#asks challenge

[leonardoeatscarrots]

Bing bong

What piece of lore do you get the most excited about to share?

Challenge: go into five people's asks and give them this same challenge

I actually love talking about how "problematic" Craig is X)

I feel like people are so ready to just gloss over his faults in order to not offend me as a writer, but in reality, I gave him those faults for a reason.

[daily-dragon-drawing]

It might be a little abstract, but could you draw a telephone pole dragon? With the wires and lights I think it may be cool

#141 - 電線 (diàn xiàn / electric line) - Better not touch this telephone pole! ⚡⚡⚡

[soupdweller]

mermay day 3: pirates

[tahbhie]

How many drafts should you go through before deciding your novel is ready?

There's no specific (official) number, but to create a foundation that ensures you don't burn out quickly, overwork yourself, and get tired of your work, I'll say four. It's the same number I use for my students since most of them have other engagements outside writing that take up a copious amount of their time.

1. Initial or Zero Draft:

This draft is also called the 'just write' draft. Focus on putting that idea down. As the creative juices flow, let it all out. Don't worry about perfection or coherence; the goal is to capture your raw ideas and get the story out of your head and onto the page.

2. Second Draft:

This is the plot draft. Read through what you have written to see if every detail you added was meant to be. Here, you focus on the structure of your story. Ensure that the plot makes sense, the pacing is right, and there are no major plot holes. This is where you might add, remove, or rearrange scenes to improve the overall flow of the narrative.

3. Third Draft:

Character development draft. In this stage, you look deeper into your characters. Make sure their motivations, backgrounds, and arcs are well-defined and consistent. Flesh out their personalities and relationships, ensuring they are compelling and believable. This is also a good time to refine dialogue and make sure it sounds natural and true to each character. That's for this drafting stage.

4. Fourth Draft:

Grammar and punctuation draft. This is the polishing stage. Focus on correcting grammatical errors, punctuation, and spelling mistakes. Pay attention to sentence structure, word choice, and overall readability. This draft is about making your manuscript as clean and professional as possible.

Keep in mind that the goal is to define what completion means for each draft. Once you reach the goal, take a break and return to it for the next drafting stage.

Some writers pay people to carry out some of the drafting stages for them, so if you fall into that category, you might have fewer drafting stages to handle yourself!

Reblog to save for later 😉

Thank you all for the support 💜!

[joicecubes]

the implications of ford pulling this photo out of his trenchcoat in the last episode you guys… THE IMPLICATIONS.

look at the state of this thing!! look at its rips! the stain in the bottom right corner! it’s dog-eared, the color is faded, the paper has browned… he’s kept this photo of them since they were kids. through all the years he stubbornly swore to hold a grudge, all the years he and stan never spoke, he kept this photo.

and we can assume he probably didn’t have it dimension-hopping, since i find it hard to believe he would’ve had it on him when he initially got sucked in, but ford pulling it out of his trenchcoat here!! implies!! that he had been CARRYING IT AROUND WITH HIM for some time after he got back!

imagine if he found it in some of his old stuff the night he returned, after punching and yelling at stan, after being sure to keep as much emotional distance between them as possible, and he finds this photo. would he have stared down at it? for a little while? smoothed the creases out on his desk? thumbed the torn, loved edges while he mourned a simpler time? then pocketed the thing to always have it with him?

i dunno. maybe i’m looking too far into it. but i can’t help but wonder if ford kept it because, against all his big dreams and ambitions, deep down he always wondered what his life might have been like if he sailed away with his brother when they were teenagers. never able to throw it away because doing so would symbolically destroy the last remnants of a childhood fantasy, the last piece of him that remains young and hopeful of a future at his brother’s side.

[lilybug-02]

Evil Fairies!?!

Bug Fact: Insects do in fact have hearts, though they look very different to us mammals. It is a simple tubular structure known as the dorsal vessel, which runs along the upper part of their body, from the rear to the head.

