That's Patrick's queue to swoop in and save him from embarrassment, while hopefully pulling you in the process. He's not above knocking his friend down a few pegs if he really has to, though.

"We've never seen you before," Patrick says, giving you a quick once over that's far more appraising than it ought to be. It's hard not to blush and match the pretty pink alcohol-induced flush on Art's cheeks. "Friends with Megan long?"

"Uh... yeah," you reply, a little sheepish, plucking a h'ordeuvre from the table as you glance between the pair of them. Art isn't sure if you're wary or just amused. "We go way back."

"Really?" Art says, blinking. "Adam's never mentioned you before. Which is weird because he never shuts his—"

"So she's been keeping you a secret from us, then?" Patrick cuts in. God, his best friend gets so mouthy when he's tipsy. He's more of a lightweight than his fucking grandma. At least Nana can tolerate a few eggnogs without running her mouth.

"We just have conflicting schedules," you smile. "Not teenagers anymore, you know?"

You don't mention the fact you've hardly had contact with Megan since her twentieth birthday, where she deemed your gift lacklustre and cut you out of her social circle over the following weeks. Maybe that attitude is why she had been so desperate to have you as a bridesmaid in the first place—nobody else would stick around to deal with bridezilla.

"What about you and Adam?" You add a moment later, when both men giving little hums of acknowledgement. You pretend not to notice the way Art downs the last of his champagne as liquid courage before he gives his answer.

"Well, Adam's been our—"

"My friend since I was a kid," Patrick interjects again. Art sends him a look of inebriated betrayal, but the brunette is too busy eyeing up your cleavage as he talks to take much notice of it. "Our parents work together. Art's a groomsman because he's an extension of me. Fire and Ice, right, bud?"

A little nudge to Art's side, who looks thoroughly dejected at the depiction of his relationship with Adam. And the fact he's just come off as Patrick's little sidekick. So fucking unfair.

"... Right," he mutters.

"Fire and Ice? What's that?" You offer, in the hopes it'll brighten his spirits. It seems to work.

"We're tennis players. That's our nickname. A little childish, but we've been called that since we were kids."

"So you've known each other a long time?"

"Since we were twelve. Bunkmates at tennis camp," Patrick chips in helpfully, crooked grin permanently plastered on his face as he eyes you intently.

Well, they certainly have the build for it. Not that their suits leave much on display, but you can still see the way Art's muscles strain a little against the sleeves—his suit clearly isn't as tailored as Patrick's—and the way Patrick's ditched his bowtie to unbutton a few buttons of his shirt to give you a peek of his chest hair. And if the way he keeps reaching for h'ordeuvres to give him a peek of your ass every time he leans around you is any indication, that view is definitely intentional.

"So... which one's Fire, and which one's Ice?" You ask, glancing between the pair with a tilted head. Art seems eager to reply with a genuine reply, because he's just tipsy enough to actually be comfortable with you now, but Patrick speaks up before he can open his mouth.

"Why don't you find out?"

And, despite your better judgement, you intend to take him up on that. Spending the next hour at the reception taking candid photos and alternating between dancing with the pair of them; two gorgeous men on your arm, each equally as eager for your attention as the other. Suddenly, the last few months of Megan's temper tantrums feel worth it.

Not to mention you never expected Art to be able to breakdance. Five champagnes in and he's tearing up that floor, a far cry from the man who blushed crimson when the photographer asked him to place his hand on the small of your back after the ceremony.

—

When you all get a little too tipsy, they offer to walk you back to your hotel. You're all staying in the same one, anyways. It's no hassle. No point in sticking 'round here. Party would be boring without you. You can't remember which one of them told you that, but it was flattering nonetheless. Adam placed all of the bridesmaid's on the same floor, insisting it was the least he could do, but Patrick... well, apparently he has a presidential suite, so how could you possibly deny him when he offers to show you? That's the only reason you're going up to their room. Couldn't be anything else.

You trail in after them, heels hanging from your hand as you take in the sight. You're pretty sure this place is bigger than your entire apartment. Hell, the complimentary wine and gift basket on the table probably cost more than one month's rent for you.

"You look like a kid in a candy store," Patrick remarks, lips quirked up into a little smirk as he watches you ogle the sight. Both of them shrug off their jackets and abandon them on two armchairs, leaving you another sight to ogle.

"This place is... nice," you manage, eyes trained on the way Art is removing his cufflinks and rolling his shirt up to his elbows, muttering something about it being way too hot in here before collapsing into one of the arm chairs.

You almost make a remark about how it'd be considerably more tolerable if he just took the shirt off entirely, but Patrick beats you to that idea. Peeling off his own shirt and grinning to himself like a fucking idiot when he catches a glimpse of you admiring the way the muscles in his back flex as he moves. He even gives an exaggerated stretch and a groan to really seal the deal.

You have to take a seat and squeeze your thighs together after that.

"Nice is an understatement, babe," he replies. Babe? He's ballsy. Art is just drunk enough not to mask the exaggerated roll of his eyes he gives at Patrick's choice of words.

The three of you pop open that expensive bottle of wine and pass it around for another thirty minutes (with Patrick gradually giving Art less and less time to hog the bottle the drunker he gets), chatting about Adam and his stupid wife Megan and their stupid wedding. About tennis, and your own career, and who you think is going to win the Olympics this year or whether there are really aliens in the ocean. The kind of stupid shit drunk people discuss just because the conversation is as seemingly bottomless as the wine bottle you're drinking. You somehow manage to persevere throughout it all without staring at Patrick's chest too much.

"Well, I should probably go," you say, standing up (just a little wobbly on your feet) and offering a grateful smile to the pair of them. "Definitely going to be nursing a hangover in the morning."

"Wait—" They both protest in sync, sitting up.

You tilt your head at them, questioning.

"Aren't you going to sleep with one of us?"

Well, that's tactful, Zweig. Art reaches over to smack him up the back of the head, sending you a wordless apology in the form of a wide-eyed look, like a dog that's about to be scolded. But you take it in your stride, laughing as you pick up your heels.

"I don't want to pick between you. Seems mean," you reply. And you don't think you even could choose.

