jesuistrestriste

[jesuistrestriste]

Cowgirl reader x art when

𐚁 ✮⋆˙ needy!art donaldson x cowgirl NSFW 18+

—

art doesn’t even know why he agreed to go with patrick down south for an impromptu boys trip.

it’s stickier down there; the humidity so high that the air is practically drinkable.

the heat suffocated him and climbed down his throat the second he got off the plane, and patrick had unsurprisingly laughed at him when he developed sweat stains on his tee shirt after only ten minutes in the uber to their hotel. it wasn’t his fault, he just never handled high temperatures well.

he blamed the desert, or whatever hellish fire-breathing beast was desecrating this part of the country with such unimaginable warmth. he could hardly think straight with the way his clothing clung to his heat-prickled skin.

he regretted going on the trip from the moment they touched down at the airport. he wished he had stayed back home, then at least he could get some time on the courts. but no.

and so he ruminated on the idea that he shouldn’t have come.

that is, until he and pat went out to a bar that first night.

patrick had already gotten drunk in the first twenty-five minutes and was feeling up a stranger, staggering with them off into a booth buried at the back of the establishment to get handsy. art’s eyes had rolled so far back that he was sure the earth had almost tipped with them.

he leaned over the busy bar, sipping his underwhelming tequila soda until he felt someone different slip into the space next to him.

a woman.

a pretty—no, sexy one at that.

glossy lips, a loose tee shirt that hung off of one shoulder (pink bra strap on display), dark flare jeans that hugged her in all the right places, brown leather boots, and a cowboy hat.

she couldn’t look more typically southern. but fuck, she was hot.

she turns her head and smiles up at him, her hat tilting up with her neck’s movement to expose more of her face.

“hey,” she hums, her eyes scanning him up and down before he can even speak, “… you’re not from here, are you?”

her voice is warm and silky, like dark chocolate. it floods his brain and immediately dilutes his thoughts into incoherent ramblings.

god, why hasn’t he said anything?

say something, damnit!

“hah..! no, no.. not from here,” art chuckles out nervously after a brief clearing of his throat.

she just smirks. putting her pearly whites on display for everyone to see. or maybe just for him..?

“yeah, i could tell by the way you’re dressed.”

was.. was that an insult?

is he supposed to laugh?

shit, she smells like the most delicious—

the thoughts in his brain are cut off abruptly when he feels her hand on his chest, dragging down.

oh fuck.

“relax, city boy,” she purrs with an intoxicating drawl, her free hand taking the hat off of her own head and placing it on top of his blonde curls, “i didn’t mean to get y’all worked up.. i’ll buy you a drink, hm?”

“i.. uh, i mean— okay, yeah, uhm, sure. i’ll take a drink..”

—

an hour comes and goes, and then art somehow winds up in the back of the girl’s car; parked on the outskirts of the small gravel lot.

it’s a shiny, cherry-red convertible. fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. a picture of a well-groomed black horse tucked into the driver seat’s personal mirror (which she flipped up once the two of them were taking off their clothes).

patrick was still somewhere in the bar, preoccupied, so art felt less guilty about letting this woman drag him out the backdoor towards her vehicle. all it had taken was one sloppy kiss, and then he was willingly trailing behind her like a sick dog.

art can hardly process that now they’re completely naked; his flushed back sticking to her leather seats as she sinks down on his cock. a shuddering groan is pulled forcefully from his chest, spilling out in the next instant. he feels his balls draw up once, twice, three times in response to the feeling of her tight cunt gripping around him, and he swears he could almost come right then and there. she’s like a fucking goddess.

“can you handle me?” she smirks down to him, starting to rock her hips rhythmically like she’s riding a mechanical bull, “i wanna hear an answer, darlin’…”

“can’t—“

ugh, he’s choking on his words. shaking hands holding her waist with the desperation of a guy who hasn’t gotten laid in over a year. he’s allowed to be a bit pathetic.

“can’t?” she repeats, bouncing now on his slicked-up shaft, her nails running down his tensing abdomen and leaving red stripes in their wake.

he shakes his head, a loud whimper and gasp following suit. his thighs are starting to tremble. toes already started curling thirty seconds ago.