V2 First || Prev // Next

Volume 2 Masterpost

▴♥︎▴ Patreon ▴♥︎▴ Buy Me A Coffee ▴♥︎▴

If you'd like to learn more about insect hearts this short 1 minute video gives a great visual example

[anniflamma]

HOWS THE CHALLENGE ANIMATIC ANNII?!!💗💗💗

(no rush at all take ur time queen bcuz you always feed it’s worth the wait but MY GOD IM TWEAKING OUT I AM STARRVIIIINGGGG THESE SNIPPETS ARE GORGEOUS AND I NEED THE ANIMATIC SO BAD😖 all jokes no rush at all im js so impatient and excited 😭)

THERE IS ONLY ONE SHOT LEFT AND I HAVE BEEN SAVING IT FOR THE LAST CUZ I KNOW IT WILL KILL ME! Also here is a sneak peak! >:)

[gladiatorcunt]

oooh art would be lowkey freaky. i feel like he’s also a super munch. he’ll let you sit on his face for hours!!

cw: 18+ mdni, cunnilingus, ambiguous era, afab reader, slight brat!reader, teasing, like two spanks (+ one instance of ass play + very slight anal fingering)

Art devours you like no one else ever could, burying his tongue into your pussy for hours on end. If he could, he’d do it 24/7. He does it enough as it is away. As a wake up call, a way to say goodnight, in the shower, on your period, from behind while you’re cooking, in a pool chair, you get the gist. If you asked what he favorite sexual act to do with you was, there’s not a single doubt in your mind that it would be slurping up your pussy.

You’ve never sat on his face before though, too scared to break his neck after reading a story on your phone about that happening to someone else. It’d be a real mood killer to come down from you high to see your boyfriend dead to the world, literally. You didn’t talk about it again after the initial awkward discussion that ended with you dismissing it. But he just looks so hot in the early morning sun, a rare sleepy day in where you actually get to marvel at what Art looks like when he’s relaxed.

You bite your lip and shake him gently, trying not to shy away and curl up into a ball when he eventually groans and rubs his eyes open.

“Morning, baby.��� He grunts in his husky morning voice.

He immediately puckers his lips for a kiss that you provide with less casual confidence than usual. His brow furrows, and he caresses the inside of your wrist with his thumb.

“What’s up? Are you hungry?” He asks you, thinking that you’re needing him to run and get you coffee or something.

You say no and play with your hands, the ache you’ve been feeling between your thighs only grows the more you look into his eyes.

“I just…. I need you.” You whisper.

Art squints his eyes, not sure what you mean. Then he recalls how he usually wakes you up in the morning, “Oh. You need me, huh?”

You nod and spread your legs, giving a view of your bare pussy. You took your underwear off earlier when the feeling got to be too much.

“Can you say it for me, angel? Tell me what you need and i’ll give it you.” He grins, teasing you. “If you woke me up, you must need whatever it is really bad.”

You roll your eyes and straddle him, sighing in bliss when he latches onto your hips. You’d put up more of a fight if you weren’t so horny, but you’ll let Art have his fun this time.

“I need you to eat me out.” You hold back the ‘obviously’ that you want to tack onto the end of your sentence.

Art’s grin widens and he makes you rock back and forth on his clothed bulge. He waist until you’re juices are wetting the fabric of his underwear before he pats your thigh, telling you to get off. You don’t budge and allow him to get into the typical position. Instead you lift your hips and shuffle up the bed until you’re hovering over his face.

“I want you to eat me out like this.”

Art’s grin falters as his eyes widen in shock for a second, you must really be pent up if you’re being this bold. He’s not complaining, he’d been waiting patiently for you to get comfortable enough to use him like a chair. You’re enough of a brat to change your mind if he acts too smug about getting what he wants even if you want it too though, so he tones it down.

“Get to it then, angel.” He smirks, his words trailing off into a satisfied sigh. “Give me a taste of this pretty pussy, don’t hold back.”

He flattens his tongue expectantly and leans his head back against the pillows.

Before you can even hesitate, Art snakes his arms under your legs and yanks your body down, making you drop your weight on him. You yelp but he doesn’t let you squirm away from his mouth. The sensation of his tongue lying still beneath you feels strange for a second, but a slap to your ass snaps you out of it enough to start moving your hips.

