hvneybuckin

[hvneybuckin]

thank u for the tag saint !!!!!

currently reading :: the poppy war

last song :: sugar on my tongue by tyler the creator

last film :: avengers endgame

last series :: i thinkkk i rewatched the pitt ??

sweet/savory/salty :: definitely sweet

tea or coffee :: tea !!! im a tea fanatic guys like its so serious

working on :: scenemo!patrick x priests daughter!reader ( @pittsick 👀)

tagging :: anyone who wants to participate!!!

— TAG NINE PEOPLE YOU WANT TO GET TO KNOW MORE !

thank you for the tags LOVE you guys and hit me up on my disc for a kiss: @gojodickbig @fayerie @sugurusladyknightt @fear-is-truth

currently reading: haha who reads lol... last song: cowboy gangster politican - goldie boutilier last film: superman last series: overcompensating sweet/savory/salty: spicy i make my own rules tea or coffee: anything with caffeine to keep me going working on: getting over this gosh darn cold that wants to keep me shackled in my bedroom

✦ nine no pressure tags my loves: @prosypepper @joemama-2 @letteremi @hellowoolf @redrrem @getouyuri @eraserbread @nialovessatoru @kunareads

[hvneybuckin]

── CADERA CONTRA CADERA.

summary: after a mission, Joaquin and you, his girlfriend, hit the club to unwind—but one heated dance to Gasolina turns into a desperate, filthy quickie in the bathroom. between grinding, teasing, and raw need, you both lose yourself in each other under the pulse of the bass.

pairing: joaquin torres x girlfriend!reader.

cw: +18. mdni. semi-public. praise / degrading. teasing. grinding. noise kink. hair pulling. marking. slight oral sex (reader receiving). messy makeout. lack of underwear (reader). light choking. unprotected piv. light choking. quickie sex.

taglist: to be added.

You’d barely had Joaquin back for twelve hours, and he was already glowing.

Something about post-mission Joaquin always hit different—looser shoulders, sharper jawline, fresh stubble, and an almost impossible heat radiating from his skin. You’d missed him. God, you’d missed him. So when he suggested a drink to unwind, you’d taken it a step further—eyeliner, short skirt, bare legs, and that top. The one with no back and less front.

Now he stood behind you on the dancefloor, in the middle of a sweaty, pulsing crowd, hands low on your hips as the beat dropped hard. Gasolina by Daddy Yankee echoed in the whole club.

Bodies pressed in from every side, but Joaquin? Joaquin was all over you. His chest flush to your back. One hand resting on your hip, the other ghosting up under your top like he couldn't not touch you. His fingers barely skimmed your ribs—just enough to tease.

You rolled your hips to the rhythm, grinding back into him as the song throbbed around you. His breath caught against your ear. "You're gonna kill me tonight."

You smiled, slow and dangerous. "Why’s that?"

“You know why.” His voice was low, half-choked. "You keep doing that... I'm gonna fuck you against the wall before the next chorus."

You let your head tilt back onto his shoulder, letting your ass press more firmly into his front. You felt him stiffen behind you—and not just with tension.

“Yeah?” you purred. “You hard for me already?” His hands gripped your hips harder—possessive now. You weren’t moving alone anymore. He guided you, forced you to roll against the thick heat in his jeans. "Fuck," he whispered. "You're not even trying to be subtle."

"Subtle was never the point."

The chorus hit again, and this time you danced like you were alone in the room with him. Like the rest of the club—the writhing bodies, the strobing lights, the heavy bass—was background noise to the heat coiling between your thighs.

You slid a hand behind you, running your fingers over his clothed thigh, then just barely over the bulge in his jeans. Joaquin swore under his breath. "You're playing with fire, baby."

"Do something about it."

That was it. He grabbed your hand and pulled you through the crowd—past the bar, the DJ booth, the cluster of girls taking selfies near the mirror. His steps were fast, urgent. You knew where he was going before he said a word.

The bathroom was dim and sticky with heat. The bass from the dancefloor vibrated faintly through the walls, muffled but present.

Joaquin slammed the door shut and locked it behind you and then his mouth was on yours—hot, messy, starving. You moaned into him as he backed you against the counter, his hands already under your top, roaming up to cup your breasts, thumbing your nipples and rolling them between his fingers.

"You drive me crazy," he rasped. "You planned this. The top. No bra. That little fucking skirt."

"Maybe I just missed you." You grinned against his lips. "Maybe I wanted to feel you lose control."

"You're about to feel a lot more than that." He spun you around before you could answer. Your palms hit the counter, cool and slightly sticky. His hands yanked your skirt up with impatience, revealing bare skin. He groaned.

"No panties?"

"Was hot out," you said breathlessly. "I thought you might like the easy access."

"Dios mío."

You felt him drop to his knees behind you, lips brushing your inner thighs before his tongue dragged up through your folds. You gasped, legs spreading on instinct. "You're so wet," he growled, voice wrecked. "Did I do that on the dancefloor?"

You couldn’t answer. His mouth latched onto your clit—sucking, flicking, devouring. You whined, eyes fluttering closed as you tried to stay standing. His tongue circled, then flattened, then flicked faster. You gasped and tangled a hand in his hair, grinding back on his face.

Every slurp, every moan from him vibrated straight through your core, making you dizzy. Joaquin was messy as he ate you out, letting his saliva drip down your thighs, slurping your juices, nose brushing your hole.

You tugged his curls—half praise, half warning. "Joaquin—I need you in me. Please."

He stood, breath ragged. You heard the click of his belt, the sound of a zipper, the soft swish of his jeans dropping. Then—warm, firm skin, hot breath on your ear. "You know I don’t have any condoms, baby?" he asked, voice low, trembling with restraint.

"That’s okay, I need to feel all of you."

"Hold on to the counter, baby."

You did—and then you felt him, thick and hard, the tip of his cock brushing your entrance. He teased; just the head sliding through your slick folds, over your clit, down to your hole, but not in.

"You're cruel," you panted.

"I'm savoring you."

He pressed in slowly—inch by thick inch until he bottomed out. You choked on a moan, back arching. "So fucking tight," he groaned. “Holy shit, baby…” He stilled, just for a moment, kissing your spine, letting you adjust. You could feel every twitch of him inside you. “You’re so fucking good to me.”

Then he started to move.

Long, slow thrusts at first, dragging his cock out almost completely before slamming back in. You cried out, and he smiled. “Louder,” he said against your neck. “Let them hear you out there.”

You gasped as he angled his hips, hitting that spot inside you that made your knees buckle, his cock stretching your walls just the right way. “Right there—fuck—do it again—” You begged him.

He obeyed—over and over, pounding into you with raw, rhythmic thrusts, his hand sliding up your spine to wrap around your throat. Not squeezing—just holding. You whimpered.

“You love this,” he said. “You love getting filled up where anyone could hear us, right?”

"Yes—fuck, yes—"

He yanked your hair back gently, baring your throat, and bit. His teeth sank into the space between your neck and shoulder, hard enough to make you cry out. “Marking you,” he panted. “So everyone knows you’re mine when we get out of here.” His hips slapped against your ass as he talked, the tip of his cock hitting your sweet spot.

It made your head even more dizzy, white stars flashing inside your eyes. Your lips parted, ready to moan and whimper, but the coil in your stomach made you say something else. You tightened around him, eyes rolling back. “Close—Joaquin, I’m gonna—"

"Let go for me, baby. Such a good girl."

You shattered—clenching around his cock, moaning so loudly it echoed off the bathroom walls.

Joaquin cursed, hips jerking erratically. He buried himself deep one final time and groaned, spilling inside you. You both stayed there, gasping, pressed together, trembling from the high.

Minutes passed.

