artiezweig

[artiezweig]

death with no dignity; patrick zweig

“ amethyst and flowers on the table

is it real or a fable ?

well, i suppose, a friend is a friend

and we all know how this will end ” - sufjan stevens

cw (18+) : mentions of depressive symptoms, masturbation, and heavy yearning.

wc : 1.9 k

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

It was an accident, it truly was, in every sense of the word. 

He had been driving home from Art’s house around 11 PM and had been playing some stupid song on the radio. He’d thrashed his head and slapped his palms against the leather steering wheel to the stupid beat, carefree and unassuming. It had been so dark, and he was distracted, and then suddenly the deer was in the center of the road. Big, black, shiny eyes and pointed ears and a deep brown coat. She was beautiful. For the split moment that he had before the impact, that’s all he could think about. 

He didn’t have enough time to swerve and avoid her because he’d been speeding, and everything afterwards happened in slow-motion. The skidding squeal of his tires against the asphalt. His heart lurching in his ribcage, almost enough to make him feel sick. The harsh jolt of the car and the brutal sound of metal hitting muscle, followed by the animal being sent hurtling a few feet forward and onto her side, accompanied by the painful sting of the seatbelt digging into his chest. When the car finally came to a stop, Patrick froze. His hands stuck to the wheel, shaking, and his eyes were peeled open wide as he stared through the windshield at the lifeless creature he’d just hit with his car. He was practically panting. He didn’t quite recall ever being so scared in his entire life, not even when he’d played his first professional match. Not even when he’d nearly drowned one summer years ago when he and Art were swimming in a lake upstate. 

He’d never killed anything before. Not like that. 

The aftermath was a blur. He almost called the cops to let them know that there was a large, dead animal in the road on so-and-so street, but he didn’t. To this day, he doesn’t really know why. Maybe it was all of the adrenaline. Maybe it was all of the guilt. Regardless, he’d mumbled a soft, “Oh, god, I’m sorry,” and then slowly pulled off and around it. He never told his parents, or anyone for that matter, that he had cried so hard on the rest of the drive home that he felt lightheaded by the time he was in the driveway. 

Mommy and Daddy Zweig offered–no, begged–to get him a new car the next evening (when they got back from Greece) because his hood and bumper were horribly dented, but Patrick had refused. He’d laughed off the incident in front of them, and then waited until they went to bed to slink into their massive garage and pick all of the little tufts of fur out of the vehicle’s grille.

He’d traced his fingertips along the indentations and the scratches in the paint and blinked away the wetness clouding his vision. Tried to mentally retrace his steps that night, too. What if he hadn’t been listening to that stupid song? What if he hadn’t left his best friend’s place so late? What if he’d been quicker? Smarter? Luckier? 

Could things be different? Could he have spared a life? 

Could he have spared the victim, and himself, the pain?

Patrick’s twenty-one now, and he does a lot of retracing his steps these days.

Tennis is his priority; he’s always on the court, or in a car or a bus that’s traveling to a court of some kind. Forehands, backhands, volleying, serving, smashes–it’s all he lives and breathes. And, of course, it’s easier now to focus on tennis when he no longer has friends. 

Art and him haven't talked in many months (has it really been years?), not since Tashi’s knee had gotten injured during that match at Stanford. 

Fuck that fucking match. And fuck them. 

He didn’t need them, he was doing just fine on his own. 

If his best friend of over a decade wanted to kick him to the curb like he was nothing more than a dog that had bitten him a smidge-too-hard to be loved, then whatever. If his grotesquely-talented girlfriend wanted to break up with him because he didn’t want to be treated like a lesser athlete nor sit in her shadow, then fine. He’d enjoy his tennis career and roll freely in the expendable income he was sure to continue collecting.

But that’s not really who Patrick is. 

And so he can’t help but lie awake at night, trying to pin-point where things went wrong–what he could have done to prevent this outcome–and tracing the indentations and scratches in his relationships that surely were only indicative of his faults. Compulsively picking at the tufts nestled in the wreckage. Eyeing the bloody brutalization, punishing himself by reliving the sting.

