#art donaldson smut

[sweetheartfaist]

CHALLENGERS P!LINKS

ART DONALDSON

what art sends you at 2am when he’s horny and away for a match

art cumming his pants

art’s voice notes when he misses you

passionate sex with art

taking a bath together

TASHI DUNCAN

how tashi amps herself up before a match

tribbing with tashi

what tashi does when she’s bored and alone in her dorm

you and tashi

tashi eating you out

PATRICK ZWEIG

the sextape you and patrick made on his shitty macbook

riding patrick

rough sex with patrick

how patrick teases you when you’re needy

morning sex with patrick

[artstennisracket]

TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAMWORK

summary: patrick was the cocky quarterback who reeked of confidence. art was his right hand man, best friend, wide receiver, and still not patrick’s biggest fan. you were the intrigued cheerleader who has a thing for blondes in backwards caps and sticky situations

pairings: art donaldson x fem!reader x patrick zweig, patrick zweig x tashi duncan (implied)

warnings: teasing, blowjob, double penetration, p in v (reader receiving), anal (reader receiving), fingering (reader receiving), dirty talk, oral (reader receiving), overstimulation, dubcon

notes: surprise!!! another collab fic but this time with my wife addie <3333 (@musingsofheaven) who I love sm and is insanely talented and helped get this to a word count of 10k, so everyone say thank you addie!!! this is the definition of porn with an actual plot I swear. so I hope you guys love it <3

If someone, anyone, in the entire school were to describe Patrick in one word it would be cocky. They’d follow that up by saying quarterbacks need to be cocky, to have confidence, to be sure of themselves.

If you asked Art to describe Patrick in one word or phrase he’d say ‘attention whore’. Art knows how much Patrick liked the spotlight. That’s why when they originally tried out for the football team 3 years ago, Patrick didn’t tell Art he was gunning for quarterback (the position Art wanted).

Now if someone asked Tashi to describe Patrick in one word or phrase it would be ‘dumb jock’. As captain of the cheerleading squad, she has had plenty of time to experience Patrick Zweig, not to mention the fact that he was also her ex. He never paid much attention in any of his classes and Tashi was 99% sure that Art did all of Patrick’s homework for him anyway.

If you were asked to describe Patrick, you’re not sure what you would say. Despite being on the cheerleading squad (meaning you’ve attended every football game of the entire season), you never really interacted with either Patrick or Art. Until today.

Tashi had booked the football field for practice today since the championship game was tomorrow and she wanted to be able to do a full run through in uniform. She was running late because her last class was running over so she shot you a text asking you to run warmups.

You led the team down to the field only to find the space being occupied by none other than the football team. Great.

A low wolf whistle pulls your attention to a tall brunette pulling off a red and white striped football helmet, “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He shakes his curls out before running a hand through them.

“We have the field booked for practice.” You keep your tone neutral as he makes a point to slowly look you over. Noticing the extra time he takes on your bare legs and the curve of your chest.

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, he looks around for a bit before bringing his eyes up to finally meet yours. “No, I don’t think you do.” Smiling, a stupid smug smile. Like there’s no possibility in the world that he didn’t have this field booked for his practice.

Your gut instinct was to reach for the phone to call Tashi and check if she really did book the field. But you knew your captain. She didn’t make mistakes.

“Yes, we do. So I’m going to have to ask you and the rest of your team to leave.” Further insisting as you cross your arms.

“Oh is that so? You’re gonna have to ask the team captain then,” he shrugs with a fake pout. The tone of his voice was unwavering, with zero sense of urgency.

A deep breath is exhaled through your nose. Okay so maybe he is an asshole. Another player makes his way over, stumbling right into the middle of your standoff with Patrick. He takes his helmet off to shake out his blonde hair before pushing his hair out of his eyes, “Everything okay?” The sincerity in his voice feels real, reaching his baby blue eyes. This must be Art.

You offer a small smile hoping to reason with him instead, someone more mature than Patrick. “Do you know where I can find the team captain? We have the field booked today for practice,” making sure to reinject the nice sweetness in your voice, hoping for things to go your way now.

Art raises an eyebrow, an amused smile on his lips. No sarcasm just genuine amusement, “Patrick is the captain.”

Begrudgingly, you force your eyes to land back on where Patrick is laughing hysterically, like something was funny. But you weren’t amused. “Okay so can you tell your team of buffoons to get the fuck off the field so we can practice? Thanks.” You gesture to your team to start setting themselves up on the field. Too much time has already been wasted and stretching needs to be done before Tashi gets here.

“Woah! No need to get feisty. I mean unless you want to continue this somewhere else with less witnesses,” he smirks, “Or maybe you like having an audience.” You roll your eyes in pure annoyance. A small crowd started to gather of football players, intrigued by you and Patrick’s exchange of words. Fixing your mouth to say something until he starts again, “How about I let you practice here under one condition?”

“What?”

He smirks, “If you get on your knees and ask me nicely, I will tell my players to come back for practice later. Then you’ll have the field to yourself.” Followed by hollering and whistles from the rest of the team who would love to see you do that.

The involuntarily twitch in your eye mixed with the look of anger slowly creeping up most jolt something awake in Art. He presses his hand against Patrick’s chest causing Patrick’s eyes to follow. Art intervenes with a suggestion, “What if we just share? You guys can practice on this half and we’ll practice on that half.”

Trying to keep your cool and not lose it anymore than you already have, you let out a “Fine,” from tight lips. Unhappy but the problem is somewhat solved.

You don't have any choice but to lead your team to the far side of the field, dropping your bag near the bleachers before sending daggers to the back of the football team. The girls start pulling at their shoelaces, fixing their skirts, and tugging ponytails tighter, and you feel the air sticky against your skin.

You take a breath while trying to make the best of the situation by ignoring the noise from the boys across the field as you face your team. “Alright, we’re starting stretches,” you call out, clapping once to get everyone’s focus. “Line up!” The voice echoed and faced seriously while you watched them do what you said.

You step to the front when forming two rows on the grass with feet apart, rolling your shoulders back before you fold forward, reaching for your toes. The girls immediately follow you when you demonstrate the first stretch; no need to say it one by one because they know how to follow the silent command. Tashi trained the girls better and with control of listening and following.

The stretch pulls down your legs, calves tightening, fingers brushing the grass. You stay down and start counting out loud. “Ten… nine… eight…”

You could hear the football team’s shouting and the slap of the ball hitting hands cut over your counting, but you ignored them despite their occasional looks and whistling when they saw the girls bend down. You keep going, though, standing up slowly and having your arms reach high until your ribs pull, and then dropping into a side stretch, one hand on your hip, the other pulling over your head, which makes your body curve to the side.

Across the field, Patrick’s voice calls out plays, loud and clear to his team. You can hear his laugh when someone messes up, like all of them are one big group of old friends that he can just laugh about when his team screws up, and you can feel his eyes even without looking. You intentionally drop and instruct the team to go into another forward fold, hips pushing back, your skirt lifted just enough to show your ass and to know he’s watching.

The grass sticks to your palms as you press them into the ground, feeling the roughness of it under them, holding the stretch and letting your back lengthen to get that stretch for a few seconds before you move into a lunge after that, one knee on the ground, and you can almost feel the little soil and grass on your skin because you're so close to kneeling there; the other leg is bent in front of you, pushing your hips forward to open them up. “Feel it here,” you say, tapping your hip flexor so the girls can follow.

“Yeah, I bet you feel it there,” Patrick’s voice is so loud you can hear it from the side of the field where you and the girls are stretching. The laughter? It’s pissing you off.

You keep your breathing steady. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale- you count in your mind and close your eyes for a few seconds. But when you close your eyes, the only thing you can see is his annoying face, which makes your jaw tighten. You are trying hard to ignore him as you sink lower because if you let him get into your head, you might punch him already. You just let your shirt shift up your stomach as you lift your arms overhead for another side stretch. The sweat starts to form at the back of your neck, and it sticks to your hair, and your shirt clings more to your body as you move.

“Shouldn’t you be practicing your splits or something?” Patrick calls again, smug. Taunting you for a reaction. But you won't give him the satisfaction of snapping or walking out of the practice.

You straighten, looking at him from across the field. Your eyes are sending him death threats already, catching the way he’s holding his helmet under one arm, curling damp with sweat. You hate that constant smirk on his lips. It's so… annoying. So full of ego. So full of testosterone. Art stands behind him, adjusting his shirt, blue eyes flicking from you to Patrick like he's waiting for some mess to happen while his jaw is tight.

“Shouldn’t you be trying not to get tackled for once?” You fire back. You might not be snapping at him the way he wants, but you'll get petty too if he wants some fire out of you.

“Oooh,” his teammates holler and laugh at the comment you just made.

Patrick’s grin widens as he tosses the ball to Art without looking, but Art manages to catch it despite being caught off guard when he just threw it to him. “Feisty,” Patrick says, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I like that.”

“God, just ignore him,” one of your teammates mutters and scoffs as she stretches beside you. “He’s an asshole. I can’t believe Tashi ever dated that guy,” another girl said, and you quickly gave her the look like you're saying to her that you shouldn't talk like that because he might just come and hear it.

“Stop gossiping,” you said when you shifted into a standing split, grabbing your ankle, bending it in half before pulling your leg high, balancing on one foot. The girls followed. But for you? You do that just to show off to Patrick. To get a reaction. The stretch bites down your hamstrings, the pull deep and sharp, but you hold it. There's something good about the feeling, though, when the muscles are being pulled. You let your back stay straight, breathing through the shake in your leg. Hold it as long as you can, even if some girls have already given up. The noise from the boys softens for a second, and then you hear a low whistle, followed by, “Damn.”

You don’t drop your leg. God, you hate attention, but he's drawing this side of you, so you let it hover, letting them watch as you stay steady. You don't really want eyes on you even when you are in the cheer; you just love the sport—the cheerleading.

Your face calms even as your thigh trembles, and when you finally drop it? You made sure to give it a shake, glancing up just in time to see Patrick get knocked on his ass by a teammate too busy staring at you. You smirk. “Eyes up, quarterback! ”You shout, sweet satisfaction warming your chest.

Patrick looks up from the grass, hair sticking to his forehead, glare sharp, but that grin returns, eyes locked on you like a message that he's saying something like he likes the show you just presented in his eyes.

You let out a slow breath and feel the heaviness of it from the stretches you just made. You roll your shoulders back as you shake out your legs, the last of the stretching done. Your team is already breaking off into small groups, just waiting for Tashi before doing the whole stunt and practice. Some of them are already practicing jumps and going over counts.

When you hear the footsteps behind you, you're still smirking and satisfied by the little comment you made. “Did I miss the entertainment?” Tashi’s voice cuts in, already laced with authority and sharp with amusement as she drops her bag on the grass. She’s already in her practice skirt, hair tied up. She looks at you and notices how pumped you are today compared to the previous days. And she looks over at the football team with that unimpressed tilt of her head.

“You missed your star quarterback getting laid out,” you say with a chuckle as you brush the grass off your legs. “Perfect timing.”

Tashi hums like she already knows this is one of Patrick's stunts again to be insufferable. She pulls a scrunchie tighter around her ponytail. “Well, look at that. You have new friends.”

You quickly look at her before rolling your eyes and scoffing at her sarcastic comment. “Your ex needs a volume dial. So fucking annoying. God, I am literally this close to choking him, you know? He thinks he's like all mighty and makes comments like that as if he's someone who has authority over me,” you just mutter without stopping and without realizing you said all of that.

Tashi snorts. “Calm your ass down,” she grounds you before she sighs. She turns in time to see Patrick shove himself upright. He looks like muttering a quiet complaint to the guys nearby. She licks her upper lip before her lips pull into a thin line, like she has seen this scenario before. “Trust me, he’s all noise.”

You look at the boys just in time to see Art catch a pass. His arms are clean and steady as he pulls the ball in. He turns sharply before tossing it back, easy and smooth. That was one good pass . It really caught your attention, and he’s good; you can’t deny it. He looks so serious and dedicated to the sport. The way he moves is focused and precise. Almost perfect. He's like thinking ten steps ahead while everyone else is still yelling.

So you go another route of pissing off Patrick. “Nice one, Art!” You call out, letting your voice carry, bright and clear. You'll just cheer for his best friend instead of giving him attention.

Patrick’s head snaps toward you instantly when he hears your loud voice. His eyes narrow, jaw tightening around the mouthguard he’s chewing. He's like biting it so hard, you can almost see it. When Art looks up, it's so endearing because he has that little facial expression at what you just shouted; maybe it's shock or something else, but you are sure he blushed at that. He brushes a hand through his sweaty hair out of his face before he gives you a quick nod when he glances at you with a shy smile flashing.

Tashi hums as she watches the scene unfold in front of her with a smirk curling her lips and one brow lifted. “Oh, good luck. You want it messy.” She just shakes her head while enjoying everything- especially seeing Patrick react too quickly.

“Oh, come on,” Patrick shouts, and it's laced with something else. But you are not sure yet what it is. You just watch him throw his arms out to the side. “You’re seriously going to cheer for him?”

You shrug, stretching your arms overhead one last time just to make your shirt ride up just enough to catch Patrick staring at the little skin showing before he glares and he turns back to his team. “What? I’m just being supportive like a good cheerleader.”

Patrick throws the next ball too hard, and it bounces off one of his teammates’ hands with a slap. Dear Lord. The poor guy winced so hard he almost shouted at Patrick but just breathed through it.

You can’t help the satisfied grin that tugs at your mouth when he does that. Oh, boy. This will be fun. Real, real fun, and you will surely enjoy every piece of it. And Tashi’s smirk widens as she glances between you and the field before shaking her head. “They’re both no good,” she mutters under her breath, loud enough for you alone to hear.

You huff a small laugh, rolling your eyes as you glance back at Patrick, and you almost giggle at how pissed he looks because he's sending daggers at Art through his eyes like he’s plotting his death. A few seconds pass before he glances back at you, with that same heat and warning in his eyes.

“No shit,” you murmur before shrugging, shifting your weight again as your eyes flick between Art and Patrick, “I’m starting to see what’s going on.”

Tashi just sighs and opens her clipboard before giving you one last glance, and she heads off to check the other girls. You know you should help, but your eyes- you keep looking at Art. He just has this flushed face, and his cheeks look so- you want to pinch them. Or bite them. You watch him catch the ball with ease and cleanliness in it.

You put both of your hands on each side of your mouth and call out, “Let’s go, Art! You’ve got it!” Your voice made his head look up fast. He almost dropped the ball before he managed to recover. There was this shy, crooked smile you like to see. Patrick’s head snaps toward you, eyes sharp under messy curls.

If looks can kill, you're already dead. “Are you serious right now?” Patrick shouts at you. You just grin and tilt your head to the side. “Come on, Art! That was clean! You’re killing it!” You shout again just to taunt Patrick, and his jaw tightens as he spins to glare at Art, who enjoys your praise even though he's looking all shy. “Jesus Christ,” Patrick mutters, turning back to the huddle, throwing sharper now.

But this big mouth of yours can't just stop, so you keep going, letting your voice out. Your cheerful voice.

