#and when they bring Tashi in to teach her to ask for what she wants then what????

[artdcnaldson]

NEED art and patrick to find out I'm a virgin and offer to teach me how to kiss and how to fuck and use eachother as examples and guide me and tell me I'm doing a good job and reward me for being such a good student and come back later and quiz me to see if I remember everything they taught me ugh obsessed with them individually and as a unit

This has lived rent free in my mind for literally forever. I can’t stop thinking about it, it haunts my every waking moment.

Rating: E (18+)

Warnings: Making out, Handjob lessons, guys being pervs, not a love triangle they just all want to fuck each other

A/N: unedited bc I wrote this while on the clock okay whatever. Enjoyyyy and if u want me to continue this lmk >:)

“I think it’s sweet,” Patrick said, and you could hear the amusement in his voice, practically dripping from every syllable. “The last American virgin. You belong in a museum.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed your empty Taco Bell cup at him— the ice rattled and it leaked a puddle of condensation onto the ground. “You could try not to be a dick about it.”

Art’s dorm room was hot and sticky thanks to a faulty AC, which meant the three of you lounging on the floor by his open window, sucking down soda watered down by melted ice cubes. You were down to a T-shirt and shorts, they were down to their boxers. It wasn’t lost on you that it was an intimate situation to be in— barely dressed, crammed into the shoebox of a dorm. And of course Patrick had dug his fingers in until you admitted your secret— you had made it all the way to college totally unfucked.

Patrick leaned forward, smiling the smarmy smile that tended to wear at your last nerve. “So you’re a virgin, but like,” he leaned in, so close you could feel body heat radiating from him. He dropped his voice, just above a whisper. “How much of a virgin, really? You’ve at least gone to third, right?” You glared, but shook your head.

“Second?” Art supplied, suddenly jumping in with an eager sort of curiosity.

“What? No, I don’t even know what that means,” you admitted. You sighed before you spoke up. “I’ve only ever kissed one guy and one girl, and it was during a game of spin the bottle, like, junior year.”

“How?” Patrick asked.

Your brows furrowed. “How? I spun the bottle, it landed on the person, I leaned in, put my lips against theirs, and that was it.”

Patrick sighed. “Just fucking show me how.” He looked at you expectantly, inching even closer.

With an annoyed sigh, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his— mouth closed, lips firm. When you sat back, Patrick and Art were both grinning.

“What?” You asked with a frown.

“That’s how you kiss on the playground in elementary school,” Art said, unable to contain his laughter. “C’mere.”

You crawled forward, stopping in front of the blond. His hand settled on your jaw, coaxing you forward.

His lips met yours softly, sweetly. It was easy to lose yourself in the feeling of Art’s mouth, in the gentle brushes of his lips against yours and the way he held your face so tenderly.

The feeling of his tongue pressing against the seam of your lips was strange, but you welcomed it, letting him lick into your mouth.

Each pass of his tongue against yours drew you deeper and deeper into it, into him. You moved into his lap without realizing it, kissing him with sweet, timid laps of your tongue.

Art pulled back first, his cheeks soft and pink and so pretty. “See? That’s how you’re supposed to kiss someone. That was really good.”

You laughed softly, and moved off of his lap sheepishly. Patrick leaned forward, brushing your hair back, holding your face in his hand.

“Okay, show me what Art showed you,” he instructed, then leaned in.

Kissing Patrick was different than kissing Art. He was hungrier, more insistent. His tongue pressed into your mouth like he wanted to chart every inch. You did your best to match what he offered, to kiss the way Art had just shown you, sweetly, like you really meant it.

And you did mean it. Patrick’s hands moved along your side, up until they cupped your tits through your shirt. You moaned softly into his mouth— the sound was muffled, met with a moan of his own. He gave an experimental squeeze of your tits and you whined softly. So he did it again, amused by the pretty, sweet noises you mewled out.

Patrick was getting hard, pressing against your thigh. It was a new sensation that you were hyper aware of as you unconsciously ground yourself against him.

