#challengers au

[cowboyfaists]

ohhhhhh cowgirl! tashi … you’re so special to me …

⋆ cw ➟ 𝐍𝒮𝐅𝐖(𝟏𝟖+) ╱ RATED R. sfw and nsfw hc’s. nsfw ones are honestly straight p∗rn without written scenarios attached.

cowgirl.ᐟtashi who’s 100% an ass girl. She’s gripping or smacking ‘til there’s a handprint when she can. But, if you asked her she’d say she’s more into thighs or just about everything as long as it’s you which isn’t exactly a lie.

cowgirl.ᐟtashi looks for her girlfriend in the crowd no matter what when she’s readying for saddle bronc riding and you’re always there. You hold a big head sign on a stick of her with kiss marks all over it and cheer your lungs out for her.

cowgirl.ᐟtashi who’s a proud eater and doesn’t give a fuck if you have a bush. She prefers to keep herself trimmed though. She leaves her happy trail more often than not ever since you complimented it before when she forgot to shave it.

cowgirl.ᐟtashi who’ll kiss you even if you just came on her tongue or if she just came on yours.

cowgirl.ᐟtashi stuffs her lithe fingers in your mouth and her eyes widen halfway with mirth when you beg her to do it in the moment.

cowgirl.ᐟtashi who’s your go to driver when heading somewhere.

cowgirl.ᐟtashi who’s wary of your friends, but they think she’s cool especially since you love her and they trust your opinion. They definitely initially find her intimidating at first.

cowgirl.ᐟtashi who indulges you when you ask things like “would you still love me if I was a strawberry?”

cowgirl.ᐟtashi who refers to her strap on as a dick.

cowgirl.ᐟtashi who’d rather give than receive, but doesn’t mind if you go down on her. She loves it too and makes it evident by being somewhat vocal but it’s mostly gasps, soft sighs, stuttering choked moans (when she’s close), and near constant facial expressions.

cowgirl.ᐟtashi who barks orders at men and glares at more than half of them, but is the complete opposite around you.

cowgirl.ᐟtashi who’ll get bothered but not particularly upset if she feels like her girlfriend lets her win at something. She loves a challenge no matter how big or small and she plays to win with effort.

cowgirl.ᐟtashi who’s all about aftercare.

cowgirl.ᐟtashi who’s into PDA, but draws the line at stereotypically being that one couple in line at a fair or an amusement park. She full blown cringes at couples that are like that and has her two cents about it that’s pretty colorful.

𝖲𝖠𝖨𝖭𝖳 𝖲𝖠𝖸𝖲.ᐟ ⸝⸝ ˎˊ˗ just dropping this to keep everyone fed while I’m still busy writing a cowgirl!tashi blurb that I started on the 15th. Hope this suffices in the meantime.

๑‎ ⏖ 𐂃 ℧ ﹢﹒ᶻ interested in more .ᐣ 𓎟𓎟 previous cowgirl!tashi work browse through the catalog submit reqs 𖬺 follow

© 2025 𝖮𝖧𝖸𝖮𝖴𝖫𝖴𝖢𝖪𝖸𝖲𝖠𝖨𝖭𝖳. All rights reserved. I stress that you do not repost, translate, alter, or plagiarize my content on any platform, including—but not limited to—my theme. You are welcome to take inspiration as long as you ask me directly and have my explicit consent.

[sweetestfaiszts]

like a dilf!art bot with user who’s kinda like a bitch? like i don’t know how to explain that, but please intercept that how you want 😭 like mean user but he doesn’t really mind it, he just gives in

BOT DROP! 

👅👅👅 me and dilf!art r like this🤞🤞 so yea i'll do anything for him btw sorry this took forever im so slow its actually sad (tell me if it isn't what you want cause I wanna do more for mean!user so yea)

Art was completely whipped, and you didn’t exactly make it easy on him. Snapping your fingers, rolling your eyes, barking out orders like he was lucky just to be breathing your air—and honestly, he acted like he was. He trailed after you like a lovesick puppy, hauling your bags, obeying every passive-aggressive “suggestion” like it was gospel. People talked, called you cruel, called him pathetic—but you didn’t care. He was yours, and he loved being bossed around. Win-win.

cr for dividers: @rtiface taglist: @iamaya03 @faiztheap @elsieblogs @cinnamongmm click here to be added

𓃴 send reqs to my inbox! BOT LINK HEREᢉ𐭩

[juicykvnture]

SPRING BREAKERS

Jason Todd x fem!Reader x Roy Harper | Challengers AU

tags: AFAB reader, substance (alcohol & marijuana) use, mean!Reader, oral f!receiving (though clothes), hair pulling, like one smack?

a/n: yes. It’s inspired by that scene, thank you and goodnight.

wc: 3.7k

part 2 | masterlist

Dating is just a distraction, relationships have to take a backseat. Anyone who disagrees just doesn’t know what tennis is, tennis is a relationship. The most important one in your life.

You didn’t exert yourself to the point of passing out for no reason, all those scraped knees, all the sweat, the blood, the tears, it’s all part of your purpose. You were meant to be number one, no doubt about it.

It started on the court, like any sort of interaction you’ve ever had, and it wasn’t even your opponent.

Nope, just the two dolts standing in the corner staring at you. Two sets of eyes. One calculated, watching every swing of your arm and every single tilt of your head. The other? Flicking between you and the racket in his own hand with an almost dumbfounded grin.

On the left, is Jason Todd. His eyes narrowed with every single step you take. Ice they called him, his expression calculating, unwavering. How fucking cliche, huh? You’ve played against him before in practice matches, even though you two never really got conversational, you had a silent understanding of each other. No bullshit, no chitchat, just some good tennis. It’s not like you’ve got a high opinion of Jason or anything, sure he can play but he’s a goddamn Wayne at the end of the day, whether his Daddy’s money has anything to do with his place in Stanford or not.

On the right? The opposite. Roy Harper. He’s all dumb little grins and wandering eyes. Fire, cause of that stupid red mane of his, slightly swooped to the side behind his sunglasses. He’s quick though, you have to admit. Quick with his serves, quicker with his conquests, and a never-ending roster it seems. You don’t get it, truly. He can hardly have his head in the game if it’s constantly between someone’s legs.

“I’d let her fuck me with that racket.” Roy hums into his can of Coke, his eyes flickering from you on the court to Jason beside him.

“You’d let anyone fuck you with anything, Harper.” Is Jason’s only response, seemingly indifferent as his hand goes to snatch the can out of Roy’s hand, finishing what’s left of it in a quick swig.

“Hey,” Roy’s lips curl into the beginning of a stupid little pout, but he’s quickly distracted by the whistle blowing, Jason tossing the now crumpled-up can into his lap, already on his feet.

Wiping the sweat off of your forehead with the back of your hand, you’re crouched down on the court, staring at your laces as you catch your breath. You won again, of course you did. A wound to your own ego would bear greater pain than any physical injury you could ever imagine.

“You’re good,” Jason observes, his shadow blocking out the beating sun. Yeah, fork found in kitchen.

“I know.”

It’s been abundantly clear since you three started whatever the fuck this even is, there are no friends in your game. Sure, there’s nothing wrong with drinking socially to quell your loneliness, but this isn’t meant to mean anything, why would it? Tennis is your life, anything and everything else is secondary.

You blink, staring at the joint in Roy’s hand. You’re usually strict about this kind of shit, for your own good. You’d honestly rather tear every ligament in your shoulder before failing a fucking drug test before a game. But you’ve got all your stuff shoved into a suitcase anyway, tossed under your bed and ready for spring break. All of your practice games are done and dusted until the real thing this summer. You’ll be fine, it’s just one laid-back evening, besides Roy and his stupid puppy eyes kinda got you into it.

“Hey.” Jason sighs, unceremoniously tossing the case of beer he had to drag here from his own dorm onto the carpet, the bottles clinking against each other.

“Seriously, not an ounce of alcohol to your name, what’re ya, a nun?” -with a sigh he slumps himself down on the floor beside Roy, letting his head thump back against the dresser.

“No, it fucks with my focus.” You correct him, your eyes narrowing slightly as you reach for a bottle, cracking it open against your side table, leaving a small scratch in the wood.

“Do you shit diamonds or something? Loosen up a little.” Roy hums as he stares up at the ceiling, the joint hanging between his lips. You’re not uptight, really! You’re just committed, okay? There’s a difference.

Though still, in an effort to shut him up, you take a drag, sticking your tongue out as if to prove a point.

Jason just watches in silence, sipping at his beer until his gaze narrows just by a fraction, his eyes flickering down to your mouth until he receives a huff of smoke in his face, snapping him out of it.

“So,” you sigh, passing the joint over to Jason, your head tilting over to Roy, “How long have you two been-”

“Oh, we’re not really-” Roy begins with a sheepish chuckle before he’s swiftly cut off by Jason sweating like a sinner in a church,

“No, it’s uh, it’s not like that,” -his voice more than a half-dead drawl for what seems like the first time ever.

You’re in no position to be judging their homoerotic friendship by any means, but you have a functioning pair of pupils in your eyes and at least two brain cells to rub together, and judging by their reactions you aren’t that far from the truth.

“You don’t sound too sure there, Jay,” Roy mumbles into his bottle, chewing on his tongue piercing under the dim light of your dorm room. Within the last couple of seconds you’ve definitely felt a shift in the atmosphere, the air heavier and you swear it ain’t the weed. The glances shared aren’t so subtle anymore, especially with how Roy’s lying back with his head against your side table. He’s got that same grin on his face that he always wears but his eyes ain’t boyishly wide like usual, they’re half-lidded, his t-shirt riding up his torso just a little bit.

“We’re just close.” Jason clarifies as he clears his throat, downing another sip of beer. He hates how unsure he sounds, He’s Jason fucking Todd, he’s ice.