"You don't have to pick between either of us," Art says hastily. Even Patrick seems to be surprised by that. They've joked about sharing girls for years, ever since the Kat Zimmerman incident, but he never thought Art would be the one to actually suggest it. He averts his eyes when Patrick is searching for a towel after the shower, for Christ's sake.

But Patrick recovers quickly.

"Yeah," he chips in. "Don't you wanna find out which one of us is which?"

That gives you pause. Right. Fire and Ice. And judging by the victorious look they share at your silence, all of you are aware of the decision you've subconsciously made.

Your clothes don't take long to disappear. A tangle of limbs backing up into the master bedroom (Patrick's), hair pins discarded in a bid to yank your head back and mouth along the expanse of your neck, both men in just boxers before long. Touching each other in ways that are far from platonic but they'll both blame on alcohol and wanting to get the three of you undressed as quickly as possible.

"This is really ugly. I'm sorry," Art tells you candidly, as you straddle him on the bed. His fingers are tracing the large pink rose pinned to the shoulder of your dress, and you bark out a surprised laugh. The pair of you are giggling like idiots between kisses, insulting Megan's taste in bridalwear before there's a loud tearing sound, and suddenly you can feel the humid air hitting the back of your thighs.

That's Patrick. Doing the things he's fantasised about since he first saw you at the altar and ripping up the back of your dress to reveal your underwear. God, they're even better than he expected.

"Patrick, what the fuck—" Art starts, but his friend makes a kissing sound through his teeth.

"What? She said Adam paid for it. It's fine," Patrick mutters. "Besides, it was so fucking worth it. You should see the view back here, man."

His fingers trail over the dampness of your panties, the lacy white just as pure as Megan's wedding dress. If he wasn't already hard in his boxers (he has been since you entered their hotel room), he certainly is now. Pushing the fabric of your dress further out of the way and leaning in to lick a stripe over your panties, a low groan slipping past his lips at how soaked they are just from kissing. You would be embarrassed but... double the men, double the wetness, right?

Your hips jerk involuntarily at the sensation, a pair of matching moans escaping you and Art as it grinds you down against his clothed erection.

"I don't think Megan would be very happy you wore white on her wedding day," Patrick says, smiling against your clothed cunt as you push back against him.

"Fuck Megan," you reply breathlessly.

"No, fuck you," he shoots back. And he very well intends to. Both of them do, actually, given the way Art is whining and arching his back off the mattress in an uncoordinated attempt to get any friction against you. He's pretty sure he might cum untouched just from the sheer anticipation of it all.

Your panties go next, lost to the heap of the rest of your clothes on the floor. It doesn't take long for strong, calloused hands to rest on your ass, spreading you open so he can tongue-fuck your pussy. Mumbling something unintelligibly about how you taste even better than the wedding cake while your whines synchronise with Art in between sharing lips and spit. Stubble grazing your face and your ass, all three of your mouths too busy for any more wisecracks.

At one point, Art tries to snake his hand in between you and rub your clit, but the front of your dress is still in the way. He still makes the effort to roll his fingers against it over the fabric of your dress, and the sound you make in reply tells him he's at least contributing somewhat to the mess Patrick is making of you. He's content enough to just lick into your mouth greedily and swallow the keening sounds you're making.

"Cumming—" is all you manage to gasp out between kisses before you're clenching around nothing, and Patrick is lapping dutifully at your release. All three of you are groaning like the orgasm is shared between you. It's only when you're bordering on overstimulation and letting out pathetic little whimpers that Art realises he's still circling your clit on autopilot, and his hand falls back to grip the sheets.

"God, she's so fucking pretty when she cums," he moans, and you'd be offended by the fact he's talking about you like you're not here if you weren't so blissed out. "You should have seen her face, Pat."

"I'll see the next one," Patrick says.

Next one? Both a promise and a statement. Just hearing that has you whimpering as Art eases you off of him. Both of them help you out of your dress, a little more gently this time, and you have to ignore the comment Patrick makes about no bra, just for me? You don't have it in you to explain built-in cups and the power of pasties to a man right now. You just want to get fucked. It's only then, when you're all spread out and wanting on the bed, that you realise the wet patches in their matching black boxers (cute, you think) are just as vivid as the one that no doubt stains your lost panties.

"Jesus, you're big." You didn't mean to say that out loud, but you're in too deep to be ashamed about any of the events transpiring right now.

"Which one?" They both ask. The question goes unanswered when you start palming them both through their boxers, a chorus of moans elicited from the pair of them. (You all know the answer, anyways.) Hands grabbing at whoever they can touch, whether it's you or each other, until Patrick has the sense to yank down Art's boxers.

The protest dies on Art's tongue when he sees the way Patrick is eyeing his cock, flushed red tip glinting under the harsh hotel lights with the amount of pre-cum smeared across it. There's a moment where you all think he's going to touch him, wrap a hand around his closest friend's pretty pink dick and jerk him off, but then he simply shrugs off his own underwear. You aren't sure which one of you is more disappointed.

Everything is a haze from then onwards. You can vaguely hear them discussing positions as you kiss at Art's neck, red lipstick mottling his pale skin until it's hard to tell which stains are makeup and which are hickeys.

"We can't ask her to do anal, man. We hardly know her."

"Why not? I bet she'd like it. Fucked in both at once."

"Because that's... it's violating!"

"Oh, right. Because whatever else we're about to do won't be. Real innocent, vanilla sex with three drunk people in our fucking hotel room."

Fucking hotel room. The double-meaning of Patrick's own words makes him snort. The only reason they stop whispering back and forth is because you pull away, settling on all fours. Back arched in a silent invitation, pretty little ass stuck up in the air and arms braced against the silk sheets. They glance at each other, before scrambling to follow, with Art shoving Patrick aside to press himself behind you.

"Why do you get her pussy?" Patrick protests, sitting up and fixing his best friend with an indignant look.

"You said you wanted to see her face when she cums!"

Fuck. He did say that. Stupid logic. Well, it's not as if your throat would be unpleasant; he wonders if your mouth will be as welcoming to his cock as it was his tongue.