You pulled back first, cheeks burning hot after you remembered Art was right beside you. You tucked unkempt hair behind your ear, smiled bashfully. “How was I?”

“Good,” Patrick said.

At the same time Art supplied, “So good.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Okay. Cool.”

Art was squirming, fidgeting, holding a pillow over his lap. Patrick was less covert— opting to openly adjust himself, drawing more attention to the fact that he was hard. You rolled your eyes and stole the nearest cup you could find, sipping at watered down Mountain Dew.

“Do you want me to leave?” You teased, raising an eyebrow. Your teeth dug into the plastic straw as you looked between the two of them.

Art stammered, mortified, but Patrick just smiled dizzyingly over at you. “I can teach you something else. You got to first base, so why don’t you steal second?”

You rolled your eyes, but heat flared behind your cheeks. Jesus Christ, he was such a smug asshole. “I still don’t know what that means,” you said, feeling a little embarrassed.

He grinned and mimed jerking off. Your eyes widened, and you laughed softly. “That would be weird,” you said, half-believing it. “Like, if I did jerk one of you off, that leaves one of you just watching.”

You glanced at Art, who looked just as interested as Patrick did, and your heart stammered nervously. “What if I show you how you do it on Art? Look at him— he’s the perfect little practice dummy.” Patrick reached over, pinching at Art’s cheek until the blond kicked his shin.

“Show me?” You echoed. “Like… you’re going to do it to him, and I do it to you?”

Patrick nodded, leaning into Art’s side, his smarmy smile dissolved into something needier. Art swallowed hard, lips parted slightly as he looked over at Patrick.

Patrick’s lips met his slowly, hungrily. You watched wide eyed as Patrick deepened the kiss, as Art eagerly accepted the other boy’s tongue into his mouth.

Patrick threw the pillow out of Art’s lap and sent it careening into the desk on the opposite side of the room. Your eyes widened at the sight of Art, hard and tenting his boxers. Patrick palmed him in his large hands making the blonde whimper into his mouth and buck up, seeking friction.

You swallowed hard, biting down on the straw as you watched Patrick tug at the elastic of Art’s boxers. Art lifted his hips to allow Patrick to tug them down his thighs, just enough to expose his cock to both of you.

“See,” Patrick gasped, leaning back from their kiss. Art chased his lips fruitlessly, mouth ajar, waiting for more. “He’s so fucking easy. Come feel.”

You moved closer, looking at Art for permission. When he nodded, you reached out, letting your fingertips graze the soft skin of his shaft. He exhaled a shuddery breath, eyes fluttering shut. Patrick’s hand covered yours, guiding you to squeeze around his length.

He was warm under your touch, silky soft, pulsing in your grip. Your heart hammered just at that— at the feel of him in your hand. “Feels nice, huh? Knowing how much he wants you.” You nodded, then slid your fist up, testing the waters. Art moaned softly, throbbed in your grip, aching for more. Patrick smiled like the cat who got the cream. “Hands off, just watch me.”

Patrick spat into his hand and replaced your hand with his own. The second Patrick curled his fingers around Art and started stroking him slowly, the blond was mewling for more. “Fuck,” he moaned, his forehead knocking against Patrick’s, mouth open, panting. “That’s good, feels good.”

You watched Patrick rub his thumb over Art’s tip, eyes widening as Art really whimpered for it, hips thrusting up into Patrick’s fist, chasing more of the pleasure the brunet offered.

“You get it now?” Patrick asked. You nodded quickly, and he tugged down his own boxers. “Fuck, okay— fucking show me.”

Your heart hammered with nerves, but you nodded. You held your hand out and spit into it, mimicking what Patrick had done before you wrapped your hand around his cock.

He felt bigger in your hands, but you didn’t say that. One, you worried it might piss Art off, and two, he didn’t need the ego boost. And he was slick, beading precum at his tip so each pass of your hands felt slicker and slicker.