Joaquin finally pulled out with a groan, soft kisses trailing down your spine. You turned slowly, flushed and boneless, and kissed him as he tucked himself back in his jeans.

He cleaned you gently, helped you straighten your skirt, pull your top down and then pulled you into his chest.

"You still wanna dance?" he murmured against your hair.

You smiled. "Only if you're behind me again."

[hvneybuckin]

another prompt before bed

jack + spit

He fucks you like he’s mad at you, hands underneath you, fingers pressing hard where they grip your ass. With your hips angled toward his, Jack pistons in and out of your cunt, keeps telling you how sloppy it is, how desperate you are for his cock, how you should be embarrassed because, “what kinda girl begs a man twice her age to fuck her, huh? You hear how sloppy this pussy is now? Can’t believe you let me do this…”

He’s being so mean, and you’re eating it up, keening and crying and, just as he said, begging for him.

Every single thrust has him rubbing against the swollen bundle inside of you, juice leaking, sometimes even spraying out of you when he pulls back and uses four fingers to slap your clit just hard enough to milk more fluid from your you. When Jack coaxes an almost painful orgasm out of you, you fucking gush for him.

Trembling beneath him, you see him panting, and the movement of his hips slows to a gentle rock as he leans forward, bracing himself on his forearms.

“You must be dehydrated after all that,” he comments, voice raspy and breathless.

The noise you make is pitiful as the head of his thick cock nestles up against your cervix.

“Let me help with that, baby, open up for me.”

Drunk off endorphins, you follow the command, then another when Jack adds, “tongue out.”

He nods in approval when you obey, strokes your chin with his thumb, and you watch the way his stubbled jaw works, his lips twisting and pushing outward. Then, without any other warning, he spits right on the back of your tongue—quick and harsh and so fucking hot, it makes your pussy clench.

“Such a sweet girl,” he grins, showing off perfect pretty teeth and picking up his previous rhythm—“don’t swallow that ‘til I tell you to.”

[hvneybuckin]

2009 Artashi is peak butchfemme artashi

[hvneybuckin]

MIKE FAIST IM GONNA DO NASTY DESPICABLE THINGS TO YOU

[hvneybuckin]

anon… do yk what app ur on?

why are you so horny all the time tf can you reblog something other than smut for once

idk god forbid user tacobacoyeet has the tightest wettest sexiest most delicious pussy on the planet and she chooses to reblog the gospel that feeds it so that all of the sexy tacos that follow her can feel the same enjoyment

[hvneybuckin]

hella good - t.d.

contains: nsfw. 4.7k words, workplace rivalry, ballet teacher!fem!reader x jazzfunk teacher!tashi, intoxication (alcohol), reader is sort of stuck up and tashi puts her in her place, f!receiving oral, fingering, pussy slapping, not rlly degradation but tashi talks down to reader a lot, the smalllllest bit of impact play

notes: i've had this fic in my drafts for AAAAAGES i just got so scared of writing the smut. umm plz give me tips if this isnt good I rlly wanna learn hwo to write it... shoutout ty ( @forgetmenotnympho ) for helping me w transitions GAWD BLESS!!!!!! ya this dynamic was super fun to write so i hope u enjoyyyy :) btw the instrumental song when tash and reader and sessioning is agora hills instrumental Oh ts heat

taglist: @girliism, @imperishablereverie, @faiztheap, @musingsofheaven, @yardofbrunettes, @forgetmenotnympho, @sweetheartfaist, @sweetestfaiszts, @hangels . click here to be added !

listen while you read

The soft lilting melody of a piano version of some random pop song played on the speakers, and you watch in satisfaction as all your students plié in sync, and with ease. You’ve trained them well, you know that, and it fills you with pride to watch their every movement, graceful and put together. The music ceases and you nod, dismissing them for a short water break. You’re leaning against the barre, scrolling through songs to play for across-the-floor when you hear it.

Loud music, blaring, shooting into your ears and electrifying your soul. It’s angry and thrashy, and for some reason, it just makes you mad. Pisses you off to no end. You set your phone down and mutter some vague combination for your students to do as you leave the studio, heading down the hallway to the bigger studio.

It’s empty, save for one person, dancing in the center of the room. Her baggy t-shirt slips off one shoulder, revealing golden brown skin, and her curls were flying wildly in the air, as if attacking someone. She dances with a jagged edge, like wielding a weapon, her body angular as she kicks and drags her feet around. There’s worn holes at the heels of her half-soles, threadbare from usage. She’s moving flowy like water one second and sharp like the edge of a blade the next. It’s mesmerizing. It’s horrible. It’s beautiful.

You’re so engrossed in watching her movements that you nearly forget what you were here to do in the first place. Plastering a scowl across your face as you knock your knuckles against the doorframe, you wait for her to take notice. She pauses in her movements, a slight frown on her face as she crosses the room to pause the music. You’re dressed in your leotard and tights, hair pulled back in a tight bun, soft cardigan covering your shoulders. You don’t seem exactly well-equipped to be one of her students. “Can I help you?” she asks, leaning her hip against the sound system.

You bite your lip and look over her. She’s breathing hard from exertion, her skin glowy with a sheen of sweat. She tugs the shoulder of her shirt back up, adjusting the waistband of her basketball shorts. “Your music is too loud,” you say coolly.

She raises her eyebrows, laughing a bit. “Is it?” she counters, checking her phone. “What, you don’t fuck with No Doubt?”

You purse your lips and shake your head stiffly, looking out into the lobby. “Language. There’s kids here,” you chastise gently, though it’s obvious that you’re frustrated. You’ve never been good with secrets.

She leans closer, a smug grin on her lips. “There aren’t. I’ve checked the schedule. It’s just the senior Ballet class, and then my senior class.” She cocks her head, looking you up and down. You feel exposed under her scrutinizing gaze, face flushing. “You’re the Ballet teacher, huh? I’m Tashi. I’m new. Jazz Funk.”

You resist the urge to scoff. Jazz Funk. Barely even a style, not even recognized in the majority of the competitions that your studio went to. You just saw it as an excuse to shake ass onstage without getting in trouble. You were a firm believer in the foundations of dance– Ballet, Jazz, Tap, the like, not all this new fusion stuff. “Jazz Funk,” you repeat, voice dripping with condescension. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Tashi, and since you’re new, I won’t put this on file. But please don’t have your music cut into my class time.”

Tashi’s smile drops a bit. Just barely, at the corners, but you notice, and it fills you with pride. “You’re kidding, right?” she laughs, stepping closer to you. She’s taller than you, and when she towers over you, her curls get in your face. She smells good. “My music being loud doesn’t cut into your class time. Just close the door.”

You press your lips into a thin line, eyes narrowing. “Let’s compromise,” you offer, wanting to get back to your class. “Turn it down. And I’ll close the door. Win-win.” You wait for her response, trying to ignore the heady scent of her floral perfume and the way it invades your senses, invoking an odd feeling in your stomach. 

She rolls her eyes, and the feeling in your stomach just turns to annoyance. “Fine,” she relents, storming back over to the speaker and dialing the volume down, making a big show of it. “You happy?”

You can’t help but sneer, your lip pulling back as you watch her make a dramatic production of just turning down the volume. “Ecstatic,” you grit out, shutting the door behind you as you head back to your class. 

You re-enter your studio, trying to regain the sense of calm that had dissipated when Tashi’s music had started playing, watching as your students do waltzes across the floor. Perfect and pristine, not a toe out of line. Just like you expected, and what you craved. Outside, Tashi’s music begins playing again. Loud and blaring. You grit your jaw and close the door.

Your class has ended, and you watch as your students all file off to change for Tashi’s class. Some skip changing altogether, just pulling on a pair of baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt over their leotard, while others wait in line for the changing room. You hear the same song playing from the studio and watch from the doorway as she begins teaching.