"C'mon," you whine, pressing back against Art's throbbing arousal. "Can one of you just do something?"

"D'you want me to use a condom? 'Cause my wallet is in my jacket in the next room—" Art starts, but you're already reaching back to guide his tip between your slick folds. Well, that's an answer if he's ever witnessed one.

Patrick is too busy getting situated in front of your face to make a comment about filthy girls taking it raw. Art's almost disappointed—he'd never be brave enough to make the comment himself. One large palm cupping your face, tilting your head up while the other slaps his cock against your lips. Whatever gloss they'd kissed off was replaced in a new sheen, one that makes him give a soft hum of approval.

"You look pretty," he tells you, and your thanks dies on your tongue when Art pushes into you. Easing himself in inch by inch, until you're practically drooling onto Patrick's tip. "God, what a fucking sight." For a moment, his eyes are on the way Art's face contorts in pleasure at the tight warmth surrounding him. It's even hotter than the way he looked when they used to jerk off in the same room at night.

"Open wide," he instructs, eyes flitting down to you. Smiling down at you with that shit-eating little grin and talking to you like you're at the dentist, not getting spit roasted after your friend's wedding. "Big girls take it all, right?"

You oblige, though—how could you not, when your senses are clouded by Art drilling into you from behind? A few more slaps of his cock against your tongue, and he's pushing himself in, too. His breath catches in his throat as the warm wetness of your mouth envelopes him—yeah, definitely just as welcoming.

You can hardly tell who's moaning at this point. There's something almost beautiful in the synchrony, the way your hands and bodies move against each other. Clutching at Patrick's hips, while he fists your hair, admiring the way the ringlets spill through his fingers like a waterfall as he pushes you down further; gagging at the intrusion in your throat while Art whimpers behind you like this is his first time getting pussy. Each of you are in your own individual heaven, while simultaneously in ecstasy together.

"Good fuckin' girl, just like that—"

"Oh, Pat, she's so tight—"

A hand slaps against your ass, and you can't tell who it belongs to. Patrick seems like the most likely culprit, given how sweet Art had been earlier, but with the way he's ramming into you like a jackhammer leaves you doubtful. It doesn't really matter, though—they both know you enjoyed it, given the way you garble out a moan around Patrick's dick. You don't know if you're praying for mercy or for more.

He lets you come up for air occasionally, telling you how pretty you look taking Art's cock. Such a good girl, before you're being degraded for letting him fuck your throat like a slut. There's no time for arguments before his tip is at the back of your throat again, the sound of your gag reflex going off hardly audible over the sound of moaning, wet slapping and skin hitting skin.

You think you know now. Fire and Ice.

Art reaches around to rub your clit at some point, slurring, "want you to cum first. You deserve it. So fucking good for us."

Patrick makes a sound of disagreement, tightening his grip in your hair as his hips begin to stutter. Not because you aren't being good for them—you're so fucking perfect—but because he wants to be able to see and hear you properly when you cum. He doesn't have the vocal capabilities to voice that aloud right now, though, so he just continues to thrust eagerly past your swollen lips until his climax hits him. You'd be worried about the obscene slew of noises coming from Patrick's hotel room if it weren't a presidential fucking suite. God, why does that make this so much hotter?

He groans out your name—or maybe it was Art's?—as he releases, holding your head in place to ensure it's all aimed down your throat. The salty taste isn't foreign to you, but you still grimace. Patrick takes it as an expression of pleasure, though, withdrawing from your mouth and leaning down to press his lips against yours in a fleeting kiss.

"You can cum," he murmurs. You weren't asking for permission, but you nod anyways. Art's grunts of exertion are the loudest sound in the room, the occasional whine slipping past his lips when your cunt squeezes harder around him. Slick fingers circling your clit until he feels you convulsing around him.

You mewl with pleasure, bowing your head forward, your arms and legs threatening to give way from your arched position. But Patrick catches your chin and tilts it upwards, watching the way your eyes roll back as Art fucks you through your orgasm and your spit-slick lips part around his name. “Art, fuck, yeah—“ It's only after Art announces his own climax with a low moan and collapses on top of you that Patrick is kind enough to wipe the drool coating your chin away.

It's all a bit of a blur after that. Shared kisses between the three of you in the darkness when the light has been switched off—sometimes between Art and Patrick, though neither of them have any intentions of acknowledging it. Gentle caresses against sweaty skin as you lay tangled in Patrick's queen-sized bed, praises whispered aimlessly into the quiet of the humid night.

—

You're gone by the time they wake up. A walk of shame back to your own hotel room in a shirt borrowed from one of their suitcases (you don't know which), mourning the loss of that ugly dress you wanted to sell on eBay afterwards to cover dinner for the month. Neither of them speak of the events that occurred the night before until after breakfast has been ordered and Art has taken several pills for his hangover, eating room service on the same chairs you all sat on last night, their jackets still strewn across the back of them.

"I think that was better than either of us getting laid alone," Art comments, poking at his egg with his fork. Both of them are littered with hickeys, but Art bears the worst of it. He's pretty sure most of the marks came from cuddling with Patrick in bed afterwards, but he’s too afraid to mention it. Not a can of worms he wants to open right now.

"Yeah?" Patrick prompts, with a knowing little smile. Even tired and hungover, Art has enough wits about him to know that something is up. He narrows his eyes, dropping his cutlery onto his plate and sitting up straighter.

"What?" He demands.

"Nothing."

Art leans forward. "There's obviously something, Pat."

"Just... when have I ever not approached a girl I wanted?"

It takes a moment for Art to really process what that means. Last night was a pleasurable, drunken haze, but he does remember Patrick's words in the reception hall. It makes sense now—that bullshit about Patrick waiting for you to approach him.

... Manipulative little bastard. That doesn't stop Art from replying with:

"Fuck you, man." A pause. "... But I think we should do that again some time."

[tacobacoyeet]

nasty af smut. like, gross. 18+ mdni. not proofread. patrick x reader x art.

Thinking about Patrick being so mean while he fucks you... and Art just having to add his two cents.