“We met when we were like ten at a tennis camp or something.. and he just stuck around like gum on my shoe.”

Roy shoots him a saccharine little pout at that, his tongue darting out to catch a stray droplet of beer that slowly drips down the neck of his bottle.

You almost feel like you’re walking in on something here, and honestly? Maybe you are.

“Redheads aren’t my type,” Jason grumbles, passing the joint over to you. He’s gripping that glass so hard that he’s got the condensation dripping down his fingers. He’s also sulking like a moody toddler, you’d laugh if you weren’t so weirdly intrigued. You’re not entirely sure just who he’s tying to convince here.

Roy just grins, tucking a stand of his messy hair out of his eyes before going for another drag, “You’re full of shit, Jay. What about-“

“Enough. C’mere.” You suddenly pipe up, rising to your feet, only to promptly slump back on your bed, your fingers drumming against the mattress.

Dumb and dumber just stare at you, Roy tilting his head to the side like a puppy seeing snow for the first time in his life, Jason’s expression faltering for just a moment before he washes the knot in his throat down with another swig of beer.

“Huh? Me or him-”

Before you even think to answer Jason’s question, both of them are perched on the edge of the mattress beside you, Jason still gripping onto his beer bottle for dear life, while the other offers a sheepish grin, dragging his blunt nails over the fabric of his shorts.

“Hi,” Roy breathes, slumping his head against your shoulder like one of those great danes who thinks it’s a lapdog. You can feel his eyes on you under his messy red bangs, unfortunately it’s almost cute.

“Hey,” Without thinking, your hand comes up to cup the side of his face, your thumb moving in little circles against his flushed cheeks. You can’t even laugh at him right now, his eyes as half lidded and teary as yours. He’s absolutely baked, all three of you are.

Tilting your head to your left, Jason isn’t much better at the moment, awkwardly drumming his fingers against the neck of the cold bottle, holding it to his face. He’s staring down at the floor mostly, but occasionally over at you two, how Roy leans into you like a plant chasing the sun. You can tell he’s a little tense, his chin on his knee as his free hand twirls the white streak at the front of his hairline around between his thumb and forefinger.

“S’all fuckin’ spinnin.’” He mutters, his voice oddly soft for once. The room, his brain, his feelings, everything.

Slowly, he feels a a hand tugging on his wrist, his fingers curling up slowly before his hand falls back down against the covers with a small thump. He’s not sure why your touch grounds him, truly. It’s like he’s smoked away all his pride, nudging at your palm with his head.

“Close your eyes.”

You’re not sure why you even said that, you’re not in the right state of mind either. Perhaps you’re subconsciously testing these two, seeing if they’ll actually listen to you.

Sure enough, they do. Of course they do.

You chew on your tongue, glancing between the two of them. Roy caved in first, but that’s only cause he’s barely able to focus on anything anyway, anything other than your thumb tracing under his jawline. After a blink, Jason followed, setting his bottle down on the floor with a small clink against the metal leg of your bed frame, his lashes fluttering shut until like Roy, his head lands against your shoulder, subconsciously nosing at your neck.

It’s spring 2006, you smell like weed, sun cream and that little perfume that lives on your bathroom counter, that pink one with little green diamonds. Jason isn’t sure what it’s called, he doesn’t particularly care. But every time he smells it, he just knows he’s going home with a busted up ego and an equally busted up racket.

You’re gnawing on the insides of your cheeks now, thinking. You were tempted to call bullshit on Jason’s defensiveness earlier, but that would’ve only ended in an earful and him not speaking a word to either you or Roy for the rest of the night.

You test them once more, tilting your head back to Roy, letting your lips brush against his. Despite his slow and sluggish movements otherwise, his hand finds your knee, crawling up your thigh and curling into the fabric of your shorts. His response is immediate, bumping his forehead against yours in a clumsy attempt to tilt his head and let his teeth drag over your bottom lip. He’d whine about it under any other circumstances but it’s just muffled by your own teeth tugging at the bar of his tongue piercing.

Jason barely has the chance to even let his eyes open before your hand moves to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the dark curls at his nape and giving them a firm yank, just to fuck with him, of course.

Roy being loud is a given, literally look at him.

But nothing could’ve prepared you for the sheer whine of filth to leave Jason like that, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as his hands move with urgency equal to the one of his lips against yours, he’s pawing at you at this point, pulling your shirt in every which way.

Roy is busy mouthing at your neck, biting at your skin and soothing it with the cold ball of his tongue piercing as if to apologise.

The second you pull your mouth off if Jason to as much as breathe, he looks like he’s about to sob, near going cross eyed when he sees that thin string of spit break.

“No, no, no, come back,” He’s shaking his head like you’ve denied him his one and salvation, tugging at your shirt, the fabric closed tightly in his fists.

You’re quick to shut him up once more, briefly brushing your mouth against his before you tilt your head back, letting him trail his kisses down the other side of your neck.

Shit, your heads spinning now. Like really spinning, staring between them both as you feel hands wandering up your shirt, tugging at the waistband of your shorts, everything, everywhere.

As you’re watching this all unfold, something hits you. You’re tempted to mess with them again, like you so often are. Maybe it’s your own inebriation talking right now, but you just wanna test them a little bit more.

Your grip on Roy’s jaw tightens by a fraction, crossing your legs as you lean back a little bit, your hand in Jason’s hair giving him another little yank upwards. You’re not entirely sure what possesses you in that moment, nor are you in any kind of rational headspace, but you can’t help it.

Slowly, you tilt your head back, either hand still on Jason and Roy, cradling their faces in your palms.

Just as Jason tilts his head down to press a kiss to your inner wrist, you yank Roy’s jaw forward, ultimately resulting in the two of them bumping teeth, then lips, then tongue, and then holy fuck, they’re just fully going at it in front of you, Roy lazily cracking one eye open to help you tug your shorts down your thighs, just enough so he can snap the waistband of your panties against your hip.

Bastard.

It’s like making your Barbie’s kiss, just in this case, it’s two grown ass men.

Roy’s been around the block, he knows what you’re doing, leaning back on your elbows like you’ve got front row seats. You’re shameless about it too, which is actually one of the very few things you two happen to have in common.

Jason well and truly cannot formulate a coherent thought other than the raging boner he’s shifting his legs to hide, his eyes shut tight, feeling the ball of a piercing drag against the corner of his mouth.

He knows you don’t have one, you don’t kiss like that.

But he knows exactly who does.

You were right earlier.

That feeling like you’re walking in on something here, and now? You definitely are.

Jason’s so unbothered normally, they call him Ice for a fucking reason. But right now? He couldn’t hold your gaze in a conversation for longer than about two seconds before he was ducking his head with reddened cheeks and staring down into his lap, trying to ignore the throb between his legs.

Though apparently, he’s warmed up to everyone in Stanford but you. He certainly gets on with your Roy just fine, better than just fine. You wouldn’t even bat an eye if you heard those two fucking in the changing rooms.

The weed is just fucking Jason up right now, he knows, but he can’t—he can’t even do anything about it, he’s got his hands clutching his knees so hard they’re almost shaky, It’s weird and embarrassing and he’s been doing so well trying to act like this means nothing, like this is just a causal smoke.

Only Roy knows about his dilemma, and his only wonderful advice all year long has been to get his head out of his ass and a whack to the back of his head, followed by a delighted snicker of, “Fuck, you need to get laid more,” to Jason’s inconsolable grumbles.

Roy is honestly finding this shit more amusing than he has any right to, his words coming in a drawn out pant as he reaches a hand up to ruffle Jason’s hair a little, his grin unwavering.

“You embarrassed, Jay?” Roy hums, all too proud as he glances between you and Jason, his pupils blown like saucers.

You’re not sure whether to speak or not.

“Off,” Jason shifts slightly, letting his fingers uncurl from a fist as he tugs lightly at your shirt.

Roy only scoffs at that, his chin resting atop your shoulder as he eyes his friend, bumping his head against yours with a small huff.

“C’mon, you’re gonna freak out n’forget your manners and everything?”

That makes Jason avert his eyes, though only briefly before he’s staring at you again, tugging at the cotton.

“Off,” he repeats, “Please, take it off.”

You’re not a fan of people telling you what to do, especially guys who think they’re the shit cause they’ve got a couple good matches under their belts. You try to convince yourself that it’s just out of curiosity, that it’s another one of your stupid little tests - just to see how they react.

Your shirt is soon pulled off over your head as you move to lean back against your headboard, staring at them with a slight arch of your brow.

Oh. You’re so dismissive of them almost, just like you would be on the court. Of course you are. God, Jason feels stupid even sitting here. He spends enough time trying to prove himself as a player against you, but this is incomparable.

Roy on the other hand, is well.. Roy, letting out an obnoxious whistle before he’s silenced by your balled up shirt hitting him square in the face, catching it in his teeth.

“I’ll pay you twenty dollars if you lemme keep that.” He mumbles, twirling it around on his finger. He’s staring at you. Yeah, he knows where your eyes are.. but why would he be looking there if you’ve got a perfectly fine pair of tits be could be staring at instead?

“And you call Jason the freak?”

You’re doing that thing with your voice, again. The one that makes his brain sort of go fuzzy, you talk to him like he’s an idiot. He is.

God, there’s something seriously wrong with him.

Jason isn’t distracted by your stupid chitchat, he doesn’t care if Roy pokes fun at him or not, all he cares about is the pretty girl laid out in front of him. His lips trail down your neck, kissing and biting but not too hard, he doesn’t wanna freak you out yet.

You keep staring at him, with those pretty eyes, with that unreadable expression, and he’s not going to survive this. God. He feels like he’s dying. Maybe from embarrassment, or lack of oxygen, or a hard-on; but he feels like he’s dying. Like he’ll pass away any moment, and then never have to live through this moment again.

Roy shifts quietly, thumbing over the drawstring of his shorts as he moves to sit up beside you, the bed creaking slightly under the weight of three people.