Sometimes he drags his fingertips over some of his old, banged-up rackets that he can't bear to get rid of, and he thinks about all of it. Tennis academy days with the shy, funny blonde kid that he became close with from day one. Learning and teaching and discussing with him all of the typical adolescent lessons that gave way to life outside of the bubble. Doubles matches–so many doubles matches. So many wins. First beers, first girlfriends, first cigarettes, first kisses. They shared everything with one another and they (almost neurotically) timed their experiences to happen around the same time so that they'd be able to talk to each other about them afterwards. As they got a bit older though, Patrick began to realize that he was feeling things for Art that he probably wasn’t supposed to tell him about. And he usually told Art everything.

That was his first mistake, he thinks, like when he hadn’t heeded the speed limit that night. Or, maybe, that was like playing the stupid song on the radio and going home late. It was the start of their untimely end. 

When he’s in one of his usual depressive spirals, the kind in which he can’t seem to find his appetite and he forgets to shower and he ignores his manager’s texts, he argues with himself about what exactly could be considered the “impact”. Was it when he had cheekily served like Art during that one casual training session, ball to the neck of the racket, confirming that he had slept with Tashi and thus beginning the festering of that awful jealousy in his friend? Or was it when he praised her in front of Art before her match in the singles tournament that fateful afternoon, igniting his friend's interest? Patrick remembers the look that glossed over Art’s eyes when he first caught sight of her; he had looked at her and suddenly Patrick felt like he’d been forgotten–like he’d melted into those bleachers and disappeared. He can’t really blame him, Tashi was talented and beautiful and ambitious and confident and mature–she was everything that Art steadfastly admired in a person. She was twice the person that Patrick had been back then.

Usually though, he comes to the painful conclusion that the impact was certainly the day of the Stanford match. More specifically, it was when Art had yelled at him for the first time in the entirety of their friendship. 

“Patrick, get the fuck out!” 

Those four words ring through his head on the worst of days.

He knew he’d fucked up by not pushing aside his pride and going to support Tashi after their fight, so he could pretty easily swallow down the discomfort that came with being yelled at by her. They yelled at each other pretty often when they got into their little spats, it was relatively normal. But god.. It was so much different when it was him. Patrick's muscles had locked up; he was shaking and breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon, able to see nothing but that pair of angry, familiar eyes. The vitriol that came spurting from the blonde’s mouth was like the worst toxin he’d ever known. It paralyzed him and began to rot his insides from that very moment on. And then all of the suffocating memories came flooding back as he turned and walked out of that campus health center. 

Giggling under blankets with a flashlight, reading comics until the sun started to come up. Practicing for hours on the courts at the academy, sometimes until they both got sunburns and heatstroke. Sleeping in the same bed on summer nights at Patrick’s house–tiredly watching the way Art’s chest rose and fell with each of his breaths and trying not to look at his lips. Holding each other when Art’s parents got divorced and he cried so hard that he got a nosebleed. Bandaging each other’s blisters. Wearing each other’s clothes. Having each other's back.

He doesn’t understand what he did to truly deserve being treated like that in the end by Art.

He’d been a good decent friend, hadn’t he? 

How could Art’s infatuation with her be enough to snuff out everything that they built together? It was supposed to be the two of them for the rest of their lives. Sure, they could each get married, pursue a career, have kids, but at the end of the day it was always meant to be them, wasn't it? Fire and Ice? Did he get that part wrong?

He habitually questions how much he really meant to him.

When Patrick does muster up the strength to drag himself to the shower, he generally stays in there for at least an hour. “Waste of water” be damned. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth run over his hair and his naked body. He presses his back to the cold shower wall and rubs his eyes until he sees white flashes dancing in the darkness. It’s not uncommon for his mind to wander back to you-know-who. In fact, that’s who’s usually on his mind whenever he’s not trying harder to forget. And it’s easy for Patrick to fixate on those blurry white flashes and suddenly see yellow curls, bright blue irises, deep smile lines, flushed cheeks. Breath smelling of that peppermint gum he always chewed. The sound of his nervous laughter and joyous cheers. Patrick would know him even if all of his senses were somehow dulled or taken from him. He would know Art by the feel of his soul breathing life into his own. He would know him, surely.