You’re trembling, soaked, riding him like it’s the only thing left your body remembers how to do—but it’s useless. He already had you on your knees earlier, tongue out, eyes glassy, taking his cock down your throat until you could barely hold yourself up. Before that, he’d spent long, messy minutes between your legs, licking you open while you begged. Everything he did left you soaked and wrecked before he even got inside. Now you’re overstimulated—too full, too sensitive—and it shows. Your thighs are shaking, your arms are weak, and all you can do is sink down and grind up, slow and shallow, trying to find any rhythm at all with his cock buried deep in your cunt.

Patrick barely reacts. He lies flat beneath you, stretched out, chest covered in a thick mat of dark, coarse hair that climbs up his pecs and fans out across his collarbones. His happy trail is dark and wild where it disappears beneath your hips, and his stomach is dusted with sweat-slick curls. His legs are hairy and dense, thighs rough with muscle, unshaven and scratchy where they press against your skin. The hair clings to him, damp from heat and exertion, curling slightly where his body glistens. The joint burns between his fingers. The room stinks of weed, sweat, and pussy. Your pussy. He doesn’t bother to thrust. Doesn’t even lift his hips. Just watches you fumble like it’s pathetic—like it’s funny.

Your slick squelches every time you drop down. Thick and loud and messy, obscene against the slap of your thighs to his. Every moan from your throat is soft and broken, every movement desperate, clumsy. You’re leaking around him, making a fucking mess of his cock, the sheets, yourself.

He takes a drag like he’s bored and exhales smoke toward the ceiling. “This all you got?”

You can’t even speak. Just choke on a moan as your walls flutter, clenching uselessly around him. He tsks, nudging your chin up with his knuckles, dragging your mouth toward his.

“Open.”

You do. He kisses you like it’s nothing—shotguns thick smoke past your lips until you’re dizzy, coughing into his mouth. You’re still sputtering when he throws the joint into the tray and sits up, grabs your waist, and manhandles you like he’s tired of pretending you’re doing anything at all.

“Get the fuck off me.”

He flips you hard, palms your ass, and slams back in from behind with one brutal thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs. Your cheek hits the mattress with a wet slap, spit and tears smearing across the sheets.

He stays deep. Stays pressed flush to you, groaning at the heat, the grip, the way you’re already pulsing around him like your body’s begging for it.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he grits, dragging his hips back and thrusting in slow, filthy strokes that sound just as wet as they feel. “You hear that?”

You do. Every squelch is loud, disgusting, echoing in the room. Your body slaps to his with every movement, skin to skin, sweat to sweat. His happy trail is damp, sticky where it rubs your lower back. His balls slap your soaked cunt with every deep grind.

His hand comes down hard on your ass—once, twice—then again, so loud it stings your ears. You jolt under him, gasp, drool leaking from the corner of your mouth as he spreads you wide and spits right on your hole.

The sound of it makes your cunt clench. It drips down your crack, trails lower, and his thumb follows.

He presses it there—slow, deliberate—rubbing lazy circles around the rim, smearing spit without pushing in. Your body bucks at the contact, heat rolling down your spine as you whimper into the mattress. It’s not even inside you, but it feels like it is. His cock keeps pounding your pussy, ruthless and wet and perfect, while his thumb teases your asshole like it’s next.

He keeps it there. Firm. Steady. Just enough to make you feel the weight of it every time you clench around nothing.

“Yeah,” he mutters, fucking deeper. “I know you fucking want that.”

You’re a mess—sloppy, crying, drooling—and he’s still not done.

The door creaks open. You barely register it—just the faint shift of air, the buzz of cooler air brushing your slick skin.

Patrick doesn’t stop. Not for a second. He pushes your face deeper into the bed and keeps fucking you like no one else is there.

“Yo,” Art says, casually. The fridge clicks open, can hisses. Footsteps.

“She crying already?” he adds, closer now, voice amused but flat.

“Look at her,” Patrick mutters.

You hear the sound of Art walking up, feel the mattress dip as he crouches beside you. Your mouth is open, wet, flushed red and streaked with tears. You’re shaking under Patrick, body jostling with every thrust.

Art presses a finger to your jaw, tilts your face to him. Then he slips two fingers between your lips without asking.

Your tongue curls. You suck them in with a moan like your body knows what to do even if your brain’s long gone.

“She’s gone,” Art mutters, watching the way you slobber all over his fingers. He pushes them deeper until you gag. “Fuckin’ sloppy.”

Patrick grunts, cock dragging slick and hard through your walls, hips slamming into your ass with wet, brutal force. “Tight as ever, though.”

Art pulls his fingers out with a soft pop, then gives your ass a full handful squeeze.

“Feel this,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

“Already did,” Patrick snaps, breath ragged. “Plus, I know she’ll be leaking all night.”

Art hums, unfazed. Takes another sip, then unzips, cock heavy in his hand, already hard—stroking himself slow, using the same fingers still damp from your mouth. Only once he’s leaking at the tip does he start to strip. Shirt off. Then another. Belt undone, pants dropped low. No rush. He kicks them away and steps forward. He’s trimmed, neat, but there’s still a solid bush at the base—soft and full, thick enough to press against your mouth with every thrust. His abs are tight, carved out under a thin sheen of sweat, the dusting of hair from his navel tapering down clean into it. His thighs are strong, sculpted… well, like a tennis player's, just enough hair to catch the light. Patrick doesn’t look up—just yanks your head back by the hair, forces you upright onto your elbows, your neck bent hard as he keeps fucking into you from behind.

Art steps forward and lets his cock tap your lips. Once. Twice. Then he drags the tip across your cheek, smearing precum along the flushed curve of it before giving you two soft, filthy slaps. They land light but cruel. Your mouth opens on instinct.

He doesn't wait. Doesn’t tease. Just slides in—deep, hard, unforgiving. Your throat tightens instantly, gag reflex catching too late. Your whole body jolts forward, but Patrick’s got you by the waist, holding you in place.

“You want it?” Art murmurs.

Patrick grins against your spine. “She always wants it.”