Jason glances up at you through his eyelashes, holding the silver pendant of your necklace in his teeth.

He looks sweet for once, the white streak in his tousled hair falling into his eyes as he shifts down the bed, the top of his nose dragging between between your tits, down to your stomach before he pauses, fingers lightly tracing the waistband of your underwear.

“Can I?”

When you nod, Jason’s other hand wanders up your thigh, tracing little circles over your skin before he lifts your leg over his shoulder, anything in an effort to be closer to you as he catches the little bow at the front of your panties between his teeth.

Roy finds it funny actually, how a bitch like you shatters people’s tennis careers with a drawer full of pretty, lacy things.

He definitely wasn’t snooping in your drawer while you were looking for a lighter earlier.

Roy raises an eyebrow for a moment, his lips curling up into another one of his stupid smirks when his eyes drift down to the slight wet patch in your panties, he noticed it earlier when he pulled at your shorts while him and Jason made out.

“And I’m the freak? I mean you’re literally-”

He’s very swiftly shut up by your hand smacking the underside of his jaw, your hot breath ghosting against his lips.

“Nobody’s talking to you, Harper.”

There you go again, treating him like an idiot. Fuck, he needs to get his brain checked out cause that shouldn’t make his dick throb the way it does.

In efforts to muffle another utterly embarrassing sound, Jason pushes his face further into the lacy fabric of your panties, his blunt nails digging into your thighs, hard enough to leave little crescents on your skin.

You’re having none of it though, unimpressed with how he’s trying to keep himself quiet for the sake of his fucking pride. Men and their egos, huh?

Your hand goes down to tangle in his hair, lightly tugging at the long dark strands at the base of his neck, the action that resulted in that precious little whine earlier.

This time, it’s paired with an unintelligible ramble into your clothed cunt about how pretty you are, his hips pushing into the mattress beneath him.

Jason doesn’t even care if Roy laughs at him for being whipped for you at this point. He’s mouthing at you through the fabric almost desperately. He’s all over the fucking place, one second he’s got his nose bumping against your clothed clit, and then his lips are at your thighs, your hips, anywhere he can reach, any way he can be close to you.

“Please,”

Kisses all over your thighs, shaky pants as he tries not to grind against the mattress too pathetically, his eyes half lidded as he uses the last of his common sense to try string together a sentence.

“Please let me fuck you.”

Roy can feel his heartbeat in his ears as he palms himself, unable to stop his hand sliding under his waistband.

You’re cradling Jason’s face again as he keeps mumbling into your thigh, tilting your head up to glance at Roy.

“You just gonna sit there and watch, freak?”

a/n: part 1, possibly????

yes I totally wrote this for myself.. yes I may or may not be cooking up part 2 if anyone’s interested..

asks and requests currently open ;)

Okay, I’m gonna go lay down, love you bye bye x

[lvve-talks]

p ☆rnstar!artrick . ݁₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

˙✧˖°📸⋆｡˚ where art is actually in the biz but beloved by women bc all his content caters to female pleasure. and he does those whimper audios. patrick just runs an extremely successful nasty twitter account. perhaps the panty-wetting collab of the century?

[222col]

TWO WRONGS...

pairings: ex!rafe cameron x reader && situationship!art donaldson x reader && pining!jj maybank x reader

summary: after a messy break up with rafe, your only option was to leave the band. east coast had barely managed to continue on without you, thanks to john b stepping up to continue vocals. you joined the other band from outer banks, challengers. both bands now battle for the number one spot, while half of them battle for your attention.

notes: my first ever smau eeeeekkk!! im so so nervous so pls go easy on me <333 any feedback is welcomed in my inbox just pls be kind <3

TWO WRONGS — 01. 02. 03.

next chapter

꒰ taglist ꒱ @bbyg4rl @girliism @lvve-talks @soft-starr @pittsick @shahabaqsa0310 @butchernat @khartalks @coolgrl111 @nozhdyved @justiceforfoxface @imperishablereverie ( to be added )

[houseofblve]

dealer!art who you met at a shitty party while he was selling to college kids

dealer!art who is in his thirties and likes that you’re ten years younger

dealer!art who you spend every saturday night hanging out with in his shitty beat up car while parked in an abandoned lot

dealer!art who refuses to admit to himself that he cares about you beyond just your weekend hookups

dealer!art who gets jealous when you hang out with guys your own age

dealer!art who you just can’t stay away from no matter how hard you try

this is mainly just me having complete dealer!art brain rot

[yuutaguro]

tennis is sex or whatever tashi duncan said 🎾

[tinytennisskirt]

dad!art anon here ill do this emoji 🫧<3

i was thinking maybe art and reader are trying for their first baby and maybe they just for married and he’s sooo inlove and readers so inlove something cute love uuuuu

A Married Thing:

summary: art donaldson wants one thing for the rest of his life and that’s you. he made that clear when he proposed, then when he married you, and makes it very clear that he wants you and maybe a little you… for the rest of his life- when it’s finally just you and him after a long day of wedding activities.

warnings: smuttttttttt, art being reverent and devotional, slight breeding kink from art, talk of pregnancy, etc.

Art takes a second to let it all settle in. It’s so much; he has to run a hand over his face to try to ground himself and remember that this is real. This is his life. You are his life, and with that ring on your finger, you’re the rest of it too. The second the officiant says he can kiss you, he does with so much of himself. He kisses you like he means it, like his foot is down, like you just bought the grave plot next to his. His hands wrap around your waist while yours wrap around his neck, a kiss so close to an embrace, everyone who sees it can feel how much he loves you.  

He’s as thrilled for where things will lead you as he was on your first date. He talked a big game while you were dating, all the typical promises a man makes to marry you, to give you a good life, except Art meant every single one. You had every reason to doubt him at first, love is love and men are men, but Art knew he loved you very early on and didn’t stop trying to show it, not once. 

So when he put his grandmother’s ring on your finger, he figured this was all he ever wanted. He couldn’t imagine loving or having you more, but of course, marriage was still to come- impossible, maybe. His heart might explode. And you kissed him, hard, crying the same tears he was. Some luck had found him, he thought.

 And luckier, you can imagine a ring on the finger, a few glasses of wine- it was a sure thing that he loved you. Right there, on the couch where he’d gotten on his knees, reverent to your ‘yes’, and the fact that soon you’d be his wife. You tasted like his fiancée now. 

So he kisses you at that altar like he means it, his mother loudly crying tears of joy. You pull away and you laugh and he sighs like his knees might give out. “Are you okay?” You ask, hand on his chest, smiling the smile he fell in love with before he even knew your name. He nods, and unexpectedly, kisses you again, eliciting a second, even louder cheer from family and friends, this cheer spotted brightly with laughter. 

The reception is lovely, family everywhere, friends drinking and talking and celebrating. The speeches make you cry, and Art himself is having a hard time trying to fathom that any of this is his. His family, his new, bigger family, is wonderful and inspiring. The room is thick with appreciation, love, and sentiment.  These people are here, and despite a wedding, they aren’t even close to understanding how much he loves you. 

 He listens to his mom give her speech, talking about you like the angel that you are- and that breaks him open, just a little. “Hope it’s not too soon to say,” his mother starts to sign off, “But a grandbaby or two wouldn’t be too bad while I’m still in my prime.” She does a little shimmy, laughing loudly, tapping the side of her nose at him.

His heart surges just a little at the thought. It’s been talked about, but it’s your hand finding his under the table at the joke that really gets him. It’s like he’s been turned into a teenager again, the way his ears pink. The idea of a life with you after this stepping stone hits him like a freight train every time he remembers it’s real, over and over again, all of its beauty, all of it being completely within reach. He steals you away for a dance the second he can. 

“Married,” you say, like you’re tasting it. “Mrs. Donaldson.” 

It’s like music. He can’t help but grin. “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” you smile, and he swears it’s brighter than any light in the room. His eyes wander your face like it’s the first time, like it’s all unknown, and he’s mapping it out. “What’s on your mind?” 

“I love you,” he repeats, like he’s lost. Eyebrows knit. “You’re beautiful.” It’s real, he knows it, but so many other things begin to seep through the cracks. And just as his mother ‘wouldn’t mind a grandbaby’, he finds himself lost in the fact that he wouldn’t mind a daughter, especially if she ends up as beautiful as you are. 

You bite your lip and mouth ‘thank you’, under your breath.  

“I was- am, thinking about what my mom said.” He admits. “That maybe not now, but soon…”

“Mmm, yeah,” you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck, your nose brushes his. “You want a little tennis player, hm?” 

He tugs you in by your waist, unable to hide the grin that blooms from ear to ear. The after-party dress is silk under his fingers. He wonders how easily it might slip off… “Hey- whatever she wants to get involved in,” 

“She?” You giggle and kiss him into it. “I love you so, so much. I want this too.” You assure him, swallowing. Your eyes dart like they do when you’re shy, “But sooner than soon…” 

He lowers his voice, and it’s a little funny how his smile goes completely serious, “Now?” And his smile still breaks through, like he can’t suppress it. 

You laugh, leaning into his shoulder. His hand instinctively finds the back of your head, laughing with you. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world. God, he loves you so much. The smallest things, like your laugh, remind him of the decades ahead of him that he gets to listen to it. For now, it’d echo around your apartment, but soon a house, a home. He knows he’s the luckiest man alive, still yet to find himself luckier. 

“Later than now, sooner than… Sorry,” you giggle, meeting his eyes. “I… want you. I want that. For us, our… future. But later.” 

“I have to wait?” He chuckles in return, “After you say something like that?” 

Your smile pulls up at the corner like a smirk, he feels like he just lost all his breath. Your eyes twinkle. He’s hard, he knows that, so do you. “Mhm,” you nod slowly, looking quite satisfied with his reaction, almost smug. “Soon. Later.”