And you couldn’t help but want to be an asshole. “You’re wet like a girl,” you said with a smirk, gliding your thumb over his tip.

And he was shameless, nodding with a sly grin. “That means I like you.” He panted, moaning softly. “Besides, I bet your fucking panties aren’t dry right now.”

Well, fuck. You tried to ignore the rush of heat in your belly that those words caused, to focus only on the glide of your hand on Patrick’s cock— up and down, copying his pace on Art, copying the ways he’d squeeze and twist his hand.

Art was moaning, rutting up into the tight sheath of Patrick’s fist, the muscles of his abdomen tensing and relaxing in unsteady jerks beneath his soft skin.

“Fuck— switch, switch,” Patrick said quickly. Art whined when Patrick stopped touching him, but it was ignored. “Want you to feel it when he comes.”

He guided your hand back onto Art’s cock and nodded for you to move. “Fuck, your hand’s so soft,” Art groaned. “Faster, faster, fuck—“ He was practically begging. You swallowed, increased the pace, squeezed him a little tighter.

Art was touching Patrick— jerking him off while you brought him closer and closer to finishing. Patrick leaned in, kissed you deeply, pulled Art in too until the three of you were a mess of tongues and lips and spit and hands.

Art came first— coating your hand in warm, slick cum, throbbing in your grip. He was panting into your and Patrick’s mouths, moaning softly as you continued to slowly work him through it. Patrick came next, once Art redoubled his effort, focused on making Patrick add to the mess covering your hands.

Patrick was loud, pornographic, messy. Art brought a cum covered hand between his lips, cleaning it up. Your eyes widened.

“Art, c’mon, you’re scandalizing her,” Patrick said, like you weren’t even there.

“Shut up,” you said, shoving him. He laughed and pulled his boxers back up. Art followed suit, and the three of you were left gross and sweating in the heat. You wiped your hand off on one of their discarded shirts and gave a sheepish smile.

They sat there, expectantly. Waiting for you to make the next call. There was a level of want in you, need, but the thought of asking for them to take care of it was mortifying. “Do you want to watch a movie or something now?”

[volchitsa-of-winterfell]

the way patrick zweig is so clearly a creature of desire; so fundamentally hungry. always devouring, uncaring of how desperate he might appear for it—taking a bite of the line judge's bagel sandwich before he even sits down; scarfing down his hotdog before grabbing a bite of art's, and then later treating their churros exactly the same way; picking the cigarette that tashi slapped out of his mouth up off the literal alleyway street so he can finish smoking it. acting on his hungers without asking permission first.

the way art donaldson is comfortable expressing desire without acting on it; content to yearn. mr. i-do-what-she-says-and-then-i-win obediently drinks his green juices, his electrolyte mixes; he lays his heart on the table for tashi, twice, and lets her decide when to take it; he tells her he wants to kiss her, but then lets her come to him to actually do it. a lapdog, just like patrick says: he'll turn his pleading eyes to you, desire writ across every line of him, but he is too well-bred to ever snap and just take.

....except, of course, with patrick; but even then, only when he can sublimate his desire for patrick into the appearance of desire for another woman. snapping at the churro when patrick calls him out over sowing doubt in his relationship with tashi is the obvious one, but also the fact that art is the one to come first in their mutual-masturbation experience when talking about kat zimmerman (how much of it was because of miss zimmerman and how much of it was art letting himself imagine patrick with her?). patrick, in the churro scene, describes it as seeing art "lit up about something," and while he's not wrong i think it's more specific than that. art feels deeply, keenly, but he guards the flames of his desire so carefully; banks them down and keeps the embers glowing for years. tashi is content to meet art halfway, to take the quiet longing invitations he extends. patrick is not. his desire, his hunger, is bigger than that. he wants to see sparks fly. how perfect, then, that he is the only one who can bring that out of art. he does exactly that with the racket-neck signal, and art (once he's over his shock) is once again lit up; ready to take the win, not to have it handed to him.

the way tashi duncan understands them both, perfectly, from their very first night in that hotel room that was so formative for all three of them. she kisses art first, because she already knows that if she kissed patrick first, art would take that as a rejection and retreat; put his desire away. she kisses art first because she knows patrick will not give up on his own desires that easily. she understands how to stoke art's desires and how to temper patrick's and teach him patience. and because of that, she gets them both: she doesn't have to choose.