Your students have taken their hair out from stiff buns, and you watch as they laugh and whip their hair around, showing a completely different side than you usually see in your ballet class. It’s odd to see them, going from uptight to relaxed in a matter of seconds, just in a switch of teachers. They hoot and holler as Tashi shows the combination she’s teaching, whistling when she freestyles, and you watch warily. You can’t help the sting of dejection when you see the absolute glee on your student’s faces as they learn from her, the studio filled with laughter and chatter. Nothing like the calm silence of your class. You just huff and turn away, settling behind the front desk and beginning your work on social media. It was just a different genre. That’s all.

Her class gets out after an hour, and you’re giving your students a small smile as a goodbye as they file out of the studio, leaving just you and Tashi. You’re finishing up your work behind the front desk when she emerges from the changing rooms, changed out of her sweaty t-shirt and shorts and in a more comfortable looking outfit of wide-legged sweatpants and a pale green tank top. She’s not wearing a bra, and you can tell by the way her nipples poke out from the thin fabric of her tank top. You focus your gaze back onto your laptop, face flushed.

“Hey.” She’s parked right in front of you, leaning over the counter. Her hair is pulled up in a ponytail, swooping just along the nape of her neck. “Listen, I think we started off on the wrong foot,” Tashi says quietly, her warm brown eyes connecting with yours. “And I don’t wanna start a new job like this.”

You nod warily in agreement, watching her every move like a hawk hunting prey. “Are you proposing a solution?”

She snorts, shaking her head, and you frown. “Sorry, sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I swear. I’ve just… never met anyone who talks like you.” She brushes a strand of hair out of her face, a confident smile spreading across her lips. “Let’s just reset, huh? Blank slate.”

You’re nodding so much you feel like a bobblehead, a little too entranced by the way her lashes flutter at you and how the smell of her sweat mixes with the scent of her perfume. “Blank slate,” you agree. You close your laptop and stand up, sliding the device into your tote bag as you begin turning off the lights. “Welcome to the studio, Tashi.”

She grins at you, and you can see the gleam of her teeth through the darkness. She looks almost too smug. “It’s good to be here.” With her last words, she leaves, but not before brushing up against your arm gently, leaving the door swinging in her wake.

It’s been two months since she started working there, alongside you, and somehow, she’s only gotten on your nerves even more. Her music is always blasting obnoxiously loud, making your ballet dancers distracted with the prospect of what she’s teaching next. It’s always some sort of sensual pop, Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera. Despite the animosity, you always found yourself staying back after your class had finished, finding excuses for staying late just to watch her dance. The way her back arches tantalizingly as she slides across the wooden floor, or how her shorts ride low on her hips as she kicks her leg up high, performing a seamless developpé. Hmph. Your developpé is better.

Finally, her music pauses, and you sigh, preparing to flick off the light switch when a new song starts playing. Something a bit slower, still with sharp snares and a synth beat, but it’s different than her usual stuff. You peek in through the door to check on her, watching her improv with amazing musicality. It’s Turn Off The Light by Nelly Furtado– still in the same realm as her other pieces, but there’s something darker and more sincere in the way she moves, not just shaking ass.

You’re hypnotized watching her, jaw dropping as her ballet technique begins to show. A perfect pique turn into a back attitude, that leads her into a forward roll. She’s not just dancing to the music, she’s creating it. And you’re not sure what turns you on more, her shirt riding up to reveal her black lace bra, or the eighteen perfect fouettés she executes. You count them all.

Tashi catches your eyes as she keeps dancing, but instead of freezing up and stopping, she only seems to push herself harder, small pants escaping her lips as she exerts herself to her full potential, leaping higher than you could ever imagine. Jesus, her calves… the way she moves across the floor with such confidence and grace, and utter sexual magnetism. You need to close your jaw. 

The music fades, she’s laying on her back, chest heaving as she gulps down deep breaths. You’re watching the rise and fall of her body, the way her dark eyes land on you, watching, unblinking. You feel like a perv for snooping in on such a clearly intimate moment, and you turn away, ready to close–

“Stay.” Her voice is sharp and demanding, and you turn back around. Tashi’s beckoning for you to enter the studio, an eyebrow raised. “C’mon. Let’s session.”

A laugh escapes you, incredulous and doubtful. “You’re joking,” you snort, shaking your head. “You want me to session with you?” It’s impossible to even picture– you doing tendus and graceful jetés while she twerks around you. Nothing good could possibly come out of that.

Tashi rolls her eyes and leans back against her elbows, her toned stomach showing as her shirt rides up her torso. “I wanna session with you,” she repeats, her voice completely calm. “I think it’d be fun. And that we could make something good.”

You shake your head adamantly, a frown firmly glued to your face. “There’s no sessions in ballet. Everything’s planned,” you defend, just about ready to turn around.

“Come on.” She pushes up onto her feet, wiping sweat from her brow and grabbing her phone to play a song. An instrumental version of a Doja Cat song comes on, and your frown deepens. “We can make it ballet. Just… come dance with me.” Tashi begins swaying her hips gently, gracefully jetéing side to side as her arms float from first to fifth. You hate how perfect she is– at just about everything, it seems.

You drop your bag to the ground and slide off your shoes, your bare skin tacky on the wood floor. The music seems to carry you, and despite how much you try to resist, your leg seems to lift on its own, leaning you back as your arms raise above your head. Not in fifth. Not even in modern fifth. They’re just floating, moving with their own mind, and it feels good to let go. You turn and lower down into your middle splits, ignoring the hoot it draws from Tashi. It feels good to just close your eyes and go where your body takes you. It’s… new, interesting, but it didn’t feel bad.

It’s almost therapeutic in a sense. Ballet is your love, your entire passion, but it’s also a constant spotlight. To be able to move so freely, uncaring of Tashi watching or what your body is doing just puts your mind at ease. You watch as Tashi takes the baton and picks up where you leave off, the song picking up in pace and having more snares that you aren’t used to in ballet. It’s entrancing to watch her move so seamlessly, like the music is controlling her body. There’s a sudden pause in the song, where she freezes still, and then the beat starts again and she rolls onto the floor so abruptly, you swore her head was going to crack open. A gasp escapes your lips as she smoothly transitions the roll into an arch up, one leg poised delicately in the air that she catches behind her head. It’s fucking amazing, and you swear your panties are wet at the sight.

Tashi’s looking at you expectantly, and you realize it’s your turn– but how can you follow up something like that? It’s like comparing a cheese stick to a charcuterie board. She steps closer, the music still playing in the background. “Come on. Your turn,” she says, her voice quiet and gentle. Too sweet for your ears, you’re frozen in place, still in awe at the moves she had pulled out. If this was her improv, how beautiful was her choreography?

“Dude. Hey, c’mon.” Tashi’s right in front of you now, and you’re so awestruck you can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t think. It’s just her and her dancing, the smell of her perfume wafting over you, surrounding you. She’s everything. The two of you lock eyes, and before you can even process it, she’s stepping closer and closer, and her perfectly lined lips are pressed firm against yours. Tashi’s arms encircle your waist as she swoops you to the ground, kissing you hungrily. And you kiss back.

It’s clashing teeth and tongue, quiet pants and grunts being exchanged as the scent of her sweat and perfume seems to cover you in a haze. She’s on top of you, cupping your face in both hands and pressing her chest to yours, a soft moan escaping her lips as you hesitantly squeeze her breasts. You’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

You moan when she starts to kiss down your neck, conflicting feelings racing through your chest. “Mmh- Tashi- wait, wait wait wait-” You relax when she pulls off of you, trying to ignore the hurt on her face. “Sorry- I’m just- wow, um-” You push away from her, standing up on shaky legs. “I have to go.”