“can’t— can’t last, not gonna last—“

the woman just laughs lowly and rolls her pelvis in slow circles. art’s body vaults up in response, pushing against her weight on top of him as he feels a blurt of precome erupt from his tip and surround him in the condom— daring him to disappoint her and let it all go before he gets the go-ahead.

“ohh… aah— you really aren’t from around here, are you? poor lil’ thing…”

he doesn’t know why that statement from her makes his gut stir with pre-orgasmic convulsions. he’s trying to meet her movements with his own thrusts, but he’s losing stamina fast. every buck of his body into her pussy sends a sharp bolt of pleasure right up his spine. he’s sweating almost as much now as he was when he first arrived. probably moreso, if he’s honest.

and shit, he can’t be anything but honest at this point.

she’s making him forget everything he ever disliked about this part of the country.

she’s making him feel like her pussy could solve all of his problems.

she’s making him feel like… like… like—

“oh, god—!” he hiccups, squeezing into her torso, head tipped back and biceps curling as he tries to tug her down closer, “i’m sorry, i can’t hold it— i’m gonna come, can’t— can’t stop-!”

she giggles, and then there’s the voice again. warm, smooth, low. dripping right into the crook of his neck.

“alright, city boy,” she whispers, “come then.”

and that’s all it takes.

art’s eyes squeeze shut, his jaw slacks, and he lets out the most desperate strangled cry as he feels the scorching waves of pleasure consume him from all sides. he feels his cock kick against her palpating walls, pulses of his sticky white release webbing on the inside of the latex.

he’s practically vibrating by the time the aftershocks roll around, his baby blues looking up dazedly to the smiling woman still connected to him. her hands cup his flushed cheeks, her thumb wiping beaded sweat from his temple.

“there ya go… thaaat’s it, darlin’… let it all out…”

art sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and whimpers as he feels his dick stir inside of her, threatening to shoot again just from her words.

“haah… ha-aahngh… hnngh,” he quakes, gasping for air and trying to calm himself down, “h-how did… ngh— how did y-you do that t-to me..?”

trying not to sound so utterly wrecked is easier said than done, he’s realizing that now. he really can’t prevent it- he’s nothing more than a limp mess underneath her perfect form.

he winces and hisses softly with sensitivity when he feels her rock torturously just once more over his spent parts.

she laughs.

“oh, honey, we just do it different down here.”

… god, he loves the south.

[jesuistrestriste]

This is my first time submitting an ask here so PLEASE ignore if this is too weird !! BUT I've been thinking a lot about playing w art's balls, like...

Barely focusing on his cock for a while, just mouthing on and fondling them until he's worked up and sensitive, until you just barely touch his tip and he comes all over your hand n his stomach..

WHO said that guys

oooohoho trust me: art’s balls are never far from my mind.

i personally think he begs you to suck them into your mouth when you’re giving him head. like he’ll be leaning back on his palms while you lick and suck and drool over his shaft, but the very second you pull off and begin dragging your lips lower, lower, lower—

he’s jerking upright and placing both hands over the top of your head, not pushing but applying enough pressure to let you know that he wants this bad. like he’ll go crazy if you stop right here..

you’ve got him moaning and trying not to buck up into your open mouth as your tongue teases the seam in his sack, his eyes rolling into his head as he whines. he can already feel the heat climbing up his throbbing inches.

“yes, yes, yes, y-yesss— oh, FUCK! right there-!”

takes only two more flicks over that spot, coupled with you suckling one of them into your warm mouth, before he’s arching his back and wailing; painting his flushed tummy with fives heavy splurts of release

[jesuistrestriste]

Art and Patrick’s dorm fridge at Stanford 😭😭

STOPPP LMFAO

yeah they have nothin in there ! they get 90% of their food from the dining halls and mooching off of other students/friends .

like everyone knows you two have enough money to buy groceries .. stop asking people for their granola bars……

[jesuistrestriste]

I wait for you to post like an addict waiting for a methadone fix

bae i’ve been neglecting tumblr so bad…. i will be giving u ur fix promptly 💓 hehe

[jesuistrestriste]

aauuughhhh art purposefully being bratty because he likes when you bend him over your lap and spank him till he’s welted and squirming uueughhh

him pushing your buttons all day, watching you grow more and more frustrated with him, until he knows you’ll inevitably be torturing his cock once you both get homeee

feigns disappointment and guilt but you catch him—out of the corner of your eye—readjusting his erection in his shorts with an excited little shudder like ooh..