And maybe it’s an act of pure filth and desperation, or one of flesh-tearing grief, but many times Patrick winds up touching himself. Slow, steady, tender–the way he assumes Art touches Tashi. The way he had always wanted to touch Art, though he never even gathered the courage to try to hold his hand. He thumbs his weeping slit and keens as he feels the sadness and arousal roiling in his gut. He chokes on little moans that sound like sobs that sound like screams. He’s starved. How is it possible to miss someone when they’re everywhere? He thinks it’s funny that he’s forgotten what Art’s speaking voice sounds like but also refuses to watch any of his latest interviews on TV. He doesn’t want to see if there’s a ring on his finger, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about all of the ways Tashi gets to keep him as her own. He was mine, he unfairly thinks as he strokes himself under the scalding water, he was mine and I loved him and you lured him in and then he was gone.

The orgasm usually comes quick, spurred on by the near-lethal dose of petulant thought. He feels his thighs tremble and then his hand starts to lose its rhythm and then he’s crying out as he comes hard over his curled fingers. Sticky, clotted, putrid evidence of his lack of control. When he finally opens his eyes again, salt spills down his ruddy skin from wet lashes. He gets dizzy from the heat and the steam, he feels like he’s choking on all of it. He brings his dirtied hand under the showerhead and watches as his mess is rinsed away, down the drain in a gurgling spiral. It takes everything in him not to collapse.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he whispers, before he forces himself out of the bathroom and collapses in a wet heap over his bed. His skin sticks to the sheets and makes him feel like some sort of dirty, beastly thing that crawls out of swamps and swallows up all of the good it can touch. He figures that the feeling is not far off from the truth.

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

And that doe followed him for the rest of his life.

note : to anyone who's ever had a childhood crush on their best friend. to anyone struggling with the grief.

This was intentionally written to be a bit "all over the place"; I wanted to show how scattered Patrick's thoughts can be. Also I love, love, love Tashi, I just think Patrick maybe sometimes (early on, before they reconnected) blamed her for his and Art's split for unjust reasons.

tags : @venusaurusrexx @tashism @grimsonandclover @diyasgarden @weirdfishesthoughts @gibsongirrl @newrochellechallenger2019 @jordiemeow @artstennisracket @cha11engers ♡

[artiezweig]

Thinking about Patrick and Art as kids/teens 🥹every time they had a fight I know Patrick was the one to try to make peace, like he tried to make Art laugh and Art would pretend to still be angry but he eventually started smiling

[artiezweig]

sage i NEED dilf!art pulling down his baby blue pajama pants and getting pegged ib: the end of your last art getting pegged ask

it’s the end of a long day.

art has been working on his laptop all afternoon and evening, the sun now below the horizon as the apartment gets bathed in warm, artificial light from lamps scattered around the living room. he’s still in his pajamas from this morning. a white tee shirt. soft blue joggers. he sighs as he closes his device and lolls his head back against the couch.

you arrive back at your guys’ place just as he’s beginning to relax into the cushions. kicking off your shoes and shutting the door behind you, your keys jingling in your hand as you walk up behind him. you kiss his cheeks, stroke his short blonde hair, and then whisper to him.

“hi, baby.”

he’s melting into you like softened butter. his pretty blues blinking open tiredly as he pulls himself up from the couch and walks over to you. his arms encircle your frame. “mmn.. made you dinner, it’s on the stove..” he murmurs into your neck.

you nod and run a hand down his spine, reveling in the way it arches under your touch. curving into a perfect arc as he shudders. a soft hum of approval leaves your lips, and then you slip out of his hold to walk down the hall and into the bedroom.

it was a happy accident, really. you’d only gone in there to get out of your work clothes. it wasn’t really your fault that the strap at the back of the closet caught your eye. it’d been a while since you’d bent art into all kinds of pretty positions and made him moan so loud that the neighbors had to leave a note on your door the next morning..

you come out of the bedroom and place your hands on your hips, smirking softly as you walk up to your husband. he’s standing in the kitchen and pouring the both of you a glass of sweet wine. he smiles when he feels you approach, but his face immediately drops when he turns and takes in the sight of you. black, lacy lingerie.. his favorite set.. and the rubbery purple strap bobbing in front of your pelvis. he swallows thickly, his breathing picking up—his chest beginning to rise and fall quickly. his stomach swoops. four of his fingers swipe over your torso, and then he’s biting his bottom lip.

