mcumorningstar

[mcumorningstar]

hair | art donaldson x reader

a/n: this is not rpf guys i promise this is about art donaldson haha i would never even think about rpf ahahah ahaha ha okay

warnings: SMUT 18+, this was just an excuse for me to write about hair pulling. literally the premise of this entire thing. retired!art x younger!reader, semi-public ish, not proofread at all sorry, horny hours in tacobacotown

The party had spilled out onto the upper deck long before sunset, golden hour stretched across expensive suits and sequined gowns. The yacht was all gleaming white metal and polished teak, railings slick with sea spray and champagne flutes perched carelessly on every ledge. Beneath your heels, the deck vibrated faintly with the low hum of the engine, just enough to feel in your bones.

Above, strings of golden lights swayed gently in the breeze, catching on wind-tousled hair and casting halos around the guests. Laughter rang out sharp and shrill, half-drowned by music pulsing from hidden speakers. Somewhere, someone was smoking a cigar. Somewhere else, a deal was being made over oysters.

And Art Donaldson stood dead center in it all—older, broader, built like he’d never retired. He looked like he belonged to the yacht more than any guest did, like the kind of man who didn’t just charter boats—he owned them. The kind of man who’d carved out a whole life after fame and filled it with quiet, unapologetic control. Grey threaded through the edges of his beard, sun caught in the lines around his eyes. His shirt clung to his chest, open enough to flash dark hair and collarbones that could still break hearts.

He looked like a man. And you? You looked like trouble—and everyone knew it.

You were younger. Noticeably. Dressed in something short and slinky, heels biting into the deck, champagne glass sweating in your hand. You were the kind of girlfriend men whispered about and women appraised. But Art didn’t treat you like a trophy. He didn’t show you off like a status symbol.

He just looked at you. He didn't have to keep you on his arm to know you wouldn't leave him.

And you were watching him right back.

You’d barely touched your champagne. Your gaze kept drifting.

Art looked like he’d stepped out of a cologne ad—curls tousled from the breeze, his striped Dior shirt half-unbuttoned, clinging to his chest in the humidity. You could see just enough to know there was hair beneath, curling dark and soft. His sleeves were rolled. His jaw was set. He wasn’t even trying to look good. He just was.

Every time your eyes caught, something twisted low in your stomach.

He watched you with a kind of smug awareness, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Like he could feel the heat building between your thighs from halfway across the deck.

At one point, he ran a hand through his curls, jaw flexing under golden light—and you clenched your champagne flute so tight you almost cracked it.

You excused yourself a few minutes later, murmuring something about fresh air. You didn’t even have to look over your shoulder to know he was following. You could feel him.

He caught up to you halfway down the stairs, hand warm against the small of your back, voice pitched low beside your ear: “Couldn’t stop staring, could you?”

“You were the one making a show of it,” you shot back, your voice tight, breath short.

His smirk was criminal. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Exactly.”

He chuckled, rough and quiet, and steered you down the hallway. Past a door. Another. Then another. Until the lights dimmed and you were far enough below deck that the sounds of the party dissolved. The corridor below deck was dark and narrow, lit only by the spill of warm light from above and the faint sound of waves knocking against the hull.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, dress bunched at your hips, thighs parted, breath snagging in your throat.

Art dropped to his knees. His hands slid under your dress, gripping your thighs with just enough pressure to make you gasp. He pushed one leg up and over his shoulder, crowding close, and looked at you like a man starving.

Then he buried his face in your pussy.

There was nothing tentative about it—just heat, tongue, and hunger. He licked you open like it was instinct, like he’d been thinking about this all night. His tongue dragged through your folds with slow, possessive pressure, then circled back to your clit, where he sucked gently—then harder—like he wanted to coax every sound out of your mouth.

You didn’t even notice when he pulled your panties off. You just remember how you felt the absence, and then, a flicker of movement—a balled scrap of lace tucked into his shirt pocket like a trophy.