“You’re cruel,” he kisses you, once, twice. You kiss him the third time, holding him as close as you can. His skin feels hot, sparked, and it hits him all over again. 

By the time everyone is gone to their hotel rooms, you and Art are both beyond tired. The perks of such a friendly family are great, except for when their energy keeps going well into the night. You, in that pretty white dress, silky- that seems to ask to fall off your body, the way the sleeve droops down your shoulder. He admits he’s reasonably buzzed off that good red wine, the same as you, but just enough to feel the lust settle in like love itself, in his throat, his chest, his hands. 

Your shoes are already in your hands, the white ribbon that wrapped up your calves is draped over your arm, and you lean, tired, against him in the elevator, cheek pressed to his dress shirt. A lifetime of being yours to lean on makes him smile. He kisses the top of your head, just casually, as if it’s just the small gesture it seems to be, and not the vessel of all of his restraint. 

“Art,” you say, from under his chin. Soft, to get his attention. His eyes meet yours as the elevator dings its arrival to the honeymoon suite. He looks up at it, taking in how it’s decorated gently in pretty pinks and oranges, noting the large, circular bed complete with draping curtains in the corner. The dim lamp lighting casts that orange and pink light over you, in that dress, looking at him like he owes you something. And he does, he always will, for you loving him the way you do. You blink softly, almost nervously, and he catches it. Your promise of later is more haunting than it had been the entire rest of the reception. He couldn’t get it out of his head, the idea, the dream so close in reach- you, a family, that you wanted it and soon. Now. 

He wonders if you taste like his wife, but he just swallows, hard. “I love you so much, I can’t believe I married you.” 

“Us, married. I love you, too,” you sigh, breathing the words out like they have weight. “So much. And I’m not… forward in… wanting a baby?” You giggle like it’s the silliest thing. It sort of is, but isn’t, not the way he’s thinking. 

His heart jumps at the word like he hasn’t spent his entire life fantasizing about the night he fucks you with that intention. Gently, his hands find your waist, and he pulls you by it gently into the suite. The doors close, blending into the wall now. “You have no idea,” he says, low, face close to yours, causing a tired smile to climb your expression. His hand cups your face, your jaw, as he leans down to kiss your neck, the gentlest he possibly can. He feels how it makes you shiver, “I want you. I want a baby, I want a family.”

“We’re still house-hunting,” You reason with a tilt of your head, his arms slipping around you with the ease of that white silk. His fingertips brush the backs of your arms, and he swears he can’t tell where you start and the fabric ends. He knows your words are just to prompt him. 

“We’ll find a house,” he mumbles into your neck, kissing higher, hand moving your hair to kiss up toward your ear. Your hands grip the front of his dress shirt in a way that gets him harder than he already is. The smallest little things you do, so incredibly beautifully, as simple as your hands bracing against the way his kiss feels, it’s more intoxicating than any red wine buzz. “Somewhere pretty, near some good schools…” He continues, kissing your ear itself. The sensation sends a wave of pinpricks down your entire body, causing you to hold him tighter. “- I want this. I love you.” He can’t say it enough. 

“I love you, too,” you manage, breathily. He pulls away from your neck, a smile on his face that strikes you as a man ruined and completely, entirely, in love. His hands cup your face, the lightest touch imaginable, in a way that makes you feel it in your bones. That love. His reverence. “I need you. Now. Please.” You tell him, under his gaze. He lets out a breath that comes out just the slightest bit shaky, making you smile again. There isn’t a better response than kissing you. 

It’s not an urgent kiss, there’s no rush. It’s late, you’re both a little tiny bit wine drunk, and he is a man starved. He kisses you gently, but with the force of all of his passions. He’s never loved anyone or anything more than he loves you, and he kisses you like those words are on his tongue. His hand finds your jaw, tilting your head back to kiss you, lips parting to allow as much as possible, while his other hand subconsciously gathers silk off of your waist, hips, ass. He’s done this a million times, but this feels differently charged and new. His heart pounds like it’s the first time he’s ever touched you. 

“I’m going to have your baby,” you giggle, even in a kiss as serious as this one. It’s why he loves you. The words have more power than you think- Art hoists you up into his arms, and in a second, your back is pressed to the bed's dark pink Egyptian cotton sheets. Something in the phrase fuels him, he knows that- you know that. “I want it so badly.” 

Art kisses down your jaw, your neck, collarbone, hands still under you, travelling the places the silk borders on skin. Your fingers tangle in his hair. You smell like home and faintly of the bouquet that rested against your chest all afternoon. His hand finds yours, holding it gently, closer to a cradle than a hold. And he brought it to his lips, lifting his head from kissing your collarbone to kiss the ring on your finger. Lips brushing skin so slightly, somehow, even that touch sent another sheet of goosebumps over your skin. “I want it-” he starts, kissing your knuckles, then your fingertips, before meeting your eyes, “So much more than you know.” 

“Mhm?” You prompt him again. Cheeky. He can’t help but grin, kissing down toward the shoulder of your dress. That slow, soft hand of his comes up, and slowly, his pointer finger rims the left shoulder of your dress, gently pulling down. “You think about it?” You ask, a little breathy. 

“All the time,” he admits, voice thick with devotion and focus, his other hand coming to slip the other strap of your dress down your arm. “You’d never leave bed…” He kisses your shoulder. “I’d take care of you, every ache, every craving… You’ll be so, so gorgeous, carrying something made of us both. I can’t even think about it too much, I’ll go crazy.” 

You chuckle, keeping composed though your skin burns at his every word, “I’d like to see it.” And you pull him by his shirt into another kiss. Slow, wide, generous. He can’t help but feel complete every time your mouth meets his. Every kiss in return from him is made of sugar, wine, and gratitude. You push, sitting up, the front of your dress falling like a feather in the air, revealing everything you had hidden, waiting for him. He pulls away, forehead resting against yours, laughing under his breath, almost like he can’t believe all of it is for him. Lacy white, balconette, his. And he kisses you like he means it. 

You end up standing again, just for a few moments, the dress falling from where it gathered at your waist to land soundlessly on the floor. He cups your face, your back pressing to the bedpost. He hasn’t even let himself see you in all of this yet; he can’t, or he risks getting ahead of himself. “Art-” you say, between kisses. “I need you.” 

“I need you,” he returns in the same pause, kissing you again. “Need you-”

“You have me, all of me, I- ” You giggle, pulling away. It gets him harder, almost painfully, in his dress pants. He meets your eyes in the warm light of the room. He chuckles with you. “You have all of me…” You continue, hands slipping around his neck. He lets his eyes wander down your frame, eyeing all of the lingerie that will only ever be for his eyes. He looks at you like he found religion. “Forever.” 

“You’re-” he chokes. “Perfect. I love you. I want you. I need you.” His knuckles gently skim your collarbone, then the curve of your breast, the side of your arm, your waist, his eyes following as his other hand meets the other at your hip. Your chest rises and falls, heavy with each breath. The air is full of trust that you both inhale like a drug. He can see his future reflected in your every feature. Your giggle at his soft words, hoping to be copied into something equally yours and his. “Can you imagine it?” He asks you. 

Your smile makes him want to fall to his knees. “You’ll be such a good dad…” 

His grin is from ear to ear, voice hushed,  “And you’ll be the best mom. God, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I want to give you everything, all of it, all of me.  I…” Your fingers start on his buttons, quickly undoing every one as if you’re just as eager as he is. Everything you do takes him out. 

“What happens if I start wanting ice cream at 2 am?” You tease, almost. Another prompt he’s happy to speak about. 

“Then I go find some,” he replies, lost in you. “You’ll share?” 

“Always. What about tennis?” 

“Hiatus, play locally,” he replies without even pausing a beat, your fingers on the last few buttons. He swallows hard, like his throat is dry. He sways closer to you, he can’t help it. His nose grazes yours, eyes flickering from your eyes to your body, all the lace waiting to be thrown across the room. 

You draw out the act of pulling his shirt off, slowly opening the front, taking his wrists in your hands to undo his cuffs. You tsk, cheeks pink, “What about when I end up… huge and swollen and sore? When I can’t get upstairs or reach around myself, hm?” You pull him just a little closer, knowing the impact of your words. His ears match your cheeks, and his lips part just a little, a small breath slipping out. The shirt falls off his shoulders and meets your dress on the floor. You’re already on the buttons of his pants, not even looking. Eyes on him to study that lust-clouded gaze he’s dripping onto you. “What about then?” 

“You-” you’re making him nervous. Only you could unravel him this way. He breathes out hard, hands on you, moving, sliding, just trying to touch you the most he can. “I would do anything to see you like that,” he replies. “All the evidence of us under your shirt, knowing I did that, we did that. I want to watch the changes happen, see you grow with our baby.” 

“Our,” you repeat, because it sounds beautiful, and you aren’t sure how to function when you want him this badly.

“You’ll be so gorgeous, even more so- I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it.” Your hand finds him down the front of his pants, and he hums into your mouth. “Hey-” He catches, cupping your jaw again. He kisses your nose before he kisses you again full force, his hips pinning you to the bedpost, pressing against you. And almost like it’s funny that he isn’t fucking you, he picks you up off the ground, one hand on your waist, the other under you, both of you laughing breathily. He kisses you, head tilted back, as you get pressed back into the bed. 

You crawl backward, pushing yourself back against the pillows, eyes bright, eager, hungry. He follows, letting you tug his pants the rest of the way off. He’s hard, still quite painfully, even without the pants. He crawls over you, kissing you into the pillows. Despite all the heat of the moment it’s soft, like each kiss has effort put into it. Hands travel each other like it’s all new, and it is. It’ll be the first time he gets to have sex with his wife. He loves the thought, he loves the sound of the word. 