Patrick buries himself deep, slams in hard, stays there—moaning through his teeth as he fills you up. The heat of it makes your whole body jolt. Cum starts to leak around the base before he’s even pulled out.

But he doesn’t stop.

He spreads you open wide and watches it spill out of you, then drives two fingers back in, hard, forcing it back inside. The noise it makes is wet and mean, squelching around his knuckles as your body twitches from the overstimulation.

Your sob is choked, helpless. Your thighs twitch.

And then—he lifts his hand and smacks your clit.

Sharp. Direct. Your scream tears through the room as your whole body jerks, legs kicking, muscles clenching. But before you can even catch your breath, he does it again—faster, meaner.

The second smack lands just right.

You gush.

A hot, wet rush spills out of you, loud and sudden, spraying down his fingers, the inside of your thighs, soaking the sheets below. It hits his stomach, his groin, mixes with the cum he just shoved back in you. The noise is filthy—slick and uncontrollable.

“Fuck,” he groans, breath catching.

“There it is,” Art mutters, still in your throat.

Patrick grabs your hips, fingers digging in hard as you twitch under them, overstimulated and still leaking. He spreads you open again, spit-slick fingers pressing inside—then lower, trailing between the slick mess of your folds and back to your asshole, circling it slow. He teases the rim with the same cum-slick fingers, rubbing around it in lazy, messy passes that make you shiver.

“Made a fucking mess,” he snarls. “I should make you clean it up.”

The sound you make isn’t a moan. It’s nothing. A choked whimper. Airless.

Art groans, hips pushing forward again. “Fuck. Her throat’s clenching.”

“She��ll take it,” Patrick mutters, dragging his fingers out slow, then slamming them back in. “She always does.”

You can’t breathe. Not really. But you don’t stop him. You don’t even try. Tears fall, thick and fast, and Art just wipes them with his thumb like it’s part of the routine.

His cock thrusts shallow and quick, hips pressed tight to your lips, balls against your chin. Every time you gag, he grunts. Every time your throat tightens, Patrick’s fingers thrust deeper.

And Patrick never lets up. His hand works between your legs like he’s testing how much more you can take. How much mess he can make. How much ruin your body will survive before it breaks.

You’re full. Stuffed from both ends. Crying. Twitching.

And they talk about you like you’re not even there.

“Tight as fuck,” Art mutters, breath hitching as your throat clamps down. His pace is stuttering now—hips jerking forward harder, faster. The hand on your jaw tightens, guiding you steady while his grip on your hair pulls you in deeper.

“Should’ve seen her earlier,” Patrick says, low and filthy. “Had her on her knees like a slut.” He watches your cunt twitch around his fingers, grinning like he knows how close you are to breaking again.

Art chuckles. “Isn't she?”

Your moans are muffled around Art’s cock. Your whole body shakes. His pace falters, stutters—hips snap once, twice, then he groans loud through his teeth and pushes deep.

Hot spurts hit the back of your throat. The rest spills out across your tongue, your lips, your chin. He pulls out halfway through the release and lets the last of it land across your cheek, your jaw, your mouth already hanging open and dripping. Thick ropes of it smear down your face, some of it catching in your lashes.

Patrick laughs under his breath. “Fucking nasty.”

You don’t even flinch.

Still twitching around Patrick’s fingers. Still clenching.

But it starts to slow. Patrick’s rhythm eases, the punishing tempo tapering off to slow, dragging pumps of his fingers. Your body is trembling too hard to fight the relief. You sag into the mattress, throat raw, cunt spent, every inch of you dripping with spit, sweat, and cum.

Art exhales like he’s just come down from a high. He steps back, abs flexing as he wipes his cock off with one hand and smears the mess across your cheek with the other. Slow. Casual. Like he’s proud of it.

Patrick doesn’t say anything. Just keeps his fingers inside for a moment longer, feeling the way your walls flutter around the overstimulation, then finally slips out with a slick, obscene sound. He leans forward and presses a single kiss to the base of your spine.

You breathe.

Just barely, but it’s something.

Your face is sticky, your body limp, your pulse still crawling fast under your skin—but they’re quiet now. It’s over.

For now.

[yeehawgust]

Yeehawgust 2024: Greener Pastures

Saddle up, folks! We’ve got greener pastures on the horizon, because it’s time for Yeehawgust’s 6th year this August!

Yeehawgust features daily art prompts as well as alternative weekly prompts, for those of us who are a bit slower on the draw. Don’t draw at all? No problem! Submit any art at all, be it illustration, comics, writing, fanfiction, photography, embroidery, sculpture, music, or whatever other creative endeavors you might enjoy. All skill levels are welcome, and this can be a great opportunity to experiment with new styles and techniques. 

Maybe you love media like Red Dead Redemption and Fallout: New Vegas, or classic westerns like The Magnificent Seven. You might enjoy the genre, and you’re looking for a chance to make a cowboy AU and put your OCs in chaps and your blorbos in a Stetson. Heck, maybe you just really want to draw horses. Whatever your reason, you’re welcome to join in, pardner!

Tag your work with #Yeehawgust and follow along here on the Yeehawgust blog. If you include any external links or directly tag another Tumblr user in your post (which may impact search visibility), make sure to also tag this blog or contact the mod directly so your work will get reblogged! 

Check out the “Reblogging Policy and Q&A” linked on the blog for more info about Yeehawgust. The event is also Yeehawgust on Twitter, YeehawgustPrompts over on Instagram, and now yeehawgust.bsky.social over on Bluesky... but Tumblr is where we hang our hat at the end of the day. 

And remember, y’all: be rootin’, tootin’, shootin’, and most importantly, be kind.