[fanfics4all]

Mistletoe

Request: Yes / No Fluffcember Day 18!

Don’t be shy, request things! <3 Have a nice day/night

Caliban x Fem!Reader 

Word count: 478

Warnings: Just funny cute fluff!

Y/N: Your Name 

Prompt(s): Mistletoe

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(Not my photo, credit to whoever made it!)

*Caliban’s POV*

I had seen many odd decorations hanging around the moral world in December- glittering lights, red and green ribbons, fake snow in windows- but none confused me quite as much as the small, leafy sprigs tired up above doorways. I found myself staring at one in particular, a cluster of green leaves with white berries hanging in the kitchen of my girlfriend, Y/N, whom I was currently living with. I narrowed my eyes, my brows furrowing, trying to understand the significance of it. 

“What in the Hells is this?” I muttered, tilting my head. Y/N walked in, hiding a smile as she noticed me staring. Y/N had always loved watching me encounter the mortal world’s traditions for the first time. 

“Something interesting about the ceiling?” She asked, leaning against the doorway with a raised brow. I pointed up, giving her a slightly annoyed look, but I was simply annoyed by my lack of knowledge. 

“This plant. Why do mortals insist on hanging random bits of greenery inside their homes?” She laughed, crossing her arms. 

“Oh, that’s mistletoe. It’s not just a random decoration, it has a tradition behind it.” 

“A tradition? It’s simply a plant.” I glanced between her and the mistletoe, skeptical. 

“Not just any plant.” She teased, stepping closer. 

“Mistletoe is special. In mortal tradition, if two people stand under it they’re supposed to kiss.” I raised a brow, a spark of intrigue lighting up my eyes. 

“Is that so?” I smirked. She nodded, her cheeks warming as she met my gaze. 

“It’s meant to bring good luck, or at least, that’s what people say.” A slow smile spread across my face and I stepped closer, the air between us tingling with anticipation. 

“So, if I’m understanding correctly… since we’re standing under it now…” Y/N bit her lip, trying to hold back a smile. 

“I mean, technically, yes. That’s what the tradition says.” I tilted my head, studying her. 

“Mortals have some interesting customs, but I think I might like this one.” I said, my voice dropping to a warm murmur. 

I leaned down, my lips brushing hers in a soft, lingering kiss. My hands rested gently on her shoulders, pulling her closer, and for a moment, all thoughts of Hell and Sabrina melted away. The kiss was warm and tender, a gentle reminder that even I could find peace in her presence. When we finally broke apart, she looked up at me with a playful smirk. 

“So, do you approve of the mistletoe tradition?” I chuckled, my thumb tracing her cheek. 

“I think I could get used to it. Maybe you’ll have to teach me about a few more of these mortal customs.” She smiled, leaning into my touch. 

“I’d be happy to. Maybe we’ll make a mortal out of you yet.” She winked and I rolled my eyes. 

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[kisses4kaia]

In your blurb about teaching art how to give head you wrote “[Patrick] wanted to push [Art] onto his chest and make him sob, let you watch, if you wanted” - any chance you would write that scene 👀 it sounds soo hot

was waiting for this one. and, why yes there is😁!!

(unprotected penetrative sex (m receiving), voyeurism, switch!art, switch!patrick. mega unproofread😴. MDNI.)