He kisses back over your ear, jaw, neck, and collarbone, trailing tiny bites all the way down. His mouth kisses lower until it meets the top of your breast, right above where it matters, which is half an inch hidden under the lace that adorns you, decorates you. He can’t get over this, you, your body, what it does for him, does to him, and will soon be doing for your future. “I want to fuck you so badly,” he mumbles, his hold on you tight as he continues lower, down your body. He likes that he can feel your skin so affected by his touch, loves the small gasp that comes from you when he kisses your stomach. The top, just under the wire of the pretty little bra that one of his hands was unhooking, then the middle of your stomach, “You’re meant for this.” He tells you, worshipful in the way he looks at you. “I want to give you this.” 

“Please do,” you smile, then breathe out. He lowers himself, chest resting on the bed between your legs, as he kisses your lower stomach, where the lacy bottom part of the set begins. He then kisses your hip, where the waistband sits, then your thigh, taking all of his time, but he can feel your restraint as he gets closer to where you need him. “Please.” You follow. 

He does what he’s told, but gentler than wanted, a nudge with his nose, through the fabric. He’s done this so many times, he’s spot on. Your thighs squeeze just gently, and he shuts his eyes under the pressure of it, trying not to press himself into the bed too much. “Art…” 

“I know,” he replies quietly. But he pulls himself away, that cheeky grin on his face. “One thing first.” He says, propping himself up just enough to kiss your thigh again, right below the garter. You giggle from above him on the bed, disbelieving that he paused things just for this… His teeth graze your skin on purpose when he pulls it gently down… over your knee, over your calf, and off your foot. The first of three items to be thrown far out of reach. 

You nearly gasp at just the sight. His body is contoured by the shadows from the dim lamp, he’s still so hard, the front of his boxers just a little wet from everything that had already happened. Your bra comes off and gets thrown as well. He chuckles, crawling right back to where you want him, except this time, he doesn’t tease or kiss anywhere but exactly where you want him. Through the fabric. 

“You’re so-“ his tongue pushes against the fabric, words humming against your clit. “Wet. My god.” Hands reach up and pull at the sides of your underwear, getting it gone, down. You raise your hips, but he doesn’t even take it all the way off. He pulls them as much as he can before he’s between your legs again. Your legs go over his shoulders, kicking the lingerie to the other far corner as your hips involuntarily press up toward his mouth. You taste like his wife, and it’s his favourite thing in the world. 

He could genuinely live between your legs, always hungry, starved even. His tongue works, flicks, drags, pushes, while he sucks just gently enough to elicit the first real moan of the night from you. Broken, slow, low, breathy, for him. He knows just what to do- it’s often that you have to try not to finish under his mouth. He wants more, he tries for more, thinking about what he’s about to do. Thinking about the difference he is about to make. 

Art moans against your cunt, unable to help himself at how your muscles contract around his tongue, at how you taste, how it feels to lick from your base to your clit and back again. Your fingers tangle themselves deep in his blonde curls, tinted pink by the light that reflects off the sheets. He is suddenly struck harder by that freight train of reality and emotion. You feel like a drug, warming his body through the blood in his system. 

The want comes crashing, dizzying, burning hotter and brighter than before. Suddenly, the need to be inside you washes overwhelmingly over him. He wants more. Not just to taste, but to have, to bring close, to come into. He knows the feeling is mutual, through some insane connection-or maybe it was just what happened when you got married-because you mumbled his name almost incoherently the millisecond before he pulled himself away from you. 

He uses the discarded dress shirt to wipe his mouth before he crawls over you again to kiss you, almost desperately. Still, rushless, more like neither of you could handle waiting. Your hands tug at his boxers with one hand, one immediately gripping him the second he’s freed of them. He groans quietly. As a joke, you toss them all the way across the room, making him laugh as he kisses you again. Your legs are parted, he’s over you, you’re under him. He can feel the heat radiating between you as you give him that loving little nod. “I need you. Deep, okay? I need it, I need that, I want your baby, I want-” you mumble, words falling out. 

“I don’t want to be-” he lines himself up, “-anywhere else.” He breathes. Your lips are centimetres apart, breathing each other’s air. His hand braces your hip, upper thigh, as he slowly pushes into you, feeling your body give way to his shape and stretch so perfectly around him. He holds his breath, and you gasp. He goes so slowly, your nails are already digging into his back. Your muscles push him, squeeze him, he can’t help but groan lightly. “You feel so good-” 

“Fuck, Art,” you sigh. His name sounds like a symphony when you say it, so out of breath. “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” He says, ruined, not even buried to the hilt. “S-So much. My- god- my wife, my pretty-” he kisses you just as his hips meet yours. You gasp, he feels the air cold on his lips, then the heat of your exhale. “I love you so much.”

He doesn’t give you much of a chance to say more, pulling himself just slightly out, then slowly sinking back in. Usually, off wine, he wouldn’t feel this much, but his senses seem to be high. He can feel every inch of you lining him, can feel every little twinge of pleasure that comes from getting so deeply inside of you. He can’t stop thinking about you, pregnant and perfect, all his fault. He’s practicing control, fucking you so slowly the way he is. 

The way he moves is with worship. His hands lift the crook of your waist, your hips, letting him rotate them. He reads your body language like it’s the bible, leaning into every little thing that makes you moan. The lift, the angle, the slow squeeze of his hand at the flesh of your thigh, your chest, your stomach. He’s memorizing all of the ‘before’ because he knows how this ends. Slowly, he picks up pace, though every thrust is just as deep as the last, hips meeting yours every time. The sound is graphic, he knows how wet you can get, but he’s never heard it this loud, this wet, and the reminder that this sound is his for life only makes him fuck you harder. 

“I can’t- god, you’re perfect,” he groans over your lips. They’re wet from kissing. “I can’t stop thinking about it-” he breathes. “You, full with our daughter. Every change, every want, every need, I want to give- I want to give you  everything.”

“God-” you try to smile or laugh or quip again about the fact he keeps insisting the unconceived baby is a girl, but only a moan makes it out of your mouth. A moan and a quiet smile, which of course, drives him crazy. You sigh, “I’m yours. Yours to have-” you can’t finish your sentence, silenced by your own moans. You swear he’s doing it on purpose. 

“Tell me what you need.” 

“I can’t-” he already knows. “Fuck, harder? Faster? I just want you to put a baby in me, it feels so good- it’s not fair.” You tell him, words continuing to spill off your tongue. You kiss him between breaths, messy, but still perfect. The impact of him hitting the top of you is dizzying. The perfect pace, pushing, pumping as you squeeze around him. His hands grip you harder, but still manage to be closer to an embrace than a handhold. 

He’s happy to oblige and fuck you the way you need. He would do anything for you, all of this, even if it took him hours. He goes harder, faster, and your hand leaves his hair to grab the headboard behind you. He moans loudly, unable to control any part of this anymore. It’s like sense takes over and your bodies tangle, but your souls are having their own sex. He continues to watch you, looking down at where he can see himself disappear into your cunt. So wet, so smooth, warm, tight. “You’re-” he huffs, “Godsent. I love you more than anything, fuck, you feel so good, I’m close-” 

“I need you to come in me,” you blurt, desperate. He’s never felt an orgasm knot in his stomach like it was already happening, yet pending. You feel like home, you feel like the future home of his children. “Fuck me, just fuck me, I want it so badly, Art. I want to make you a-” you’re going to say father, dad, or anything, but he’s too quick to follow your instructions, both hands on your hips now, lifting them to fuck into you. All of his muscles are tensed, showing their definition, so gorgeous already glinting with a slight sweat that was bound to get worse as the night went on. He had no plans of this being the only round tonight, and neither did you; you were newlyweds, after all. 

His breathing gets heavy, low, and your eyes roll back the way they do when he knows he’s doing something right. You tighten around him every thrust like you’re going to take all of it from him. It’s a mess, a scene, a sight, the way he groans and whines when you pull his hair. He can barely handle how you feel on a regular night, but with all of this love in the air, all of these promises, it all hit a lot harder. Gracious and in love, he supports your body as he fucks you with all of this intention. His fingers trail your stomach and dip down between. 

Art finds your clit like it’s the easiest action in the world and knows exactly how to touch you so that the sense of his finger mixes with the impact of his length to your cervix. You’re a mess, the way he loves you, hair messy and lips shiny, body shaking under his touch. You are his entire life, shaking underneath him, begging to carry his and your future in you, and best believe, he will make sure that any baby he makes with you will be made with the labour of both his climax and yours. Little circles, building the pleasure in your core to an undeniable point. “I-” you’re so pretty, unable to speak, only moan, sigh, and breathe. “Please.” And beg. 

“I’m so close,” he repeats, voice climbing with warning, thrusts not faltering, but pressing deeper with every thrust. There’s a pinch in your lower stomach, and like he reads your mind, he takes your weight under his knee, doesn’t stop fucking you for one second, and presses his other hand to your lower stomach. Your orgasm winds up like something ready to spring,  like it might split you in two, constant, humming pleasure. The impact, the gentle circles on your clit, the press. You hold onto him like he can save you from what he’s doing. He grins, bending to kiss the closest place to your face, your chest. The angle kills him, you’re tighter this way, and he feels himself speeding toward the edge. “I need you to come for me,” he says quietly. “For me.” 

You can barely breathe or think, but your body feels like it’s about to break. “I can’t. I’m trying- ”

“You can- God, you can, I need you to, please,” his tone is almost a whine, so breathless. 

“I’m yours, I’m yours, don’t stop,” you plead, and it takes all he has in him not to finish right then. “God, Art, don’t stop, I need you, I need you to come inside me, please, please, please.” Your string of desperate words continues to keep him breathless. 