Tashi’s brows are furrowed in confusion and anger– and maybe a little hurt. “Do you?” she asks quietly, the music still playing lowly in the background. “Or are you scared?”

You shake your head, walking past her still sitting on the floor and you grab your bag, pausing at the doorway. “Goodnight, Tashi,” you say quietly, hurrying out of the studio. You hear her yell “pussy!” behind you, but you’re out the door once her frustration turns to tears.

You call in a substitute for the next few days, too scared to see Tashi and feel the brunt of her anger– or maybe you’re more scared of how much you hurt her. On your days off, you play some music and stand in front of a mirror, watching how your body moves of its own accord. Hips to the left, arms shooting up. There’s no form, but you’re still graceful and delicate. You can imagine Tashi’s hands around your waist, guiding your next movements with slick precision. You drop your arms back down to your side and sigh heavily, walking away.

Ballet was always the one thing you never strayed from. You’ve always loved the strict formality and uniform of the style, how everything goes where it’s supposed to be and there’s little tolerance of those who step out of line. Even now, smushed between people in a crowded club, your movements still find a way to be light and airy as the bumping bass of club music assaults your ears. You hate how good it feels to just let go and enjoy the sensations of your body moving on its own.

“Hey. Hey!” you yell at your friend, who’s currently grinding on some random guy. “I’m gonna get a drink,” you yell over the music, walking away before seeing if she even heard you. You approach the bar and order two vodka shots, nodding gratefully when they’re set in front of you in record time.

You’re about to toss one back when you see her. Her hair swishing around her waist and a skintight red dress, clinging to every curve and sharp edge of her body. A thin leather belt hangs loosely on her hips, the gold buckle glinting under the strobing lights. Glitter flashes along her cheekbones and her eyes are rimmed a smoky black, lips lined with crimson red. Her movements are reminiscent of the night that you two shared together, eyes closed in ecstasy as she dances freely. You wonder what it must feel like to live like that.

She catches your gaze when she opens her eyes, and if she’s shocked, it doesn’t show. You beckon to her with your shot glasses, a silent plea in your actions. Get over here. She breaks away from the crowd and heads your way, eyes narrowed when she takes the shot you offer her.

“Hey,” you begin, practically inaudible from the loud music of the club, “you look good.”

Tashi raises an eyebrow, a smug smile on her lips. “I know,” she murmurs into your ear, clinking your shot glasses together. The two of you throw them back at the same time, and your stomach turns when you see the lipstick mark left on her glass.

“I’m sorry,” you force out, watching as her expression grows tight. “About, um. You know.” You sigh heavily, unsure of how to word your thoughts. “I think I’m intimidated by you.”

Her brows shoot up, and she laughs, loud and brash. The thump of basses turns to slick hi-hats and cymbals as a familiar song plays– Hella Good by No Doubt, the song Tashi was playing when you two first met. “Shut the fuck up,” she crows, shaking her head. “Shut up.”

“No, no, I’m- I mean, I’m serious,” you hurry to continue, not minding the word vomit now. “You’re just- your dancing is amazing, and you’re so beautiful, my students all like your classes better and I’d kill to dance as freely as you,” you ramble, not noticing how she seems to inch closer and closer to you. “Your technique and your talent– I’m jealous, Tashi, I’m so fucking jealous, and-”

Her lips are on yours before you can even process it, and this time you don’t hesitate to kiss back. She tastes like peach lip gloss and bitter vodka, her lipstick smearing across your own lips. Tashi’s hands tangle into your hair to tug you closer, and you shamelessly palm at her ass through the thin fabric of her dress. It’s dirty and frantic, and again, you’re reminded of her dancing.

Tashi pulls away and is immediately pulling you away to the bathrooms, not caring as you trip over your heels. The bathroom is empty when you walk in, and she unbuckles her belt, tying one end to the door handle and the other around the sink faucet. She turns around to face you, lipstick smudged and eyes dark with lust. She advances toward you and practically sweeps you off your feet with a kiss, pinning you against the graffiti covered wall. It’s filthy– the setting you’re in and what you’re doing, but the feeling of Tashi firmly against you seems to have you in a trance, pliant and willing. Your hand moves up to slide the straps of her dress down her shoulders, trying to touch every exposed inch of soft skin. She does the same to you, pausing when there’s no bra strap appearing underneath the silky fabric of your dress.

“Really? No bra to go clubbing?” She kisses up and down your neck, sucking and biting harshly as she grips your hips, arousal already slicking up your thighs. “Jesus fuck, it’s like you’re begging for me to ruin you.” As much as you despise it, a shiver goes up your spine at her sultry words.

“You’re one to talk,” you grit out as your hands travel down her torso, feeling out every smooth dip. “You never wear a fuckin’ bra to work. It’s insane– God, like you were taunting me,” you growl as you squeeze her hips, rough and mean.

Tashi nips at your earlobe, grinning wickedly at the keening whimper it draws from you. “I was,” she whispers lowly, slipping the dress down your hips and letting it pool at your ankles. Your panties are already soaked through, the scent of arousal and floral perfume filling the space. She taps a manicured finger against the damp patch of cotton, cooing at the way your hips stutter and jump. “I saw you watching me.”

You can’t help the moan that escapes your lips as she pushes your panties aside, smacking your soaked heat gently with her palm. “Fucking wet, baby,” she mumbles, fruitlessly tugging the strap of her dress back on her shoulder as she kneels on the grimy floor, inhaling your slick scent. “You want me?” she asks, pulling your panties down your hips and letting them land on top of your crumpled dress.

You’re nodding before you even realize it, the loud guitar and bass booming from outside your private sanctuary. “I want it,” you gasp, already feeling weak in the knees at her hands on your thighs, spreading your legs apart further. “I want you, Tashi.”

That’s enough for her to begin kissing up your inner thigh, leaving lipstick marks along your smooth skin before she dives into your wet heat, her tongue circling your clit like she’s done this to you a thousand times. Her hands come up to press against your hips to force you from grinding into her mouth, and she laps at your pussy like a dog desperate for water.

“You taste,” she’s panting, wiping at her mouth before looking up at you with lustful eyes, “so fuckin’ good, baby. Like sugar.” She’s nosing in without a second thought, her own thighs clenching together with every moan she draws out from your chest. It’s something sacred, the way she revels in your body and absolutely worships it, taking in all your miniscule reactions. The strap of her dress slips back down and seems to crumple around her, yet not distracting her from her task, making you a whimpering, soaking mess.

Her breasts are exposed to the harsh glare of the lighting as the dress slides down her chest fluidly, not deterring her from taking you apart, bit by bit. “F-Fuck!” you grip her hair tightly as you buck your hips into her face. She’s tonguefucking you expertly, poking and prodding at every soft inch of you and moaning at the honeyed taste. One hand releases your hip to pinch gently at your clit, laughing at the way you mewl and try to break free. “Tashi, Tashi, please–”

“You can take it,” is all she says, cruel and dominating as she flicks it gently, causing your knees to almost buckle, legs trembling as you hold yourself up. She pulls away for a moment, licking her lips to make sure she gets every last drop of your sweet arousal. She lets go of you fully to stand back up, towering over you in her heels. “Good girl,” she murmurs, kissing you hard. You taste yourself on her lips, sweet and somewhat bitter, and it makes you moan and squeeze your sticky thighs together from just how depraved you’re being.

“I’ve been to so many studios,” Tashi whispers in your ear, one hand trailing down your bare chest and pausing under your navel, making you groan in frustration. “Met so many teachers,” she continues, her touch feather-light as she reaches your pussy, cupping it gently and letting slick soak into her palm. She lifts the hand up and licks her palm, looking down at you the whole time. Her hard nipples press right into your shoulder, and the way she’s looking at you is addictive.