“Nice pass, Art! ”

“You’re doing well! ”

“Good hands! ”

“Perfect catch! ”

And each one of them just made Patrick's eyes go back to you before barking the next play, throwing too hard, the ball smashing hard into palms. A pass bounces off a receiver’s hands. You chuckle at that as you tilt your head with a smirk forming on your lips. “What’s the matter, quarterback? Can’t handle a little encouragement for your team?” Patrick stalks closer, helmet under his arm, sweat sticking to his dark curls.

“You’re seriously going to stand there and scream for him while I’m running this practice?” Of course, you would. Just to spite him after the comment he made earlier. He should taste his own medicine even though it's not outright insulting him. You straighten, hand on your hip, letting your voice turn sweet.

“Aww, are you jealous?” Your words are voiced out with sweetness, but clearly they’re said to mock him, and Patrick’s glare falters before his eyes drop down your body, then back up, frustrated. Art gives you a thumbs up as he jogs past, and you can’t help the way your smile grows when Patrick’s jaw locks even tighter. He mutters something as he turns away, but not before shooting you a look that promises he’ll get even.

Tashi reappears, whistling, clipboard under her arm. “You’re playing with fire,” she says, eyes flicking between you and Patrick’s tense shoulders. You shrug, arms crossing, watching Art throw you one last shy glance before turning away. “Yeah,” you murmur. You already know that. It makes you thrilled actually to get back at him even just a little. It’s like a success to get a reaction out of him. There is a playful smile lingering on your mouth as you roll your shoulders back, and you are eyeing both of them. “But he started it.“

…

You finished out practice. Doing the routine a million times until it was perfect just like Tashi wanted. After showering and changing in the locker room, you head out to make you way to your car. Before you can open your car door, a familiar blond makes his way over to you. He’s shirtless now, sweaty t-shirt long discarded somewhere halfway through practice. His hair is drenched in sweat. Making his golden curls appear more bronze.

He has that small half smile on his face, mimicking the one from earlier, “Thanks for that back there. At practice.”

Smile spreading across your face, “I meant it. You’re really good.”

“It’s okay, I know you were just trying to piss Patrick off. Even if you didn’t mean it, it was fun to watch him not get what he wanted,” he shrugs.

You drop your duffle bag on the floor before taking a step closer to him, “I meant every word I said. You should be the team captain,” flitting your eyes up to meet his blue ones. Pressing a hand against his exposed chest, chilled from the sweat cooling him down. Sliding your hand down to let your fingertips graze over his muscles stopping just above the waistband of his shorts.

Blush blooming on his cheeks as he makes eye contact with you, “U-um thanks,” he clears his throat trying hard to focus on your face and ignore the feeling of your hand on his body so he doesn’t get too excited, “There’s gonna be a party tomorrow at our frat house, to celebrate the end of the season. You should come.” He takes a second before adding on, “You can bring the whole team if you want. Even Tashi. I know she and Patrick aren’t speaking but I don’t really care.”

He didn’t want to seem to forward, like he was asking you out. So he invited the whole cheerleading team. Even though he does want to ask you out. Clearly he isn’t reading the situation any different from you but he also still hasn’t been able to decipher if you really like him or you just want to get to Patrick by using him. It wouldn’t be the first time a girl has done that before.

“I’ll be there.” You slowly drag your eyes down his body so that he knows you’re checking him out, when you spot the tent in his shorts, “I-I’m sorry. I don’t usually—“

You cut him off, “It’s fine.” You let your fingers graze ever so slightly over his hardness before walking backwards towards your car, “Maybe I can help you out with that at the party tomorrow.”

He watches as you bend down to pick up your bag and make your way to your car. Holding his stare as he watches you drive off. Fuck.

…

They won the championship game. No shock there since they’ve been undefeated for two seasons in a row now. Most people would attribute that to Fire and Ice, the perfect duo. Best friends? Secret lovers? Frenemies with homoerotic tendencies? Who cares. They were the best quarterback and wide receiver duo in their conference.

After inviting the team to the after party, Tashi pulled you aside to say, “You sure this is how you wanna play this?”

Shrugging, you lean against the locker in the locker room, “I’m having fun.”

She nods tightly, pushing her hair back behind your ear, “Have all the fun you want,” She says with a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Then she continues, smile dropping resuming her usual neutral facial expression, “Don’t bring that shit to my practice again.”

…

Later that night, you make your way to the party with a few other people from the cheer team. Showered and changed from your sweaty cheer uniform into something more party friendly, a black mini skirt and pink halter top.

The frat house is packed. People littered all over the front lawn and porch, so you can only imagine how many more people are inside. Music pounding, loud enough to hear from the outside. Before you can try the door to see if it’s unlocked, it swings open to reveal a clearly tipsy Patrick Zweig.

Despite the tiff you guys had yesterday, he’s still smug. Black Ray Bans framing his face, why he’s wearing sunglasses inside is beyond you. Smirk spreading across his face, “Miss me already?”

You roll your eyes scoffing, “You gonna let us in or what?”

Sliding his glasses down the bridge of nose before he steps to the side, letting you and your friends walk in. Making sure that you know he’s looking you up and down.

Your friends continue making their way into the party when Patrick grabs your wrist, “C’mon let me get you a drink.”

His hands are…big. Bigger than you remember. You weren’t really looking before anyway. But now that his hand was almost engulfing yours, it was hard to miss. Stomach twisting in a way you didn’t want to admit to yourself. Your eyes locked on to where his hand was holding onto your wrist for just a second too long has him saying, “You know what they say about big hands…”

Yanking your hand out of his grip, shaking your head no, “It’s feet. Where’s Art?”

Grabbing your arm again to pull you into him, colliding with the solid muscles of his chest. He huffs, “He can’t fuck you right. I know he can’t. He’ll finish in two minutes. I promise you don’t want him. Let me take care of you,” mumbling as his hand finds your waist and his lips graze your ear.

A shiver runs up your spine, goosebumps peppering your skin. No. You can’t do this. Not here. And definitely not with Patrick. Snaking your hand through his curls to pull him away from you by his hair. Looking directly in his green eyes, pointing to your lips to emphasize the words you’re about to say, “Not. Gonna. Happen.”

You don’t stay to watch his reaction. Turning your back to him to walk away, barely hearing as he calls out, He can’t fuck you like I can!

Yeah you need a drink.

That’s where you find Art. In the kitchen, backwards baseball cap on with curls spilling out the sides. Leaning against a wall, red solo cup in hand as he laughs at something. Eyes bright, posture relaxed. Very different from the sharp precision and focus he brought to football practice.

He’s talking to another guy, you’ve seen him before but can’t place where. Maybe he’s also on the team. Then his eyes fall on you. He keeps a small smile on his face as he excuses himself from his conversation to make his way over to you.

“You made it,” He smiles fully this time. A little giggly too, maybe he’s also tipsy.

You nod, his smile contagious. He looked almost radiant, basking in the afterglow of winning the championship final.

“Wouldn’t miss it. Wanted to see our star wide receiver in his element.”

He quirks his eyebrow, laughing some more, “You think this is my element? Frat parties?”

Shrugging and taking another sip, chewing on the lip of your plastic solo cup, “I mean you are a frat bro right? This is your frat?”

“Something like that. I mean Patrick’s the president, I’m just treasurer,” he shrugs finishing off his drink.

Hearing Patrick’s name irked you. It made your skin crawl and your stomach drop. Reminding you of the wet spot formed in your panties from when he grabbed you earlier. But you don’t wanna think about Patrick.

You want to focus on Art. The cute way his ears stick out and he smiles out the right side of his mouth. The way his t-shirt stretches perfectly over his biceps. And that hat. The backwards hat was doing a lot for him. You want to take it off of him. Along with all his other clothes. Well actually maybe the hat can stay on.

Stepping closer to stand on your tippy toes and lean by his ear. Pressing your hand on his chest to balance yourself, “Can we go somewhere quieter?”

He nods enthusiastically before leading you upstairs. Weaving you through crowds of people, around people on the staircase, and random people making out or passed out in the upstairs hallway. Unlocking his room door to lead you inside.

“I keep it locked during parties because I don’t want people having sex in here,” he over explains.

His room is neat. Almost too neat. Too neat for a guy his age anyway. Bed is perfectly spread, desk is orderly. Even his closet looked well organized from what you could see. Trophies and medals lined the top of his dresser, all for football, but awarded for various reasons. You take your time looking through them reading things like “Most Improved” and “Offensive Player of the Year”.

“How long have you played?” You look back at where he’s sat on the side of his bed, watching you intently.

“Almost 12 years now, started in middle school.”

“With Patrick?” Internally cursing your mind for bringing him up right now.

He nods, “Yeah we both tried out together and made the team. Three years after that he ended up playing quarterback in 8th grade, even though that was position I was gunning for. But we worked so well together with me as wide receiver it’s just been that way ever since.”

“Sounds like Patrick.”

He snorts in response to your comment, “I mean I've gotten over it obviously.”

“So quarterbacks throw the ball and wide receivers…catch the ball?” You ask, making your way over to sit next to him on his bed. Making sure your thighs touched his.

“Yeah you get the gist,” he smiles.

Running a hand through his blond curls, making sure to scratch his scalp lightly. He leans into your touch letting his eyes slip closed for only a second. Blinking back open to meet your eyes. Briefly flickering down to stare at your lips.

Keeping your hand in his hair to crash your mouths together. It’s sloppy and anticipated from all the tension in the room. Tugging at his hair lightly to pull a moan out of him. He likes hair pulling, got it.

Fully exploring each other’s mouths as your tongue licks into his mouth and his into yours. You pull your shirt off exposing your nipples to the cool air. Art only stares for a second before connecting your lips again and tweaking one of your nipples between his fingers while groping a handful of boob on the other hand.

You pull away to ask, “Can I suck you off?”

He nods dumbly, taking off his hat to pull off his shirt and his shorts and briefs in one go. When he goes to sit against his headboard, you crawl between his legs on all fours.

“You’re already fully hard from just a little kissing and touching, that’s cute.”

He stretches his arms, interlacing his hands behind his head, “M’sorry I just—fuck.” Getting cut off by you lapping your tongue around his pink tip swollen with arousal.

Sinking down until your nose reaches his public hair. It’s neatly trimmed which would have surprised you if you didn’t already notice how his legs were also completely hairless. You wonder how often he shaves.

Bobbing your head up and down while using your free hand to work his balls. He’s whimpering and moaning a lot. Involuntarily bucking his hips up into your mouth from time to time, mumbling out apologies.

You pull off to let him know it’s okay, about to offer for him to fuck your mouth if he really wants to until the his bedroom door creaks open.

The man you could never seem to escape in your brain or in the real world, makes his way into Art’s room without a care in the world, “And what do we have here?”

You stay in your place, not wanting him to think you’re frazzled even the slightest. Art speaks up, a bitter edge in his tone, “Fuck off Patrick, we’re busy.”

“Well that much I can see,” he creeps towards the bed, eyes staring at where your panties are exposed under your skirt since you’re still on all fours, “Let me join, promise you wont regret it.”

Words piecing together in your brain to decide what you should say to Patrick when Art replies again, “Can’t you just let me have this?”

You keep your hand gripping the base of his cock, not sure if you should let go or keep going. You’d ignore Patrick’s presence completely if you could.

“C’mon,” he drags out. He lets his fingers glide over the wet spot on your panties, pressing softly to test the water. Your body reacts before your brain can and you pushing against him. He moves your panties to the side to slip one finger into your tight heat. You groan pressing back against him, “See she likes it.”

Not being able to tell if he’s talking about you or referring directly to your hole angers you as much as it turns you on. “Fine. Is that cool with you?” Art asks.

You nod before adding, “Can you at least make yourself useful and use your tongue?”

You can already hear the smug in Patrick’s voice. He bends down, using one hand to keep you panties pulled to the side. Using the other hand to keep your pussy lips spread as he licks inside you. Slow and with the perfect amount of pressure. Alternating from licking across your clit, to plunging his tongue into your hole.

You press your head against Art’s thigh when Patrick starts eating you out like it’s the last meal on earth. Drool pours in Art’s before you feel him guiding his cock back on your mouth, and you gladly take it, sucking off the tip. The base wrapped around you hands him, ass grinding to Patrick while he suckles on your hole. His fingers rubbing your clit in a circular motion. Hand brushing your hair out of your face. Art’s eyes were looking down at you, admiring the view laid out in front of him.

Patrick’s tongue drags over your clit again, slow and firm, pulling a ragged moan from your throat that you swallowed back around Art’s cock. Thighs starting to shake, tongues making wet sounds that mix from your whine and Art’s broken whimpers from you licking and sucking his tip.

“Shit. S-Shit. Keep going, please,” Art babbles, and his hand grips in your hair, but he’s now thrusting up to fuck your mouth, hips twitching as you continue to suck him. Patrick chuckles behind you, his fingers slipping back inside your pussy that’s clenching around nothing, and it just lures him back in. He sucks hard enough that your hips jerk. “She’s so fucking wet for it, Art,” he says, letting his breath blow in front of your cunt, sending shivers up your spine. You pull off Art with a pop. Spit, making a string from your lips to his flushed tip, panting as Patrick’s fingers curl just right. It presses against that spot that makes you roll your eyes. “Fuck, Patrick-”

“Sounds so good when you say my name like that,” Patrick says before he presses his lips to give a kiss to your inner thigh. He licks you back up in slow motion from there to your clit, and that makes your ass grind back against his face. He’s enjoying getting suffocated by it; he even wants you to press it more. Patrick’s other hand is latched on your hips to keep you pinned down and steady. He makes sure to hold you close to his mouth and open as he works his tongue, and flicks it against your clit continuously.

Art’s hand goes back to your hair and brushes it out from your face. Chest rises and falls while he catches his breath. His blue eyes are wide, and his pupils dilate darkly as he looks down at you. “You look so pretty like this,” he praises you. You feel his thumb brushing across your bottom lip. He’s staring at you while you suck his thumb into your mouth and moaning as Patrick’s tongue thrusts into your pussy.

You whimper around Art’s thumb, teething on it, and you can feel your walls clenching around Patrick’s tongue. The smug satisfaction he has is so evident because of the little noises you let out. Your hips keep rocking back on his face unintentionally, showing that you are desperate for more. Patrick pulls back; his lips are shiny like they have a gloss on them, but your slick is the material, and he smirks when you whine at the loss. “Needy,” he teases, giving your ass a sharp smack that stings a little because of the hard impact. You are sure he did that on purpose.

There’s a rustle when he took off his shirt, and the sound of metal came from his belt being unbuckled. When you turned your head and looked over your shoulder, you saw Patrick standing naked. His body looks good; there are toned lines in his stomach and chest. You can see those little hairs that start from his navel that trail downwards. His dark eyes gaze down at your body.

The skirt still bunched around your waist, panties are pulled aside, and he clicks his tongue. “These need to come off,” he said while his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, dragging them down your thighs. He intentionally makes his knuckles brush your slick folds as he pulls them all the way off.

Patrick takes a moment, his thumb pressing against your swollen clit, and watches you flinch before he throws the soaked fabric he’s holding on the floor. After a few moments, his hands move to your skirt, pulling it down, leaving you completely naked on all fours between him and Art. With that, his hand wraps around his cock, his eyes locked on your pussy and how it clenches around nothing. He can see the way slick drips down to your thighs, making him just want to lick it. “Fuck, take a look at that,” he mutters. “You’re ready, aren’t you?”