“I am- I will, I need you to come on me, for me,” he returns. “You’re so beautiful, you feel so good, I love you.” His own string of desperation falls from his lips. His orgasm rises through his entire body, pending, waiting for the crash. It feels like waiting for the ocean to fall on your head and wipe you away. You, you’re convinced your body just can’t take this much pleasure. “You can do this, feel this, I need you-to-” He’s losing to himself, leaking inside of you already, almost. He’s at the sharpest edge he’s ever met. He pushes just slightly more, he speeds up his fingers, and he feels your orgasm begin to unravel inside of you, your muscles tightening suddenly. He feels himself about to spill over. He breathes out hard, feeling your resistance against his length, sucking him in, almost, taking him so well the way you always do. The way he always tells you, you do. “I’m-”

He feels it, all of it, as it comes over you. Your entire body writhes like you can’t take it, like it’s too much to bear. Your moans come falling like collected breaths, shaky, harsh, broken. He can feel the flood as your release is met, and he wants more than anything to feel it, how wet you are, how you shake, and pay close attention to every detail, but you get impossibly tight, and he can’t stop now to sit and admire. Just as it breaks in you, he can’t keep himself from what he wants, what he needs. “Oh fuck- I’m coming, I’m-” he chokes himself out with a groan, thrusts not faltering once as he gets thrown off that very edge. His body tenses, his cock coiling itself, then with that final kick, spilling into you. Pouring into you. And it was only then that he slowed to a stop, all the way inside of you. 

The orgasm lasted much longer than either of you anticipated. It hits him, hits him more, and desperately, messily, you kiss him, full on.  It takes twenty seconds for him to finally let his muscles relax, completely finished. Your hips squirm, orgasm unfinished- you’re flooding the bed with a mixture of yourself and him. He whispers soft words, reassurance, and devotional praise as he watches your pleasure span ten seconds more than his. Neither you nor him were aware that it could even happen, but neither of you would ever complain. Maybe it’s a married thing. 

You taste like the rest of his life, and you look like a woman ruined. Art, on the other hand, looks destroyed. He stays that way, lying with you, while your hands tangle in his hair again, gentler this time. Your chest is rising and falling, high, low. His fingers trace patterns on the bare skin of your stomach. Neither of you speaks for three minutes, just laying connected, blissed out, completely gone. “I love you so much,” he breaks the silence. 

“I love you more,” you tell him. “That was-” 

“So-”

“Mhm,” you sighed happily. “Round two soon?” You joke. You’re perfect. 

He laughs his hearty, loud laugh, “Of course.” And he pulls out, cleaning you up a little, then himself, before coming to crawl back over you again. He plants a kiss on your stomach before finding a place in the crook of your neck. Both of you still have your breaths to catch. “I can hardly wait-” 

It only takes about ten months of waiting before Art meets his daughter. She’s small, sweet, beautiful, like you. She has your eyes, your smile. He sees himself reflected in her eyes and knows this is it. He sits next to you in the hospital bed, his own face tear-streaked, matching yours.  This is all real, all perfect, all he’s ever wanted, all in one place. 

- - - -

i haven’t posted anything like this in soooo long you need to forgive me for losing my taglist! if you’d like to be a part of it, never be afraid to comment to be added!

[ellaynaonsaturn]

3/16/25 Bot release is finally here!!

(disclaimer: they’re all challengers bots)

COMPANION AU!

ATP: TENNIS COMPANION AU!

ART DONALDSON:

ART DONALDSON: SEASON OF THE WITCH

ART DONALDSON: PICTURE ME

ART DONALDSON: BIRDIE

ART DONALDSON: CHAMPAGNE COAST

ART DONALDSON: YOU CAN BE THE BOSS

TASHI DUNCAN:

TASHI DUNCAN: VAMPIRE HEART

TASHI DUNCAN: GOOD LUCK, BABE!

PATRICK ZWEIG:

PATRICK ZWEIG: HOWL

PATRICK ZWEIG: THE BIBLE BELT

PATRICK ZWEIG: BAD IDEA, RIGHT?

EXTRA (released after 3/16)

PATRICK ZWEIG: BEACHES

[leftoverghosts]

art + patrick

futile devices by sufjan stevens — reunion x mrta bestfriend

art donaldson

24hr dog by fka twigs — switch x foundation employee american teenager by ethel cain — stanford x tashi!user icu by phoebe bridgers — atl x ex-teen sweetheart birds of a feather by billie eilish — husband x f!wife close to you by the carpenters — sf manipulative x friend the right side of my neck by faye webster — x regret softcore by the neighbourhood — pro x long distance at sf do i make you nervous by lilyisthatyou — flop x t zweig!user bad religion by frank ocean — divorcee x "paid date" stud by troye sivan — winston salem x m!rookie tennis player

tashi duncan

oh no! by marina — rival x f!number one tennis player agora hills by doja cat — stanford jealous x visiting bff

patrick zweig

whats for dinner? by dominic fike — chef x first date 7 summers by morgan wallen — visiting cowboy x city girl striptease by fka twigs — cheating sub x new dom iris by the googoo dolls — pining x engaged tashi!user gunshot glitter by jeff buckley — romeo x juliet nepo babies crush by ethel cain — spiraling x "i can fix him" girls feel good by fka twigs — longing x vacay in greece your wish...command by kim petras — broke x sugar baby conceited by lola young — #1 x on and off again tashi!user kiss city by blondshell — pining x maneater talk to me nice by tinashe — x broke (x2) roadtrip r u mine? by arctic monkeys — x head on his thigh nosebleeds by doechii — x cocky married tennis players no children by jack kays — x thomas+ellen (nosferatu)

hello, my loves! i hope everyone is having a wonderful valentine’s day. remember, today doesn’t have to be only about romantic love (though corporations might argue otherwise)! use it as an excuse to tell the people around you how much you appreciate them—and don’t forget to look in the mirror and remind yourself that you love you, too.

as always, bots are labeled mature. thank you to og thigh anon—i hope it was okay that i made it into a bot. some of you might notice that a few of these are based on our conversations! riff and carmen bots will come after my mini vacay!

stanford abbreviated to sf! users could work as gn! unless stated otherwise. xoxoxo

[iamaya03]

this came to me in a vision, stay with me now... (dividers from: @bernardsbendystraws)

tashi duncan, a daughter of nike who strives for perfection no matter the costs. her ruthlessness is just as overwhelming as the way she cares so deeply.

patrick zweig who is the embodiment of lust, filth and sex, but also desire, affection, and devotion. a son of eros.

art donaldson, the son of aphrodite who seems to radiate his mother's beauty. when he loves, he loves with his entire soul.

[nozhdyved]

grunge/alt rock!art donaldson

...who layers everything he owns. loves his flannels and his wide legged jeans.

...who's never caught without a pack of cigarettes on him. he's on his second warning.

...who can always be relied on to have gum. spearmint.

...who's car has paint chipping and a broken radio. he burns cds of his favorite bands and blasts them at full volume, windows down.

...who's favorite band is nirvana, and silently relates to kurt cobain.

...who's nails are always painted black, or dark purple and blue. he picks at them during class and rolls his eyes when he's called a fag.

...who swears and dies by his wired earbuds, always having one in during class.

...who turns his nose up at normies and embraces his style, jeering back at the jocks who poke fun at his dark style.

...who meets you, a madonna-listening, britney-idolizing normie, and is utterly head over heels for you. embarrassingly so.

...who would do anything to see you wearing his flannel to mark you as his.

ive been thinking abt him.. mm.. fic coming soon but i wanted to get this out to satisfy my hunger

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

[ghostgirl-22]

heyy i literally love ur work and i’ve been seeing some posts abt this on tiktok but do u think u could write a professor!mike faist or art donaldson x student!reader and make it so he’s tutoring the reader but things go south and things get freaky 👅👅

hmm okay so i did peep the mike faist of it all but I couldn’t bring myself to go full rpf. So here’s theater professor!Mike Faist Art Donaldson. Or whatever <3

Pairing: theater professor!art (imagine these clothes but dilf!art hair lol) x afab!reader

cw: heed the warnings. NSFW, MDNI, age gap— Art is at least in his 40s reader early 20s, power imbalance— student/teacher, tw: dubcon if you squint. reader definitely wants this but also arts definitely perving. Improper use of Shakespeare. what it says in the ask.

—-

Theater professor!Art tall, a bit nerdy, he’s chronically late so he walks fast. He’s always a little flustered as he enters the theater, crossbody messenger bag slung over his shoulder, with his helmet tucked under his arm (for his scooter ride to work, he’d never ride a motorcycle…too unsafe). He wears some variation of a long sleeved button down with the sleeves rolled up, tucked into some varied color of khaki pants nearly everyday and he’s everyone’s favorite teacher. And it’s not just because the class is easy. 

Lots of students take his course who have little to no respect for the fine arts. All different majors and minors. He knows why they enroll.  He’s used to pretty girls (and boys) basically half his age sitting up front to try and get his attention and he knows what the student body says about him. He knows all about the PILF list (professors I’d like to…) he even happens to know he’s sitting quite near the top of that list. Just behind his ex Tashi Duncan who teaches classical literature and oscillating back and forth with his other ex Patrick Zweig who happens to be every business major’s favorite Economics professor. He still finds it odd that they’re dating now. Whatever. 

It’s not an easy class by the way. 

Especially not for you…

Intro to Fine Arts is impressively difficult. You’re pretty sure you’ve probably become Shakespeare's biggest hater over the course of the semester. You don’t understand a word of it and what’s worse is that you don’t care. 

Art can tell. 

Usually it wouldn’t bother him. He doesn’t care if his students don’t like Shakespeare. He’s usually not involved in his students' lives at all. He’s never crossed that line. He’s not that kind of professor.

But for some reason you bother him. God. You get under his skin.

Maybe it’s because you’re so loud with your wrong opinions. You’ll argue that things mean what they don’t mean just for the fun of it. And with such confidence that you have some of your classmates believing you more than him and he has a fucking PhD in this stuff. Then you’ll sit there smug and self satisfied because you won the argument. 

It’s frustrating.  

You’re frustrating. 