[ervotica]

you’re an angel, i’m a dog — a.donaldson

pairing; older!art donaldson x fem!reader

warnings; roughly written, badly edited, not beta’d (because when is it ever?), allusions to smut, implied age gap (reader is early 20s, art is early 30s), slight tashi x fem!reader if you squint, infidelity (but tashi is kinda cool with it), just some thoughts about older!art and his pretty girl

a/n; this concept has been eating at me for daysss so i had to write it at least roughly! should we make this a series? (maybe get patrick involved?🫢) let me know what you think! ART & CHALLENGERS (poly!art & patrick) REQUESTS ARE OPEN! any questions / conversation starters about this particular au are highly appreciated and encouraged!! please come to my inbox 📥 <3

older!art is fucking obsessed with you— you, who comes to every one of his matches, who sits next to his wife in those adorable little tennis skirts you sport just for him, who whoops and cheers from the stands whether he wins or loses.

you’re forbidden fruit. so, naturally, he adores you.

tashi knows, because of course she does. she never pries, never so much as spares you a second glance when he wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck and huffs hot air against the shell of your ear. she doesn’t care — you’ve made art better at tennis.

his confidence has skyrocketed since having a pretty thing like you cheering him on, his biggest and most enthusiastic supporter. he plays better, he second guesses himself less, he’s more relaxed.

you’re what’s been missing. the last piece of the puzzle.

an obedient little thing, glued to his side, wagging like a dog at his every command.

he fucking loves it. loves having someone relying on him for love and validation. loves the way you preen under his fervent gaze and flutter your lashes at the slightest touch.

when tashi asks you to join art’s team officially, you almost keel over.

“look, i don’t care that he’s fucking you… or that he’s in love with you. he has a shot at the us open this year, and he needs you by his side to do it.” she says. you’re quick to agree, ever obedient and desperate to please.

“he’s in love with me?”

she scoffs. “you’ve seen the way he looks at you. he almost creams his pants every time you’re in the same room as him.” she tilts your chin upwards with a crooked finger, giving your cheek an affectionate - albeit condescending - pat.

“you two can have your fun— but he has to win this year.”

art’s perched against the doorframe when you turn, corded forearms crossed over his chest. you scrunch your nose, pushing back a smile that crinkles at your eyes despite your efforts.

fucking smitten.

tashi rolls her eyes, a half smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and she nudges you towards him.

“go on.”

he opens his arms in greeting and you’re quick to fall into them, your fingers knotting in the shorn hair at his nape. his chest expands beneath your own as he takes a long breath, and he presses his nose to your pulse point, shuddering.

“love you.” he murmurs into your skin.

“love you more.”

he could cry; he doesn’t remember the last time someone told him they loved him and meant it. you’re obsessed with him, almost as much as he is with you.

at his next match, you carry his rackets and send him off with a good luck kiss that has him breathless, grinning as you roll his wad of gum between your teeth that you sucked right from his waiting mouth.

he wins.

how could he not with his pretty girl watching?

and that night, he rewards you with a thorough fucking, whispered love confessions against your lips, and a breathy moan as he cums that you won’t be forgetting anytime soon.

so, yeah. maybe this life isn’t so bad, after all.

[musingsofheaven]

THAT QUIET THING.

dilf!art donaldson x afab!reader

nsfw. age gap. vibrator use. voyeurism-adjacent. ♡

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep right after he finishes. Of course not. Not every time. He’s not that kind of asshole. But he still does it.

But it’s not because he’s not interested, because he is very much so, it’s also not because he doesn’t care about your pleasure! He’s just… just because he’s exhausted. Between flights, matches, press, rehab, sponsors, events, and other things come with being a player, and the fact that his body doesn’t bounce back as it used to. So he gives you what he can. And most nights, that’s a few minutes of messy make-out, one hand between your thighs, a low groan against your neck, and the quiet relief of coming deep inside you before his body gives out.

He tells you it’s good, because it is. You feel good. You do. He enjoys it. So much. He says that you’re perfect. That he needs you.

And maybe he thinks that’s enough.

But you’re younger than him. You don’t say it, but you are. You are young enough to keep your hands busy when he feels still from tennis and everything he did for the day. Young enough that your body keeps hot long after his breathing evens out beside you. Young enough to start hiding a vibrator in your pouch when you realize this is just how it’s going to be… a quick, quiet, and over before you get close.

It’s not bitterness. Not at first. You are not mad at him. You understand it. You are aware of his career and his age. It just needs. Quiet and embarrassing and yours alone. So when he gets comfortable in wonderland each night, breathing deep and heavy with sleep, you slip out of bed, cross the hotel carpet barefoot and tiptoeing so you won’t wake him, and lock yourself in the bathroom with your face pressed to your forearm and your hips grinding into the tile.

The toy is small. Quiet. Sleek. Something you can bite your lip around. Something that doesn’t need electricity or heavy batteries. Something that is not heavy. Something that won’t get confiscated at airports. Something he doesn’t need to know about.

You don’t use it every night. Just the ones where it’s worse. Not worse worse. Maybe when you're really there, something is missing. Clue: your orgasm. Where you can still feel the ache of being full without the part where you fall apart. Where your panties stick wet to your thighs after he’s already asleep.

Tonight, it’s like that.

He came fast. Kissed your neck. Fell asleep face down with one arm slung over your waist and his breath slow against your shoulder. You lay there long enough to count it. Long enough to feel the minutes tick by while your body stayed bothered, and feel the itch that needs to be scratched. Long enough to know he wasn’t waking up anytime soon. Where you can be comfortable and get up from the bed.

So you left. Just like you always do.

Face down on the bathroom floor. Phone screen dim. Porn on low volume. Toy between your thighs, buzzing soft against your clit. One hand is placed on your mouth to shut you up. One hand wrapped around the end of the toy. Breathing hard into your arm like that might make it quieter. And then-

You hear the floorboard creak. Then the knock. It’s not even a knock- it’s just the click of the handle turning. The door opening.

The bathroom light spills into the hall as he opens the door. You look up too slowly. You feel your cheeks burning up. You can’t even hide it.

Art stands there, in nothing but his boxers, hair mussed, brow furrowed. His hand was still wrapped around the neck of a water bottle he didn’t even get to drink.

His eyes drop to the floor. The phone is still playing. To the tiny pink vibe glistening between your legs. To you. To your body. How ridiculous it looked how you are positioned. Frozen. Red-faced. Dripping.

His mouth doesn’t move. Not at first. He’s just quiet, calculated. He’s always like that. You couldn’t even figure him out sometimes. He just exhales slowly through his nose and leans against the doorframe like his body’s figuring out how to hold back every single thing he’s thinking.