You shout and grab onto the headboard, getting yourself off on your boyfriend’s face. You play with one of your tits as you start to bounce on him, craving more of his tongue.

You reach down and tug on his hair, suddenly feeling too shy to make eye contact. He hasn’t looked away from you this entire time, and your cheeks warm in embarrassment at the thought of how messy you already look.

He winks at you, not moving at all and letting you take your fill. Well that’s not what you want anymore, so you tug his hair harder and beg.

“Please, baby, just tongue fuck me already. Don’t you want to? ‘m getting tired…” You whine, pouting down at him.

You stop your hips when you don’t get an answer. Art’s eyes crinkle in delight at your predicament, but he gives in to you. He always does, you just don’t like when he puts you on the spot and makes you wait like this. Secretly you kinda enjoy how he acts in bed, but you like putting up a fight way more.

Art curls his tongue around your clit and you throw your head back. He gives the throbbing bud a few customary sucks and then he jabs his tongue into your wet hole. You moan and grab onto his hair, bouncing on him in time with his tongue’s short thrusts. You roll your hips down against the slick appendage and cry out when it hits the right spot, grasping onto the headboard for dear life.

“Oh my god, feels so good! Wanted you in my pussy, need you there, sucking me dry-what the fuck, yes!” You squeal, firmly keeping his face nuzzled into your pussy and your thighs around his head.

His hands are playing with your ass while he eats you out. You’re mid bounce when you feel one of his thumbs prod at your ass hole, and the barest hint of having two of your wholes filled gets you moving faster on him. He spread your cheeks wider and kneads the flesh, jiggling them in his hands.

Art responds in kind and slides his tongue around whatever parts of your juicy pussy he can, scooping up your juices and guzzling them down as he stabs his tongue through your sopping folds.

You’d normally pull him back by his hair when you got close, not wanting to get him too dirty with your cum. But now you’re tightening your thighs over his ears and and stuffing his nose into your trimmed pubic hair, bouncing like your life depends on it.

Art spanks you again when your walls spasm around his tongue thirty seconds later. He gulps your orgasm down with love in his eyes and a heartbeat in his dick. He coos at your soft sniffles and massages your trembling thighs when you get up and collapse beside him.

“Thanks for breakfast, angel, I’d rate it 5 stars”. He laughs, half jokingly and half seriously.

“Whatever, perv.” You weakly smack him on the chest and groan, trying to keep your soul in your body. “Go get coffee… please.”

[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?”

[daily-dragon-drawing]

a dragon but disguised as fruit would be the best shock to stumble upon

#11 - 火龍果 (dragon fruit)- I don't see a dragon here, do you? 🐲🍓🌟

Bonus:

His ass does NOT cost 39元

[technically-human]

How is the Classics story going? I kinda missed them 🥲

Stone now knows Eggman likes him. Eggman is a bit excited.

ko-fi

[mildeleef]

love how you draw moink

I am quite fond of banana boy

[jordiemeow]

Thinking about being Dilf!Art's free use girlfriend🤤🤤

no bc this is sooo. yeah to me like him just coming home after getting his ass chewed out at practice n you're just so willing to let him do whatever agrhedffjkdsjf

warnings: 18+ smut (p in v), dom!art, f!receiving oral/fingering, free use mentions/mild degradation but not much dialogue

When Art is tense, there's only one thing that really calms him down: sex.

Any form of it, really—whether it's just heavy petting that ends with his boxers warm and damp, a blowjob, or him having you bent right over the kitchen counter in the middle of cooking dinner. At first, he used to whine and groan about it until you relented, but over time you've realised it's just not worth it. It's why you don't even bother wearing panties at home any more; he'll always find an excuse to get them off.

"Hi, baby," you coo as the door clicks shut behind him. You catch a glimpse of his tense shoulders through the open door, his bag dumped alongside a racket that looks like it's seen better days. Frayed strings, the head of the racket crumpled in on itself. You can practically hear the way it must have rang out against the court.

Rough day. Your thighs give an anticipatory clench.

He mutters a cursory greeting under his breath, shoes kicked off before he pads across the living room to join you. Not on the sofa, though—on his knees, palms resting on your own to part them.