“Hip-hop, contemporary, jazz… Even fucked around with a tap teacher once,” she murmurs, pinching at your nipples gently and laughing when you squeal, before returning her attention to your sensitive clit. “But I’ve never corrupted a pretty little ballerina like you before,” she keeps whispering, licking at your neck as she easily slides two fingers in, already pumping in and out. You’re shaking, spasming, and you can’t believe how good it feels.

“They all thought they were too good for me,” Tashi murmurs, watching with rapt fascination as she curls her fingers inside you, hitting that spongy spot inside you that makes you cave. “Wonder what that makes you, huh?” she laughs at your dumbfounded expression, thrusting faster and rubbing your clit with her thumb.

You’re already on edge from when she was eating you out earlier, and you’re begging to just let go and break free from your confines. “I’m gonna cum,” you pant out, nails digging into Tashi’s neck. You’re reprimanded with a sharp slap to your thigh, before Tashi’s fingers return to scissoring inside you.

“Ask nicely,” she croons, and you just want to strangle her for being so fucking mean. Her hands are skillfully breaking you down and turning you into a slobbering mess, slick running down Tashi’s wrist as you throw your head back.

“Please, fah-fuuuuhck, I need t’cum, Tashi, Tash, lemme cum-!” you whimper as your hips buck frantically into her fingers, moaning as your it drags deliciously over her palm.

“Mmm, go ‘head,” she murmurs, leaning to suck at your tits and swirl her tongue around your nipple. Your orgasm is loud and sharp, crashing over you like a rocking cymbal as you clench around her fingers. Your arousal drips onto the floor and your chest heaves as you catch your breath, makeup all smudged and thighs trembling.

Tashi’s watching you with a syrupy satisfaction on her face, pulling her fingers out of you with one final pat to your overstimulated pussy, laughing gleefully at the way you twitch. She lifts her fingers to her lips and licks up the mess you made, raising an eyebrow at you. “Get dressed,” she orders, already adjusting the straps of her dress to fit snugly around her shoulders.

Slowly, you bend down and pull your panties back up, shivering when the cold, wet fabric meets heated skin. “Don’t you want me to… you know-?” you ask hesitantly, pulling your dress up and ignoring how sensitive your nipples feel under the silky fabric.

She laughs and unties her belt from the door handle, grinning at you and fixing your hair. “Obviously. But we’re doing that at my place. I think I deserve better than this, don’t you think?” The condescension is obvious as she fixes her lipstick in the mirror, and a new surge of heat rises in your stomach at the way she talks down to you. It feels good to give someone else the reins for a bit, to let Tashi control you.

“...Yeah,” you agree, watching as she brushes her hair over her shoulder. “You’re right.”

And you really mean it.

[hvneybuckin]

look where we are now man

Hello, will you write for Tashi Duncan?

when i have any thoughts or ideas for her, yes. right now my mind is absolutely blank when it comes to tashi </3 but if i have any ideas i’ll start a rough draft

[hvneybuckin]

remembered i said this, read it again and moaned

dad gf tashi duncan 💗__💗

[hvneybuckin]

heartbreak high you say…(ur rules say) i have yet to meet anyone who has watched that show and i LOVED IT. if you had to assign atp heartbreak characters who would they be?

i think art would be s3 spider (like a less douchebag version)

patrick would be malachi but as i’m typing this I think art could also be malachi and patrick be spider??? idek

tashi would be missy or maybe someone else idk

i would LOVE to know ur thoughts tho

ACTUALLY I THINK THIS IS PRETTY ACCURATE? tashi is SOOOO missy except she would never complain if all a man wanted to do was eat her out. i def think art is more malakai and patrick is more s2 spider but i can def see them switched at times!

[hvneybuckin]

pretty as hell au naturale dining on farce

hi ava tacobacoyeet

hello aiden hvneybuckin. look at that horse look at that horse look at that horse

[hvneybuckin]

no way i js saw a 13 year old on challengersblr

[hvneybuckin]

dom!art still taking the strap like a p★rnstar.

cw (18+) : teasing dom!art, eager-to-please sub!reader, brief fingering, choking, pegging, spitting in mouth, handjob, general filth

art pushes his face into the mattress as your soft, willing tongue laps slickly over his hole from behind, his left hand reaching back to grab your shoulder and squeeze it with everything he’s got. he rocks his hips against your mouth and keens when he feels you whimper into his flesh.

“f-fuuuck,” he shudders, “you’re so greedy for me, aren’t you? do i taste good?”

all you can do is nod, too immersed in his taste and his smell and his dirty language. he laughs lowly in response and then hisses like he’s in pain—even if he’s feeling quite the opposite—when you begin to ease two fingers into his tight entrance without permission. you usually have to ask in order to touch any part of him, as he likes the sense of control and you like knowing that your movements are dependent on his say-so, but it just feels like the right moment to open him up. (he’d been prepped perfectly already with just your licking, his cock hard and hanging heavily between his thighs.) he bites at the sheets, the feeling of you beginning to curl the pads of your phalanges down into his prostate punching a broken whine from his lungs. warm spit clings to his bottom lip and chin as he releases the fabric from his teeth to sit up a bit and look over his shoulder. he looks annoyed.

aroused beyond belief, but annoyed.

“that’s enough—no more, or i wont last long enough to take you. come lie down,” he pats the pillows near the top of the bed, “and tighten the harness, it’s slipping.”

you scramble to your feet, easing your touch from his core, and wipe your face with the back of your other hand before you pull at the polyester straps of the strap-on enough to keep it secure. art sprawls himself out on the bedding for just a moment; he lets you stare at his toned, flushed, willing body while you move to lay your frame down. he crawls on top and straddles you afterwards. maneuvers to smush his shaft against the faux rubbery one underneath him. he moans when he frots with it—grinding his leaking tip against yours with even, teasing thrusts. he does it until he starts to shake, his limbs locking up with an impending climax, only to pull back and begin to sit over the dildo without needing your despairing whine as a prompt. your brow pinches reflexively as you watch him devour the inches, one after the other.. he’s a pro by now, but it never ceases to amaze you. he bucks against the fullness. you wonder if it’ll bulge his tummy this time like his dick bulges yours when he’s inside. the way he starts to bounce on it interrupts your flow of thought. he’s slow at first, then ravenous with it. you’re sure that every motion is hitting that special spot in his walls.

“you look like a mess.. and i’m the one getting fucked,” he snickers between whorish groans and whimpers, his hands finding your throat and gently squeezing the sides under his palms, “you like when i ride you? yeah? just like this? fuck, shit—open your mouth—“

you do as you’re told.

is there any other way to respond to him when he gets like this?

you do what he wants you to do, or you don’t get the satisfaction of pounding him until he’s gone mushy in the head. it’s a transactional process that you’re more than willing to work through.

as soon as your jaw is slacked, your eyes fluttering, he leans in and purses his pout. a glob of his saliva is slowly spat over your tongue like sugary honey. you can hardly take it. your hands fist the sheets and you writhe beneath his weight at the viscous fluid dulling your senses. the flavor is so him, slightly minty from the gum he always chews. he taps the underside of your chin when he’s finished letting it drip. he licks his bottom lip to be rid of the remnants.

“swallow.”

and you do—you want nothing more. he sits upright again and splits himself open harder on the toy bound to your pelvis. each time he slides down it, you get to watch as his abdomen curls and his blonde locks are strewn about his forehead. he tightens his hold on your neck just enough to remind you who’s really in charge, and his length jumps in response to the resulting look that crosses your face. you mewl when it dribbles glassy precome like a river; it glosses over the throbbing vein running down the underside of it. a sound that’s a mix between a shout and a sob then escapes his chest.