He groaned the moment he tasted you, low and filthy, the sound vibrating through your cunt and into your spine. His beard scraped along your skin with every movement, raw and electric, each stroke rougher than the last. You could already feel the burn setting in. It made you tremble.

He looked up once, eyes hooded and dark, curls already sticking to his forehead with sweat. And then he dove back in—messier now, sloppier, tongue moving in fast, practiced motions, mouth hot and greedy.

When you whimpered and grabbed his hair, he moaned again. Like he liked being held there. Like he wanted you to control it. That shirt—the one half-unbuttoned upstairs—was plastered to his back now, damp with heat. His curls were already damp with sweat. His tongue was relentless.

You gasped as he sucked your clit into his mouth. Moaned as he flattened his tongue and dragged it slow. Everything in your body arched. Tightened.

You tugged his curls. Softly at first—just enough to get his attention, to remind him you were still in control. His groan vibrated through you, needy and thick.

You grinned and tightened your grip, nails scraping against his scalp.

“Yeah?” you panted. “You like that?”

He moaned in answer, knees shifting against the floor, rutting the air like he couldn’t help himself.

“Of course you do,” you rasped. “Look at you—so fucking good with your mouth, and all it takes is a little tug to make you whimper.”

And then you yanked.

His hips jerked. A choked, high whimper escaped him—sharp, sudden, raw.

You held him there, heel digging into his back, cunt flush against his mouth as he moaned and licked and gasped.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you hissed. “You want to be good for me? Then prove it.”

He moaned again—needy, desperate—and dove back in like he’d never even considered doing otherwise. You were going to come. You were seconds away. Your thighs were shaking. The wall wasn’t enough to hold you up.

And then—he pulled away.

You cried out, frustration sharp and wet in your voice.

He stood slowly, smug and wrecked and flushed, licking his lips like he’d just tasted something forbidden.

“Don’t give me that look,” he said, rough and pleased. “You’ll thank me.”

Then he leaned in close. Too close. His hand found your hair. His fingers sifted through the strands with care that made your knees weak. He plucked a single bobby pin from behind your ear.

Not one that held your whole style. Just one. Deliberate. Gentle.

“You don’t need all of them,” he murmured, voice low, lips brushing your temple.

It should’ve pissed you off. Instead, your thighs clenched together.

He crouched in front of a nearby cabin door. Worked with clean, practiced precision, curls falling into his face, sweat beading at his temple.

“Are you seriously picking a lock right now?” you asked, dazed.

“Patrick taught me,” he said, focused. “Thought it was the dumbest party trick I’d ever seen—until now.”

The lock clicked.

You didn’t wait. You grabbed his wrist, shoved him inside, and kicked the door shut behind you.

Then you shoved him down onto the bed.

The second his back hit the mattress, you were on top of him—hands on his chest, tongue already dragging across the damp skin between the open panels of his shirt. You licked through the chest hair, up to the sweat gathering in the hollow of his throat, greedy like you couldn’t get enough.

“Taking your sweet time, Donaldson,” you muttered, voice wrecked. “Let’s see how smug you are when I’m on top.”

He moaned—actual, helpless moan—and his hands gripped your thighs as you straddled him, grinding down against the bulge in his slacks.

You tore at the buttons of his shirt, yanked it open, bit into his shoulder as he groaned beneath you. You reached between your bodies, pulled his cock free—thick, flushed, leaking—and slid down onto it with a noise so guttural it echoed.

You rode him like a grudge.

Every thrust was a punishment. Every slap of skin, a reward. Sweat smeared between you, his chest hair damp beneath your palms. He gasped under you, hands scrambling for purchase, his mouth falling open with every drag of your hips.

You tangled your fingers in his curls again.

Then you pulled.

He bucked. Moaned. Whimpered.

“You sound so sweet when I hurt you,” you rasped. “Such a fucking man, and still so easy to ruin.”

“Please,” he gasped. “Please don’t stop. Fuck—please, baby—”

You leaned down, breath hot on his neck. “Beg me.”