Your lower lip is caught between your teeth before you glance over your shoulder, hair sticking to your cheek, breath shaking. “I want you both,” you admit without any shame from saying it. “At the same time.” Patrick’s eyes flick to Art’s like they’re talking to each other silently, and maybe a challenge is passing between them. Art swallows, hand wrapping around his flushed cock, precum smearing across his thumb. “Are you sure you can take it, pretty girl?” Stomach pulling in tight ropes when you heard how soft he said that, and a smirk formed on your lips before you said, “Try me.”

The two of them quickly moved around, and you did too. It’s like they already planned it in the way they switched their positions. Patrick is now on the bed and lying down, and Art is on the edge of the bed like he’s waiting for something. Patrick pats his thigh. “C’mere, baby.” It didn’t take a minute before you crawled over, straddling him, cunt hovering over his cock as your hands palmed flat on his chest.

Behind you, Art’s hands slide up and down, caressing your thighs while he moves to kneel on the bed. Patrick’s thumb brushes your clit, making you jumpy. “Look at you,” he mutters. “So fucking ready.” Art bends down a little before he presses a kiss to your spine. “You’re going to take us both,” he says, and the excitement is evident from his voice. “Going to let us fill you up.”

Fingers tracing Patrick’s chest before you nod and take a deep breath. “Yeah,” you mutter, “I can take it,” Patrick smirks. He rocks your hips to make you grind and slide your folds on his cock while Art presses his chest to your back. Lips still kissing your spine with his cock nudging your ass and precum smearing against the skin. “You’re going to take us both, huh?” he rasps before thumbing your clit. “Gonna let us stretch you open?” Your hands dig into his chest as you nod. “Please,” you whimper.

His hands are cold but steady as he holds you down while Patrick’s cock remains lined up, ready to put it inside you. Both eyes watch you when Patrick’s cock continues to slide between your folds and Art’s doing the same behind you. “Hold her,” Patrick mutters. Art hums, gripping your waist with his left hand before he holds out his right hand in front of Patrick’s mouth and spits into Art’s hand. A shiver runs down your skin as Art brings his slick hand between your cheeks, his thumb rubbing slow circles around your tight hole. His other hand presses between your shoulder blades to push you more down to Patrick’s chest. “Relax for me,” Art murmurs.

Patrick’s finger teases your clit with your thighs already shaking. Art leans down just to spit directly onto your hole before working it in with slow circles so he can press a finger. Patrick grins, cock nudging your entrance and pushing in before just pulling back quickly. Clearly, he’s teasing you. “That’s it, baby,” he rasps, “let him get you ready.” Art pushes deeper, slow, stretching you open as you whimper, adding another finger, scissoring them, and the burn mixing with need pooling low.

You can feel Patrick’s cock twitch under you and him leaking against your folds as his finger continues to circle your clit. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” he groans, eyes flicking between your cunt and Art’s fingers working your ass open. Art leans in, murmuring, “Are you ready for us?” That earns a whine from you, and eyes flutter, breath shaking as you nod. “Yeah,” you whisper, “I need you both.” Art keeps moving his fingers in your hole, and your thighs tremble; the burning feeling from him preparing your hole to get fucked is turning to hot, aching need. Patrick’s cock slides through your folds with every rock of your hips just to get pleasure from the pain of having Art’s finger inside, teasing without giving in.

The hand lifts, fingers hooked inside, and Art’s palm is out toward Patrick again. “Spit.” There’s a smirk on his lips before he leans forward to let thick saliva drip directly into Art’s palm. He rubs it between his fingers as he glances at you. “Your turn.” Heat flares in your cheeks as you lean down and spit into his hand, mixing with Patrick’s. Art hums, looking satisfied, as he rubs the mess across your hole, and slick drips run down your thighs. “Good girl,” he murmurs, spitting again directly in your hole before pressing deeper, stretching you open, and Patrick continues to circle your clit.

“Relax,” Art whispers, kissing your shoulder, and he continues to work you open. Hips twitching, pressing back to his digit that feels more slick and pleasurable now. Patrick’s cock nudges your entrance, slipping in before pulling back, making you whine. “Please,” you breathe. Hair falling around your face as you cling to Patrick’s shoulders. “Please, I want it.” Patrick’s eyes meet Art’s before he grins, and his cock twitches under you. “Are you ready, sweetheart?” he asks with his voice sounding rough. Art slides his fingers out, watching your rim clench around nothing and spitting one last time just to rub it in slow circles. “She’s ready,” Art says, hands gripping your hips.

Art shifts, lining up, the hard head of his cock pressing against your wet rim that makes your breath catch and mind go hazy. You feel the stretch and the burn as he pushes in and wrecks you open. Your hand grips the sheet, and the other is held by Patrick, legs trembling. “Breathe, baby,” Art murmurs, his warm hand steady on your hip. You exhale shakily as the thick slide of him pushes past your tight ring inch by inch. Your body pulsing around him. “There you go,” he bottoms out, buried already.

He holds you there, just letting you adjust with your hips twitching helplessly. Your forehead latches down to Patrick’s shoulder with a whimper slips out from your mouth. His hand still between your thighs as he continues to work his thumb against your clit in a slow and teasing circles that makes your pussy clench. You know he’s doing it just to ease the pain from Art’s cock. “Good girl,” he says, stroking himself between your bodies as he watches you tremble, slick dripping down your thighs. He lines up, tip brushing through your folds. The heat makes you twitch. “Think you can take me too?” he asks, voice low.

Head nodding at his question, breath hitching, and a choked moan leaving your lips before your hips rock back. You are desperate. Patrick grins, kisses your shoulder, and then presses forward. You feel the head of his cock slipping inside your cunt. The stretch doubles as your body clamps around him. “F-fuck,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut, and he sinks deeper. Bodies fluttering around both of them, just minds blank from the fullness pressing inside. Patrick pauses, forehead dropping to his head while his hands grip your waist.

“Doing good, baby,” praises come from Art’s mouth, his lips brushing your back, and his breath warm against your skin. Patrick shifts his hips slightly, watching your eyes flutter. “Yeah,” he adds, voice rough, “just like that.” Your breath catches, tears pooling in your eyes, hips rocking upwards, trembling as you silently beg them to move already.

Art rubs circles into your hips, pressing kisses to your nape as he starts to move, pulling back before easing in again. It’s slow and careful to let you feel every inch. “You’re doing so good for us,” he murmurs, and you feel the drag of his cock in your hole while your walls clench around Patrick. A choked moan breaks free from your throat, hips pushing back and chasing friction as your vision blurs.

Patrick laughs softly, rolling his hips shallowly inside your soaked cunt. It’s such a sight, both of them sandwiching you between them. It’s filthy and hot at the same time. Like a fantasy dreamland for you to get stuffed at the same time. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he grits out, lips brushing on your forehead like he’s kissing you for being good. “You like this, huh? Stuffed full, crying for us?” Your hips jerk, pleasure spiking more with Patrick’s words. Walls fluttering around him while Art presses deep. Heat pools low in your belly, and Art’s hand slides up your spine to ground you. “Breathe, baby,” he whispers, “you’re perfect like this.”

Lips pressed against your shoulder, teeth catching your skin as Patrick rocks in deeper, his breath hitching. “Bet you’re gonna come so fast like this,” he teases, “stuffed full, dripping all over me.” Your hands clutch his shoulders. Tears start to slip free as pleasure twists with the burn, your body trembling as they stretch you open. Patrick’s hips snap harder, the slap of skin loud, making you cry out. “A-ahh- Patrick-” you moan out, pussy clenching down around him. “C’mon, don’t tell me you can’t take it,” he mutters, grinning as he watches you fall apart. “Don’t try to run away now, you asked for this,” he teases.

He’s clearly way different than Art because he wants to push your buttons more by saying those humiliating words even though your pussy is already wrapped around his cock. Your glare is shaky, teeth sinking into your lip, hips rocking back anyway. “Shut up,” you snap, voice trembling as heat coils tighter inside you. Art’s hands tighten on your hips, grounding you as he keeps a slow, deep pace in your ass while Patrick’s sharp thrusts jolt you forward. “You’re okay,” Art whispers near your ear, peppering kisses on your back.

“Doing so good, baby.” He holds you steady as you melt around him, the burn turning to twitching and pleasure as he pins you down, building you up with every thrust. “Shit… Look at you,” Patrick pants, cock dragging against your walls until your eyes roll back and body shakes as you gasp. Art cradles your jaw, pressing a kiss to your temple, thumb brushing your cheek. “Just focus on me,” he murmurs, hips rolling deep behind you and Patrick also thrusting up. “You’re okay, pretty girl,” Patrick mutters, voice laced with mocking as he mirrors how Art says it.

Sweat drips as he thrusts harder, your glare breaking into a cry. “Fuck, you’re close, aren’t you?” Patrick taunts, slamming his cock in deep just to watch your mouth drop open, a choked moan spilling out. Head nodding, thighs trembling, another soft, breathless “nngh-mmm… shit- a-ah” breaking loose as your breath catches on each thrust. The sound inside the room is like porn you’d watch online: clap, clap, clap, wet slaps echoing, your sweet, high-pitched whimpers mixing with the rhythm.

Art’s hand slides down your belly, fingers brushing your clit without pressing, teasing until your hips buck with a needy gasp, a cracked “please- please-” falling from your lips. “Easy, baby,” he whispers, lips pressing to your neck as you let out another “mmm-h-hah…oh-” your voice all wrecked and cockdrunk. “Show me how good you can be.” Your eyes flutter, tears sticking to your lashes as you try to focus on Art’s calm voice while Patrick pounds that spot that makes your thighs quake.

“God, look at her,” Patrick scoffs. Fingers dig into your hips, forcing you down until your thighs burn, his thumb flicking your nipple until it’s stiff and aching, the air making it sting before heat rushes back. “Fucking desperate, huh?” he adds, sweat dripping as he thrusts up hard, a sharp slap of skin meeting skin, forcing a broken moan from your lips. “Fuck- fuck you,” you whimper, voice cracking, glare glossy with tears as your hips twitch, trying to lift off him, trying to get away, but your body betrays you and you are trapped between their bodies.

Art sinks you back down, clenching around them so hard, and it makes a slick, messy squelch, wet dripping down to their balls. “I fucking- ah- hate you,” you hiss, but the message is for Patrick, the words shaking. Tears slip down your cheek as your thighs tremble violently. A hand slides up your spine, brushing sweaty hair off your face, Art’s mouth pressing warm and soft to your shoulder. “Don’t listen to him,” Art tries to calm you down, voice low, his thumb circling your clit in slow circles that make your hips jerk.

Breath catching in a high-pitched gasp, mouth falls open, and there’s a choked sob tumbling out before you can swallow it. “S-stop- d-don’t-” you stutter, but your hips keep rocking. Keep grinding down on Patrick’s cock, your body begging for more even as your glare cuts at him. “Yeah?” Patrick grunts, and his hand grips your thigh harder as he thrusts up again. It’s deeper, making your breath shatter into another squeak. “Is that why you’re dripping all over me, princess?” Another desperate cry breaks out of you. Glare folding into a helpless, needy moan as your eyes roll back and your hands claw at Art’s arms to ground yourself.

“Shut up- shut the fuck up-” you gasp, voice thin and fucked, but your cunt clenches again, loud and wet. Your body trembles as Art’s thumb drags across your clit, pressing down just enough to make you whimper. “H-hate you- hate you-” you cry, hips still rocking helplessly, unable to stop. Your mouth dropping open with another high, wet moan, and spit dripping from your lip onto your chest. “Keep lying to yourself,” Patrick growls. Your sweat drips onto your belly as his cock grinds deep, which pulls another sob out of you: “Pussy’s telling the truth.”

Your glare melts into a broken, pathetic noise, nails digging into Art’s forearm as your body keeps taking it, dripping and clenching, hatred curling into hot, helpless need as you choke out, “F-fuck you- ugh- fuck-” Patrick’s hand grips your thigh before he pulls back just enough to slam back in at the same time as Ary does, the movement making you jolt with a strangled cry. “Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, hips jerking, “keep squeezing us like that.” Your breath breaks with a sob catching in your throat as your body shakes. “Pat,” Art warns him, voice low. His fingers are still circling your clit and making your hips twitch. “You want her to cum before we’re close?”

“Maybe I do,” Patrick smirks, and that earned a glare from Art, but he just thrust his hips deeper, hitting that spot that makes your legs quake. Your head drops backwards, and Art holds you to balance your body, and there’s a strangled sound when clenched around Patrick. You are trembling, held open and ready to break. Nipples brush against Patrick’s hands, clit throbbing under Art’s touch, and cunt clenching around Patrick as he keeps fucking up into you, deep and sharp. Both of them make you cry out. “Easy, sweetheart,” Art gently murmurs, thumb working soft circles on your clit that make your legs twitch. “Don’t come yet, okay? You can wait for me.” Patrick grunts when he hears what Art said, “Hear that, princess? Hold it. Be a good girl for him.”

Your thighs shake, your breath catches, you are stuffed and trembling, and teetering on the edge. They keep you between them, wet and aching, and ready to fall apart. Art slides out slowly. Your ass clenches before he pushes back in deeper, hips flush, and holds you steady as you gasp. “Breathe, baby,” he whispers, rocking in slow, deep grinds that make your walls flutter around Patrick’s cock. Patrick drags against your sweet spot, making you cockdrunk for the two of them. A strangled moan tearing from your throat. “Fuckin’ greedy, aren’t you?” he rasps, his hips punching up, your cunt slick and loud with every thrust.

Art keeps a steady grind, thumb brushing your lower back. The heat keeps building, and your body shivering as they keep you pinned. “Shit,” Patrick groans, his fingers digging into your hips. “She’s so tight every time you move, Art,” Patrick mutters as he watches Art lean down, kissing your shoulder. “You like it, don’t you? Letting us use you like this.” Patrick adds and there’s a satisfied smirk on his lips when you nod.

Tears slipping from the pressure and heat, every nerve awakens as they keep you trembling, and stuffed so full from their cocks. You can’t think and just let obscene wet sounds happen as your clit drags against Patrick with every push. Your body feels like it’s going to break, thighs quaking, breath ragged as they deny you, building you up until your body begs.

Patrick keeps thrusting up harder, hitting so deep your vision blurs, your hips jerking back into Art as he fucks your ass in slow, heavy rolls. Each push makes your hole even more stretched, and breath catching in your throat. “C’mon, princess,” Patrick pants, sweat dripping down his temples, “Gonna cum for me already?” Art’s hand presses between your shoulder blades to keep you steady as he leans down. He’s pushing in deep with a controlled exhale, hips rolling smoothly and pelvis hitting your ass that makes it jiggle. “Don’t rush her,” Art mutters, pulling out nearly to the tip before sinking back in. Patrick scoffs before dragging his thumb back over your clit. “Yeah, let’s see it.”

Your knees buckle, mouth dropping open, drool falling on Patrick’s chest as you let out a sharp, high-pitched “nnh-ah-mhm-fuh…fuck,” with your eyes rolling back. You look good with your lashes damp with tears and can’t properly open your eyes. “Yeah, look how well she’s taking it,” Patrick taunts with a big smug smile on his lips as his eyes lock on your face, watching you tremble.