“are—are you serious?” art’s wide eyes flick over to his best friend’s matching nerve-wracked ones at your request. “as cancer,” you lean back, taking a drag of your cigarette through a mischievous grin.

patrick can feel the tension rising, and can’t help but chuckle nervously. “well… i mean—“

“i’m down.” art’s a little shocked at himself, the surety in his voice, but he lets his words simmer. somehow, you smile even wider, and patrick studies art’s face then yours, briefly flicking to the woman in the chair’s, secretly thinking this was a plot you guys to kid him.

he’s still skeptical even after you’ve gotten up and pulled art along with you, cigarette hanging from your lips. his cynicism is only soothed when you sit art down on his knees on the bed, sitting back on his heels and awaiting further instructions.

and tashi, she’s remained silent during this whole ordeal, leaning back on her chair in the corner of the room. the glare in her eyes, the one that’s catching every movement of every atom, lets patrick know that this may have very well been her own idea.

“you’re okay with this?” patrick asks art, approaching the bed and kneeling parallel to him. the question was already answered, but he needed to know he wasn’t dreaming of this… again. “yeah. are—are you?”

“yes! i mean, uh, yeah,” patrick flushes at his reply. too quick, he thinks. i must sound so stupid right now.

art just smiles smally, glancing over to you, whose now sitting atop tashi’s lap, back pressed to her chest with her arm wrapped around your waist. you’re both watching so tentatively, it makes shivers jolt through art’s vertebrae. you burn your cig out on the arm of the chair, prompting them to begin.

unsurely, art leans forward and presses his lips to patrick’s. the kiss begins slow, hesitant, but desire builds up quickly enough and it has them pushing tongue down the other’s throat and the kisses soon turn to open-mouthed smacking all over cheekbones, jaws, and necks. clothes shed, and hands find skin.

they seem to forget they’re two different entities as they begin to grow more and more greedy with what they can grab and keep of the warm body attached to them. the way patrick growls before pushing art onto his back pulls a curious, yet pleased hum out of you, and tashi presses a kiss to your shoulder.

it’s all a blur after art is flipped over onto his chest, patrick’s saliva dribbling disgustingly onto the blonde boy’s tight hole. the prep has art arching his back and whining, eliciting ‘shh’s and praises and kisses to his shoulder blade from the boy above him.

and when he finally sinks himself into the warm embrace of art’s tightness, patrick shudders and you can see the muscles in his back tense. he’s trying to hold himself back, you know, for the sake of art.

it’s nearly a minute before art whimpers out a ‘keep going’, and patrick can finally build up his pace.

it was so filthy. the way patrick’s arm snaked around art’s hips to tug on his cock in intervals, bringing him to the very brink of his orgasm before retracting it all and slowing the roll of his hips, all before speeding it up to the tens once more.

you learned very quickly that art was much more vocal with patrick than with you. not in volume—no, he was always loud—but in his words.

“c’mon, faster.” “you can go harder than that, i won’t break.” “you’re such a fucking dick, you know that?” “don’t give it to me nice, trick. you know how i like it.”

so many phrases he wouldn’t ever dare to utter when you’re so graciously pleasing him. he takes all you give him and makes no selfish request or protest to what he is gifted. tashi makes the same note, you can tell, because she tenses her thighs at every crass comment art throws at patrick.

he’s so close, everybody in the room knows it. patrick’s voice always raises in an octave or two when he’s about to start begging, and you’ve all had enough practice with him to know the rest of his tells. “where do you want it?” patrick just barely whispers into art’s ear, and you catch half of his signature toothy grin. “inside.”

“oh, g-od—!“ patrick voice breaks as he cums nearly immediately after the word is uttered, and tashi smiles against your skin. he’s still in a haze as he absentmindedly wraps his hands around art’s cock once more and drives him to a summit of euphoria, squirming as his tip weeped out pulses of white, hot, sticky, spend.

patrick regrettably must pull out now, and as he falls down next to art, breathless and dopey, you begin to clap.

it’s slow, at first, and then tashi joins in with hollers and laughs.

“that was incredible. thank you, boys. do you suppose it’s now our turn?” tashi knows what the answer will be, and her assumptions are proved correct at the pleads art and patrick meet her with.