And not that he notices at all. But you are hot…in a filthy, carnal sort of way. Your lips always wet with gloss, your clothes too tight, showing off way too much skin. And he’s not looking… but honestly you know the theater is always cold. You really should start wearing padded bras if your shirts are gonna be so tight.  Maybe with more support so you don’t jiggle as much during the warm up exercises that he chooses for that specific purpose. Actually you could stand to cover up a lot more, all over. 

But thats not why he made you stay late for his office hours. Really. Its not. He just needs to tutor you a little. One on one. He can’t have the other students getting wrong information from you.

But even now, when you show up in his cramped windowless office, perched on the other side of his desk which is littered with playbooks, you have him stressed. you’ve been wearing that dress all day and honestly it's just too short.  If you bent over his desk, even a little bit, he’d have a full view of whatever you’ve got on underneath. He shifts in his seat. It's just inappropriate. 

God. He should focus on what he can teach you.“Okay try it from right here. And stop being so literal.”

You roll your eyes and glance at the Much Ado About Nothing playbook at the line where his finger is pointed. “I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap…” You laugh. “How can you die in a lap?”

“I told you the words we say today had different meanings in Shakespeare's time.”

“Well no kidding, i know that.”

Art scoffs, you know everything. 

“I know we don't say thy and thou and… thent…anymore.” You continue.

”We never said thent.“ Art points out.

“What I don’t get is why any of this matters?” You keep going as if he didn’t speak.

You don’t know why you’re so combative with Professor Donaldson. You think you just like to get him worked up so you can make him remember you. You love watching his jaw tighten, his skin flush, hearing the way he passionately defends old dead playwrights. It turns you on actually. Not the dead playwrights but the way he lights up. Little bits of arrogance peeking through that sweet “aww shucks” persona everyone loves. You think it turns him on too. It makes you wet. Sometimes during class you press your legs together and slip your hand between your thighs just to ease the tension a little. Keeping your gaze fixed on him, while you tease yourself. You wish you could touch yourself right now, watching his Adam’s apple bob while his soft gaze hardens. 

“It matters because the themes matter. It matters because humanity matters.” He explains trying to keep his tone measured.

“So find new themes, this guy’s been dead for a thousand years.” Also wrong.

Art can’t believe what he's hearing. And it doesn’t help that you seem flustered, breathing harder, chest rising and falling, the thin fabric of that short dress showing him everything… fuck…you might as well be naked. He’s losing his patience.

“Get up.”

“Why?”

“I'm going to show you what it means.”

You look like you want to argue (pre-law you always want to argue) but you get up from your chair anyway. “Okay?”  

“Come here…” he pats his thighs. “I think you’d learn it better if I show you.” He says softly. He knows he shouldn’t… knows it’s inappropriate. But you really need to understand what words mean. He’s just teaching you, really. 

You don’t even hesitate. Settling right on top of him, your back to his chest. 

“Good girl. Now grab the play.”

You take a breath and wiggle a bit your ass grinding along his swollen cock. God you knew he fucking liked it.

“Don’t worry about that...” He says lightly. It’s not his fault, your dress is too short, making him hard for no fucking reason. He needs to put his hands somewhere and your bare thighs are right there. He sets his palms down and feels the way your breathing changes. 

“Mmkay now read it again.��� 

His voice is soft and directly in your ear now, it makes you shiver. You wiggle your hips again. 

“Go on,” he coaxes. 

“I will live in thy heart…” you feel his hand move up to your chest. 

You chew on your lip, wiggling some more as he cups you, before slipping it just inside your dress to play with your nipple. He squeezes it gently, before circling it with his fingertips. “What’s next?” 

“D-die in thy lap,” you swallow. 

“That’s a little more complicated, isn’t it?” He moves his other hand down your thigh. He really shouldn’t be doing this in his office. The door is closed but it isn’t locked. Anyone could walk in and catch you both. God it shouldn’t make him harder. He knows he’s not gonna stop, he’s finally had a taste of you,  felt one of your full perky tits, your perfect ass wiggling along his swollen cock. He’s just itching for more. He eases his way down along your inner thighs and you start to open up for him, the little dress riding further up your thighs. He presses two fingers against your panties, already soaked through and clinging to your warm cunt. 

He takes a sharp breath. “Fuck, it’s so wet for me already…maybe its not that complicated.” He eases your panties to the side and slips his long thick fingers inside you, you can feel the folds of your pussy beating your pulse around his intrusion and you moan. 

“Shh I know…” he hums. “Fuck its so easy, huh? You're so ready. Do you get it now?”  He’s rubbing gentle circles inside you, the pressure and intensity of the sensation rising and falling as he moves closer and closer to your clit. “Or do I need to fuck you?” 

You moan and open wider, hooking your feet behind his ankles. Hips starting to rock as your head lulls back against his shoulder. 

“I still don’t get it Professor Donaldson,” you whine. “I think I need more guidance.”

“Mmhm… I can tell.” He presses little kisses along your throat while you ride his fingers.

“Oh fuck..” you moan, voice pitchy and loud. “professor, it feels so, so good.”

“Shhh,” Art breathes working them a little faster. “You have to be a good girl and keep it down unless we’re talking about school work.” 

“Yes sir.” You gasp. 

Fuck. He can’t pretend he hasn’t thought about doing this to you. He thinks about it every day, you’re so goddam tempting, but he was trying to control himself, trying so hard to be good. He is good. He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s just teaching you… helping you understand Shakespeare. He should probably replace his fingers, just to really drive it home… so to speak. 

He unzips while trying to keep your squirming to a minimum. He’s so close. By the time he sinks into your heated cunt he nearly blacks out for how good it feels. “Holy shit, so fucking tight for me,” he grunts as you moan for him. “Fuck… start again. Read the whole scene.”

Your hands are all shaky gripping his thighs as you try to focus on Much Ado About Nothing. You can feel him thrusting in and out of your dripping cunt as you bounce on his lap. All while trying to recite the stupid scene. He whispers “good girl” between each line. Humming his soft little grunts of pleasure in your ear. God this is insane.

“I will l-live… I w-will live in thy… in thy heart…” you’re practically panting, his fingers playing with your clit while he fucks you.

“Mmhm.”

“Fuck professor… I’m so…. ‘m gonna cum.” 

“Almost finished, come on,” he pushes. 

“In thy heart,” you moan as the dam suddenly bursts and you make a mess all over his lap. 

“Fuck, oh fuck,” He gasps… pushing you off in a hurry as he starts to spill. You watch as he jerks himself through climax, some of it splattering on your dress and the old wooden desk. 

Even after he’s help cleaned you up, he’s still pretty sure you learned nothing. “Die in thy lap…like Le petit mort… the little death” he tries, but you never studied French and you’re not particularly impressed by the French either. 

And maybe he feels a little bad that after all that you still don’t get it. You’ll never be a true artist in any sense of the word, but after a few more evening tutoring sessions you definitely come to appreciate how good Art can make you feel so… a win is a win. 

(Kinda sucks i know but its x reader and i wrote it at midnight after recovering from a migraine. Cut me some slack y’all)

[tacobacoyeet]

WHITE COLLAR .

Tashi Duncan, Art Donaldson, and Patrick Zweig were never meant to be criminals.

They were meant to be icons—flawless, untouchable, transcendent. The prodigies of the court. They were supposed to be the kind of legends etched into history books and Wheaties boxes, draped in gold and immortal praise. Together, they were the wings, the sandals, the laurel crown of Nike herself—divine symbols of strength, speed, and victory.

But fate, as it often does, had a different trajectory in mind.

Tashi's career ended in a single, brutal snap—an injury that never quite healed, physically or otherwise. Patrick spiraled beneath the weight of expectation, his once-electrifying talent drowned out by inconsistency and a reputation he couldn’t outrun. And Art, sweet, unshakeable Art, lost the one person who ever made the tour feel like home. When his grandmother died, something essential inside him went quiet. He didn’t walk away from tennis. He simply stopped showing up.

The three of them could’ve faded then. Could’ve let the world move on without them. Could’ve become cautionary tales whispered about in locker rooms and bar corners. But they didn’t. They wouldn’t. Being forgotten was never going to be enough.

The spark came from Patrick, as it often did. He was crashing in another woman’s bed—charming, broke, and always a little too clever for his own good—when he noticed the vase. It stood on a pedestal near the window, backlit by city lights. Porcelain. Imperial yellow. Eighteenth-century Qing dynasty. The kind of thing you see once in a lifetime, if you're lucky—or reckless.

While she was in the bathroom, he did a quick google search. Qianlong era. Estimated value: nine million dollars.

That night, Patrick did something he never did—he scheduled a second date. Then he called Art. Then he called Tashi.

The plan was stupid at first. Then brilliant. Then inevitable.

Ten years later, they were infamous.

The trio had become the most elusive white-collar criminals on the international stage. They slipped through countries and identities like water, leaving behind only splintered champagne bottles, forged documents, and the distinct scent of audacity. Their work was seamless, often beautiful, always just out of reach. They didn’t chase greatness anymore. They stole it—paintings, diamonds, tax codes, ancient artifacts, entire reputations.

And despite the dossiers, the witness statements, the surveillance photos and whispered confessions, not a single case ever stuck. No court ever held them. No handcuffs ever locked.

But there was you.

The head of the FBI’s White Collar Crime Division in New York. Unshakable, relentless, methodical. You’ve built an entire career on patterns no one else sees, on connections no one else believes in until it’s too late. You know them better than anyone else alive. You know their methods, their tells, the rare moments they falter.

They know you, too.

You’re not just a threat—you’re a problem. The kind they can’t buy, charm, or blackmail their way out of. They laugh about you sometimes, over drinks in villas under fake names. But lately, the laughter’s been thinner.

Because you’re getting closer.

And this time, they feel it.