“You’re dripping, baby. That desperate?” You try to glare at him when he said that, but it breaks on a hiccupped, “N-no… hah-ah- nghh p-please-” Your hips jolting as Patrick’s thumb circles your clit in slow, mean swipes that make you jolt jumpy and thrusting back at Art’s cock. You feel your thighs trembling while you take two cocks in your body.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Art soothes you, brushing your hair off your sweaty face, pressing a soft kiss to your nape. Just hearing his warm and calm voice makes you crumble. Patrick’s thrusts get hurried like he has a mission to squeeze out cries from your throat. The wet slap of skin from the three of you echoes inside the room.

“Gonna come for him, huh? Not for me?” Patrick asks, hand gripping your hip hard. Art’s hand cups your breast, groping it. His thumb brushes your nipple as he fills your ass in slow thrusts and forces you get down onto Patrick’s cock until you’re taking all of him. “She’ll come for both of us,” Art corrected his voice low against your ear but enough for Patrick to hear it too. Lips brushing your skin, and chest pressing to your back like he’s molding himself into you. “Isn’t that right, baby?”

You can only babble, “please- please- it’s too much- hahh- c-can’t- so f-full-” hips grinding down helplessly as you feel your release coming and your body a trembling mess. “Don’t you fucking dare hold back,” Patrick snarls, slamming up so hard your vision sparks. Body jolting and their cocks making you spill out, “ah h-hah- fuck- p-please… please… so deep- ” with your spit glossing your lips.

“Want to see you cum, baby.” Art’s breath is warm in your ear. “Let go, baby. We’ve got you.” There’s no stopping it. You know you are close with the way your body locking up, cunt squeezing around Patrick’s cock, ass spasming around Art’. It doesn't take long before your entire body shakes violently as your orgasm rips through you. “Nngh- fuck- oh g-god- ah…!” you scream, head falling down and almost hiding in Patrick’s body.

Can’t help your eyes rolling as slick gushes around Patrick’s cock, dripping onto his balls. Thighs shaking uncontrollably as they hold you down, letting you cum and shake between them. “Fuck, that’s it,” Patrick growls, thrusts stuttering. His cock twitching in your pussy before he spills deep inside you. His hips keep moving voice shaking while he stuff more of him inside, “Shit… f-fuck, take it- take it-” Art’s thrusts pick up slightly when Patrick finishes, pressing deep as his thumb find your clit again, and making you sob, “P-please… no more- c-can’t… it’s too much,” overstimulated, but your cunt and ass keep clenching, milking them.

“Shh… that’s a good girl,” Art murmurs, pressing his forehead to your shoulder while he sinks in deep. His hips rolling and pelvis deep as he lets go, cock pulsing inside your ass. He groans, low and controlled, “God- yeah… just like that,” his hand smoothing over your stomach, grounding you while shaking through it. Body is pinned between them.

You are boneless already with your body twitching as cum drips out, and sweat cooling on your spine. The room is filled with your soft fucked-out whimpers, broken sobs, and their low rough curses as they ride out their highs inside you. After taking some minutes, they let you drown. You’re soaking Patrick’s stomach, slick dripping down his balls, your body limp.

They pull out together, your cunt clenching around nothing. The cum from your pussy and ass starts running down your thighs while your legs nearly give out. But Art manages to catch you, lifting you while Patrick slides out of the bed. Both of them handle you gently now, laying you on the bed, hair fanned out. Your chest heaving as you stare up, glassy-eyed. Patrick spreads your thighs, eyes dark and gaze tracks to the mess on your legs. Art’s hand touches your head and brushes them out of your face before he leans down to kiss your temple down to your nose, jaw, and your lips. His kiss is so soft that it makes you hold him and close your eyes.

Hips twitch when you feel Patrick’s lips on your inner thighs. You don’t even notice him opening your legs and kneeling down to bite and kiss them until you really feel it. His tongue moves from your inner thighs to higher from there and lips brush your mound but don’t go lower, warm breath making your overstimulated cunt clench as Art’s hands rub circles on your stomach. His mouth moves to your chest, sucking softly at your nipple, tongue flicking over it before rolling the other between careful fingers, letting you float and recover from the high.

They don’t rush you, they just let you feel them worshiping your body and not wanting to get another orgasm out of you. Patrick’s mouth just continues to give the mound multiple kisses until he catches Art’s eyes and both of them stop. Then Patrick’s tongue slips out, giving your slit a single, slow lick, making you flinch with a soft gasp. Your hand flying to Art’s curls, gripping them. He pulls off your nipple with a soft smile. “Too much?” he asks. Your breath catches your throat before you shake your head and your thighs keep twitching. “N-No, just-” You don’t really know what to say especially when Patrick starts moving tongue to flick on your clit slowly.

“Look at me,” Art murmurs, tipping your chin up, thumb brushing your lip. “Good girl.” Patrick hums against your cunt, the vibration making you whimper before he pulls back, licking his lips. “She tastes perfect,” he mutters, squeezing your thighs but not taking more. Art’s hand drifts down from your tits and pausing above your belly button. “Let me?” he asks, and Patrick leans back and gives space to Art. “Go ahead.”

Art didn’t waste any time before he positioned himself where Patrick came from and lowered himself. Lips kissing where Patrick’s teeth marked you before giving your cunt a long, slow lick, tongue gentle but firm. You cry out softly, hips lifting before Patrick’s hand presses to your stomach, holding you down, making sure you won’t move much. “That’s it, baby,” Patrick soothes, kissing your forehead. “Let him take care of you.”

Art’s breath is warm on your folds. “Tell us if it’s too much, okay?” You nod, lips trembling. “I-I’m okay.” They share you like this, Art’s tongue moving in slow circles on your clit, not pushing inside your pussy hole, just letting you stay warm and making you gush more. Patrick’s hand drifts over your chest, brushing your nipples, his other hand tangling with yours, squeezing each time you gasp.

Art’s eyes flick to Patrick’s, and like they are talking through their eyes before Patrick leans down, kissing your chest, Art’s mouth lingering on your cunt. They don’t do anything to trigger another orgasm from you, their mouth and tongue moving in controlled motions and doing this just to stay more close and letting you go soft while being held by them. It doesn’t take long when you get tired and your eyes close shut with your body finally coming down from the high, but they didn’t leave you alone in the room like some other assholes would. Patrick kisses your forehead and stops sucking your nipples while Art doesn't lick your clit anymore and just rests his head against your thigh. The three of you just stay together in one room and their attention is just on you.

taglist: @tacobacoyeet @newrochellechallenger2019 @marimacaron @antxnxlla @hanneh69 @urmomsucksfrogs @k4mlg @ctrl-mari @cha11engers @jesuistrestriste @imperishablereverie @shahabaqsa0310 @ghostgirl-22 @artaussi @nozhdyved @asteroid-yuri @sweetheartfaist @jordiemeow @hangels

[musingsofheaven]

Need more rough hate sex with Patrick and reader but very challengers coded like maybe she’s art girlfriend and can’t stand Patrick and Patrick hates her because he wants Art to himself but one day they’re at a party or somewhere, get into it and then fuck?? Maybe Art turns up to the party and is standing outside the door while Patrick’s fucking reader into the sink and whispering filth in her ears while her boyfriends outside saying could he fuck you like this, does he make you cum, like proper unhinged filth freaky shit choking, hair pulling, she could slap him, I want it ALL

Could lowkey see it being more parts because maybe Art then gets back at her and fucks the shit out of her and isn’t so submissive and she’s egging him on about Patrick because she wants to be fucked like that and he gives in? He’s acting like her talking about Patrick fucking her isn’t making Art harder and closer to cumming hehehe

SOMETHING BORROWED.

summary: Art’s your boyfriend and you’re his girl. Everyone knows that, and everyone knows Patrick is his best friend. The thing is: he hates you, and you can’t stand him either. It should have stayed that way, but there’s a party. The bathroom exists and you don’t know why you let it happen.

pairings: patrick zweig x afab!reader x art donaldson

warnings: 14.9k words. mature themes. dubious consent. unprotected p in v. creampie. oral sex. recording. voyeurism undertones. manipulation. gaslighting. cheating / infidelity. power imbalance / toxic dynamics. degradation kink / verbal humiliation. rough sex. breeding kink. overstimulation. alcohol use. read & consume responsibly.

note: hey, i really enjoyed writing this and i apologize for the slow writing especially with the requests and this is way back from may, but i hope the person who requested it is still around and will see this. <3 planning to release it last last week but got busy and sick. but here it is!

It's always been Art and Patrick.

It always has been and is always going to stay that way. Too young when they crossed each other’s paths. It got too close fast, as if something had just clicked inside. And ever since that meeting, nothing has changed because the bond is so strong. Growing up together since they’re barely teens. Maybe it’s around 12 or 13. They don't really care about the specifics and it doesn’t really matter not when they know they have each other’s backs regardless of their differences. People know Art is the quiet one. The perfectionist. The focus. The precise movements. Patrick is the opposite. The mess. The reckless swings. The egotistical maniac. Structure and chaos, but they still got paired for doubles, and they haven't changed partners ever since. Art was in control, posture perfect, and footwork clean. Patrick was reckless, grinning, never playing the same way twice. Together, they made sense- muscle and bone, strike and spark.

They roomed together and shared almost everything except their racquets: that’s too intimate to share. Both boys don’t really talk about feelings, not their stuff. But they know the technique, half-language insults, and language they only see when you live together for so long. Live together to the point he taught Art to jerk off and mutter about how he’s doing it all wrong before he talks him through it and they do it together. Art listened, of course; he came hard even, but it was something they never talked about after they did it. Every boundary crossed, every look that lasted too long. They weren’t dating, weren’t friends, something closer, something worse.

At fifteen, people already see them as a problem. Coaches hate them because they are intense. Hated how much they are in sync. Hated how dependent on each other. They can’t breathe right if the other isn’t on the court. They can’t hit the ball right without the other’s focus shining through the noise in the court. They fought like hell but never stayed mad where it mattered. It wasn’t romantic. No one else saw them like that. It was just them, just fire and ice. Just Patrick and Art.

But at some point, some moments, it nearly broke open. Something. Just something. Patrick shoved too hard, and Ary said his name too softly before someone muttered, “Jesus, just fuck already,” and neither of them flinched at that. But nothing happened, not really, because they needed each other too much. They just coexist. Patrick knew Art was always going to be a star. The biggest of them all. He knows that he’s going to self-destruct at some point. But they still keep playing. They pretend nothing would come between them because that’s how things work.

And then after the blink of an eye, there’s college. It’s still good. The first months of college were better than they should’ve been. Got closer. Still in rhythm, roommates, doubles partners, orbiting each other like nothing had shifted. Same pattern, different zip code, free- until it started to change. Of course, it will. Art didn’t just slip away instantly. No. It happened slowly. Quiet. Small lies at first. Leaving too quickly after a practice. Always have a reason like “group project” or “just tired.” Harmless lies for some people, except that Patrick knew Art’s schedule down to the hour. They share a calendar that syncs their schedules, but Art’s lies kept coming- not dramatic, just consistent, which somehow made it worse.

Then one night when Patrick was strolling around the campus, he saw something. It’s already late. The campus is already emptied out besides the people walking back wobbly with their drunkass selves and some are sneaking out of their dorms. Thank god there’s no curfew in their building. He feels the coldness on his skin as he walks near the court. The buildings were already dark except for this one court that was still shining brightly. He slipped inside because it was supposed to be closed by now. He’s walking silently until he sees you.

You were kneeling in the dark, and Art was leaning back to the door while his hand was in your hair. His mouth parted like he just won another match. Patrick can see the way he’s thrusting in your mouth. The way his hips are rolling shallow while you work him inside your mouth slowly and wet as if you like it. Art is not loud. Probably knows the risk of being caught in public. So he just whispered your name, saying please, soft like a prayer, fingers flexing like he was trying not to fuck your mouth too fast.

Patrick stood frozen, breath locked in his chest as you pulled off with a slick sound, licked the tip, then sank back down like you wanted to be caught. This is inappropriate to watch your best friend getting ahead. Sure, he already knows what Art’s cock looks like. But it’s not like he wants to watch his sex life in front of him. But he stayed too long, long enough for it to be a mistake, then left without a sound, carrying the image like something he wasn’t supposed to keep.

Patrick didn’t bring it up, waiting for Art to say something. Art didn’t. So Patrick snapped. It itched something inside of him, so it just happened after a doubles win, adrenaline buzzing when Art said he was heading out early. Patrick didn’t look at him, just said flatly, “Are you seeing someone?” Art blinked and looked at Patrick too quickly, so he asked, “What?” Patrick dropped his towel, jaw tight. “You’ve been flaking for weeks. Are you seeing someone or not?”

Art gave the weakest shrug Patrick had ever seen. “Yeah. I guess.” Patrick’s jaw twitched. “You guess? Are you going to tell me her name?” Art said your name, and that was it. The girl on her knees has a name now on his mind. Suddenly, the ghost in Art’s schedule had a face, a mouth, and a memory Patrick couldn’t scrub out since that night. Still, he didn’t say anything about the court, about the lie. He just let it sit tight.

A week later, Art brought you to the dorm. Patrick was at his desk, halfway through typing something he didn’t care about, when Art strolled in like there hadn’t been tension for weeks. “You’ve met Patrick, right? ”Art asked. You smiled softly, practiced, like nothing was wrong. Patrick didn’t smile back. “Not really,” he said, flatly. “Saw him in the courts though.” That was it, no scene, no confrontation.

But when Art turned to drop his bag, Patrick looked at you, and you looked right back, hoping for something, but no smile, just a flicker of recognition. It wasn’t kindness. Just fire and ice, the start of something neither of you could walk back from. After that, it didn’t get easier. You kept showing up, not because Patrick wanted you there. He didn’t, but because Art did, always texting, pulling you closer like he couldn’t regulate without you. He missed your perfume on his pillows, your warmth in his sheets, and your shape in his sweatshirt.

Sometimes it was just a sleepy selfie with the caption “Wish you were here,” and you came every time. Art started bringing you to practice, like you were some part of a ritual, sitting in the bleachers remembering everything Art forgot. Patrick noticed, and he had these looks. They were loud and cold. Sometimes you will just catch him eyeing you like he’s playing percentage tennis, waiting for you to fuck up. His looks are like some timer that counts the minutes you have until you leave.

You’ve been telling yourself it wasn’t personal. Art warned you that Patrick didn’t trust easily and didn’t click with people unless they proved themselves. So you tried, letting him ignore you at diners when Art dragged you both out, sitting across from him pretending his silence didn’t scrape your skin. You let him order his 10 p.m. pancakes without judgment and tried small talk about matches or the weather or whatever bullshit conversation that feels so awkward. His answers are always dismissive and laced with taunt or boredom. There was this one time you offered him the food you’re eating and ike an asshole person he is: he just looked at you like he’s disgusted at the idea of sharing before saying that he doesn't like getting food with people he doesn't know.

And after that? You didn’t try at all. But you are stubborn, so another time, you brought him coffee, not as a peace offering, just as an act of kindness. You set it on the desk, sealed, untouched. He didn’t look up. “What’d you do?” he asks, already assuming you are just here to ask something about Art. “What?” You just said before you look at him with that face you do when you're confused. “Don’t drink shit I didn’t pour myself.” Oh, so he's going the mean route again. “It’s sealed,” bored and assured even though you are so tired of it. “Then I don’t need it.” You should have just put poison in his drink when you knew he'd be like that.