“oh, god, please..”

it doesn’t take much more than that before you’re tugging him against you and flipping him around so that you can bend him over the marble countertop. he winces when his cheek presses into the cold surface, but then squirms—whimpers—and reaches back to pull down his pajama bottoms. his black briefs come down right after. you suck two of your fingers into your mouth, covering them in spit, and then ease them inside him. it’s so easy to work him open nowadays, it’s like your touch is a muscle relaxant.

“aah—fuck—“ he moans, his brow pinching up as he claws at the counter.

you prod at the sensitive gland inside his walls until he’s squeezing your digits for more, his cock leaking and hanging heavily between his legs.

“ready?” you ask.

he nods, “fuck me, need it, just fuck me, baby..”

you pull your slick touch away from him and then guide the tip of the dildo into his hole. your free hand pushes down on the center of his back, fisting his tee. “good boy.. taking me so well..”

he keens as he feels you slide into him and bottom out, and then he’s groaning as he tries to rock back against your pelvis.

once you’re completely inside, you slide your touch to his hips and begin building a rhythm. in and out and in and out and in and out, but it’s still too agonizingly slow for art. it always is. he much prefers when you’re thrusting so hard that he can’t even speak. it’s better that way.

“want more?” you murmur, groping his ass with one hand as the other moves from his hip to his hair, tugging his head up from the counter, “want me to go faster?”

he chokes around a wet cry; his chin is already covered in drool, glistening like quartz.

you take that as a yes.

rearing back, you pull out four inches before slamming them back in—the motion punching a ragged gasp from his lungs. you lean over his back, pressing your chest to it, and lick over the back of his exposed neck. “thaaat’s it, take it, take it, take it, artie..”

your hips move a mile a minute now as you pummel into him, the slap of skin on skin echoing out and bouncing off of the walls. he’s a beautiful, disastrous combination of shaky limbs and tense muscles and broken moans that make him sound like he’s dying. every thrust elicits a sharp gasp or a sob from him. this is the way he likes it. when he can’t move or think or speak without your say-so. when you’ve got him so close to the edge that he gets dizzy.

“t—tou—mngh!—m’fuck, ah, ah, touch—��m s’hard, it hurts—“

you fuck him rougher.

his eyes roll back.

“want me to touch your cock? is that what you want?”

a nod of his head.

“if i touch you down there, are you gonna make a mess of our flooring?”

another nod. he gulps down a yelp.

“fine then.. only because i know you worked so hard today.. and you missed me.. and you made dinner..” you smirk.

he nods at all of it. he has worked so hard. he needs this—he needs you.

you move the hand in his hair to his length, and a swell of heat thrums in your gut at the feel of him. he’s throbbing and wet and absolutely burning in your hold. he’s so, so close to losing it, you know that for sure now. as soon as he feels your fingers curl around his shaft, his hips jolt and his balls draw up. his jaw slacks open. and then his eyes flutter and squeeze shut. you know that look. you know it too well.

he’s about to—

“i’m—!” he wails, and then he’s convulsing below you, his abdomen contracting against the counter as his knees buckle.

he comes.

hard.

it splurts from his tip like a fountain. gushing between your fingers and sticking like melted ice cream. you fuck him through it all, letting the strap bruise his prostate as you milk him dry.

“ugh, you’re cumming so hard, don’t stop,” you groan out encouragingly, rubbing yourself against the harness, watching him shudder and pant and writhe with the waves of pleasure that lap at his nerves.

you pump him in your hand until he starts to hiccup and whimper. he’s drained of nearly all of his energy, but he musters up just enough to let out a soft sob.