In one breath he's kissing up one thigh, then the other, a little rougher each time. It feels like he's getting some frustration out, as if he can work the tension right out of his arms while he holds you open. To fill the hole where his sour mood used to be with just the taste of your sweet cunt.

Impatient fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, shimmying them down your thighs until they fall to the floor. He has the grace to help your ankles out of them, at least.

Art’s breath fans out over you in soft, warm bursts before he's even made contact. "So fuckin' pretty, babe. Waiting around like this just for me." You'd laugh about the first words he's said to you since 6am this morning being about how beautiful your pussy is if your breathing hadn't quickened in excitement.

His tongue presses flat against you, lapping up whatever mess it finds. You’ve been wet since you saw that battered racket upon his entry. He makes a low groan of satisfaction when you sigh softly at the feeling of his warm tongue. By the time the tip of his tongue flicks over your clit, you know his mood is already shifting. He always starts so desperate, licking messy and deep like he's trying to prove a point (if there's one thing that can absolve the feeling of self-loathing after a bad practice, it's making you feel good), but his hands slowly ease on your thighs as he settles into it. His mouth gets a little softer, a little more determined.

The tip flicks over your clit, coaxing it to swell. Just like that, he's relaxing into it.

You reach down and start to scratch at his scalp, fingernails dragging across it. It's just long enough to grip in your fist, and you pull on it to earn an approving hum. His shoulders relax, tension seeping out of him—you can feel it in the way he grips your legs, the way he runs his tongue around your clit with relish.

"Taste so good," he tells you, words breathed into your heat. "You always taste so good."

When he pauses to take a breath, his fingers push between his own lips to coat with a layer of saliva. He runs the two of them over your swollen bud, just enough to make you inhale sharply. If you weren't already worked up, that would have done the trick. His eyes flick up to catch your own, pools of blue studying the way your jaw slackens and your brows peak when his fingers slide into you.

You clench instinctively, and he tuts in warning, fingers crooking cruelly in a way that has you whimpering out apologies. Your eyes are too heavy to catch the way the corner of his mouth quirks up at that reaction. Bingo, you're in for it now.

The first few slow slides of his digits in and out of your tight cunt seem to be perfunctory. After that, he's really going at it. Fingers scissoring and thrusting, curling up against that spot that has your eyes rolling back and moans of his name spilling past your pretty lips. One hand still nestled in his cropped blonde hair while the other grips at the cushion next to you for dear life as he drinks in the way you fall apart around his fingers.

He's clearly enjoying himself at this point, chipping in with the occasional low "right there?" or "someone's desperate today." He can play your body like a fiddle at this point—a curve of his fingers here, a brush of his thumb there. He's even memorised the pitch of your whines to know when you're achingly close, walls fluttering around him as your peak nears.

He pulls away from you, fingers sliding free with a whine of complaint from you, and your hands reach to tangle in his hair to pull him back before he's even had the chance to stand. His knees are burning, but he ignores the pinch of the rug underneath as he pushes himself up.

His hands catch in your hair to yank your head back, forcing you to look right up at him where he's looming over you.

"Need me that bad?"

Your words feel stuck in your throat and he tsks softly at the way your mouth only falls open soundlessly, the grip in your hair preventing you from moving.

"Tongue-tied, huh? All that talk last night just to get you like this." He grins down at you, a flash of white teeth caught between his lips, still shining with your essence. "You know we could just go through the list until you find your voice back."

His hand releases your hair to reach between you. When you can think clearly again, you can't tell if you're grateful, or if you miss the painful prickle of your roots. But you're definitely thankful when his fingers are back between your legs—a reward, of sorts. You let out a low sigh when he brushes against your clit and he groans in acknowledgement, like he's just reminded himself of how wet you are.

"Oh, I think I know where the list should begin."

The pads of his fingers run in a slow circle over your clit, as if the only thing he's interested in the world is how much he can make you squirm. It seems like now, with some of that initial tension drained, he has no qualms with making you suffer. Your fingers dig into the couch instead of reaching for him again, nails digging into the fabric. You can only watch up through your lashes; it’s a lovely sight, his head tilted downwards to look at your body, eyes dark and a look of concentration on his face.