[jesuistrestriste]

Last ones

[jesuistrestriste]

this is what i was envisioning with the challengers indie band au.

very much ⟶ guitarist!art ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

art loves the attention; the hands on his body when he purposefully drapes himself over the crowd, the fingers pulling at his tee shirt and stroking his hair, the stars in the eyes of the fans that so desperately want to tear his clothes off and kiss him all over. he’s just a sucker for the ego-inflating nature of it all.

[jesuistrestriste]

patrick and art who never got into tennis and instead formed an indie band in the early 2000s.

art sings and plays the guitar while patrick plays the drums.

they don’t exactly ‘blow up’, but they do eventually gain a pretty decent following. and with this following came groupies.

they took a handful of them on their small state-wide tour; kissing and touching and humping and fucking each other every night after the shows — fueled by alcohol and weed and a little bit of arrogance.

one of their little groupies happened to be you.

you’re their favorite, actually.

you can take everything they give, and you can deal it right back when they need some sense slapped into them. sometimes literally.

pat likes to pull down your panties at the back of the tour bus and buck into you rhythmically from behind. his fingers will curl into your waist before he sneaks a hand down the front of your stomach and then lower to seek your sweet spot. rubbing it with fast circles of his thumb. his mouth’ll find your neck, and before you know it he’ll be sucking and biting like he’s starved of the taste of your body (even though you sucked him off before they even got on stage). he smells like sweat and peach vodka. “who’s my biggest fan, huh? thaaat’s it… louder, baby… louder—! aagh-! fuck, fuck fuck-“

art’s a lot more sensual and slow. he likes to go down on you, spreading open your legs as he eases you down into a chair in the green room of the show’s venue. licking a glassy stripe up your folds before he smushes his face into your wetness and shakes his head from side to side, pushing his tongue into your hole as he moans. he likes when you grab a fistful of his messy blonde hair and force his head back so he has to look up at you. it’s even better when you let him rut against your foot. he’s a disaster personified; blue eyes rolled back, hands shaking on your thighs, and the scent of his almost-sleazy cologne wafting off of him in waves as he worships you. “mmmnn, god, i could stay here forever… come in my mouth, please… i wanna feel you come on my tongue…”

best band ever.

[jesuistrestriste]

trainer!patrick + puppy!art + trainer!reader

you and patrick are a force to be reckoned with, that’s for sure. art knows it, and he knows that you two know just how much power you each have over him.

patrick is usually the ‘bad guy’ when it comes to punishments, always being the one to deal them out when he deems it necessary. he’s the one who’ll tie art’s hands behind his back and dutifully edge him until he’s wailing, and he’s the one who’ll bend art’s toned body over his lap to spank him while he apologizes for his mistakes.

you’re much more forgiving.

you and patrick actually happen to argue a lot over the so-called ‘best way’ to keep your guys’ plaything in line. your fellow trainer always advocates for negative reinforcement, and refuses to listen when you argue for the positive side of things.

but art’s soft. he’s clingy, he’s touch-starved, and he’s desperate for approval. he responds soo much better when you reward him for a lack of bad behavior, as opposed to patrick’s reversed methodology.

you kiss him all over when you come home and find that he hasn’t touched himself all day, and you let him hump your thigh—your leg clamped between his own—when he uses his manners to ask for it (“please”, “can i”, “thank you so much”, and the like).

so what happens when you and patrick corner him in bed after a day of ups and downs?

well..

it only makes sense that patrick’s fingers are down art’s throat; the blonde’s drool bubbling and dripping down his chin as he chokes on the intrusion. after all, he’d gotten mouthy with patrick on the courts earlier.