“god, i’m close,” his hips stutter in their efforts, his blue eyes shielded by low lids, “c’mere—“

he takes one of his hands from your body and reaches it down to take one of yours that’s still grasping at the sheets. he guides your limp fist to wrap around the base of his cock, keening as he starts to hump it.

“touch me—jerk me off.. fuck.. that’s it—that’s good—don’t stop.. beg me to come for you..”

the heat in your gut swells and contracts in time with his noises and his movements, your hand pumping him quickly to aid his consumption of the pleasure he’s being abundantly given. your thumb swipes over his tip, you can tell it aches. he jolts forward at his sensitivity, dazedly moving both of his hands to your chest for leverage, and you dig your heels into the mattress to help you rut up forcefully into his ass. he almost screams.

you beg. you slur out a multitude of pathetic, indulgent sentences that spur on the wave of ecstasy about to crash into his figure. ‘please, come on my strap’ and ‘i’m begging you to let it all go for me, let me watch you lose it’.

it does the trick. in fact, it does it perfectly. everything snaps.

he topples forward with a sudden wail; brows furrowing and thighs quaking and back arching in an unbelievably filthy manner. his legs begin to close as the pleasure floods in and squirts from his erection in several bursts—the ropes coat your fingers and dribble over his stomach like fresh milk. still riding the toy, he digs his calloused touch into the sides of your torso, his fingers moving there in the midst of his orgasm. he hangs his head as he pants.

“fuck, i’m coming,” he gasps, growling afterward as if the sensations are causing his hair to stand on end, “keep stroking me, i’m still—yeah—god, you’re my favorite way to get off..”

you can tell that he means it, that the intoxicating effect of his release isn’t making him drunk enough to be insincere. you pump him until he seizes up and starts to hiccup. when the overstimulation becomes too much, he drops himself on top of you in a boneless heap; a sweaty, spent, satisfied mess of a man. the strap-on is still buried in his heat, and his cock is softening rapidly, but he shows no sign of moving anytime soon.

he reaches up quietly and cups your cheek, brushing his nose against it. you can feel him swallow down a jumble of words before his final ones sound out lowly and tenderly.

the way you like them, and the way he knows you need them.

“good job.. you did so well for me, thank you. give me a few, and then i’ll let you have what you really want.”

there's no need to place any bets on his integrity; you know he’ll keep his promise.

he always does.

tags : @voidsuites @asheepinfrance @fawnnpaws @artstennisracket @andyrambles @imperishablereverie @ghostgirl-22 @lexiiscorect @cha11engers @patricksbf @newrochellechallenger2019 @pittsick @blastzachilles @oncefaist

[hvneybuckin]

DREAMSTATE TRAP

summary: You don’t know what’s wrong with you and don’t even remember how it started. You just know you sleep better when he’s near. That your body wants him close, that you need him there, pressed up against you. You said you’d leave him. More than once. But you didn’t, not when he made sure you will always come back to his arms.

pairings: divorced dilf!art donaldson x afab!reader

warnings: 2k words. mature themes. somnophilia. nonconsensual undertones. obsession. manipulation. covert drug use (nicotine patches / chemical dependency). emotional dependency. breeding kink. free use referenced. sleep sex. dubcon-adjacent tone. power imbalance. dumbification (sleep-drunk, emotionally conditioned, mentally pliant state). read & consume responsibly.

notes: actually scared to post this. :( but hi! this is post-divorce art donaldson and yeah… he’s rich. lonely. washed. pushing 40. still hot. still got those sad little eyes. i just know he’d lose his mind if a pretty lil thing started sleeping in his bed. so soft. so warm. he didn’t want to be left ever again. he’d do anything to keep you close. even if it’s twisted. even if it’s wrong. this is manipulative dilf art dick. he’s emotionally unavailable and physically unavoidable. yes it’s wrong. yes he’s crazy. ANYWAYYYYYYY enjoy and if u want more fics or have requests or want to throw something unhinged at me pls do. i’m taking requests. thanks love u 💗

You sleep like you trust him.

You do. That’s the case. You sleep like you will be comfortable in your dreams because he’s just beside you to hug you. Like your body’s never been hurt. He doesn’t hurt you. Never. He will kill himself first before he lands a hand on you. (Unless it’s for sex and you asked it, or not, maybe) Like no one’s ever lied to you or walked away. You know he’s not lying to you. At least in front of your face, no. Like you don’t know what he is. You don’t, honestly.

He likes staying up late than you. You never knew why. He just said he’s not tired. Or he can’t sleep. Insomnia, sometimes, is what he’s saying to you. But in reality? He likes watching you. Like tonight is the same as the others, he watches you wide-eyed in the dark.

The sheets are already wrapped around you from the movements. You are not a mover, but don’t stay in the same place. Your cotton sleep shirt riding high over your ass, too big for you, too comfy, the collar pulled half off your shoulder like it always ends up that way. You didn’t even wear panties tonight. You never do when you fall asleep in his bed. It’s comfortable, you say. More air or your cunt can breathe, or whatever bullshit you say. Art doesn’t mind. It’s a raging go signal for him. Well, that’s what he thinks. He could lift your shirt, nightgown, or whatever loose or comfortable you are wearing, and he’ll cup you over it, sometimes rub his fingers if he’s aiming for tame, or slide in if he’s so horny. You don’t complain. Said that it helps him sleep by touching you or fucking you. And you like to help him.

That used to scare him. That sweetness. That trust. Especially when you’re just letting him take it. He even joked about you being his unrestricted-use doll when he was inside of you. You whine and giggle. It scared and excited him. The idea that maybe you didn’t think he was capable of anything ugly.

Well, at first, he’s like that. But now? It doesn’t scare him anymore.

His fingers gently run into the back of your hair, and he watches you shift. He makes those little expressions when you sleep. You look soft. You look like you are at peace. Your skin’s so warm there. Your pulse flutters when he presses. It’s slow, steady, alive.

Sometimes, he’s praying to God because you’re so alive. So young than him. He prayed that others wouldn’t take you away from him. The thing is, he won’t even let them do that. You’ve got no idea what kind of things a man like him can do, do you?

He slips the drawer open quietly while his other hand is still touching you like he’s scared to slip his hand away from you.

Finds the little box. Peels one patch from the back.

Your thigh shifts when he touches it. He gently caresses the flesh. Feels hot beneath his palm, your skin soft and bare. He sticks the nicotine patch just under the curve of your ass, just below your cheek, where the hem of your shirt won’t hide it, but you won’t notice it.

You don’t even move.

Art smooths a hand down your leg. Feeling its smoothness under his palm. Just once. Then, back up again, where his thumb grazes the patch, which warms under your skin. His heart thuds in his chest like he’s done something filthy. Maybe he has.

Because fuck it. Every time he puts one on you, especially when it’s your thighs, or your ass, or the soft dip of your hip... he gets hard from it like clockwork. Like some part of his brain associates the feel of your unconscious body under his hands.

He shouldn’t want it this much. He shouldn’t. This is fucked up, even for him.

But he does. He’s willing to bend his morals just for you. You’re his girl, after all.

Your breath is soft and slow. Your chest rises and falls like you’re dreaming something sweet. Maybe you are. Perhaps it’s about him. Maybe you’re dreaming something filthy. Maybe your cunt is as warm as your mouth gets when you’re half-asleep and draped over him, murmuring his name like it’s instinct.

His cock throbs.

He palms himself through his boxers.