“t’much,” he slurs.

he’d push your touch away if he could. any more and he’d probably pass out. stars are already spattered in his vision, his face prickling with heat.

you give him one last down-stroke and let the remains of his load dribble out. his cock kicks in your hold.

“ah, aah, ah.. done, please, fuck..”

you kiss his shoulder, stroking his hair. the strap stays buried in him, all seven rubbery inches being held in his warmth. it’s almost painfully good.

“i love it when you do that,” you whisper into the fabric of his shirt.

“ngh.. do what?” he wipes at his mouth, the excess saliva being cleared away. the blush on his face burns brighter when he realizes just how much you’ve wrecked him. it’s not surprising, but it always gets him a little embarrassed.

“when you let yourself get lost in it.”

he sniffles and tries to push himself up from the marble, but his biceps are trembling too hard and he just collapses back down. a little pained noise leaves his lips. you shush him and stroke his jaw.

“just relax.. i’m still inside you.. i’ve got you..”

it’s hard for him to not be able to see your face after he orgasms. to not be able to hold you, and be held. but he knows he’s gotta listen and calm down if he wants to get what he needs. he has to let you take care of him. and god, you do it best.

“o-okay.. can you just hold my hand?”

it’s a simple request but it’s something that makes your chest ache. his hand raises from where it lays and opens up in anticipation. its a silent plea.

your fingers slide between his and interlock.

“i’m here.”

he lets out a breath he’s been holding in. slow, shaky, relieved.

“you’re here.”

[artiezweig]

i love josh o’connor

[artiezweig]

holy shit maybe i was living under a rock but i genuinely had no idea that the ai bot things had their voices oh my god my heart actually dropped

i’m typically morally opposed to ai and think it’s bad for a lot of reasons but i think i could get addicted to hearing art say he loves me in my ears

[artiezweig]

the fact that i love 3 fictional characters who are deeply flawed is proof that i deserve to be loved, despite my flaws

[artiezweig]

listening to mike talking on a podcast and i love how honest and real he is

[artiezweig]

woke up this fine morning thinking about being domestic with patrick😔 waking up in his bed wearing nothing but panties and lying skin to skin with him and he’s so warm and strong and the blankets are so heavy and cozy

anon you read my mind we’re literally on the same wavelength or something 🙂‍↕️

Before you even really woke up, merely stirring, lost somewhere between asleep and awake, you felt the familiar warmth of Patrick’s body. The feeling of him next to you comforted you, seeping into your hazy dream. You nuzzle into him, practically pressing your face against his chest as he threw an arm around you carelessly, pulling you closer into him (if that was even possible).

When you eyelids finally fluttered open, you were met with the sleepy gaze that graced Patrick’s face. He looked so handsome like this, you thought. Little stubble dusting his jawline, eyelids droopy, and a dopey grin across his lips as he stared at you. The little freckles on his face always seemed more noticeable in the mornings, but you assured yourself it was just because you were reacquainting yourself with him every morning, trying to memorize every feature to carry over into your dreams at night.

But your favorite thing about him on mornings like this was the slight rumble of his voice when he first woke up and the way you could feel the vibrations of his voice when he spoke as you laid chest to chest. “Morning babe,” he murmured. You felt a little tickle against your chest as you laid against him. You smiled, dazed, trying to keep your eyes open as you fought sleep.

“Mmm, morning.” You mumble into his chest, the feeling of your lisp against his collar bone causing him to breathe in just a little sharper that time. The sheets were tangled between your legs, the duvet covering you two like a toasty cloud, keeping you safe from the outside world. Here in bed it was just the two of you.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you up just a bit so he could pepper kisses all across your face. The feeling of your skin on his was a thing you could hardly explain. As he held you tightly, but not too tight —just as much as he knew you liked—, you felt safe, warm, and like you could call this your forever. It was like you two were one, unable to detach for fear of ever being apart again.

You traced nonsensical shapes between the delicate freckles that scattered over his shoulders as he fought the urge to tickle your sides. He didn’t want to ruin the calm of the moment, even if his mischievous nature called to him. He’d found himself cozier in your embrace than he’d been in a long time, maybe in his entire life, and he wasn’t going to ruin a good thing while he had.