“what? you had such a big mouth this afternoon and now you can’t even take my fingers, mutt?” pat groans down to his friend, watching his watery blue eyes roll back as he whimpers around them, “what’s gonna happen when you take my cock in the next five minutes? open that fuckin’ throat.”

art’s trying with all his might to properly service patrick’s body, to prove to him that he can be good again, even if what art’s sucking on isn’t his meaty dick. the guilt is enough to melt his brain— he’s swallowing like he’s about to get a load pumped right into the back of his mouth.

you, on the other hand, are being unsurprisingly much sweeter. art had been much better with you in the early evening; helping to cook dinner for the three of you and buying a bottle of wine before he got home.

so youre holding a vibrator to his tip while your palm cradles and massages his balls. your balmy tongue sliding over the shell of his ear and then down to the thumping pulse buried in the side of his neck. he’s dribbling all over the toy, but he’s yet to fall over the precipice. you can tell that he’s holding back by the way his thighs shake while he’s sat up over the edge of the mattress, low moans and anguished whimpers coming out muffled due to his occupied mouth.

“good boy, puppy… taking us so well, aren’t you? you know how much we love you, even if patrick gets mean sometimes,” you whisper against his skin, “don’t cry, baby, okay? i know it hurts, i know you wanna come… just hold out a bit longer…”

the tip of the buzzing wand glides down his shaft and then back up to meet his sticky frenulum. god, he can’t take much more..

patrick’s already stuffed his musky cock into art’s mouth in replacement, as promised, and is holding his head still as he bucks into his face. “shit, artie, fuck— angh-! suck me down, just like that, take it—“

art is getting drunk off the sensations and the pleasure alone, but the conflicting ways of handling him and his body only muddle his thoughts further. he’s trying not to gag while patrick facefucks him, and he’s also trying not to climax while you lovingly torture his cockhead.

he can’t think, he can’t move, he can hardly breathe.

a growled voice breaks through his incoherence.

“here it comes, here it— c-comes-!”

and then patrick is burying his length so far down art’s throat that his flushed nose presses into pat’s bush, cumming down his tight throat with a strangled groan. every salty gush of spend is gulped down compulsively by the blonde as he whines. pat smacks his cheek twice: good. boy.

you tenderly mouth at art’s shoulder as he jerks and swallows all of the brunette’s release, and then you decide to show your puppy some mercy.

the flush in art’s cheeks is ruddy when his airway opens up after pat pulls out, and you’re rewarded with increasingly urgent gasps as you lower the vibe to push against his sack. your hand that cupped him there moves; your index finger sucked warmly by your own mouth before it goes down to slip inside his hole. you curl it upwards, teasing that spongy spot, and art’s gone.

the whole world falls right out from under his feet.

“finish for us, puppy.”

art’s hands fly out; one grasping for your wrist and the other for patrick’s hip. he needs you both, he can’t take how good it all feels.

his jaw slacks open and the filthiest, most pornographic moan shudders out of his frame as his back arches and his legs kick out. every contraction of his abdomen results in a lengthy splurt of his orgasm over your wrist and his tummy.

he’s panting, completely overwhelmed with the aftershocks once a good several utterly blissful moments pass, only to come back down to earth at the feeling of a strong hand stroking his hair and a more soft one petting his bicep.

he doesn’t remember much else from that night, but he wakes up the next morning to clean smelling skin and a mess of blankets over his body. you two are gone from the apartment, but you clearly let him sleep-in alone. had you two wiped him down? tucked him in? more than likely.

the only evidence he has that the night prior even happened is a hickey on his collarbone, a lingering heat in his gut, and a note on the dresser.

‘to our pretty boy: see you later tonight…

… be good.’

[jesuistrestriste]

omg i just saw we're moots?!? I'm so flattered i am obsessed with your fics!!!!

gahhhh hey new mootie <3 ! ! ! hehe

[jesuistrestriste]

art fingers you like he’s sculpting; curling his fingers and pressing the pads of his digits into your inner walls like he’s trying to coax a symphony of pleasure out of your body ..

and patrick fingers you like he’s trying to get his coins out of the coin return slot .