“I am,” he panted, eyes wild. “Please, I need it. Need you—please—”

But your thighs were trembling. Your rhythm broke. You were close, and it was slipping through your fingers.

He felt it.

He grinned, a glint of mischief behind the sweat and wreckage. “You’re so cute,” he murmured.

Then he flipped you.

Pinned you beneath him, heavy and hot and still inside you. He didn’t hesitate—just started fucking you hard, deep, with a pace that felt like it rattled your bones. The slap of skin on skin was relentless, echoing off the narrow walls with every thrust. The headboard slammed into the wall behind you again and again, rhythmic and brutal, matching the sharp creak of the mattress beneath.

He grinned down at you, breath heaving, lips slick with sweat. “Too big for your britches, huh?” he panted, fucking into you harder. “You ride me like you’ve got something to prove, then fall apart the second you actually seem to be taking it.”

Your mouth opened—but no sound came out.

He watched you unravel, one hand gripping your thigh high against his ribs, the other sliding up to your face. His fingers pressed to your lips. Then into your mouth. Two of them, wet and rough, pressing down on your tongue while he fucked the air out of your lungs. “All bark,” he whispered, “and not a single word now.”

You moaned around his fingers.

He leaned in closer, curls sticking to his forehead, sweat dripping onto your collarbone. His hips never slowed. The pressure was unrelenting, merciless, filthy.

And then he pulled his fingers from your mouth, slick and hot, and brought them straight to your clit.

You cried out—loud, desperate, wrecked.

Art smirked. “Shh,” he murmured, rubbing slow, tight circles that made your thighs shake. “You’ve gotta be quiet, baby. Don’t want the whole boat knowing how good I’m fucking you.”

But his fingers didn’t stop. If anything, they got rougher. Meaner. Working your clit like he wanted you to scream. Like he wanted everyone to hear.

“You’re not making this easy,” you choked.

“That’s the point,” he rasped, still fucking into you. “You’re so fucking loud when you’re close. And I love it.”

Your attempts to listen to him are futile, too lost in the pleasure to do anything but whine and writhe beneath his ministrations.

“You just need someone to take care of you, huh?” he murmured with mock sweetness, pressing his hips even deeper, making you cry out around his fingers. “Little thing like you, playing at being in charge... but you want a good man to fuck you properly, don’t you?”

His thrusts hit deeper, rougher, shaking the headboard against the wall again. “I’m a gentleman, baby. You know that. I open your doors, I order your drinks, I pull your chair out. But when I fuck you—” he moaned as you clenched around him, “—I give you what you really need. What no boy ever could.”

He smiled down at you, sweet and filthy. “You just have to ask. I know you love it. Getting fucked dumb by someone who knows exactly what you need.”

Your body spasmed—too much, not enough. Everything at once.

“Come on,” he hissed. “Be good. Let go for me.”

You came with a stuttered sob, walls clenching hard around him, whole body trembling. He groaned deep, voice breaking as he followed—thrusting through it, pushing as deep as he could get, cock twitching as he spilled inside you.

And even then, you didn’t let go of his hair.

Not for a second.

He collapsed over you, breath heavy against your throat, chest heaving. For a few moments, the only sounds were the creak of the bed, the distant churn of waves against the hull, and the twin heartbeats thundering in your ears.

You trailed your fingers through the curls at his nape—now damp and thoroughly wrecked. “You whimper when I tug your hair,” you murmured, teasing, breath still shaky from aftershocks. “And you begged, Art. Thought you were supposed to be in charge.”

He laughed—low, rough, unbothered—as he nuzzled into your shoulder. “I am,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love letting you ruin me a little.”

You raised a brow. “Sure didn’t sound like it.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, grinning. “Doesn’t take away from the fact that I’m still the one holding your legs open and finishing you off when it really counts, does it?”

You flushed—scoffed—then let him pull you closer, chest hair warm under your cheek. “But you like when I run the show, don’t you?” you added, voice a little smug.