What's annoying is he's always there. Always in the shadow of Art. Sometimes you will just catch him not wearing any shirt in the dorm and looking fresh out of the shower while he's pouring cereal and never saying good morning to you. It was worse because you always woke up first, Art’s arm heavy around your waist, warm against your back. You’d slide out quietly, hoping not to break the spell.

And every goddamn time, Patrick was already at the desk. Always. There. Jaw clenched, pretending not to notice you in Art’s t-shirt. You told yourself to let it go, to remember Patrick came first, that they had years, not weeks. You just have that thought in your mind that no matter how warm Art was, Patrick would always come before you. But it wore on you, the way Patrick didn’t just dislike you- he made you feel stupid for trying. And you hated that most.

And you didn't even mean to stay over that one night. You just kind of did. Something happened, and the something is Art acting so cute, so you just have to stay because he's already Art pulling a clean, warm shirt from his drawer for you to wear, looking at you like he missed you, like you hadn’t seen each other hours ago.

He just has this way of saying “stay” that will make your heart melt. You keep telling yourself it's okay because it's just Patrick. Just him. Lucky, right? If his roommate were another person, it would've been harder. You can even ignore him and not say hi or look. But this time he's already in his bed which is new because you are not used to seeing him already tucked in, and his limbs are hiding under the blanket. The room is okay and nothing has changed. You've been here many times.

Tonight it's just darker since Patrick went to bed earlier than usual and has that college-boy smell of detergent and sweat. There are twin beds, not side by side but close enough not to have any privacy. You sat on Art’s bed, pretending you belonged, telling yourself you’ll be just sleeping over. But it was after all lights are out that Art started touching you, his hand on your hip, sliding lower under the hem of his shirt on you.

His breath brushed your neck, palm flattening against your stomach, before slipping between your thighs. “Art,” you whispered, thin, hesitant, and careful. “He’s right there.” Your breath hitches when Art doesn’t stop. “And sleeping,” he murmured, pressing his body closer to you, “he’s not going to wake up, swear,” And you don't even know what that is supposed to mean right now especially his hand is already… going places. You really tried, brushing Art’s wrist like you could stop it before it got worse.

You sigh, insisting to him just to wait while he kisses your shoulder, and his hand cups your chest as he lines up behind you. “I don’t want to wait. I miss you,” he whispers. He’s quiet, but there’s seriousness and determination in his voice like the decision has been made. “Just be quiet.” Your thighs tensed, your lip caught between your teeth, and when he pushed in slowly, deep- you let him. You tried to keep your breathing shallow, tried to stay still, but it was too much, the way he rocked into you like you were something he earned. Your hand covered your mouth, head pressed into the mattress, just a few feet away from Patrick.

But he didn't react. Just staying still like a statue. He's not coughing. He's not moving around or rolling over. But you feel him. His presence. You feel his silence. You feel he's awake because it's your senses telling you that he's just pretending he's asleep while hearing every quiet sound of your slickness, every breath that you're holding back, but it slipped when Art found that deep, slow rhythm. You wondered if he heard the creak of the mattress under your hips, if he knew how wet you were, how shameless you’d gone for Art’s praise. When Art muttered, “Fuck, baby, you feel so good,” you didn’t hush him. You just took it slow, full thrusts dragging inside of you, his grip iron on your waist. Across the room, Patrick stayed silent, but you felt the heat of his attention even in the dark.

In the morning, you smiled at Patrick and said good morning like you hadn’t let his best friend fuck you while he pretended not to exist. And Patrick looked at you like he already had plans to make you regret it. After that, it got worse. Patrick didn’t start fights in front of Art or roll his eyes when there’s other people. He waited until Art left the room every time. One minute you’d be curled into Art’s side, and the next you’d feel it, that shift, that heavy quiet. Patrick would glance at you, scrolling on his phone, before dropping, “So you actually watch his matches now, or just the ones he wins?”

It was constant, the small cuts. The annoying one. That makes you want to punch him in the face, one. Late-night takeout when Patrick muttered, “Girls who can’t finish fries are more likely to cheat.” You stared, “What?” and he bit into his sandwich like he hadn’t said it on purpose. You tried to get ahead of it, asking about his matches and joking about his shoes. He shut it down every time. “Didn’t know I needed commentary from a cheerleader,” he’d say. Once, when you teased him for being late, he shot back, “Careful. You sound like someone who thinks she’s his coach and his girlfriend.”

The worst were the subtle ones. Passing you in the hall, muttering, “She reads now? God, he’s making a person out of you.” And Art kept smiling, kept pulling you closer, kept asking Patrick what he thought of you, and Patrick would shrug, “She’s fine,” which somehow hurt more than an insult. At parties, Patrick watched your face every time Art touched you, waiting for that flicker.

The first time you stepped onto the sand in Art’s hoodie and bikini, Patrick whistled, “You sure he’s the only one who gets to see that?” You rolled your eyes. “You’re disgusting.” He smirks at your insult at him, but he doesn't back down. “It’s a compliment.” Oh yeah, a compliment. What a nice one to name it. It’s fucking annoying that everything is just a joke. Always a joke to him. He never even tries to make it feel like a joke. Just make it hurt.

Because he's Patrick Zweig. He always makes you want to shoot his head. He would say something disgusting and dirty with a wink and provoke you until you felt a sick feeling in your stomach reacting. You tried showing Art you were uncomfortable, but Patrick was too quick. “She’s looking at me like she wants to fight,” he’d say lightly, and Art would laugh, “She’s all talk.”

So you’d swallow the heat in your cheeks, forced to laugh too, because what else could you do? Patrick would lean across the table, voice low, “Do you always wear gloss that is sticky, or just for him?” and you didn’t know if he wanted you to hate him or break first. It wasn’t immediate, that slow rot of it. At first, you were just Art’s girlfriend, tagging along, fading smiles, waiting through practice.

Patrick was just the roommate, the doubles partner with a jaw that never unclenched. You thought it was shyness. It wasn’t, not when he started with those glances that are too long and a shoulder bump that wasn’t friendly. Art didn’t notice, pulling you in with a laugh, saying, “You two are getting along now, huh?” You’d smile. Patrick wouldn’t, eyes pinned on you until your skin burned, pretending to listen to Art but never looking away.

You tried matching Art’s warmth, laughing when Patrick jokes, and asking polite questions. But every time, he punished you for trying. You asked if he liked your necklace. He didn’t look, just said, “Doesn’t seem like your style,” and walked away. You offered him gum in the car, and he took it, chewed, then said, “Tastes like lip gloss.” You rolled your eyes, and he grinned like it was all a game you were already losing. Then came the touches, small and deniable.

Under the table at dinner, his foot tapped your ankle- and stayed. When you moved, he followed. When you shifted, he shifted. Once, waiting for Art to change, Patrick brushed your hip as he passed. Not an accident, not casual, just enough to make you freeze before he kept walking like nothing happened. Then he got bolder. It happened during lunch months back when Art was so late and Patrick just stared at you. He's just staring at what you're doing while you can feel his knee contact with yours.

So you glare at him, I'm but his response to you is just to tilt his head and raise an eyebrow. “Relax. Art said you were friendly.” Later, he knocked your book off the arm just to make you bend. When you muttered, he smirked, “What? You’ve bent lower.” Your face went hot, throat tight, but he didn’t blink. Every time he stopped, the second Art walked back in. Like clockwork. Like he knew you’d never say anything- and liked it that way.

Art believed it all, the performances, the way Patrick would smirk and call you “princess” like a joke. The way he’d whistle when you wore something short before turning it into a compliment about “Art’s taste.” He knew how to turn it off the second Art looked, but you felt it every time. The way he leaned close, voice low, calling you by name like it tasted good. The way his hand lingered on your waist, your arm, that live-wire space between your ribs and hip. Art never saw it, not how Patrick always found a way to be alone with you.

Even if all Patrick said was, “Wearing perfume, or is that for Art?” Or grabbing your wrist a little too tight, muttering, “You don’t smell like someone who’s taken.” You hated him. Hated how good he was at being a dick in the most protected way. Hated how your face went hot when he looked at you like he knew something you didn’t want to admit. Hated how you could never tell if he wanted to mess with you- or if he already had.

And now here you are, in a frat house that’s massive in that old money and school legacy way. Hiding deep on campus, past the tennis courts, just there, arm enough that no one who’d care would notice. Finals over, music too loud, drinks too strong, strobe lights and smoke in every room. No one’s taking photos. No one’s snitching. Art’s hand finds your back the second you walk in, calm, guiding, no words needed. He belongs here, and so does Patrick.

Inside, it's limbs and liquor, beer pong and jungle juice, rooms pulsing with bass. Patrick’s there, leaning against the stair rail in a white tee, drink in hand, eyes dragging up your legs the second you walk in, but Art doesn’t notice. You do. You saw him watching you long enough to make you not surprised. A corner of the living room is claimed, drinks scattered, ash on the rug. Art sinks into the couch; you follow, his arm around your shoulders.

People you know sprawl around, someone on the floor, another perched on the armrest with a blunt. Patrick’s across from you, legs spread, drink on his thigh, watching, mouth twitching when your laugh softens. Someone passes a joint to Art, but he waves it off, Patrick taking it instead, smoke rolling slowly like a performance. “Didn’t know you were a lightweight,” Patrick says, and someone scoffs, “He’s boring when he’s in love.” Art pulls you closer, but your eyes are on the person who dares to say that. “Can’t risk losing my girl doing all of that shit.” Laughter, clinking cups, your face warm as you smile.

Patrick’s still watching. “Cute,” he says, flatly, and smirks a little at you when he sees that subtle reaction you made. “Bet she’s the type to throw up after one shot and still ask for another.” You don’t look at him because you know he'll just insult you. “Better than crying in a hallway ‘cause you lost pong,” so yeah, you know how to talk in front of him now without caring about who he is in Art’s life. Low “oooh” across the room, Art laughing, “She’s got a bite, huh? ”Patrick smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He sips his drink like it’s the last word but never stops looking at you.

You don’t even notice how packed the place has gotten, bodies everywhere, the air thick with weed, sweat, and something sugary. You’re on the couch between Art and a girl from the women’s team, skin warm, your skirt riding up, mesh top clinging, no bra, but you feel comfortable. Every time you lean forward, you feel Patrick’s gaze drag like teeth. Of course, he saw everything: Art’s hand on your back, your gloss fresh, your laugh bright, glowing like a star. And Patrick watches like he’s solving a problem that keeps smiling back.

Drink after drink, it's already past midnight, drinks are stronger, and the room is looser. Art’s warm, soft, leaning into you with a quiet murmur that makes the girl next to you giggle. You tuck closer, but his gaze is still there, flicking from your mouth to your lap to where Art’s hand keeps creeping higher. Art’s fingers slide beneath your skirt like he doesn’t even realize it, his mouth brushing your shoulder, the couch creaking under your weight.

Someone cracks a joke, laughter bouncing, but none of it touches your space. Just Art. He is being more clingy. More affectionate. More touchy, even if this is a public space. Art hums, pulling you closer, palm flat on your stomach. “Smell good,” he mumbles, and your eyes flick to Patrick before you move closer to your boyfriend. Patrick’s already looking sharp, leaning forward before a crooked smile flashes across his face.

You shift, drink empty, Art’s knuckles ghosting under your top, Patrick’s eyes locked on you, never looking away. The room spins in that syrupy, almost-drunk way, Art’s thumb drawing circles on your thigh. You murmur, “Bathroom, just a sec,” and he barely nods, distracted, lips brushing your temple again. When you stand, you straighten your skirt, and your top is still smooth while your heels click as you walk away from the scene. You feel eyes follow you, but you just continue.

He drains the last of his drink, sets the cup down, jaw tight, shoulders loose, still in that same seat. Until now. Art glances over to him, “Where are you going? ”Patrick shrugs, chin tipping toward the stairs. “Thought I saw someone I liked.” Art laughs, oblivious about what he's about to do. “You’re shameless.” Patrick smirks, “You say that like it’s new.” That’s it. Art doesn’t think twice; why would he? It’s Patrick, always fucking around. He always has girls in his arms. He doesn’t notice the way Patrick’s eyes track you, the heat in his step. He doesn’t know you’re the only one who went upstairs at this moment. But the bastard is already halfway to the stairs. He has this smile that you don’t know if you will get annoyed or not. He’s really confident like he’s really following someone he likes.

You closed the door when you reached the bathroom and didn’t slam it, but loud enough to make a sound. You locked it and the party sounds are not that loud inside but still bang against the wall because of the loud volume. The overhead light is too bright, gloss smudged, your neck sticky where Art kissed you, slow and tipsy, leaving his hand on your thigh too long. You don’t even need to pee; you just need a breath. You need a mirror, an excuse to get away from the couch, from Art’s heat, from the weight of Patrick’s stare across the room. You can still feel it, that look, how it drags over your skin no matter how crowded it gets. You swipe gloss over your bottom lip, steady, ignoring the trembling in your fingers, refusing to look like you’re hiding.

But of course, you’re not alone for long. He wants to break your peace too quickly, like a leech. Footsteps creak on the stairs, familiar enough that your jaw tenses before the knock even comes. It’s casual, like he owns the hallway. “Are you done yet? ” he calls, rough and flat, like he’s bored already while continuing to knock. “It’s occupied.” A pause, then, “Need to piss.” You roll your eyes, like… he can pick the other bathroom, and he's here. “There’s another one downstairs.” You stated that because he's just finding an excuse now, you feel it. “Line’s long. This one’s closer.” You roll your eyes, voice cool, “Sounds like a problem.”

Another knock, slower, just rhythm, toying with you. “Jesus. Chill out. Do your makeup or whatever while I take a piss. Just don’t look.” Your laugh is sharp. He's so unbelievable. So fucked up. Such an asshole. Really. “What makes you think I want to see you piss?” You are silent after that, and then there's the smug, nasty energy before it even lands. “You weren’t that shy when you were on your knees choking on my best friend’s cock.” You go still, heat climbing your neck, not shame- anger. Your hand slides to the lock, calm, opening the door slowly, steadily, and you look at him like you're sending him to his grave.

“Get a new obsession,” you say, voice flat, and face the mirror again like this is making you so bored. “That one’s old.” He pouts while he leans against the frame. He has this fake innocent look as he watches you. “It’s just an inside joke, chill,” Your fingers curl tight because what the fuck you supposed to feel when the inside joke is you giving your boyfriend a head? “You should focus your attention on someone who cares.” His smirk just widens like he's happy at what he heard. “Nice, cool. Don't give a fuck? Said by a girl who’s desperate for my attention.”

The door clicks shut when he finally goes inside. You stay by the sink, eyes on your reflection, gloss faded, concealer patchy, ignoring him. He unzips and starts pissing like it’s a show. You keep your focus on your mouth, the shape of your lips, dragging gloss back over them, top then bottom, careful, precise. The toilet flushes- zip, shift, maybe a shake. You couldn't care less anyway, so you just open your concealer and put some more underneath your eyes. You ignore the way there's tension because there's not.