Then, without looking away: “That for me, or for someone else?”

Your breath catches. You don’t answer. You can’t. The toy’s still on, though. It’s still buzzing between your clit. You’re still shaking.

And he doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t ask again. Just watches you for another beat- eyes trailing from your bitten wrist to the slick mess under you- and then says, “You do this every time I fall asleep?”

You shake your head, fast. Too nervous. “No- I mean, not- Art, I didn’t- ”

“You finish like this?” he cuts in. Calm. Flat. Too calm. Curious. Not mad. Just want to hear from you. “Face down on the floor while I’m sleeping ten feet away?” It’s worse because his words have a bite, but it’s not even mean.

You shut your eyes. You want to disappear. You want him to touch you. You want him to leave. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t even blink.

He steps forward slowly and kneels beside you. His hand reaches down, curls around your wrist, and presses the toy deeper- not fast, not cruel, just firm. He moves it up and down slowly and precisely, just to earn your reaction.

“Show me,” he says, voice low. “How do you do it?”

You blink up at him, stunned. He’s hard. You can see it now, through the thin fabric of his boxers, the way he breathes like he’s not proud of it, like it hurts him to be turned on by this.

But he doesn’t stop. “Continue until you come for me,” he says, voice rough. “Or for the fucking screen. I don’t care which. I just want to see.”

Your stomach flips. You nod once. And you grind down again- slow, shaky, face hot, mouth open as you start to unravel. You do it like the way you always do it. The difference this time is you are wetter because he’s here.

He holds the toy there, tight, watching every twitch, every sound, every breath you tried to bury for weeks.

And he's still staring when you finally fall apart- shaking, soaked, tears caught in your lashes. Still hard. Still mad. Still calm.

“Next time,” he says, letting go, “you don’t sneak around to get off.”

You nod again. “You wake me up and tell me about it.”

And then, after a long pause, one more: “You’re mine. That means I finish you, too.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[golddustwomanwins]

BED CHEM

At this point I don’t know what to title these stories anymore.

Art and you are in a happy relationship and Patrick is being the usual perv (we love)

18+

Art and you were in a happy relationship. You were the picture perfect couple, everyone on campus jealous of how good of a match you two were. You were going strong for three years now, high school sweethearts who’ve made it through the first year of college together.

You didn’t have much time seeing each other in between classes and after that Art was on the court most of the time. Still, you tried to stay positive. You brought him to practice and picked him up after but most of the times he was too tired to do anything. You cherished stolen kiss and soft glances. Just spending time with him was enough.

It had been weeks since you two were intimate and you eager to have him for yourself. It surprised you that Art even went that long without touching, usually he was the needy one. But his schedule had been crammed with classes and tennis practice and he’d always get in the zone during this time, almost forgetting that he had a girlfriend.

So when you complained about it he promised you his whole weekend. You had planned it all out: booked a nice restaurant to eat out, watch a movie later in his dorm before you’d finally get what you wanted. You’d had invested in a sweet, hot pink two piece that looked gorgeous against your skin.

You were almost buzzing on Friday night after your class, rushing out of the lecture hall since Art promised to pick you up. You came to a halt when you saw him standing in his red Stanford shirt. Patrick beside him.

“Look who’s visiting for the weekend,” Art said with a sheepish smile. You deflated as Patrick smirked at you as if he deliberately came this weekend, knowing your plans. Which was ridiculous.

“Hey,” you tried to sound cheery as you leaned up on your tip toes hugging Patrick.

“Hey, pretty girl,” his hand wandered a little too low on your back and you pinched his bicep as you stepped back with a scold. On your face. “Behave.”

“You get prettier every time I visit,” he smirked as Art pulled you into his side. You dodged his kiss, slightly disappointed by the change of plans and only let him kiss your cheek. Patrick eyed you two with a smug look.

Did you think Art could’ve told Patrick not to come? Yes, you did. Art knew how little time you two had to spend and now that Patrick was here that was impossible. You swallowed the sour feeling and at least pretended to be happy to spend a little time with your boyfriend. You didn’t have anything against Patrick per se. He was a little touchy and a terrible flirt but her never actually tried anything the past three years you’ve known him.

*

You decided to go to one of the frat parties on Saturday. Patrick was currently in the shower while you reapplied your lip gloss, Art watching you from the bed.

“You barely said a thing today,” Art said. He stood up slowly, coming up behind you and wound his arms around you. He pressed a quick kiss against your neck but you leaned away.

“Art, I’m applying lip gloss,” you protested. He nuzzled your neck, breathing hot air against your skin.

“Don’t need to bother, it’ll be off by the end of the night.”

“Yeah?” You turned to look at Art, not noticing that the shower had turned off. “How exactly? With your best friend joined at our hip watching us?”

“Baby,” Art huffed. “What did you want me to do? He surprised me.”

You sigh. “I know. But I wanted this to be our weekend.”

“And it will be.” He pressed a kiss against your neck, hands wandering to your hips.

“Not with Patrick here,” you sigh softly as Art trails sloppy kisses up your throat, hips grinding desperately against each other. Art’s hard in a matter of seconds as his lips capture yours. His tongue delves hungrily into your mouth and you moan against him. Frustration long forgotten now that you finally get to feel him.

He lifts you up on your desk, your thighs making room for his hips. His hands cupped your tits as he leaned forward as if he wanted to crawl into your body.

Your nails slip beneath his shirt, dragging over his hard stomach. Art whimpers into your mouth, his hands moving your hips slowly against his.

“Missed you,” he breathes as your hands move for the buckle of his belt. The door to the bathroom creaks and you both turn your head surprised, Patrick walking out with a towel around his hips.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said not even looking at you two which was untypical for him.

You slipped your hands out of under Arts shirt, hopping off the desk and turned back to the mirror to reapply your gloss. Art flushed, cleaning his lips of your gloss quickly. So much for spending time together.

*

The party wasn’t as bad as you expected. Maybe it was the booze coursing in your system but the frustration from earlier, slowly made way for a different feeling.