[jesuistrestriste]

What music do u think younger vs older art would b into

GAH i love this sm angel thank u for giving me an excuse to talk about art donaldson’s music taste

younger art— typical boyish indie/rock sleaze. i think he’d be into radiohead, the smiths, the strokes, elliot smith, pink floyd, gorillaz, etc. and secret britney spears enjoyer (patrick caught him listening to ‘gimme more’ on his blackberry one (1) time and never let him live it down). i think The Beatles and the Bee Gees would also be thrown into the mix pretty regularly.

older art— toned wayy down. much more melancholic songs when he’s working out or cooking or reading at home. i could see him listening to bon iver, sufjan stevens, etc. but he definitely listens to throwbacks from his earlier tennis career when he’s training on the courts. classic rock, alt rock, some pop. he’s become properly domesticated so his music taste has as well for the most part. i think he listens to “To Love Somebody” by the Bee Gees sometimes and cries (he thinks about tashi and his daughter).

i feel like he’d have pretty eclectic taste all around.

[jesuistrestriste]

Woukd u ever wite dodge again... miss him (haven't even finished panic)

i honestly would be down to write more for dodge, i think his character is a lot more nuanced than ppl give him credit for, i just have <zero> idea what i would write lmao so i’m open to suggestions (u should finish panic im tellin u its actually kinda good..)

[jesuistrestriste]

betting on losing dogs cats

a story of a stray (patrick zweig) and a stray (kitten)

When Patrick finds it, he thinks the cat is dead. 

It takes him a moment to even recognize what it is, first assuming the little dark speck under the streetlight is just some unfortunate roadkill. A racoon or skunk. Maybe even an overgrown rat. The patch of grass it lays on is close enough to the narrow parking lot that all it would take is one hasty driver to swerve onto the curb and leave it for dead. It’s only when he pushes himself off the wall of the roadside shop and towards the light can he make out its little paws and upturned ears. 

It’s a bit odd for a cat to be out here in the first place. Far out on the interstate and away from any city. A place between places, but not a destination itself. He himself only stopped here for the pack of Marlboro Reds now in his back pocket. If he believed in a higher power, he’d take the dead cat as a sign to quit smoking. He opts for another drag instead. 

It’s on its side with its paws outstretched and eyes closed, the street light forming a warm halo around its body. Its fur is simultaneously scruffy and groomed in a way that makes it unclear if the cat is a stray or not. Although Patrick has a hard time imagining anything laying on the ground like this is loved in any capacity. Maybe it had owners it slipped away from. Or owners who let it go. There isn’t any blood either, so he can’t even tell if it’s roadkill. From its position to its stillness, it all feels peaceful. A hazy scene which looks less like a dead cat and more of an artist's rendition of one. 

He pulls the cigarette from his lips and languidly exhales. Without his permission, his legs bend down to stroke the cat’s sable fur. His hand tepidly extends and just as he is about to indulge his impulse, the creak of the store door’s hinge snaps him out of the trance.

His eyes flicker to the couple stepping out. While they look his age they sport smiles that give them a sprightly joy he now lacks. His expression turns sheepish as he remains squatted, arm out. They’re too engrossed in their own conversation to even notice Patrick. Their voices blend with the noises on the road and his gaze trails them back to their car, before he pushes himself up. Eyes drifting back down to the cat. 

He lifts the cigarette to his lips and looks to the side, away from the Carvaggio of a corpse. His eyes settle on the interstate and the cars who zoom by. His next challenger is two states over. If he is lucky, it will be another five hours on the road (it’ll take him seven). Yeah, you should get back to your car.

He drops the cigarette to the ground, allowing himself one last look at the cat as he grinds the cigarette butt into the pavement. This time he sees its paw twitch.

The cat’s nose sluggishly presses against his thumb and its whiskers brush against a callus on his hand. A soft, ticklish sensation Patrick would enjoy more if it wasn’t for the dull drone of the fan above him. His head tilts up to watch its jagged movement, expecting it to fall down on him any second. 