There’s no warning or playing around when you feel him behind you. He’s like pressing his body against your back. So god forbid a girl needs a warning because maybe you don’t want his lips too close to you. Imagine if you move a little then your ass is pressing to his crotch. Yeah, imagine if you bend a little too. But what makes you jumpy is when his arms are between your legs against him when he slides them to open the faucet in front of you. Oh. Oh… Okay, that's a little embarrassing because he's just going to clean his hands, right? Water runs, splashing against the basin, while his other hand braces on the counter, caging you in. He washes his hands slowly, deliberately, letting droplets flick against your wrist. You keep dabbing concealer, acting untouched.

His hips press, casual, denim brushing the hem of your skirt. His shoulders brush yours every time he moves, steady, taking space like he’s testing how much you’ll tolerate. “Didn’t peg you for the type who fixes her face before she gets fucked,” he says, low and smooth. You don’t blink. “Didn’t peg you for the type who needs a mirror to feel tall.” A quiet huff of laughter, his breath warm against your temple. “Cute.”

You uncap your powder compact, pressing it against your cheek, ignoring the way his eyes drag down your reflection. “I saw how he was touching you downstairs,” Patrick murmurs, his voice closer, almost gentle, like a knife pressed flat. “Hands on your thighs, your waist. Let me guess- he fingers you under the blanket at parties, doesn’t he? Gets off on pretending no one knows.” Your jaw tightens, but you keep patting powder, ignoring the static crawling up your spine.

When he shifts, you can feel his hips now aligning with you. You could feel the way his jeans dragged slowly to your ass. “You let him fuck you in public like that, but up here, you need a minute alone?” You close the compact, lining your gloss and concealer on the sink, acting in control. “You talk a lot for someone who pisses like a drunk frat boy.” You stated, and you heard his voice drop when he answered that statement, teeth behind every syllable. “I’m just trying to understand. Is it that you like it soft? Or is it just that he can’t give you anything else? ”

You inhale, slow, measured, nails tapping marble. “Tell me,” he adds, lower, “does he even make you come?” You slam the gloss cap angrily as you turn slowly, back pressing into the sink, chin lifted. “I’m going to tell him you pissed on your hands and got water on my concealer.” He doesn’t flinch, leaning in, breath warm by your cheek, eyes on your mouth. “You know what’s wild?” he murmurs, voice curling dark. “Out of every girl begging for him, every future he could’ve chased- he ends up with you. And suddenly he forgets how to fucking win.”

You swipe gloss over your bottom lip, refusing to give him anything. His eyes track your mouth like he can’t help himself to watch you do that, especially if you have good lips. But he's a jerk, so it will not be the reason not to piss you off more. “Kind of tragic,” he continues, soft, lazy, and cruel. “The second he starts getting regular pussy, he stops showing up. Skips lifts, misses drills, can’t string a racquet without help.” Your lip twitches; you smooth it with your finger, eyes hard. “You must be proud,” he says, leaning closer, “ruined a whole prodigy with your legs spread.”

“Bet he tells you he’s lucky,” Patrick goes on, his voice darkening, soft enough to sink under your skin. “Bet he looks at you like you’re the reason he breathes, like you didn’t drag him off court into some pathetic boyfriend fantasy.” Your fingers press into the marble, gloss trembling. “Letting him fuck you in that dorm bed like it means something,” he says, “like moaning for him while I’m a few feet away doesn’t make you a joke.” Your throat shifts, but you don’t respond.

“Jesus, he fucks you like you’re made of glass,” Patrick adds, and that one slices deep. “You don’t want to be soft. You want someone who’ll grab you by the throat and ruin you. You want someone who’ll make you cry just to see how far he can take it. You want it to mean something. Don’t pretend you don’t.” You still don’t move, but he knows he’s winning, peeling you open layer by layer, and you hate him for it. You hate what he's doing right now. You hate him saying all of this bullshit.

Then softer, meaner, pressing close: “And I don’t even think you’re fixing your makeup for him.” You freeze, air stuck in your chest as you wait for his next words. “I think you’re fixing it for me.” His breath warms your cheek, that half-smirk in your periphery. “You want me to see it,” he says, low, patient, “want me to remember how pretty your mouth looked the first time I saw it full of his cock?”

Your fingers dig into the sink, shoulders tense, gloss still trembling on the marble. “You were so into it,” Patrick adds, grin slow and ugly, “down on your knees like some trophy whore with a mission, all devoted, like blowing him in the dark made you better than me.” Your jaw locks. “You came up here to feel clean again, didn’t you? ” he murmurs, voice almost soft. “But it’s still all over you, and we both know it.” Then, quiet, final, like dragging a match across the edge: “He’s the one getting your mouth. But I'll be the one to ruin it once we're finished.”

That’s the moment. Anger got deeper, hot in your throat, and you shoved him with both hands, teeth bared, in blind rage. He stumbles half a step, laughing under his breath, like it excites him. “Fuck you,” you spit, voice shaking. You glare at him while he still has that smug look on his face. Your hand slaps him before you even realize it. Your palm touches his cheek, hard. You feel it sting, and it leaves a red reaction on his cheek. His head turns a little to the action, but he just lets it happen and doesn't say anything. He's now talking to you, and he has something dark sparking in his eyes. Then he exhales, a wrecked grin barely holding. “There she is.”

Your hand hurts. You are not used to slapping people out of anger. Yeah, no shit, it's stinging a little. You practice your breathing while you're doing many activities. Cheeks are flushed and raw. Regardless of all of it, he still looks at you like it proved something, like it confirmed what he’s always known. “I’ve tried to be nice to you,” you say, low, shaking, eyes locked on him. “I fucking have.” His head tilts like it’s funny, like he’s indulging you, silent while you unravel. “I’ve let you get away with so much,” you continue, voice rising. “Because you’re Art’s friend. Because I thought if I ignored it, you’d get over it.”

Your chest heaves, heat crawling up your neck. “I didn’t tell him about the shit you’ve said when he wasn’t around. Or the way you touched my leg when you thought he couldn’t see. Or the way you look at me.” Your voice hardens, steady and cold. “You’re lucky, Patrick. Lucky I didn’t blow it all up the first time you opened your mouth. Lucky I kept it quiet. You think I couldn’t ruin you? ” He exhales slowly, the grin that follows calm and cruel, predictable. “As if he’d believe you.”

You freeze, the dismissal hitting harder than anything else tonight. His tone is light, like it’s obvious. He leans in, breath brushing your cheek, voice low. “You really think he’d believe you?” he murmurs. “The girlfriend who flirts with me when he’s out of the room? Who makes a scene every time I look at her, like she likes being watched?” Your jaw clenches, hands shaking. “He believes me,” Patrick finishes, no smirk this time, just that cold certainty. “Always has.”

Before you can speak, he moves. He grabs your wrists without warning and pins them down on the marble. Making you feel closed and caged in there with his body crowding you without any space left. His action made you unable to catch your breath; it was sudden and shocked you. You feel his grip tightening and rough enough to show you he has the upper hand, not you. He leans in like he might whisper something gentle, but nothing about Patrick Zweig is soft. “You are delusional to think he's going to believe you, because he's not,” he said, and he's pissed. His lips are so close to the point that you can feel the hotness of his breath against your face. “He’s not going to believe a single fucking thing you say about me.”

You turn your head, catching his eyes in the mirror, but he doesn’t look at you, too busy slicing. “You think he’d take your side over mine? Some girl he’s been fucking for what- eight months? Ten? Gets to undo everything? Rewrite the years?” His grip tightens, your wrists aching. “I’ve known him since before he had a serve. Before sponsors. Before he knew what to do with himself. We’ve roomed together, fought together, and won together. I’ve bled for him. I built him.”

Your laugh is bitter, breath hot. “You’re so fucking full of shit.” His mouth twitches. “And you’re so fucking temporary.” Your eyes narrow, your voice sharp, deadly. “This isn’t about Art believing me. It’s about you not being able to believe he chose me.” His eyes flick to yours, dangerous. “That’s what’s eating you alive, isn’t it?” You continue, breath catching. “That no matter how close you stand, no matter how much history you shove down everyone’s throat, he didn’t want you the way he wanted me.”

His face hardens, jaw tight, but he doesn’t interrupt, hands still locked around your wrists, body flush to yours. “You don’t hate me,” you said, almost challenging him. “I think you hate that you're not in my place,” you snap, and you are satisfied to see the crack in his expression when you said that because it's so fast- he got affected the moment you said those words. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, and you can feel the silence so loud it fills the whole bathroom. He leans in again, voice lower, scraped raw, closer than before. “I don’t want to be in your place,” he mutters. “I want to fuck you out of it.”

The moment lands, heavy, and then he moves- just a slow, steady shift of his hips, rough denim grinding against you, pressing close until your breath catches like a hook in your throat. His grip on your wrist doesn’t ease, body against you, cock dragging in you like he wants to wear you down one grind at a time. You hate how fast your body betrays you, how your thighs press together, how heat pools low in your stomach, shame curling with it. He feels it, of course he does, and the quiet, smug sound he lets out brands itself into your spine. “Didn’t even have to touch you yet,” he murmurs, not mocking- worse, admiring. “And you’re already squeezing your fucking legs like it’ll help.” You force your voice sharp, trying to cut through it. “Get the fuck off me-”

But you don’t believe it, not when he lets go of one wrist only to drag that hand down your side, slow enough you feel every inch. Over your ribs, pausing at your waist, gathering your skirt in his fist like he’s done it before, like he knows exactly what’s waiting. His palm grazes your inner thigh, heavy and possessive, and then it’s up, in, cupping you over your underwear like it’s nothing, like you’re nothing. Your breath catches too fast, and he groans because your body confirms everything he’s ever suspected about you. “Jesus,” he breathes. “He has no idea what he’s got, does he? Letting you walk around like this, untouched, leaking for the first person who calls you a slut.”

Your body burns, scraping up your throat like it has claws. “I’ll tell him,” you manage, voice shaking but jaw set. His hand stills for a moment against you. “I’ll tell Art. I’ll tell him you touched me, that you said all this shit, that you came in here and tried to-” You say too quickly, and your breath catches in your throat, making you not finish your sentence. “Tried?” Patrick laughs, sharp and slow, slicing you open. “You’re going to tell him I tried?” Your stomach turns, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s already pushing your panties aside like you never spoke, fingers slipping through the mess of you, dragging through your slick, and the stunned groan he lets out.

“You’re not going to tell him shit.” His breath is warm, calm, like it’s the harsh truth. Your breath hitches when his fingers drag up again, soaking and obscene in how easy it is for him to find how wet you are. “Because then you’d have to tell him the rest,” he murmurs, curling a finger, teasing without giving anything. “You’d have to tell him you stayed still. That you let me touch you. That you fucking liked it.” He chuckles when you arch and presses his hand unintentionally because your body is reacting to it. You feel the heat burning because of the anger, shame, and humiliation he's making you feel.

“You won’t say a word,” he stated and smiled at you because he's showing that you don't have a choice; it's said gently and softly, like a slap to your face. “Because you’re a cheating little whore who let me in.” Your breath hitches at his words before you shake your head. You're not a cheater. You're not. You're not an asshole like him who wants his girlfriend. You are not cheating on Art because you don't want it. You don't… right?

You can feel his hold on your wrist tighten, and he looks at your eyes while his other hand slips one knuckle deep and presses into you. “You let me in.” His voice is quiet, terrifying in its certainty, his hand dragging through your slick like it’s his reward for being right. Your hips twitch, betrayal hot and dizzying, the bathroom too small around the sound of your breathing. You react without thinking, twisting sharply, trying to shove him off, but he only smiles, hands shifting to your hips.

Before you can slap him, he moves, lifting you like it’s nothing, setting you down hard on the counter, cold marble against your ass. His chest crowds your knees, the bathroom buzzing with heat and light. You open your mouth to say many insults and curse him out and your legs are much more comfortable now. You took your chance anyway. You kick, distracted and your foot touches his stomach before you completely lose it. You just want to feel it, especially the kick. For a second, trembling, you think it’s over. Then he laughs, low and wrecked, half pain, half pleasure. “Oh, fuck, you’re really one of those.”

“You fight when you’re turned on, huh?” He taunts you and laughs while his eyes remain on you. “Kick me while I’m touching your pussy and expect me to believe you don’t want it?” You glare, chest heaving, anger in your throat, but he steps closer, wincing, still laughing. “Because I don’t,” you spit, shoving at him, but he’s already between your legs again, body heat rolling off him, oppressive. “No?” he mocks softly, tilting his head. “Then why are you soaked through your panties?”You try to slap him, but he catches your wrist midair, calm, practiced, eyes locked on yours, dark and vicious.

“You like it when I’m disgusting,” he says, voice low, almost tender. “You like it when I talk shit about your perfect little boyfriend. You want me to treat you like trash and fuck you stupid while you lie to his face.” You feel your pulse thrumming in your throat, and it's suffocating you. You don't look away as much, you try it because he keeps squeezing you every time you do it, and making your breath hitch. “You want it to be mean,” he adds. “So I’m going to give it to you.” His grip tightens, bruising where his fingers dig in, his cock hard against your inner thigh, breath ragged, ready, filthy with want. You’re perched on the cold counter, body flushed, heart hammering, thighs trembling- not with fear. With rage. With something worse than rage.

Before you can slap him, he moves, lifting you like it’s nothing, setting you down hard on the counter, cold marble against your ass. His chest crowds your knees, the bathroom buzzing with heat and light. You open your mouth to say many insults and curse him out but your legs are much more comfortable now. You took your chance anyway. You kick, distracted and your foot touches his stomach before you completely lose it. You just want to feel it, especially the kick. For a second, full of adrenaline, you think it’s over because he got the hint. Then he laughs, low and wrecked, half pain, half pleasure. “Oh, fuck, you’re really one of those.”

“You fight when you’re turned on, huh?” He taunts you and laughs while his eyes remain on you. “Kick me while I’m touching your pussy and expect me to believe you don’t want it?” You glare, chest heaving, anger in your throat, but he steps closer, wincing, still laughing. “Because I don’t,” you spit out, shoving at him, but he’s already between your legs again, body heat rolling off him, oppressive. “No?” he mocks softly, tilting his head. “Then why are you soaked through your panties?” You try to slap him, but he catches your wrist midair, calm, practiced, eyes locked on yours, dark and vicious.

“You like it when I’m disgusting,” he says, voice low, almost tender. “You like it when I talk shit about your perfect little boyfriend. You want me to treat you like trash and fuck you stupid while you lie to his face.” You feel your pulse thrumming in your throat and it's suffocating you. You don't look away as much, you try it because he keeps squeezing you every time you do it, and making your breath hitch. “You want it to be mean,” he adds. “So I’m going to give it to you.” His grip tightens, bruising where his fingers dig in, his cock hard against your inner thigh, breath ragged, ready, filthy with want. You’re perched on the cold counter, body flushed, heart hammering, thighs trembling- not with fear. With rage. With something worse than rage.

You’ve had enough. You look him dead in the eye, voice cold and flat. “You’re just pissed he gets to fuck this pussy and you don’t.” It’s not a tease, it’s a bullet, and you see the twitch in his jaw before his smile vanishes like you punched him harder than your foot ever could. It only lasts a second before twisting into something darker, unhinged. “Oh yeah?” he says, voice rough, all threat, before grabbing your thighs, harsh and fast, shoving them open so wide the counter edge bites your legs. He steps in, crowding you completely, hands spreading you like he’s got something to prove and no patience left to do it gently.