His response was immediate. “Fuck yes, I do. I love it when you get mean. Love when you ride me like you own me. I’d let you do it every damn night if it meant I got to watch you fall apart on top of me. I’m yours. Always. Just don’t expect me to stop flipping you over when you need it.”

You snicker into him, his unashamed admission filling you with warmth. There's a beat.

Then, softer, he speaks up again: “You okay?”

You nodded, already sinking into the warmth of him. “You?”

“I’m perfect.” He shifted to the side, pulling you into his chest, arm curling protectively around your waist. “But I should clean you up. Gentleman, remember?”

You hummed, cheek pressed to his damp chest hair. “Later. Just stay here a minute.”

“Anything you want,” he whispered, already kissing your hair.

-----

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[mcumorningstar]

pretty boy :(((

[mcumorningstar]

i love ur preacher’s daughter x dodge! thinking about them doing everything *but* actual sex cause it’s “not a sin” that way

warnings: smut, 18+, f!receiving oral, handjob, everything but fucking tbh, mentions of religious guilt, reader watches him touch himself, a little bit of manipulation...

notes: not proofread i’m nauseous and horny ab cowboys so here x

Dodge knew what he was getting into when he started dating you. That sweet girl that blushes and sputters when he suggests anything more than a kiss. Even a peck on the mouth had your cheeks hot to the touch and eyes averted at the start of your relationship.

But you're getting there. Or rather... he's getting there. Slowly but surely, you're growing more receptive to his subtle demands for more. You stop protesting when his tongue slips into your mouth, or his hand slides a little too far up your skirt. No more making excuses to go when your goodnight kiss in his truck gets a little too heated.

He takes it as his sign to push a little further. As far as your daddy knows, you're at Bible study with your friends. Not sitting with your knees planted on either side of Dodge, his tongue exploring the warm cavern of your mouth as his hands massage up and down the back of your thighs under your dress. There's a movie playing from his TV—Pride and Prejudice borrowed from his sister, because you dubbed the rest of the DVD sets under his bed 'too inappropriate.' Bless your poor little heart.

It's clearly long forgotten. The pair of you are more focused on swallowing each other's soft moans to care about the quartet playing behind you. And then, suddenly, you feel a finger glide over the front of your white underwear, and you jolt forward, forehead bumping against his.

"D-Dodge—"

He hardly flinches at the collision, smiling so innocently at you that you're almost convinced it never happened. "What?"

"You can't—" You take a moment to collect yourself. Swallow thickly. "Too much."

"Why?" His head tilts.

"Because it's a sin," you reply, as if he's stupid. "You can't touch me there. The... the good Lord's watchin'!"

"He watches everything else we do. Why's this any different?"

He has to swallow back a laugh when he watches the way your brows pinch together as you think that through. Logic is very hard to come by when his hand is still resting on the inside of your thigh.

"Well, it's almost—" You pause, lowering your voice to a hushed whisper, "—sex."

Dodge smiles. How cute.

"It's not sex, sweetheart," he says, mimicking your hushed tone. His other hand moves up to pet the back of your head as if to console you. "Don't count unless there's penetration."

You eye him warily. "What do you mean?"

"Well, what's the Bible say about it? No sex without intention to procreate 'n' all that bullshit?" He ignores your pout at the way you call the teachings bullshit. "Can't even be sex if my cock—"

"Dodge."

"What else am I supposed to call it?"

"Just don't say it at all!"

He sighs. Starts over again. "What I'm tryin' to say is that a little bit of touching ain't a sin. No penetration. Not even like our..." He pauses to search for the most appropriate word he can think of. "Parts... will be touchin'."

You frown a little, mulling that over in your head. Well, it makes sense to a certain extent. Besides, if touching in any capacity is a sin, you're already going straight to Hell for how many times he's had a calloused hand cupping your breast or squeezing your ass. It still just seems like a little much though...