The low walls have a grimy yellow hue and if he squints he can make out the faint outline of cracks. His nose wrinkles at the stale wet-dog smell — which really should be reported on Google reviews. He takes it all in and is hit with a sense of deranged nostalgia for the crappy motel rooms he’s stayed in. The type of place you could fleetingly carve a home in, if you blurred around the edges. There is a somber appreciation at the fact that this shelter is the only one open at this hour. That even now, this is the sort of place to find him. 

He looks at the elderly woman behind the front desk, the only other person here. Her eyebrows droop to her eyes, which flick every few seconds to the clock overhead, but never to him. Her nose is buried into one of those cheap novels sold in the check-out aisles of grocery stores. A book not nearly compelling enough for the comical way she clings to it, but admittedly an astute way to ignore his presence. 

He lets out a sharp exhale and parts his lips to speak, but is cut short by the feeling of velvety fur shifting in his hands. His eyes dip down once more to the little thing, tracing its frail and dainty shape. It's too small to be anymore than a few weeks old. A kitten.

It sticks out its tongue and his finger instinctively moves to feel its sandpaper-like texture. Has he ever held a kitten before? He doubts he has ever been trusted to hold anything this young in his life. Does he even know anyone who had a kitten? 

No.

He knew someone with cats though. 

The corners of his lip involuntarily twitch upwards as he remembers a tabby who would crawl up onto his lap whenever he was around. 

“I don’t get why he likes you so much,” Art told him once, as if Patrick knew why Grandma Donaldson’s cat preferred him. The blonde ran a finger over the red scratch to the left against his pale skin, the little orange beast’s favorite scratching post. 

“Well he has good taste,” Patrick quipped back in response with a lopsided smirk, earning a laugh from the blonde. Or was it a scoff? The corners of his lip dip down once more, eyebrows knotting as he tries to recall.

It had to be one of the two. 

Could it have been both? 

What was even the name of the cat? Something with an S. Sebastian? 

Fuck this.

Not like any of it matters anyway. 

Art’s grandmother is dead. 

The cat probably is too. 

None of this matters. 

He feels the kitten’s tongue scratch his thumb once more, and his attention is brought back to the creature in his hands. Its amber eyes flutter open for a second before shutting again. It faithfully repeats this motion and Patrick is overwhelmed with the sense it is stuck between life and death. Purgatory? Not quite. More like it hasn’t decided if it wants to remain in this life or move on to the next. To live or to die.

He wants to hit himself for his next thought. 

You’d be better off dead. 

“Well, definitely a stray,” are the first things the woman says when she finally acknowledges his presence. His frown deepens into a grimace, but is quickly washed away with a more neutral expression. If she notices, she says nothing. The woman’s finger runs back and forth over the kitten’s delicate spine, as Patrick tentatively places it on the treen desk in front of her. . 

“So you’ll take it?”

The woman’s finger abruptly stops the moment the words leave his lips, just watching the little creature roll around. The ragged hum of the fan turns oppressive as he waits for her to speak, but she only turns her head up to him instead. She sports a frown which is equal parts pitiful and honest, her eyes piercing into his with little wrinkles that imitate her lips.  

“Well in cases like this…” she starts in a tentative voice usually reserved for children, but her voice fades into the background. He doesn’t catch anything after that, his focus shifting to the bile forming in his throat. 

An acutely sadistic part of him wants to laugh at himself. Mock the asinine belief that he could save this kitten. What did he expect? That this shit show of a shelter would magically nurse this dying creature to life? It’s hilarious to him now. Another joke with him at the punchline. 

The woman continues on about sedation and tranquilizers, but it remains a distant murmur, eyes drifting down to the kitten. He watches it open its mouth and lets out a noise so soft, he may as well have imagined it. 

Maybe he did. 

He probably did. 

Not that it matters. 

For Patrick, it’s the only sound in the room. 

You did the right thing.

You did the right thing. 

You did the right thing. 

You did the right thing.

You did the right thing. 

This is what he tells himself as he hits 80 on the interstate. He holds his foot steady on the accelerator, eyes glued to the endless highway in front of him. After the day he’s had, what’s a bit of speeding? The whole kitten debacle was an hour long detour, and now he doubts he’ll even make it to the tournament in time. Not that it would stop him from trying. Why else would he be speeding? It’s all justified. 