He looks down at you the same way he looks at his opponents' during matches; analysing the way your knees twitch towards each other. Like you're just another opponent to get the upper hand against.

Another hum, like he’s thinking, and then—

Hands on your hips, he turns you around until you’re facing away from him and shoved up onto the couch. You brace yourself on your knees, but he doesn't wait for you to find your footing before one hand is pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing you down with a hand between your shoulder blades—back arched beautifully, cheek pressed into the fabric, cunt dripping with anticipation

Art’s other hand pushes at the waistband of his shorts, boxers dipping down with him to pool at his ankles to free his aching cock. The couch dips under the weight of you both when his knees hit the cushion.

"Fuck. Just like that. I need—" He inhales sharply, hard length pressed against the back of one of your thighs. "I need to be inside you.”

He takes himself in hand and leans over you, free hand on the back of the chair.

"You need this too, right?" He murmurs, low and rough in your ear. His eyes are a little glassy, still hazy with a day's worth of frustration. "Been thinking about you all day."

You moan your affirmation into the cushion.

“Be a good girl and use your words for me.”

“Y-yeah. Need it. Need you.”

Good enough for him. When you finally feel him sink into you—slick, hard, thick—your legs almost buckle beneath you. All you can do is curse out a series of profanities that would make a sailor blush when you feel that familiar stretch as he bottoms out, his hips pressing flush against your ass.

“Say it one more time for me,” he instructs, hand sliding down your clothed spine until it finds your hip again.

You’re barely coherent enough to register that, but you manage a, “I need you, Art.” Breathy and weak, no more than a mewl.

He withdraws then, tip still pressed into you, before sinking in again. A punishing rhythm right from the get go, enough to have your couch rocking dangerously beneath you every time he snaps into you. Skin on skin, your moans reaching new octaves to harmonise with his grunts of effort as his cock drives into you.

Relentless, precise, deliberate.

And you’re content enough to just let him use you like this. An outlet for all that stress.

“You get off on this, huh?” He rasps in your ear. “Just sitting around waiting until I’ve had a bad day?”

You moan something that vaguely resembles a slurred “yes” into the cushion, senses clouding entirely by the brutal onslaught of pleasure when the hand on your hip slides down to rub at your clit.

“There’s my girl. Always so eager to be of use.”

The praise is condescending but it makes you clench around him nonetheless. You love when he gets like this—just a little bit mean, using the way your bodies collide together to relieve his tension.

Everything he moans into your ear blurs together after a while.

“So fucking tight. How’s a man supposed to be angry when he comes home to this?”

“Fuck, you were made for this. Perfect little slut for me.”

“Just you lay there and take it. That’s right. Atta girl.”

You think you reply, but all he can make out is senseless babble into the pillow your face is half-pressed into. He still has a hand between your shoulder blades to hold you in place while his fingers, coated in your slick, continue to circle mercilessly at your aching clit.

He can tell by the way your walls flutter around him that you're close, knuckles curled into a death-white grip on the back of the sofa. He doesn't have it in him to make you beg—not when his own orgasm is so close. His place slows down a little. Slow, deep, tip nudging that spot inside you that has your vision whiting out. The deliberate drag is enough to push you over the edge with a cry of his name.

Art groans in satisfaction. "Fuck. That's what I wanted. That's it."

He fucks you through the intense wave of pleasure, fingers finally stilling to grip your hips again. Another few sloppy thrusts and it's impossibly not to cum with how your cunt is gripping him just right.

His moan is guttural right by your ear. Inhumane, even, as he rocks into you to prolong his pleasure, spilling into you until your thighs are sticky. The pair of you stay there for a while. You still arched forward, panting into the pillow. Art massaging your hips, murmuring words you can't quite make out into the back of your shoulder. It's almost comedic the way his own shoulders have relaxed since he first sunk into you.

"Can you move? My knees are killing me," you manage eventually, tilting your head to catch a glimpse of him pressing a kiss to your shoulder over your shirt.

"Yeah, sorry."