"But the sin is lust, not the actual— oh—"

His fingers brush over you again, and the innocent smile from earlier isn't so innocent anymore when you meet his eyes. "Stop worryin' your pretty little head, darlin'. I promise you it's not a sin. Right hand up to God." Funny, considering his right hand is currently the one snuck under your dress and touching your clothed cunt.

You try again. "But Dodge—"

"But what?" He says, fingers dragging back and forth against you in a way that has your thighs pressing together instinctively. "You don't trust me?"

You shake your head. "No, no, I trust you."

He hums. "So, what, you don't want it? Is that it?"

The truth is, you do want it. He's hardly doing more than lazily rubbing you through your panties and there's already an unfamiliar stirring in your gut. Like the build-up of something that could be absolutely explosive. The Big Bang, your brain traitorously supplies. Now you feel even worse. You've never even tried to touch yourself before—considered it, sure, but any time your hand ended up toying with the inseam of your sleep shorts it was quick to retract. You've had to apologise to the picture of Mary overlooking your bed a few times for the almost-slips.

"... No," you lie, straight through your teeth.

But he laughs. He's no idiot. He can see the way your gaze is fixed on his forehead rather than his eyes. Can feel the way your thighs clench tighter with each drag of his fingers, your cunt pulsing a little too eagerly for someone who doesn't want this. "No?" He repeats mockingly. His mouth moves to hover right by your ear, and you shiver at the warm puff of air against it. "Then why are you so wet?"

"Well, that's... that's natural!" You insist weakly.

"Is it?" He muses. "You always walk around with your panties damper than a horse's back on a summer's day?"

You wither under the amused look he gives you. You know he's just being an ass now. But there's a glint in his eyes—not quite mischief, something a little darker than that. Something that makes any thoughts of the fiery depths turn to mush.

"... Promise it's not a sin?" You ask tentatively.

Dodge offers you the pinky of his other hand, and the one between your legs stills for just a moment. Your lip catches between your teeth, indenting the soft flesh as you weigh up the truth behind his words. Deep down, a part of you knows that he's just bullshitting you to get his way. You could be about to commit the most heinous sin imaginable and he wouldn't give two shits.

... But then his hand starts back up again, and before you know it, your pinky is looped through his.

It doesn't take long before your dress is hitched up and you're on your back, hair spilling over his pillow. Your panties are discarded somewhere on the floor, a leg hooked over his shoulder as his mouth laps at your sensitive parts. What started as kitten licks and gentle circles of his fingers quickly turned into something else.

Now you feel as if he's trying to devour you.

"S’that good, sweetheart? Feel nice?"

"Nggghh, yeah. Oh my goodness—"

There's been a few times where he's been tempted to slip a finger in. Ease you open, feel the way you tighten around his digits when you climax for the first time. But he'd said no penetration, and Dodge has a feeling you'd be on his ass about semantics. He'll work you up to that eventually, he's sure of it.

So he sticks to working you over with his mouth. Eagerly lapping up the sweet juices your cunt provides him with every time his thumb flicks over your clit just right, his other hand threaded through one of your own. Thumb reassuringly rubbing over the back of your knuckles despite the faster pace his other hand is taking.

And despite the fact his mouth is mostly occupied, he doesn’t stop talking you through it the entire time. "Just like that, angel. Keep makin’ those pretty sounds for me. Y’sound so sweet. Taste so sweet."

Or he tuts. "Keep your legs open. That’s it, uh huh. That’s my girl."

A groan this time. "Fuck, can’t believe I waited so long to do this. S’heavenly, baby."

Neither of you even notice the credits of the movie rolling. All you can hear is your own keening moans and the lewd sound of his tongue lapping at your pussy. The feeling is foreign, unfamiliar, but the peak of ecstasy you're approaching has you thinking life in eternal Hell might not be so bad if this is what you get to experience down there.