God, he thinks. He could slide right in like this. (It’s not like he didn’t try it already)

You wouldn’t wake up. Maybe you’d shift a little and let out one of those broken sighs, legs parting out of habit. And he’d be so gentle with you. He’s not even going to be full-on fucking you. He’ll just thrust slowly and deep. Just a little. Just enough. Feel you clench around him in your sleep like your body knows who you belong to.

He’d never forgive himself.

But he might still do it.

He strokes himself slowly, silently, teeth sinking into his lip.

It’s not just the patch. It’s the trust. It’s the faith you are giving him. You are devoted. The way your body gives without knowing. The way you turn into him when he touches you is like instinct. Like your body knows it’s bim. Like your whole system has rewired around him.

You always crawl to him. Literally. Or figuratively. Always coming back into his arms when you try to leave. Do you even dare to do that?

It makes him dizzy.

You’ve tried. Three times now. Bags packed, the door slammed, voice shaking. When he tries to text you, you’ll say that he should delete your number. He never really replied after that. He’s so comfortable with the idea of you coming back. Because you always do, every time, within days, you’re back. Pale and trembling. Clingy. Teary. Like you need him.

Like something inside you can’t bear the idea of being without him.

You don’t know why. But Art does.

You will bury and nuzzle your face into his chest. You will sob, your cries shake. Your shoulders are shaking, your fingers are holding tight to his clothes like you are apologizing for thinking about leaving, and you have it hard like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. His palm slides up and down your spine, slow and calming, while you try to speak through the hiccuping wreck of your voice.

“I don’t know why...” your breath hitches and breaks. “But I- I can’t-” you inhale sharply, nearly gagging. Stuttering as always. “I can’t sleep without you. It’s like my skin itches. I feel vomiting every time. My skin feels scrawling. I feel sick. My head hurts all the time. I-” You clutch into him tighter. “I need you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You sound so scared when you say it. You’re ashamed. It’s as if she’s the only one who wants to return, and he will continue to accept you as he does in a charity case.

But he’s not. He’s not ashamed.

Art hushes you, presses a kiss to your hair, and murmurs something like “Shh, I’ve got you, baby,” while his thumb circles just under the swell of your ass, right over where the patch had been the night before the day you left. He continuously removes them before you realize it’s there.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you.

But Art does.

He watches your breathing slow again. Thumb trailing down the back of your thigh, the spot just beneath the patch. His other hand is palming your ass, just gently, not groping it. You murmur something in your sleep, lashes fluttering, body arching slightly toward the touch.

His heart squeezes.

God, he wants to ruin you.

Wants to keep you this soft forever. He wants to be able to watch you sleep for hours. Keep you warm and drugged and fucked out and barely thinking, brain all mushy and just needing him, wrapped up in him like a koala that doesn’t know better. He wants to get you pregnant by accident. Watch you cry about it. Then he’ll comfort you into accepting it. Watch you stay.

You shift again, thighs pressing together. He watches the ripple of muscle, the heat in your skin, the spot where the shirt rides high enough to show the curve of your hip.

You’re not even awake, but he knows you’d let him.

If he touched you now, eased a hand between your legs, thumb soft against your clit, you’d whine for him. Quietly. Just enough to let out a sound. Maybe spread without waking. Let him finger you through your dream and wake up sore, aching, and full. God. He knows how easily you get wet.

Jesus.

He strokes his cock harder now. But not Slopit’s py. Not the one who will make a sound. It’s just slow, desperate pulls, his other hand pressed to your hip like he’s steadying himself.

He comes quietly. Barely breathing. Fingers tight. Come sticky on his stomach, hips twitching. Your body shifts, barely, like it knows. His name almost falls from your mouth in your sleep. He quickly cleans it up, always having tissue beside the bed.

He watches you for a while longer.

You don’t wake.

You never do.

And he’s already up by the time the sun rises, turning the curtains lighter. Already cleaned up. But you’re still curled on your side. One leg is hooked over the blankets, patch warm, and pulsing on the soft meat of your thigh.

He peels it off gently.

Always before you wake. Always with a breath caught low in his throat.

God, you never notice how deep you sleep. That’s what he likes about you. The way you sleep early but even wake up later than him. Like you are enjoying your sleep, he loves how much warmer your body has run lately, how you turn into his touch before you’re even conscious of it. He knows your body better than you do now, how it reacts, clings and practically melts into the mattress when he moves behind you in the mornings.

He likes the morning the most. Sometimes, you’re still half-asleep when he fucks you. Sometimes, you sleep right through the first few strokes and mewling softly, legs parting, clit twitching under his fingers without thought. He’s not even rubbing it aggressively. Just slow flicks to make you more wet. To make you more slippery around him.

And sometimes you wake up in the middle of it. You are hazy and dazed and clingy as hell. Fuck he loves it. Already have you whimpering “Don’t stop,” like you’re the one who begged for it. Like it’s your idea. Like he’s not fucking you while you’re sleeping before you’re a whimpering mess. Like your cunt isn’t already dripping around him, greedy and fluttering and open for more.

It makes him crazy. The way you arch into him instinctively. You whine when he tries to slow down, like you’ll break apart if he leaves you empty. The way you cry into his neck with your face buried and say things like...

“Mmph… dunno why…” she breathes into his chest, lips barely moving, voice sticky with sleep. “Sleep so good when you’re here…”

A soft “ah-” slips out when he shifts, cock still half-hard, still pressed against the mess between her thighs. “Feels good… don’t go yet… don’t-” she mumbles, clinging tighter, legs tangled with his while he’s thrusting his cock slowly, just how you like.

A choked little “mmph, fuck-” when he moves again, just enough to press deeper. To find your spot.

“Hurts when you’re not- when you’re not touching me…” she sniffles hiccups. “You make it go away… I don’t know how… I just need-”

You trail off in a breathy whine like your words are too much. Like you’re overwhelmed just being near him. Your face always buries in his neck, damp and hot, tears cooling your cheeks. Your hips shift without meaning to. It made you whine.

You don’t even know what you’re saying. Doesn’t realize how deep it’s sunk. How wrecked you already are. How utterly, unconsciously, you’re his.

You don’t know what’s keeping you here.

But Art does.

And every morning, he gives her body another reason to stay.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[hvneybuckin]

COWBOY CARTER MASTERLIST

1. AMERIICAN REQUIEM 2. BLACKBIIRD 3. 16 CARRIAGES 4. PROTECTOR 5. MY ROSE 6. SMOKE HOUR ★ WILLIE NELSON (INTERLUDE) 7. TEXAS HOLD ‘EM 8. BODYGUARD - PATRICK ZWEIG X READER 9. DOLLY P (INTERLUDE) 10. JOLENE 11. DAUGHTER 12. SPAGHETTII 13. ALLIIGATOR TEARS - ART DONALDSON X PATRICK ZWEIG 14. SMOKE HOUR II (INTERLUDE) 15. JUST FOR FUN 16. II MOST WANTED 17. LEVII'S JEANS 18. FLAMENCO 19. THE LINDA MARTELL SHOW (INTERLUDE) 20. YA YA 21. OH LOUISIANA (INTERLUDE) 22. DESERT EAGLE 23. RIIVERDANCE 24. II HANDS II HEAVEN 25. TYRANT 26. SWEET ★ HONEY ★ BUCKIIN' 27. AMEN

EDITS • FICS • BOTS • OTHER | ALL WORK WILL BE ADDED UPON COMPLETION

MULTIFANDOM CONTENT | © TACOBACOYEET 2025

[hvneybuckin]

she gets the job done. wlw.

[hvneybuckin]

mikaaaa!! you should totally write something about metal head!art reacting to polar opposite! reader wearing corpse makeup for the first time!!