“I’m going to fuck it too,” he snarls. One hand yanks your panties down in one motion, dragging the soaked fabric past your knees like it offends him, like it proves every awful thing he’s ever said about you. He lets it drop to the floor and ignores it, like you never meant to keep it on. “You think letting him in first means anything to me? I’m still going to have a taste.” You glare at him because that's what you do. You always try not to react when he does something stupid. You try not to show how much he's getting under your skin and how naked you feel right now. You try not to make your thighs tremble worse than they're doing right now. You try not to feel something you refuse to name. You just hate him when he does something like this as if his breath is hot and close to your jaw, hands rough on your hips, voice low, “You let him in. Now you’re going to let me take it.”

Something in you snaps. Without even realizing it, you shoved him hard. But as expected, he barely moves an inch, he just waits for you to do more. So you just say something, “You better fuck me better than he does, or I’m telling him everything.” This is messy, you know that. You shouldn't give in, you also know that. But you are prideful and you refuse to back down from Patrick. He doesn’t laugh but he smiles, darker, breathes in like your words are the best thing he’s ever tasted. Then moves, reaching into his pocket without looking away. He flips open his phone, presses record, and points the camera at you.

“What the fuck are you-” you start, but he cuts you off. “I want you to remember this,” he says, voice low. “Have something to have in my memorabilia when you are playing good girlfriend to Art.” You watch him kneel in front of you and he opens your legs wider as he settles on the tile. His grip is not changing, it's still tight and firm, and his nails are digging. It's embarrassing actually how your panties are tangling at your ankles, and the heat of his breath is getting closer to where you want him. One hand holds the phone, the other slides up your leg, mapping out what’s his, eyes flicking up, not asking, just memorizing you.

“I want you to cum on my tongue,” he says like it's already decided and approved by you, “and then I’m going to make you watch it happen.” You just nod while you feel your breath stutter. You can’t speak because the words are dying on your tongue as his tongue drags across your inner thigh, slow and teasing like he's taunting you while making you twitch. He exhales and laughs like he feels everything building in your pulse, your shaking legs. Then, softer but dark enough to slice you open, he whispers, “Tell the camera.” You don’t move, breath caught, and shaking. “Tell him I made you forget his name.”

And with that, he buries his face between your legs like he’s been waiting forever. You’re shaking now as you watch him still filming, and you're trying to keep control like the words can keep your body in line- but it’s slipping. His mouth is too fucking good because goddamn, he's not just licking you like with what he use to other girls. You feel him learning. He's moving his tongue like he's remembering the shape and he's mapping you. He's learning every movement in your hips, every moan you are trying to swallow but fail, and he wants to own every sound you make. You don’t move at first, not when his breath ghosts over your thigh, not when his mouth hovers like he thinks he’s worshipping something.

You just reach down, fingers closing over the phone still in his hand, and when he doesn’t stop what you're doing, you snatch it. He doesn't even blink and lets you take it. You tilt the camera, angle it right, his face framed by your thighs, slick between them, nothing else. You press record. And you smile at him like there's a switch that just got turned on. “Look at you,” you murmur and mocking him. “On your knees for a girl you can’t fucking stand.” His tongue flicks over your mound and you don’t flinch.

“You talk all that shit about how I mess him up, how I made him soft, how I fucked up his game.” You tilt the phone to catch his mouth around your cunt, especially him licking your clit. “But here you are, pathetic, obsessed, tongue out like a fucking dog.” He groans when you call him that word while his mouth is open, tongue dragging up your slit like he’s trying to drown in it, like this is what he’s always wanted. You feel the heat and the mess, the way your body reacts, but you don’t let it show. Not yet. Not going to give him that satisfaction. “You pretend you hate me, but this is what you’ve been begging for.”

He grunts into your pussy, fingers digging into your thighs, tongue sloppy and eager. “God, listen to you,” you whisper, your voice hard even as your thighs tremble. “It’s embarrassing how you moan like it's the real cunt you've ever eaten.” His body shudders at that, his hips twitch like he wants to rut against the floor, like he's soaked inside his clothes and tip dripping. “You love this, don’t you?” You breathe, still filming, your grip steady. “Being on your knees, being used, being recorded like the pathetic freak you are.” His mouth closes around your clit, and your voice finally cracks, a sharp gasp tearing out as your legs shake.

But you keep going, shaking, spit-slick, and ruined. “You’ve wanted it since the first time you saw me fuck him,” you say, breath ragged, mean. “You wanted to know what I taste like when I’m thinking about someone else.” He groans, jaw working faster, tongue relentless, hitting perfectly, your body tightening and arching, moans wrecked. “You like taking people’s girlfriends,” you hiss, fisting his hair, grinding him into you. “Sick.” He whines, tongue moving like he needs it to live, humiliated and desperate.

You press the phone closer, making the angle worse for him and better for you. Through your own shaking, gasping moans, you whisper, “You better make me come so hard I forget his name.” He moves unexpectedly and his action made you jumpy because you can feel his grip tighten as he pulls your thighs even wider open to keep you in your place. Then his mouth close around your clit, and he sucks hard. Your whole body jolts like he shocked you, a sound catching in your throat before you can silence it. It spills out high, sharp, and raw- and he knows.

He groans against it which makes a vibration through the action as he does it with his tongue flicking and his lips dragging sloppy and relentlessly head to you. Like he’s giving you something no one ever gave you before. You choke on the moan, trying to keep it quiet, but it slips. “It feels- fuck- it feels good.” You freeze the second you hear yourself say it. He doesn’t. He moans into you again, louder, deeper, like it’s praise, tongue drawing slow circles, lips sucking hard, rhythm locked in, a wicked smirk pressed into your cunt like he just won the match point.

You try to yank his hair, to glare, to be mean or something, but he’s not having it. His tongue flicks faster, and you feel the orgasm building in your spine, and it’s inevitable. While he’s sucking- devouring- grinning- smug- piece of shit, because you slipped, because you admitted it felt good, and now he’s going to make sure you remember it. But instead of speeding up, instead of chasing your orgasm, he changes. Slow. Smooths out his movements like he’s changing lanes, like this isn’t just about your pleasure anymore. His tongue moves slowly, every stroke carved with intent which is to make you cum. A single line, then a curve, then a sharp flick.

You feel it in your thighs first, then your gut, your brain catching up. He’s spelling something. P…flick up, drag down across your clit. A… soft sweep, almost a shape. T… slow, pressing, obscene. Of course, you try not to give in like biting your lips but your body isn’t listening to what you want and keep bucking and your breath is like you are running in a marathon. And he keeps going. R… a drawn slowly, tongue curling to do the letter. I… just a short stroke, playful dot after. C… just a curl of his tongue from up to the left, like you’re drawing a rainbow. K… this letter is wetter, meaner, and worse than the last. You want to say his name to tell him to stop, but that’s the point. He wants it in your mouth.

He pulls back, mouth slick down to his chin, lips parted, eyes dark and shining when he says, “You feel that?” You’re panting, trembling, trying not to nod. “That’s me,” he says, smiling into your thigh before he bites it and sucks it a little. “That’s Patrick.” Then he leans in and spells it again, slow this time to taunt you as if he’s making fun of this situation because he’s making sure you’ll feel it when you sit, when you shower, when Art’s inside you and you can’t help but remember. Your hand slips, the phone drops down beside her, still recording every soaked, ruined sound echoing from the bathroom. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re not acting for the camera, and you’re breathing but barely. Your hands clawing at the counter while Patrick’s mouth eats you down piece by piece.

He groans against your cunt, tongue dragging, jaw relentless, pulling back to speak, mouth hovering over your clit like a threat. “Jesus. You’ve got no shame,” he mutters. “This pussy’s unreal. And you waste it on him?” You try to breathe, shaking your head, but it doesn’t matter. He groans, tongue pressing flat and slow like he’s licking you clean, “He doesn’t deserve this. You let him touch you like it means something.” You whine and your legs twitch when his hold tightened and making them stay still and pinning you in place as if he knows you are getting a wobbly feeling.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks, voice sharp, ugly but he’s smirking at the audacity of the situation. “You like cheating on him, lying to his face, then spreading your legs for me.” You kick your foot in the air but he just shuts it down by pinning it back where it was. You shake your head as his words get into you. “Shut up,” you gasp, but it’s weak, drowned out by the sound of your body soaking his mouth. “You don’t want love,” Patrick grunts, sucking your clit hard like it’s punishment. “You want this. You want to be fucked. You want to be used. You want me to fuck you while you still smell like his sheets.” You let out a broken cry, legs shaking, orgasm right there, hot and you can’t stop it.

“Say it,” he growls, licking you rougher, faster, and meaner. “Say you like cheating on him.” You can’t speak, mouth open, whimpers spilling instead of words. He pulls back just enough to say it again, meaner, louder, “Say. You like cheating on him.” Then he sucks, deep, long, and hard, and you shatter, coming with a sound that doesn’t sound like yours, body seizing, thighs clamping, voice cracking open into a moan that lives in shame. Just before it takes you under, before you lose everything, he says it, low, laughing, awful: “Fuck, listen to you. You’re coming like you were made to cheat.”

You’re shaking, hot and soaked, nerves frayed from being edged and denied, everything in you strung tight and aching. You didn’t realize how close you were until he ripped his mouth away, leaving you open, wanting, and ruined. Your thighs twitch, hips searching for contact, for anything. But he doesn’t give it. You watched him unbuckle his belt while his eyes were locked on you as you fell apart in front of him. You hear his zipper slowly slide down, metal sounds echoing and then he pulls out his cock from inside, it’s thick, flushed, already slick from watching you unravel.

You want to spit something, anything, but your mouth is dry, breath shallow, and hands braced against the counter like you’ll slide off if he touches you again. He steps forward, eyes on yours, stroking himself once, twice, dragging the head of his cock up your soaked slit. He doesn’t push in, just lets it rest there- heavy, hot, a promise. “You don’t like cheating?” he murmurs, soft enough to sound gentle but meant to make you sick. “Then what the fuck is this?” You open your mouth, but he moves before you can speak, cock rolling against you, dragging through slick that makes you both groan, your legs twitching wide.

“Say it,” he says, tongue pressed to his teeth, “Lie to me again. Tell me you don’t want this.” You can’t, not with how you’re pulsing, cunt clenching every time the head of his cock bumps your cunt, still twitching from the orgasm taken away from you. And he knows it. He presses forward- just the tip. He did it just close- enough for you to feel the first stretch, the first pulse of yes where there should be no. “You left him downstairs,” Patrick breathes, dragging the tip over your clit, slow and filthy. “Still sitting there. On that couch. Right where you told him you’d be back.”

His voice sounds jealous, and low. “He’s probably sipping that drink like a good boy, waiting, doesn’t even realize you’re up here dripping for me.” And downstairs there’s Art shifts on the couch, the party humming around him, laughter echoing off the tile. Someone bumps the couch, but barely hears it. He checks his phone. There’s nothing. No “on my way.” No “almost done.” Just silence. While upstairs, Patrick finally pushes in- not all the way but enough to make your body twitch, to watch your mouth part like it forgot how to lie.

His hand is on your hip, breath warm at your ear. “And you’re about to let me fuck the pussy he thinks is his.” You don’t reply to that but you don’t close your legs either. He takes that as a yes, sinking in with one long, thick slide until he’s buried to the base. Your back hits the mirror, your breath breaking on a moan you can’t hold back. It doesn’t matter. He starts to move, counter creaking under your hips, strokes slow, deep, and unforgiving. Your palms press back against the mirror behind you, breath catching as he fucks you. You try to stay quiet. You fail. “He’s going to find out,” you whisper, breathless. Patrick smirks, “No,” he murmurs back, “He’ll never know.” Then he fucks you harder.

The music keeps rolling somewhere below, a muffled thump under the sharp slap of skin, under the choked sounds you can’t hold back. But Art is still there. In the living room where you left him. The room is still glowing while he’s holding a cup with a drink he’s not going to drink anymore. And suddenly someone speaks, “She’ll be back,” but it doesn’t reach him, not really. His hand tightens on the cup. He’s moving before he even realizes it, stepping into the dark, following the ghost of your laughter, the shadow of your absence. Above him, Patrick continued his movements inside of you. His thrusts are heavy, cock dragging slow, pressing the guilt deeper with every stroke.

You’re shaking, trying not to say his name, but a moan slips out. Patrick groans. “If he finds out,” he says, voice sharp, fucking in harder, “it’s because you told him.” He grinds deeper, your hips jerking. “Otherwise, he’ll never fucking know.” And what both of you know is that he’s outside. He just stops in front of it after seeing the closed bathroom door with the light on. He doesn’t go to it, just stands, face changing slightly. He hears it- a thud, a breath, something wet, the sound of something.

In the bathroom, Patrick leans in, voice rough, dragging his cock deep with a thrust that makes your breath catch. “Are you going to tell him, huh?” he murmurs, teeth grazing your skin. “Are you going to walk out of here soaked in my cum and explain why you’re walking differently?” You choke on your moan, shaking your head, nails scraping the mirror. “Say it.” Your voice breaks, “Fuck- he’ll never know.” Patrick groans, hips stuttering as he slams back in, filthy and unforgiving, “That’s right.”

Art steps closer to the bathroom door. He doesn’t touch the handle, doesn’t knock, just stands there, listening. Because the sound behind it- low, steady, awful- doesn’t stop. Not when you whisper that Art might find out, not when your breath catches like it’s already too late. If anything, Patrick fucks you harder, grip tightening on your waist, jerking your hips back into every thrust like you’re nothing but leverage. Push you more over the counter, one of his hands flat palmed on the glasses while the other wraps around your hair. When he pulled, it earned a sound from your throat while your head snapped back, and your spine arched.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear, “Think he could ever fuck you like this?” Patrick hisses, cock grinding deep, words soft enough to burn. You bite your lip, but he pulls harder, forcing your body to answer for you. “Think he could choke you the way you like?” His hand slides to your throat, wraps around it, pressing until your pulse hammers against his palm, the room going warm around the edges. “Poor Art,” he mutters, teeth scraping your jaw, “still out there thinking you’re his.” He fucks in harder, rhythm filthy enough to echo in the hall, sink creaking beneath you as you fail to swallow your moan. “He doesn’t even know how to ruin you,” Patrick snarls, hips snapping, “doesn’t even know how to keep you.”

“Go ahead. Slap me.” You do, twisting to crack your palm across his face, sharp and loud. It only makes him groan. “God,” he pants, “fucking knew you wanted this.” He thrusts in rougher, hands around your throat, not cutting off air- just making you take it. Outside, Art steps closer, frozen, head tilted, the party still happening behind him. At first, he tells himself it’s nothing- just other people. But it’s not working. He hears it all now, wet and steady, a slap, a moan that goes straight to the center of him.

His blood goes quiet, like something inside is holding its breath. His hand hovers near the knob but doesn’t move. And then he hears Patrick’s voice, low, ragged, and familiar in a way that tastes like a poison now. “Think he could ever fuck you like this?” It lands heavy, sour, and immediately. Almost like he’s saying this out of spite, but you don’t know if it’s to him or you. Then: “Doesn’t even know how to ruin you.” Art doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. Then he hears you- your voice, soft, cracked, gutted, trying not to sound but still sounding. His hand twitches, but he doesn’t knock. He tells himself he should demand the truth, but his body doesn’t move.