That thought is quickly cut off when your orgasm crashes over you. Sudden, overwhelming, your back arching up off the bed as your entire body jolts with pleasure. You swear you black out for a minute, and he takes great pleasure in the way your lashes flutter and your eyes roll back.

The greatest part of all is the cry you let out. "Yes, Dodge, God, yes, yes, yes!" It's blasphemous, the way you worship both him and the Lord in one breath.

He works you through it diligently. Not a drop goes to waste, and he's still moaning against you when your own whimpers die down. When he's fully sated and some of the trembling in your body has subsided, a firm kiss is placed against your inner thigh before he rises back up your body to tuck your hair behind your ear.

All you can manage is a dopey smile, and he grins crookedly. "Worth it?"

"I think so," you say breathlessly.

When you drop to your knees by your bed that night, Rosary beads threaded through your fingers and head bowed, you apologise profusely. But you haven't been smote down yet, maybe you'll be okay.

... Maybe.

It becomes a bit of a routine after that. Whether it's in his truck with your leg hitched up on the dashboard or when he has the house alone, Dodge just can't get enough of eating you out. And every time, you go back to pretending it never happened. You're still daddy's little angel.

There's a pleasant buzz running through your body as Dodge tugs your underwear back up for you, looking just as smug as ever. Dimpled smile, chin still slick with your wetness, as he eases your skirt back down for you. One would think it'd get less intense over time... but God, he has your toes curling and legs trembling each time his mouth descends on your cunt.

"Y'know," he starts, sitting up on his knees and giving your dishevelled state an approving once-over. "I think I might go a lil' insane if I don't get some attention of my own."

It's enough to give you pause. Fair enough—he's spent the last few weeks nestled between your folds and never once asked you to return the favour. But you've never touched a man like that before.

He catches your hesitation. Reaches out to thumb at your cheek, gaze softening a little. "Ain't gotta do nothing, sweetheart. But the blue balls are killin' me."

Blue balls. You almost roll your eyes. "So... what, then?" You ask, shifting to sit up as your fingers curling into the soft fabric in your lap.

He doesn't reply right away. Tilts his head, gauges your expression. "Can I show you? Won't take much. You ain't gotta touch me or nothin'."

Don't even have to touch him... you cast a cursory glance to his door, even though there's nobody home. Your lip is already bitten raw from stifling sounds all evening, but you're back to biting at it.

"Okay."

"Okay?" His eyes light up. He leans forward, a hand braced on your knee. "You sure?"

"Doesn't count if there's no penetration," you parrot the words he told you weeks ago. He smiles. "And... you said I don't have to do anything, right? Bit of watchin' can't hurt."

"Just lookin'," he affirms. For now, anyways.

His hand leaves your thigh to undo the buckle of his jeans, and your eyes follow the movement. There's a lump in your throat and you know you're going to be repenting for this one tonight. Maybe it's time to find some other church to confess at. Certainly not your father's, but you need to get this off your chest somewhere.

His jeans are pulled open, the tension easing off the bulge that seems to be straining there every time he gets his mouth on you. It doesn't take much for his cock to be freed, jeans and boxers down just enough to put him on display.

You swallow. You're definitely going to Hell.

You've seen pictures of them in passing. Dicks, cocks, penises. Whatever vile name the youth has come up with these days. The kind of pictures shared between a few girls at a sleepover, or a cock shown during a movie your father wouldn't approve of you watching. You've never been close enough to see one like this, though. Aching and leaking under the weight of your darkened eyes.

He takes note of your expression. The lust mixing with guilt.

"A little different in person, huh? No camera lenses?" He teases.

"Dodge, shut up. Just... just get on with it, please."

He rolls his eyes but obliges. Can't have you suddenly changing your mind because he gets a bit too cheeky. A firm hand wraps around him, and he begins to stroke himself. Slowly at first, watching the way your lips are parted and the breaths you take seem sharper. The quick rise and fall of your chest doesn't go unnoticed to him.