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream

[lvve-talks]

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐ thinking about vampire!art (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

he's always nuzzling at your neck, inhaling your scent, mouthing over that pulse point and groaning when your heartbeat jumps a little, that skittish bunny in your brain reminding you that he's a predator. but he always fights against himself, never wanting to hurt you. he's sure that if he ever sank his teeth into you he'd never be able to pull them back out and he would drink you dry until you were just as pale and lifeless as him.

you can tell when he's hungry, when the animal blood he chooses to feed on just isn't satisfying him. the way he's constantly fidgeting, the way his hands hesitate even more than usual when you get close to him like the temptation is too much.

he is sitting on the edge of the bed when you wake up, leg bouncing and hands fidgeting in his lap as he stares off into some empty corner of the room.

"art?" you call out groggily and his head whips to the side to find you awake. but he doesn't speak, his hands just falling to fist tightly at the sheets. you knew what was happening, how the temptation to rip into you is eating him up inside.

you slide out from under the blankets, walking around the bed to stand in front of him, slotting yourself between his knees as you gently cup his cool face, making him look at you. his eyes meet yours for only a second before they're focused right on your neck, like he can see the blood pumping through your arteries. maybe he can, you've never asked.

"are you hungry?" you ask gently, and it takes a moment for him to respond with a distant hum. you nod slowly, watching the way his adams apple bobs when he swallows drily.

you push him back gently, giving yourself enough room to climb into his lap. your sudden presence on top of him, seems to break him out of his trance a bit and he finally looks up into your eyes like he can actually see you instead of just the red in your veins.

"you shouldn't--" he starts, wanting to push you off, afraid of what he'll do to you as his hands settle hesitantly on your hips.

"shh.." you hush him, running a soothing hand through his curls, soaked with clammy sweat. you didn't even know he did sweat, but clearly he was suffering from this sheer desire. "let me feed you," you offer and his eyes widen like saucers.

"i- i can't, angel, i'd never be able to stop--" he protests, panic seeming to fill him as his eyes flicker from yours to your throat, his hands gripping almost painfully at your hips as he tries to keep himself under control.

"it's okay," you try and soothe him with a gentle hand on his cheek. "i'll stop you. i know you would never hurt me," you whisper. it hurts you to see him like this, trembling and seemingly even paler than usual, his head in a fog of hunger.

"it's okay..." you murmur again, gently guiding his head to your neck with your hand in his hair. you hear the way his breath hitches as he gets so close to what he needs.

you feel his lips ghosting over your pulse point first, followed by a brush of his fangs that makes you shiver. you can tell he wants it more than anything, his hands still squeezing you desperately.

finally, you feel a sharp pinch, the feeling of his fangs sinking into the side of your neck. it makes you gasp softly at the pain, but it quickly gives way to pleasure as he starts eagerly lapping at your neck, gulping down your blood like a man starved.

your eyes flutter shut as he groans and whimpers against your skin. "ohmygod--" he whines, his hips involuntarily bucking up against yours in his lap. "you taste s'good, better than i ever could've imagined," his words are slurring, absolutely drunk on you.

you can only moan softly in response, your hands holding him tightly against you. it's like nothing you've ever felt before. there must be something in his saliva that makes this feel so pleasurable.

its like you can't get enough.

art is only whimpering and whining more as he suckles against your neck, his hips rutting up against yours getting more and more desperate. you feel limp in his hold, your body only being used by him, you were made for what he needs. all you can hear is the sound of him sucking and lapping at your life force and a chorus of quiet moans and grunts and whines, but you can't tell whose throat they're coming from, yours or his.

everything starts to go a little fuzzy, all those noises fading into the background as your vision starts to spot. if it wasn't for that little prey animal buried in your subconscious telling you to tug roughly on his blond curls, you'd let him drink you dry right here and now. he doesn't pull away at first, despite your undoubtedly painful grip on his scalp. he doesn't pull away until you somehow manage to rasp out his name, drawing his attention back to you.

when he pulls back from your neck with a gasp like he was drowning in you, the two of you just stare at each other for a moment, both entranced by the dark mirror of blown pupils. he has your blood coating his chin and dripping down his neck, and it's still oozing from the puncture wounds on the side of your neck, too, getting all over the collar of your shirt.

something suddenly snaps and he collapses against you, going boneless against your chest with a dry sob. "i could've killed you!" he cries into your shirt, but you're still so dazed as the feeling of his teeth in your neck fades and a dull throbbing settles in its place.

"you didn't," you remind him with a hushed voice, smoothing your hand over the back of his hair. "i'm okay," you assure him, gently rocking him back and forth.

you gently shush him as he comes down from the hysteria, gently pulling him back from you to examine his red stained face after he calms down significantly. he already looks fuller, more alive, or as much as he can, really. "do you feel better?" you ask in a soft voice. "all full?"

he nods with a little sniffle, his eyes trained on the wound at the side of your neck with a strange look in his eye. you can't deduct if it's guilt or desire or maybe a mix of both.

"tell me when you're suffering like that, okay?" you gently squeeze his shoulders to get his attention. "you always have me. i'll be your warm little blood bag," you tease gently, cupping his cheek.

his eyes get wide at your words, his lips parting at the sound of that promise. "well now that i've had a taste, i don't think i can go for the rest of eternity without it," he breathes before leaning forward to press a crushing, grateful kiss to your lips.

[222col]

YOU'RE SO 2000 AND LATE...

☆⋆｡°‧★ 222col artrick BOT! dump ♬⋆.˚

now playing... 2000 && late ♬.ᐟ

notes .ᐟ throwin' it back to 06/07 for a fun drop of artrick au's. enjoyyyy loveys <3

ART DONALDSON

⋆˚꩜｡ ( promiscuous — nelly furtado )

☆ all art cares about is weed, and patrick. he couldn't give a fuck about girls, especially ones that wanna see him more than once. until of course, miss popular comes along to buy some pot. now he's desperate to scream to the world he's the one tasting your lips, one problem— you won't let him.

PATRICK ZWEIG

⋆˚꩜｡ ( dance, dance — fall out boy )

☆ patrick's ready to put his plan into action, begging to let his band perform at the homecoming dance where he confesses— every single song is about you. that didn't seem to go down too well with your preppy jock boyfriend though, too bad patrick's too busy kissing you in front of him to give a shit.

ART DONALDSON

⋆˚꩜｡ ( smile — lily allen )

☆ the stereotypical male manipulator, the smiths in his earphones, playing up the crocodile tears when he's called on his bullshit. but when art takes it too far and sleeps with the girl next door, he's willing to try anything to get you back.

PATRICK ZWEIG

⋆˚꩜｡ ( starz in their eyes — just jack )

☆ finally graduated high school, patrick can focus on his music career. the band have their very first show, everything he ever could have dreamed of. except you're not in the crowd, and it's breaking his heart that you missed his first show.

ART DONALDSON

⋆˚꩜｡ ( sos — rihanna )

☆ art is the most popular boy on campus, the star athlete, the it boy. but he's harbouring a secret, a side of him that no one knows about him. an evil, deranged obsession. that obsession just so happens to be you. after months of stalking you, he's ready to see the fear in your eyes when you find out.

PATRICK ZWEIG

⋆˚꩜｡ ( the sweet escape — gwen stefani )

☆ no one saw it coming when the school's loser got a girlfriend. had his head stuck in video games since he got his first console. that didn't change when you agreed to be his girlfriend, but it was the reason he was losing you. patrick's willing to look past the cheating, just as long as you don't leave him.

ART DONALDSON

⋆˚꩜｡ ( girlfriend — avril lavigne )

☆ art's a straight a student, computer nerd. he loves his quiet life with his equally nerdy girlfriend, always staying out of drama. until you come and flip his world upside down. seeing you sat on his bed while he tutors you is enough to make him question if he wants a new girlfriend.

ART AND PATRICK

⋆˚꩜｡ ( heads will roll — yeah yeah yeahs )

☆ friday night is scream night. the boys watch horrors every night, but scream they rewatch every single friday. not this time, it's new years— they're going to their first party, both dressed as ghostface, and oh, who's that hot girl dressed as casey becker in the back yard?

ART DONALDSON

⋆˚꩜｡ ( stronger — kanye west )

☆ art's absolutely oblivious. too busy spending all his time at the skatepark, editing his skating videos, tryna go pro. has no fuckin' idea the girl he's always hanging out with has a thing for him. you're running out of patience.

PATRICK ZWEIG

⋆˚꩜｡ ( oops! i did it again — britney spears )

☆ patrick's too high half the time to realise he's never actually asked you out. in his mind, he's been flirting up a storm. to him, you knew all about the feelings he felt towards you. in reality, patrick's just always stoned and hasn't realised.

ART DONALDSON

⋆˚꩜｡ ( i bet you look good on the dancefloor — arctic monkeys )

☆ art's grown used to the attention, having a groupie hanging off his arm every night. swears its his favourite part of being in a band. he's watching the crowd, choosing his prey— when he sees you, the one girl in the crowd who's not singing his lyrics back to him.

ART AND PATRICK

⋆˚꩜｡ ( shut up and drive — rihanna )

☆ both boys had been racing since they first stole patrick's dads car, they'd become the best at their age. driving in underground races, earning more money than they knew what to do with. they always swore they'd never race each other, until your phone number was on the line.

© 222col. do not steal or repost my work without permission.

꒰ taglist ꒱ @khartalks @bluestrd @appleaali @chrattvibe @tacobacoyeet @lexiiscorect @glassmermaids @voidsuites @donteventry-itdude @matchpointfaist @pittsick @artaussi @simmerinsauce @coolgrl111 @hrrysglitter @cinnamoncunt @elsieblogs @tennisthatcher @deeninadream @magicalmiserybore @soulxinxthexsky @peachyparkerr @lovefaist @stanart4clearskin @prismozo @nozhdyved @lvve-talks @soft-starr @shahabaqsa0310 @imperishablereverie ( to be added )