It's the same way he says 'sorry' to the chair umpire when he smashes his racket against the ground—a quick apology, a flash of an almost-there smile. You know there's no remorse behind it at all. Not when he gets to see you so thoroughly wrecked and he's too blissed out to remember why he'd came home in such a mood in the first place.

He pulls out of you (and takes a moment to admire the way you look with your back arched and your cunt dripping with his release), and then helps ease you up.

"Wanna talk about it?" You ask, voice still wrecked as his arms circle around you and a kiss is planted to the top of your head.

"No need. I feel better."

You can feel him smiling against you as he gives your middle a light squeeze. All you can do is roll your eyes fondly and usher him off to fetch something for the mess between your thighs.

—

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[anniflamma]

update on the challenge animatic?

Well, I haven’t been very active lately due to some irl reasons, but the news is that there’s been some progress! However, I’ll have to push up my plan to post it for the upcoming week.

[hotvintagepoll]

this is a poll for a movie that doesn't exist.

it is vintage times. the old hollywood studios, captivated by the electorate's previous casting of cinema classic dracula, have decided to celebrate jane austen's 250th by releasing an all-new vintage motion picture extravaganza based on her celebrated romance pride and prejudice. whoever is cast will impact the picture's tone and genre, so they are counting on you, the electorate, to deliver cinema magic.

you are the casting director for this star-studded epic. choose your players wisely.

This is one of many polls that will gradually drop over the next few weeks. You can find all the P&P polls under #pride and prejudice casting. If you need a reminder on who's who, here's the Wikipedia page listing the cast of characters.

[jesuistrestriste]

more art x milf reader! we all say in unison 🙇‍♀️

cw (18+) : needy!art donaldson, milf!reader, jealousy, masturbation, mention of alcohol/intoxication, pillow humping, mommy kink

it was usually hard to tell if she was flirting with him or just being her usual, saccharine-sweet self. whenever he and her would converse, a generally rare and heaven-sent occasion, he’d pay careful attention to her appearance and the little details she seemed to keep consistent each time; deep mauve lipstick perfectly slicked to her pout, freshly manicured nails, low rise jeans that hugged her curves in a way that made his stomach fizzle and flood with heat.

right after the most recent match on campus, he’d been granted another opportunity to have a full, lengthy discussion with her. he was absolutely dripping with salty sweat and panting like a dog, but she didn’t seem to mind too much at the time—batting her lashes and patting the seat next to her to invite him closer. he had wiped at his damp brow when they began to talk, pulling at his collar afterwards (burning up from the inside out), and then made sure that he was smiling at all of the right times as he listened to her speak. he tried his hardest to focus on the words leaving her mouth: tennis player.. thrilling match point.. congratulations.. you’re a star. the nervous laugh that clogged his throat when he registered her praising sentiment only caused his cheeks to flare a deeper shade of pink, and his fingers reflexively squeezed the metal edge of the bleachers underneath him. she’d smiled in return and only doubled-down on her compliments then. he just had to sit there and take it, fidgeting and folding his legs into different positions to try to hide the swell of his desire. it was a mess of an interaction, and art was well-aware how embarrassing it was for him to be acting like a teenage boy in front of such a sophisticated, charming, yet down-to-earth older woman, but he sincerely could not help himself. it was impossible to stay sane in her presence.

the universe gifted him a couple more similar interactions with her in the following month, and this only worked to solidify his (wildly inappropriate) obsession. he’d go to class and think about her bubbly laughter, he’d eat in the dining hall and forget to chew when thoughts of her mouth infected his mind, and he’d even started to lose himself in her image when he was playing tennis—which, for him, was incredibly damning. tennis was usually a healthy distraction, a coping mechanism, as it rarely allowed him to get lost in irrelevant ideas. his head was almost always in the game. so, when he was in the middle of a practice singles match with another stanford player one evening and missed a shot because a flash of her thighs rendered him boneless and swallowing a whimper, he knew he had a real problem.

masturbation didn’t even help.

not in the slightest.

he jerked off in the showers regularly, fisting his aching, angry cock with urgency as he pressed his forehead into the tile wall and moaned her name into the running water. he’d buck his hips to gain friction against his palm when he orgasmed, clapping his free hand over his mouth to stifle his repetitive mewling, and then would watch as his wasted load swirled down the drain.