There's a slight disapproving trill, and from the corner of his eye he shoots a look at the kitten now in his passenger seat. It sleepily raises its head to meet his gaze, the only part of its body peeking out from the worn, gray shirt he’s wrapped it in.

It purrs once more. 

“Okay sure, I’ll slow down” 

(He doesn’t)

author’s note: finally explored a concept that has been lingering in my head since i wrote these cat headcanons. this fic is different than anything else i’ve shared, so please share your thoughts! shout out to @pparacxosm for pulling me out of fanfic writer retirement !! and also shoutout to sebastian. realest cat out there!! i love you and your owner @apatheticrater !!

art credit: i’m not sure who drew the smoking cat itself, but i made the yellow background-double cat graphic. if you know who the artist, let me know so I can credit them :)

[jesuistrestriste]

Divorced Art finally going on a date after a couple years of being single after Patrick forced him out of the house, they go to a bar and Patrick hooks him up with twenty something girl. They go back to his place and hook up, she tugs his hair making him throw his head back when she rides him 😔

and art’s just letting it allll happen ! letting this college-aged chick slap and pull him around in his own apartment. she didn’t even seem to notice his tennis trophies lining the mantle when she first came inside, instead focusing all of her energy on climbing into his lap and bouncing her tight wet pussy over his lap.

she’s gasping and moaning and beaming down at him, her hands on his chest now as she rocks back and forth. she’s perfect; smelling like vanilla and tasting like cherry lipgloss.

and he’s, well— he’s a mess.

“you like that, Art?” she whispers into his neck before she bites down on his shoulder so hard that he yelps and can’t stop his hips from reflexively thrusting up into her for more.

he nods, but that’s about all he can do.

his eyes are too busy rolling back, his legs are too busy digging his heels into the carpet, and his hands are too busy fondling her perky tits. he’s more than preoccupied. she feels fucking amazing. his balls are drawing up, and he’s sure it hasn’t even been three minutes yet.. how embarrassing..

“you’re such a good boy,” she licks over the bite mark, teeth-shaped indents forming a crescent over his skin, “you gonna behave for me, Art? hmm?”

ugh, he’s a goner.

[jesuistrestriste]

incel Artemis Donaldson has been corrupting my brain all week..

i’ll be so honest i can’t even imagine a world where no one wanted to fuck art donaldson, but for the sake of this ask: yes.

idk him being so shy around anyone he finds attractive and not knowing how to approach them. going back to his stanford dorm room to jerk off three times so he doesn’t pop a boner at the mere sight of a pair of thighs in leggings or a pair of muscular arms in a tank top. hes left gasping and sweaty on his twin xl mattress, wondering how he’s ever going to get someone to want to touch his dick :/

[jesuistrestriste]

I’m actually a freak imagine obsessed reader w art smh like I feel like his ass would get scared bcs it’s creepy af but maybe he’s a super freak and likes it like being a voyeur to him jerking the chicken while he has no idea 😭😭 or smelling his musk on his clothes or bed like omfg I NEED HIM.

yea i actually need to take him and put him in my pocket :/

imagine him lending you his jacket one day and then going back to his room later to jerk off to the thought of you *maybe* touching yourself to the smell of him on it.

like, yea, he thinks it’s kinda creepy that you’re obviously super obsessed with him, but he also finds it really arousing?

and he ruminates on those thoughts and feelings until he eventually can’t come without imagining that you’re watching him through the crack in his bedroom room. like he’ll look at the darkness spilling into his room and picture you peeking through from the other side, a hand down your bottoms and a pair of his stolen boxers held up to your nose..

he’ll talk to this ‘imaginary you’ when he gets close to finishing— whimpering n bucking into his tight fist, his cheeks flushed pink with shame and his golden curls sticking to his forehead.

“… i love it when you watch me like this… do i look good? am i getting you off?”

“aah, you’re such a creep, but god- tell me i can come, and i’ll come for you, i swear i will—“

“oh please, yeah, i’m close— i want you to come with me, please please please tell me i can let it all out-!”