[artiezweig]

i’m pissed off at everyone today but at least in my head art donaldson loves me

[artiezweig]

thinking of corrupting innocent art, maybe he grew up religious and his chastity ring is his most prized possession, but he can't say no to your advances, doesn't say yes either— but he never stays away for too long, anyway comes crawling back wordlessly like a puppy w his tail between his legs

cw : corruption, coercion/elements of dubcon (18+)

pastor’s son!art donaldson who stays in his hometown instead of going off to college; opting to help his father with the church as the months tick by, only fueled by a sense of duty and maybe a bit of religious guilt..

you knew the very instant you set eyes on him that you had to have him.

he always looked like an angel when he was stood behind his dad during services—the yellowed overhead light shining suspiciously brighter on him alone; his neatly groomed golden curls bouncing in front of his forehead with every obedient and devout nod of his head to the words of the verses. pretty, you had thought, pure.

the first time you ever tried to seduce him, the church had already emptied out to give you the perfect opportunity to slide into a pew and call him over to ‘talk’. of course, he was more than happy to do so. he talked with everyone, it was like a second nature to provide comfort to others.

he found you really attractive when he finally got a good look at you, sexy even. but the idea of perceiving you that way had curdled a gross feeling in his gut. it wasn’t right—it wasn’t him—and he knew that. but he still chose to sit down next to you that particular evening and indulge that disturbing part of himself. could it really be so wrong to appreciate one of god's fellow creations?

he knew deep down that god would be ashamed.

you had chatted him up for less than ten minutes (making up a sad story about how awful your life was going) before your hand was sneaking over his thigh, sliding over the dark fabric of his church slacks. he'd frozen completely stiff at the feeling, like he was scared of how he felt about the touch and petrified of the consequences.

art chuckled nervously and looked to your eyes, almost pleading.

“uhm,” he breathed out shakily, pushing your touch gently from his body, refusing your advances, “i don’t, uh.. im not—..”

he hoped that his lack of an actual explanation would be a good-enough one in of itself, but you pushed back anyway despite his protests. draping your leg over his, stroking his blond hair, leaning in to kiss his flushed neck. he was trembling all over. now god was really going to strike him dead.

“shhh,” you whispered, “just let me make you feel good, okay? that would really help me feel better…”

he wanted to say no. he wanted to shoot up from his seat and run away like a scared little pup, protecting the sanctity of his body and mind from whatever sin you were corrupted with, but he didn’t. a deeper, sicker part of him couldn’t. he was disgusted with himself.

an anxiousness started to brew just under his skin, and he felt it filtering through his blood like a petrifying poison. like a mess of flies buzzing around a decaying body that was buried deep in the midst of his morality. he couldn’t move; he couldn’t fight back.

but oh.. it.. it felt good..? and he did want to help you..

he was almost surprised by how quick he'd gotten an erection. it strained up against his zipper before you even got a chance to grope him properly.

and then you did.

and then he felt that awful, putrid, incredible feeling bubbling up from his pelvis; a feeling that he had only allowed himself to indulge in when he was at home, in the dead of night, tucked into the messy covers and rocking his hips into his mattress to chase the temptation.

an innocent loophole.

after all, he’d never physically touched himself there in a sexual manner, let alone with the hand of his that held a finger banded in silver—a symbol of his purity—so it would be alright in the end, right? he had only ever done it to scratch an itch. a forbidden itch, sure, but god wouldn’t want him to suffer like that. a quick bit of relief, and then it was over and done with. always.

but in that particular moment, when he was feeling someone’s touch over his pants for the very first time, he had decided that he wasn’t sure he wanted to indulge. maybe it really was as wrong as he knew it to be. he shook his head.