it was all very routine. it usually was a temporary solution to the desperate and persistent yearning he felt during every agonizing minute of every torturous day. more broadly, it was just hard to ignore the reality that he’d never been so horny in his entire life—and it was all because of her, though he could never truly blame her beauty. his perverse nature was the real culprit.

the only time that he’d successfully been able to get off and get over her for longer than an hour happened when he came back to his dorm room after a party thrown by a handful of the other members of the tennis team. he’d gotten drunk on beer and cheap shots, egregiously so, but still found himself stumbling into his room with half of an erection bulging in the front of his pants. as he kicked off his shoes and peeled off his bottoms, he recalled what one of his teammates had said about her in the middle of the function—

“she’s so fucking hot, isn’t she? i mean, shit, i’d do anything to fuck her.”

art had never considered himself a violently jealous person, but in that very moment at the party something ugly had reared its head and he’d wanted nothing more than to put his fist to the guy’s teeth until his own knuckles cracked and bled. the guy had never even talked to her before, whereas it could be argued that art and her were almost friends. if anyone deserved to squeeze her plush tits and slide their unworthy dick into her perfect pussy, it was him. he ended up having to walk away from that cesspool of locker-room talk in order to avoid starting something that would surely land him in hot water with the university.

he took off his shirt and dropped it down onto his floor to meet his other garments as he staggered deeper into his cramped living space, crawling up to lay on his twin xl. his hand was immediately in his boxers in the next moment, fondling his warm flesh as it swelled hungrily in his touch, and he groaned and shuddered as he felt his head spin wildly. art then turned to flip himself gracelessly over onto his stomach, limbs moving uncoordinatedly with each brief shift of his weight. his jaw slacked and he gasped pathetically into his sheets as he humped his curled set of digits. though, when he blinked his eyes open blearily, his wasted brain formed a filthy idea..

“ohhh, fuck me,” he whimpered, shoving a pillow from the top of his mattress between his legs, his pelvis arching back only to rut forward and smush his clothed shaft into the cushion, “i’m all yours.. please, use m’cock.. don’t take anyone else’s, i wan’ be the only one—!”

he slurred through every lewd word that left his mouth. his abdomen curled and tensed as he began to feverishly hump the softness under him, his cock throbbing with incoming drizzles of pleasure. he clawed at his bedding like he was some sort of drooling, snarling, chained-up monstrosity. felt like one too with all of the arousal paralyzing his frame. every cell in his being was on fire with the debilitating need to be nestled in her sopping cunt, hugged by her slick walls and pleasing her any way that he was able. he imagined sucking on her nipples until she pulled his hair.. her soft tongue on the seam of his sack.. her fingers at the back of his throat, fluttering and giving him something to worship as he pounded up into her. his thrusts quickened to sync with the rapid beating of his heart in his ribcage. he was so close that he almost felt sick with it all.

art's noises raised in pitch and volume with every second; everything was boiling over in record time.

“oh no—“ he drunkenly choked and moaned, teetering on the edge, “mommy, i’m gonna come inside you—i’m, i’m so—it feels s’good, i can’t hol’ it anymore—please don’t b’mad, i really like y—HAAH—“

he pushed himself up onto his palms and let out a strangled, wet cry as he suddenly felt the world close in on him. head tipped back, toes curled, muscles flexed. white flashes erupted behind his low lids, something hot gushing copiously from his tip and into his underwear.. over and over and over and over again. a final curse flew from his lips as his climax wrapped its arms around his body and flooded him with the last bits of boiling gratification—so much so that it was almost numbing. his hips moved jerkily through the lingering sensations; they snapped downward several times until the spilling of fluids ceased and was only replaced by the feeling of all-consuming oversensitivity. art quaked from his head down to his toes, squirming and hiccuping against the stimulation that only he could save himself from.

when he finally collapsed into a panting heap, the fantasy of her core wringing him dry starting to fade out, he'd sucked at his bottom lip and let out the tiniest of whines.

“mommy.. mommy, mommy, mommy..”

he whimpered it until he fell asleep.

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