(maybe something smutty idk, ily!!!)

summary: art can’t keep his hands off to himself when he sees you, his soft girlfriend, wearing typical corpse paint. do you know how many times he dreamed about this? jerked off from the thought?

pairing: metalhead art x afab girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.3k words. dirty-talking. fingering. slight oral sex. protected penetration. aftercare.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels

You don’t text him what it is. Just: “Got a surprise. Don’t freak out.”

You can already picture his furrowed brow as he reads it—skeptical, suspicious, intrigued. Art doesn’t like surprises. But he likes you, so he plays along.

You stand at his apartment door wearing a thrifted leather jacket over a dress you wouldn’t normally wear in front of him. Black. Tight. Fishnets. Platform boots. And the corpse paint. That’s the crown jewel. That is just not you—but you got the idea at 2AM last night.

White base smoothed over your skin. Harsh black encircling your eyes, exaggerated like shadowed wounds. Your mouth painted like a jagged grin, like your lips were torn into a new shape. It’s smeared at the corners now from nervous licking, but it only makes it look better. Rough. Raw. Believable. Not so clean.

You hear him before you see him—low music playing inside, something lo-fi and fuzzy—and then the door swings open.

He’s shirtless. Of course he is. Sweatpants hanging low, messy hair in his face, and tired eyes that stop when they land on you. His whole body goes still. Like you slapped him just by existing.

A long beat of silence. Then: “What the fuck.”

You almost regret it, the sudden self-consciousness prickling up your arms, but then he takes a step forward. His hand lands heavy on the doorframe beside your head, gaze dragging from your boots all the way up to your eyes. He looks like he wants to lick the paint off your face. Or drop to his knees. Maybe both.

“You like it?” you ask, voice quieter than you meant.

His mouth twitches—like he’s trying not to smile, but something primal wins out. He exhales sharp through his nose, then shakes his head in disbelief. “You don’t know what you just did, do you?”

You blink.

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes flicking down to your mouth. “You, showing up like this—fuck, sweetheart. I’ve jerked off to the thought of you looking like this and you didn’t even know.” You let out a shaky breath.

That’s all it takes. One breath. He grabs your face with both hands and kisses you like he’s starved. You clutch at his shoulders as he walks you backwards into the apartment, mouth devouring yours, smearing black across his lips and chin. He closes the door with one foot, not caring about how loud the metal hitting sounds.

He breaks the kiss with a wet, filthy sound. “You’re keepin’ this on. No fuckin’ way I’m letting it go to waste.”

“Good,” you pant. “That was the plan.” Art growls. Actually growls—a low, gritty sound from his chest—and sweeps you up by the backs of your thighs, carrying you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he mumbles as he lays you out on his mattress. “You’re my fuckin’ wet dream.” You smirk up at him, makeup already smeared. “I thought you liked me soft.”

“I do. I fuckin’ love how sweet you are. Makes this…” He leans down, tongue flicking over your bottom lip. “This is evil. Like you wanna eat me alive.”

“Maybe I do.”

He groans like you’ve physically hurt him. “Oh, you’re filthy tonight. Look at you.”

He kneels between your legs, pushing your dress up with rough hands before taking it off of your body, fingers snagging your fishnets until they tear. You gasp, thighs instinctively squeezing together, but he pushes them apart with a firm grip and a dark laugh.

“Not hiding from me now. You came here to be used, didn’t you?”

You nod, chest rising fast.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet already,” he mutters, running two fingers over your soaked panties. “All this just from a little face paint?” He asks, looking up at your face with a smirk that is proper to him.

“No,” you gasp, hips twitching. “It’s you. Talking like that.”

He hums low, pleased. “Then you better get used to it.”

He drags your underwear down, tosses them aside, and buries his face between your thighs like he’s starving and you’re his first meal of the day. The first swipe of his tongue has you arching up, crying out. He moans into you, lips latching around your clit and sucking like he wants to pull your soul out through it.

And you’re already close, it’s kind of embarrassing.

Maybe it’s the buildup. The nerves. The feel of his mouth on you after seeing the hunger in his eyes when he opened the door.

Your hands claw at the sheets as he fucks you with his tongue, fast and sloppy, wet noises filling the room with every filthy suck. When he slips a thick finger inside you, curling it just right, you fall apart. Clenching around his digit, back arching off of the mattress and eyebrows furrowing.

“Art—fuck—oh my God—”

He doesn’t stop until your legs are trembling and you're pushing his head back weakly.

When he pulls away, his face is smeared with your slick, glistening. His eyes are wild. Ferocious. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins, breathing hard. “You should see yourself right now,” he says. “You look like a demon just got exorcised. All fucked up and messy. You want more?”

You nod furiously, desperate.

He stands to strip, cock already leaking, flushed and heavy slapping against his lower stomach when his sweatpants disappears. Your eyes widen.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” he mutters, grabbing a condom from the drawer. “Corpse paint and all. Don’t care if we wreck the sheets.”

“Fuck the sheets,” you breathe. He lets out a low, dangerous laugh and kneels again, rolling the condom on with shaking hands.

“You’re gonna take all of me,” he growls as he lines himself up. “You wanted to play the part, didn’t you? Be my nasty little corpse girl? Gonna fuck you ‘til you’re crying off all that pretty paint.”

You gasp, thighs falling open, and he thrusts into you all at once. The stretch steals your breath. He doesn’t give you time to adjust—he can’t. He’s feral now, hips snapping into you hard and fast, grunting with each thrust like it’s physically pulling something out of him.

His hands grip your hips so tight you’ll bruise. One slides up your body, touching and caressing across your ribs, your tits, your throat. His thumb rests just under your jaw, like a silent threat.

“You hear that?” he pants, voice ragged. “That’s you. So fuckin’ wet for me. Drippin’ down my cock.” His hips slap against yours, filthy noises echoing in his room that mix with your moans and whimpers. You sound like Art’s favorite melody.

You whimper, clenching around him, and he growls again. “Yeah, that’s it. You like being fucked like this. Filthy little thing. All dressed up for me just to get wrecked.”

“Y-yeah—Art—don’t stop—”

He presses his forehead to yours, sweat slick on his brow. “Not stopping ‘til you scream and cream around my cock.”

He changes the angle, grinding deep, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. You’re so close it’s embarrassing again. Every thrust punches a sound out of you—breathy, desperate, wrecked. You can almost see stars with every thrusts of Art’s hips against yours.

“I want you to come just like this,” he pants. “Me fucking you while you wear this pretty makeup just for me. C’mon, baby. Let it go.”

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, loud and bright and searing. You dig your nails into his back as your body convulses, crying his name. You clench around his cock, gripping him tight; letting him buried inside your warmth. He follows fast, hips stuttering as he groans your name into your neck, coming hard with a few more brutal thrusts before collapsing on top of you, breathing ragged and loud in your ear.

For a while, the only sounds are your gasps and his heartbeat pounding against your chest.

Eventually, he lifts his head.

Your makeup is ruined. Mascara streaked. Mouth smeared. The black paint on your face is almost gone with the sweat cause by the overstimulation. And Art looks at you like you just gave him a new religion.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “You’re never allowed to not do this again.”

You snort softly, too boneless to reply.

He kisses your collarbone, gentle now. Presses his mouth over the warmth skin, tasting the sweat, the salt. His breath is hot. Worshipful. “You got no idea what this does to me,” he murmurs. “You—lookin’ like that. Letting me fuck you like that. I’d give up everything for you.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “Even your band?” He laughs, low and hoarse. “Don’t push it.”

You grin, wiping a streak of paint off his jaw.

There’s a pause. Then: “Wanna shower?” he asks. You nod, and he lifts you like you’re still featherlight, kissing your temple. “I’m not letting a drop of that paint go to waste,” he adds as he carries you toward the bathroom. “I’m fucking you again in the water.”