Feels real fuckin' good to be watched, though. Each jerk of his palm smears pre-cum down his throbbing length, the slick slide obscenely loud in the quiet of his bedroom. A low moan escapes him. Rough, completely unrestrained, so loud it almost makes you jump.

Your gaze snaps up to his face to watch the way his brow pinches with pleasure. You've never seen him like this—is this how you look when he's between your legs? The thought makes you flush. God. He's pretty like this, head tilted back and eyes half-lidded as he watches you absorb every second of his pleasure like it's your own. It's beautiful. It's wonderful. Breath-taking, staggering, perfect—

Sacrilege. Blasphemous. Impious.

You swallow thickly, but you can't take your eyes away.

"You, uh, sure you don't wanna get in on this?" He asks, his voice rough in a way you've never heard before. You find your thighs clenching again as you look back down to the filthy way he's started to fuck up into his fist.

"Dodge."

"What?" He asks innocently, a breathy note to his words. "I'll let you in, sweetheart. Just a little touch. Wouldn't have to do nothin'. Let me do all the heavy-liftin', eh?"

You shouldn't. You've done enough sinning for a lifetime over the last few weeks. Cried yourself to sleep a few times, too. And yet you go against every value that's been instilled with you for years to just touch.

A tentative little brush of your fingers against the underside. It's careful, hesitant and soft. His breath grows ragged. "That ain't so bad, is it?"

You shake your head. "And the... the white stuff. That's a good thing, right?"

"Real good," he laughs. He can feel himself tensing up; you aren't doing much to help, not physically, but with the pressure of his own hand and the way your eyes are on him... Lord, he won't be lasting much longer.

There's a pretty pink flush to his cheeks now. Eyelashes fluttering with each heavy breath, and the way his neck is exposed is giving you the strangest desire to lean in and kiss it. Bruise it, even. Your eyes avert guiltily, hand back in the safety of your lap.

"No, no, no. C'mon. Eyes on me."

"I can't, this is—"

"Please," he rasps. The hint of desperation catches you by surprise. "Want you to see it happen."

Heavenly father, please forgive me. Your eyes are on him again, watching the way his hips lift off the bed. It creaks with each movement, each glide of his hand down his cock. And that little flicker of scrupulosity in your eyes is what sends him over the edge.

"Fuck, yeah, I'm gonna— ah, ah, ah—" His cock pulses, white ropes coating his hand and the hem of his shirt. Face contorted in pleasure, eyes screwed shut as he makes a sound you've never heard from him before.

A whine.

You shuffle back a little—disgusted or intrigued by the sight of the cum spilling out of him, you aren't sure. But you're completely enraptured by the look on his face and the gasps that escape his parted lips. The only sound in the room for a few moments is his heavy breathing as he strokes lazily through the last of his orgasm, pleasure still buzzing faintly through him.

And when your eyes finally meet, you both laugh. Dodge's is hoarse. Yours is a little tentative. And then your sides are shaking and eyes twinkling. God, you can't believe that just happened.

"That's never happening again," you tell him. He grins, like he knows you're lying.

You are. You do it again. And again, until you're bold enough to be the one doing the stroking. It's only a matter of time before his little no penetration excuse goes out the window.

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[mcumorningstar]

18+ MNDI

VIRGIN!ART DONALDSON who moans as soon as he enters you. (if he didn’t know any better, he would’ve came on the spot)

VIRGIN!ART DONALDSON who buries his head between you neck and kisses it desperately as he begins to rutt into you

VIRGIN!ART DONALDSON who licks the tears from your cheeks as they come streaming down

VIRGIN!ART DONALDSON who’s praises sound like prayers as he whimpers them out between kisses

VIRGIN!ART DONALDSON who comes so fast and so hard he starts crying even more than he was before (he just can’t believe how much he loves you!!)