You had split up with Art and Patrick, Art talking to his tennis teammates and you to a few friends who were in some of your classes.

Far into the night you ended up back at the counter, refilling your beer when you felt him approach you. A soft tinge of cigarettes and wood made you stiffen slightly. You didn’t bother to turn around as he leaned against the counter beside you, almost too close.

“I can find somewhere else to stay the night.”

You raise a brow and turn to look at Patrick. “Can you?”

“There’s a cute Blondie who’s been eyeing me,” he motioned over to a girl eyeing him from across the room, red lips tilted into a flirty smile.

You scoffed. “You’d prostitute yourself to let your best friend get laid? I must say I am impressed.”

You took a sip of your beer as he shifted closer, his hip pressing into your side.

“Seems like you two need it,” he smirked down at you.

“Shut up,” you grumbled. “And no. You don’t need to sleep anywhere else. That’s not the kind of person I am. Neither is Art.”

“It’s going good between you two then, yeah?” He took your cup, taking a sip of your beer. You shot him and irritated look before taking the cup back.

“Why do you ask?”

He shrugged but that stupid smile would not leave his lips. He was more tan than the last time he visited. Freckles painting the bridge of his nose and the highs of his cheeks. There was a soft stubble on his jaw, freshly shaven. The white shirt stretched along his shoulders and chest, hugging his biceps.

“We’re good.” You settled on that.

“Yeah I can tell. He’s obsessed with you.”

You look surprised at Patrick, realizing that he was already looking at you.

“Why do you say it like that?” You asked.

“Like what?” He smirked, leaning slightly down to hear you better over the thundering music.

“Like you’re surprised.”

“Maybe I am,” he shrugged.

“What? Am I not a girl to be obsessed with?” You challenged him, stepping slightly closer. His eyes lit up as if that was his plan all along. Patrick was looking at you like he was trying to figure what was so special about you.

Before you could hit him for his rude behavior Art found you again. The rest of the night progressed uneventful and when you were tired the three of you walked back to Arts dorm. You decided to stay with him despite Patrick. Sharing one bed with Art while Patrick took the other.

Art spooned you from behind, pressing soft kisses against your neck. Patrick was already asleep, you could tell by the snores passing his lips. You buried your back deeper into Art’s chest, sighing lightly. Your ass pressed against his crotch, his cock slowly rising to attention.

“Art,” you sighed as he started to hump your ass, fingers sliding beneath your top. Your eyes flew open but Patrick was still sound asleep.

Arts fingers brushed the underside of your tits, his tongue licking a stripe along your shoulder.

“God, I’ve missed you, baby,” Art groaned.

“Shh,” you shushed him, trying to get his hands from beneath your shirt. “Art, we can’t.”

“Just a little,” he murmured, lips finding your jaw, hard cock still working against you from behind. You moaned softly his hand flew over your mouth. “Need to be quiet for me, baby.”

You nodded, biting your lip when one of his hands rolled your nipple between his fingers. You arched your back, panties sticky and wet already.

Art kept on kissing your neck until you couldn’t wait anymore.

“Just—ahh—just fuck me.”

Art stilled for a moment. “You sure?”

You turned your face to him pushing your lips against his for a moment. “Yeah,” you said “we’ll be quiet.”

Arts gaze flickered to where Patrick lay l but he was still sound asleep, probably knocked out from all the booze of the night. If you had more time you’d have made this more romantic. Instead Arts fingers find your wet panties—groaning into your shoulder at the stickiness on his fingers—and pushed them to the side. You heard him fumbling for a moment before you felt the head of his cock at your entrance.

Lifting your leg slightly, Art slid inside you with a soft wet sound, both of you groaning in pleasure when he bottomed out. You froze when Patrick shifted but he only turned his back on you two before snoring on.

“Move, baby,” you whisper, your hand finding his. Art bit your shoulder as he slowly pumped his cock inside you, filling you so desperately. Every time he pushed his hips to you, you pushed yours back, biting your lip bloody to refrain from making a sound.

His lips kept sucking at your neck desperately, small whimpers falling from Art’s lips as he increased his speed. His balls started slapping against you heavily, the frame of the bed thunking against the wall.

Both of you were too turned on to notice the noise you were making. Skin slapping against skin, the wet sound of his cock pummeling into you.

“Youre so good to me—fuck—love you,” Art mumbled in your ear. His hand wandered down to your clit and you keened, arching your back further.

“Oh god, Art,” you moaned. You didn’t even try to be quiet at this point. When your eyes opened and Art fucked harder into you, you could see Patrick’s comforter moving suspiciously.

Art’s cock buried into you harder and you closed your eyes, moaning too fucked out to care right now.

“You close?” Art huffed and you nodded, nails buried in his forearm.

“Just—keep going,” you whined and it all became too much. Art doubled his efforts thrusting into you so hard the creaking of the bed must’ve been heard down the hall. The heardboard kept banging against the wall and your moans grew louder and quicker.

“Art we need to be-oh fuck, fuck fuck,” before you could do or think anything, your walls clammed down on his cock.

“Art I’m—“

Art slammed into you so hard, he had to bruise your hips in his grip to keep you from falling. “Baby you want me to pull out—fuck,”

You were too fucked out to answer, your eyes fluttering open and meeting blue ones. Patrick’s eyes shut immediately when you opened yours but he wasn’t quick enough.

Art kept hammering into you and the knowledge of Patrick watching you only let you fall over the edge again.

“Fuck I’m gonna—“ Art groaned long into your neck as he buried himself to the hilt inside you. Shivers kept racking your body as you felt his warm cum spill inside and run down his cock.

“I love you, this pussy is gonna ruin me, fuck—fuck,” Art kept on mumbling.

It was awfully quiet after, only your breaths and huffs echoing in the room. Art slowly eased out of you, the bed creaking when he stood up to get a wet cloth.

He cleaned you gently before pecking your lips and spooning you again.

“You think we were too loud?” He whispered into your neck, arms back around you. You shook your head gently, letting him kiss your neck one last time and fall asleep before you. All while you were staring into Patrick’s eyes.

Part 2