“wait—“ he gasped, squirming on the wooden pew as his head tipped back slightly, his trembling fingers squeezing the edge of the surface under him, “wait, wait, i— oh—oh-!”

he was letting out noises then that made him sound like an innocent fawn, wailing out in a mix of confusion and pleasure and shame and fear as he felt his cock spasm and flood his underwear with an overwhelming warmth. despite his verbal hesitation, he had pushed his hips up hard into your touch as he orgasmed—grinding against it as the shocks of release stung the finger that wore the ring of silver. he could almost feel the metal burning into his skin amidst all of the overstimulating ecstasy that caused his thighs to quake. guilt radiated through all of his bones; seeping into his marrow.

he had sinned, fully and wholly. he was a sinner.

your touch dirtied him. infected him.

you had made him this way.

he was supposed to be good; a good person, a good son, a good follower.

but you had ruined it. all of it.

he’d never been prone to anger, but right then he had wanted to shout. he wanted to shove you away, get down on his knees, and begin repenting. mumbling pleas and apologies with his hands clasped together and his head hung, bowed in penance. his body weighed down by the heavy stone of his own culpability in the situation; the realization that he hadn’t done enough to refuse your attention.

but, in the end, he couldn’t find it in himself to deny his body the gratification of being so close to you. he was no longer worthy of god’s forgiveness anyways, so he turned his head and looked to your eyes, tears pooling in his own. they dripped down his flushed cheeks as he pulled ragged, greedy gasps of air into his lungs. his chest rattled as he cried. the feeling of the slimy wetness soaking into his underwear had only made the sting of reality more pitiful.

if he had looked like an angel before all of this, he surely was a fallen one now.

“…th-thank you, i'm sorry…” he sobbed softly, “i’m sorry.”

he didn't quite know who he was apologizing to.

it had only felt right.

[artiezweig]

cw: nsfw 18+

thinking about edging and abusing art’s cock until his balls tighten. art is standing up- or at least doing his best to do so- and you’re sitting on the bed.

he’s so red all over the place and so sensitive. he won’t stop twitching when you cup his balls and run your hands over his tip.

“I-I can’t hold it,” he says, trying to move away from your touch.

you take your hand off his cock and caress his nipples, while he keeps whimpering.

finally, you show some mercy and start moving your hand in earnest again.

he shoots ropes all over the place, hips jerking up. it’s super intense, but you’re not done with him yet. you continue to move your finger in circles around his tip and play with his balls.

“something’s… something’s happening,” he says, looking so fucked out and a little terrified.

“just let go, baby. i’ve got you,” you say, kissing his neck.

that’s all it takes, as art squirts all over the place, his hips canting aggressively.

“nggggghh ahhhh holy shit,” he moans.

you help him ride it out, showering him with praises.

“so so good for me,” you say.

when he starts seriously moving away you know you’ve pushed him enough, so you let him go.

his stomach contracts as he catches his breath.

“that was… insane,” he says. not even a week later, he asks if we can do that again.

[artiezweig]

it’s too early in the morning for me to want him this bad

Art is sooo the type to fuck your fist with his mouth hanging open while he whines out “you’re gonna make me cum” 😵‍💫 you don’t even have to do anything, just keep that fist clenched and slick and his brain is melting <3

ugghhh yea:/

he’s just too easy, and the thought alone of your touch being wrapped around him is enough to send rivulets of pleasure bolting up through his lower belly. he’s so horny it almost hurts. like, he’s already a mess—looking like he just ran a marathon, sounding like he’s about to die. he arches his hips up to slide your fist down to his balls before he’s uncontrollably moaning and letting his sparkling blues roll back into their sockets, his lashes fluttering as he whines out a broken “you’re gonna make me—!”

all it takes is your other hand moving to playfully slap his thigh, and then he’s squirming and crying out; ropes of clotted spend splattering over your moving hand as you work him through his orgasm (him being too lightheaded and uncoordinated to do it himself..)

[artiezweig]

the prettiest

[artiezweig]

prince hair!!

i’m gonna ball him up and eat him. like a fucking cake ball. we’re being so fed with all these crumbs

[artiezweig]

cutie

[artiezweig]

I really wanna kiss you right now, but I’m afraid that if I try, you’ll think I’m the worst friend in world.

[artiezweig]

i don’t play about him

and the truth of the matter is he was the one being fought over