VIRGIN!ART DONALDSON who can’t stop now matter how much you beg him to…

“can’t stop ‘m so sorry baby -ah- can’t stop”

VIRGIN!ART DONALDSON who collapses ontop of you after he came god knows how many times. poor baby is so overwhelmed, muttering how much he loves you and begging you not to leave him

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i think i hauve covid

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getting into peaky blinders is so fun. "oh no, tommy shelby's coming!" then cillian murphy walks in with the clearest skin, the bluest eyes, and the most kissable lips

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twitter feed always gets me

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let me jump THEM BONES PLEEEEASEEE 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

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currently here.

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the way tashi has always kissed art like she was trying to climb inside him and live there will never not move me in a way that leaves me breathless

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i am blushing and smiling like an idiot he’s so silly

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We can run back please expand on that beautiful thought

like…. Walk with me….

You’re just out at the record store or something browsing when he approaches you and says that you have the perfect look for a project he’s working on, that he’d love to have you come to his studio and do a bit of modeling. He’d pay you, of course, he’s not some creep or anything.

And he seems so approachable and sweet, and he says you’re so beautiful, that he really thinks you’d be perfect… how can you say no?

His studio ends up just being a spare bedroom his apartment, the windows are covered so he can adjust the lighting how he wants. It’s all pretty simple— the lighting, the plain white fabric as a backdrop. It doesn’t feel very special or different than any other photo— like your awkward prom photos, headshots.

“C’mon, open up a little more,” he instructs, but you don’t know what he means. He has to physically adjust your pose and posture— guiding your hips into the correct angle, tilting your chin up with his thumb. “Perfect, you’re doing great.”

He smells like cigs and a musky cologne. It floods your senses as he stands in your space, as he presses his fingers into the small of your back so it dips in and your body curves tantalizingly. He steps back, snaps a few pictures.

“Can you take the jacket off?” He asks, peering up at you from over his camera. “It’s bulky, it’s swallowing you up.”

You take off the jacket, shrugging it off and to the side. He smiles and takes a few more pictures. You enjoy the soft pressure of his big hands on your body as he adjusts you into new poses for him— like a pretty doll for him to play with.

After a while, the room is thick with cigarette smoke. He has one dangling from between his lips that he puffs on between instructions. “Can you go topless?” He asks suddenly. When he registers your surprise he tacks on a quick explanation— that it’ll be tasteful. That it’s all for art. That you’re beautiful, that someone who looks like you should be immortalized like that.

And it works on you, as corny as it is. It feels different once you take your top off, when you’re exposed to him like that. You can’t help but cover yourself, laughing shyly, nervously. He stands up and uncrosses your arms, exposing your breasts to him while he holds your wrists at your side. “Don’t cover up,” he says, and a trail of smoke follows the words. You swallow and nod.

He snaps a few more pictures, and now his hands feel different. Like he’s not posing you as much as he’s taking the opportunity to touch you. His hands running over your ribs as he turns you slightly to the left, his thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts. Your breath goes shaky, and the thick cling of smoke in the air is making your brain all fuzzy.

His fingers trail just at the waistband of your hips, touching at the hip huggers you wear. “What about these?” He murmurs. “Can you take these off for me?”

Rational thought is at the window. You’re not even sure that you’ve heard a camera snap in the past ten minutes. His fingers pop the buttons there and they slide down your legs. “Very pretty,” he hums, big hands exploring the newly exposed flesh. “You should be a model.” He grins like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Because Isn’t that what you’re doing? Even if his camera is forgotten around his neck, and you’re stripping down in a guest bedroom for a man you met on the street an hour ago. His fingers ease the soft cotton of your panties down your legs and you don’t try to stop it. You part your thighs to let them pool at your ankles. His breath is hot at the apex of your thighs as he looks up at you. “So beautiful.” His lips are brushing your skin and your knees feel weak. “Can I take some more pictures?” Isn’t that what you were there for?

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MIKE FAIST WEST SIDE STORY, 2021

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happy 10 months since THEE art and tashi hit the big screen and permanently changed my brain chemistry! 🎉🎊

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HELP&(@&:&;$;

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feeling like swallowing glass, my god...