Then he notices the pressure in his jeans, realization sinking as he gets hard. Which is sick not because he wants to or it’s real. Maybe it’s the irony of it. His girlfriend. His best friend. One bathroom. Noises are so filthy. He feels sick, but he’s still standing there. Then Patrick’s voice comes again, closer, deliberate: “You gonna walk back into that party full of me and lie to his fucking face?” Art’s lips part, but nothing comes out, his cock aching so hard it hurts. Inside, Patrick’s got you pressed against the sink, stuffed full, every thrust deliberate, designed to drag the truth out of you whether you speak it or not.

“Bet he’s out there,” Patrick mutters, grinding deep as if he already knows Art is outside. Maybe he just says that out of the thrill. He groans at the thought though with a big smirk on his face, “still waiting, still thinking you’re his.” You snap, slapping his chest, but he just laughs, fucking you deeper. “Keep going,” he breathes, “fight me.” He encourages and licks his lips while his hips continue to work and still smug. “I-I hngh… h-hate you,” you moan out, hands flatten to his chest to shove him off, but his hands tighten, dragging you back onto him. “No, you don’t,” he growls, thrusting roughly, the counter making sounds beneath you. Your nails digging at his forearm, nails deep, but he groans like he likes it. “G-get off me, P-pat,” you gasp, but you don’t stop him.

“You don’t want that either.” His voice is ragged, breathless, body is hot against you. You feel how deep he is, dragging through everything slick and tense, hating how your body responds. “I don’t even like y-you-” You gasp, breath catching, throwing your hands into his ribs. It lands hard. He grunts, but it only makes him moan, teeth flashing in a grin. “Fuck, you always get like this when you’re about to come?” You scratch down his shoulder, carving lines, and he groans, cock twitching. “God,” he breathes out, voice low and pleasured, “you’re hot when you’re pissed.”

“I swear to God I’m telling him-” you bite out, but Patrick laughs at that. “No, you’re not,” he pants, teeth at your shoulder, hand on your waist, pulling you back onto him like leverage. “Because you’re going to come for me first,” he breathes, “and then you’re going to lie.” Your cunt betrays you, tightening around him. “You think he’d still want you,” Patrick growls, “if he saw you like this?” You slam your palm into his chest, but he catches your wrist, grabbing your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arches, mouth open in a gasp.

“You think he’d still want you,” he whispers again, voice poison, “if he knew I was the one who made you scream?” Your head tips back, his name slipping out, sharp and unwilling, barely a gasp. He groans against your throat like he’s won. Outside, Art stands frozen, listening to the wet slap of skin, your soft stuttered gasps. Patrick’s voice drips low, “If he knew I was the one who made you scream.” It lands like a punch, knocking air from Art’s lungs.

He stares at the floor while his hands are shaking. He could very much see the tent forming in his jeans before he pulled out his phone from his pocket. He checks his contacts and your name is already there. Click your contact and pray to saints that you’ll answer even if he knows you wouldn’t. The ringtone starts just beyond the door, too loud. You don’t move. Patrick keeps fucking with you, body hitting yours while your phone rings out, thumping on the counter. Patrick laughs low, “Answer it.” Nothing. A moan.

You feel his hands on your top before he squeezes it. “Fuck… you have great tits.” Art lowers the phone, lips parting, cock hard, so hard it makes him sick. The phone rings again, slicing sharply. Patrick doesn’t stop, driving deeper with a sharp thrust that jolts your hips. “Answer it,” he mutters, voice thick with cruelty. “Let him hear you.” Your hand reaches for the phone, but Patrick’s already there, locking around your waist, dragging you back onto him. “Or don’t,” he says, slower, “let it ring while he listens to me fuck you.” You shake your head, hating what he’s saying. “Stop,” you whisper, voice cracking, “fuck, stop- he’s-”

“He’s what?” Patrick breathes, cock slamming up into you with thick, wet sounds. “He’s out there?” Your body shakes, arms trembling, thighs clenching around him like your cunt doesn’t know this is betrayal, only that you’re full. The phone rings again, Patrick leaning closer, grinding deep, mouth hot on your neck. “Let him hear it,” he whispers, “let him hear how messy you get for me.” You try to shove him off, but your hips push back, a moan catching in your throat. The phone thumps again, your hand knocking it away. You don’t try again.

Patrick keeps moving, steady and mean, fucking you through your panic. “You think he still wants you?” he growls, cock dragging slow, “Think he still wants to come home with you? Look you in the eyes? Tell you how lucky he is?” You shake your head, breath ragged, “Patrick-” Another thrust, hard, deep. The ringtone cuts off, leaving silence thick and awful. He doesn’t stop. Patrick’s breath is damp on your ear, his voice low and awful. “He’s calling because he knows.” You choke. “And you’re still letting me in.” You try to let your head fall, but Patrick cradles your jaw, forcing you to look.

“Look,” he says, breathe hot, “look at what I’m doing to you.” He tilts your face down, your lashes dragging low, vision clearing between your legs, and you nearly choke. It’s obscene, your thighs spread over his hips, trembling, skin tacky where he holds you open. Between them, his cock buried thick, dragging slow with every thrust, so deep it feels like it’s in your ribs. You’re flushed, leaking, your slick painting him with every ruined pass of his hips. He pulls back, the light catching where you glisten, before he fucks back in, wetter, meaner. “God,” Patrick breathes, “you see how you take me?” You can’t answer, your cunt tightening in helpless waves. It’s too much, too perfect, too disgusting.

“That’s mine,” he whispers at your jaw. “This pretty pussy, dripping. Mine.” Your head falls forward, chest stuttering. He fucks deeper, grinding like he’s carving it into you. His palm presses low on your belly, to where he stretches you deepest. “Are you going to come?” he murmurs, dragging his thumb over your clit, slow and filthy. “Gonna soak me just in time for him to take you home?”You sob out something that might be a yes.

He groans, jaw tight, pace breaking. “I’m going to fill you up,” he growls, “so full you’ll feel it every time you walk.” That does it. Your body open the gates and your thighs locked on his waist while your cunt is clenching tight around his cock. You bury your face in his neck before your orgasm rolls out of your body and your breath feels like it stopped. But Patrick keeps moving, slower, desperate, hips stuttering. He’s still inside you when he comes, deep and raw, breath hitching, cock pulsing thick. You feel it fill you, slick and wrong and perfect.

Even after, quiet and spent, he doesn’t pull out. He stays, one hand curled around your thigh, the other ghosting up your spine, breath warm at your cheek. You feel it before he says it, that last whisper: “Tell me what you see.” And you do. You look down at your lap, at the mess, at where he’s still inside you, your cunt stretched and twitching, flushed and leaking. You swallow. “My pussy,” you rasp.

Patrick smiles, but it’s not soft, just sure. His hand strokes along your thigh, fingers grazing where your skin is glossy from sweat and slick. He shifts once, just enough for you to feel it- he’s still inside, still thick, still hard. “You think he’ll feel it?” Patrick says, voice low, cruelly soft. “When he fucks you later, do you think he’ll notice how loose you are?” You shake your head, too fast, too weak, and he pushes deeper. It just made your body twitch. “I think he will,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours, “I think he’ll slide in and feel the shape I left.”

Your cunt clenches, instinct and betrayal. Not liking the way you like his words is affecting you. Patrick groans, “Fuck. You like that, knowing I did this.” You go still, too still when his hand presses low on your belly, palm flat. He’s feeling the shape of his cock against it. “You think he’ll pretend not to notice?” he murmurs, “that he won’t feel you dripping on me while he fucks you later in the dark?” You close your eyes, don’t answer. But he knows you won’t clean up, not if he doesn’t make you. And he won’t. He stays a moment longer, then finally, he pulls out.

You feel it immediately- the stretch, the slide, the slow spill of his cum dripping down your thighs, pooling beneath you. It’s everywhere. You don’t move but Patrick does. He smooths your skirt back down like he didn’t just fuck the soul out of you, tucks himself away, and runs a hand through his hair like nothing happened. He doesn’t look at you when he leaves. He doesn’t have to but he manages to close the door. What an asshole. You’re still on the counter, legs open, mouth parted, full of him.

While Art managed to go downstairs before you and Patrick finished what you’ve been doing. But he hadn’t meant to stay that long or to spy, his intention was only meant to check. You’d been gone too long, your phone ringing unanswered- that was it. A concern, a quiet pull in his chest: Go see. He hadn’t meant to stay, not after the knock went unanswered, not after hearing a voice that wasn’t yours- at least, not like that. But then Patrick had said something low and possessive, and Art just went still.

Then he heard you, soft, desperate, almost broken, and he couldn’t really move. Not when the sounds got clearer, not when it became obvious, not when Patrick started saying things no man should hear about their girlfriend. He told himself he’d leave, that he hadn’t heard enough to be sure. And then Patrick asked if you were coming, and you did. The second Art heard that sound, he turned and left, no slamming, no scene. It’s not him. Not very Art Donaldson to force open the door and pick up a fight with you and Patrick.

So he just walks away. It’s like the walk when you can’t be in that place. That you heard enough. He feels every step, it’s heavy with his jaw locked just to keep himself from shouting and saying vile things. He walk straight to the kitchen as if he’s not standing in front of the bathroom door hearing his girlfriend getting dicked down by Patrick. He just leans against the counter while he’s trying to take it all in and the party still keeps going. He knows someone call his name but he doesn’t give a fuck at this moment. He stares at the floor, still hearing that soft gasp you made when Patrick is inside you. His stomach turns.

Art doesn’t know if he wants to hit Patrick or himself, doesn’t know who to blame first, and doesn’t know if he wants to see you again tonight or disappear before you come back down. But he waits. He waits like something caught in a fire- quiet, cornered, burning. He doesn’t look up when he hears Patrick on the stairs, already knowing it would be him, already tracking the minutes. No rush in Patrick’s step, like he doesn’t have something to sneak out of and he’s more satisfied than guilty or ashamed.

Patrick’s shirt is rumpled, hair messy, mouth softened into that tired smirk Art’s seen before. He heads for the drinks without a glance, pops the cap like he’s earned it. Art doesn’t speak until after Patrick takes his first sip. “How was it?” he asks, too casually, not lifting his gaze. Patrick turns halfway, brows raised. “What?”

Art keeps his tone even, almost friendly. “The hookup. You said you found someone.” He sips the drink he managed to get before he saw Patrick, then looks up, unreadable. “I assume it went well.” There’s a flicker in Patrick’s eyes. “Yeah,” he says carefully. “She was into it.” Art hums, not quite agreement, not quite disbelief. Just like his normal self he can plaster right now to pretend he’s not seething. “Of course,” he says.

Art laughs before saying, “You always have a different taste you know? Always going to the girls who should know better.” He can’t tell what Art is planning by saying that but he’s not happy hearing it and his mouth twitches.“She has a name?” Art asks, trying to sound like a curious best friend, and when Patrick doesn’t answer, he doesn’t press. He tilts his head. “She must be very pretty to have your own drink abandoned. Like it doesn’t sound like you. You were so eager to go upstairs.”

Patrick exhales dry amusement. “I wasn’t the only one interested.” Art’s eyes flick down, then back up. He sees the careless tilt of Patrick’s shoulders, the quiet arrogance. “No,” Art agrees. “But you’ve always liked being first, haven’t you? Doesn’t matter who she is, what her body is, or if she’s in a relationship.” That land, too striking, but hidden in plain sight. Patrick’s grip tightens on the bottle, and Art lets the silence stretch. “Anyway,” Art says softly, turning away, “I hope it was worth it, Pat. She doesn’t usually fake it. Then again, maybe she didn’t have to.” He knows he shouldn’t say that knowing that he doesn’t know the ���she’ in his excuse beside he knows he won’t tell him it’s his girlfriend.

While the tension is thick downstairs, here you are, you don’t move for a while after the door clicks shut. The bathroom is still heavy. Your thighs stick, slick cooling on your skin. You breathe shallow, like anything deeper might push what’s left of him further in. Eventually, you shift. Reach for a tissue. Then another. You clean the mess between your legs with shaky hands. You are trying to erase it. Removing the shame. The guilt. The action. None of the wipes worked. Your pussy still aches, clenching over nothing and it’s pulsing.

Thankfully your panties are still very much alive and you get them before you put them on despite the uncomfortable feeling it makes between your legs. Your hands are hard against the fabric even though you are trying to smooth out the wrinkly part of it because it looks like it just got out of the laundry and you are pretending right. You look at yourself: hair messy, lips smudged with the lip product you put earlier, mascara fucked and your legs are shaking as you stands right now. But you start fixing it like what you were supposed to do earlier when you planned to go there. Just to retouch and get some air. You put concealer, retouch under your eyes, gloss your lips, and fix your hair. But you’re not even rushing even as you should considering how long you’ve been gone, but you’re not stalling either. Wipe, fix, adjust, and stack these steps like armor.

Now you don’t look like that girl anymore. You lean closer, studying your reflection, the flush blooming under your makeup, the raw part of your lip. You take a deep breath as you straighten how you stand, closing the compact and you exhale. The hallway is suspiciously quiet when you open the door of the bathroom and you step out of it. You are nervous as hell as you go downstairs slowly, not hurried. Each step you are doing feels another sin adding to the existing list you have. Your breath is shaky and your hands are too while you continue to swiping them on your skirt before you round the corner.

The kitchen is still the same. Still bright. Full of drinks. The place is still crowded and loud and it’s starting to get annoying. Patrick sees you first. He doesn’t move, just watches. You don’t look at him. You don’t have to. Art is already crossing the room, quick but not rushed, like he’s been waiting for you. “Hey,” he says, soft, warm, too easy now. “Where have you been?” Before you answer, his hand is on your back, guiding you like nothing’s wrong. His other hand lifts yours, brushing your knuckles, kissing your cheek, smiling like he means it.

“You okay?” he asks, low. “You look flushed.” You nod. Behind you, Patrick shifts but doesn’t speak. Art turns slightly, hand still at your hip, thumb grazing in slow, familiar circles. “Was just telling Patrick we might head out,” he says, like it’s decided. “Unless you want to stay?” You shake your head. Art leans in near your ear, smiling. “That’s what I thought.” His grip feels possessive but not hurting you, it’s soft and gentle but you can feel the decision in it as he turns to Patrick. He has this same, still his best friend still your loving boyfriend. Only his eyes look dangerous.

You don’t say goodbye. Art curls his hand around your hip, steering you toward the front door, coat over his arm, voice low like nothing’s changed. You don’t look back; just let him guide you out, down the hall, through the kitchen where Patrick stands, silent and unmoving. No one stops you. No one sees the tension in your spine, the way your fingers flex. No one notices the way Art glances over his shoulder just once- not at you, not at the party, but at Patrick. And Patrick doesn’t follow. He watches the door close with his jaw tight, hands in his pockets. Every muscle he has is locked like he’s holding himself together for something he knows he doesn’t have the right to. He will not go back to the room that night. He knows both of you will be there. Can’t stand it.

You shower quietly, water running longer than needed. You shower like you want it all to go away. You feel shit even when you finished, skin damp, wearing one of Art’s shirts, he’s already in bed, lamp on, watching. You don’t meet his eyes, but you climb in anyway. He doesn’t reach right away, just watches you pull the blanket up like it might cover anything. Then he moves. His hand slid in. You feel the soft touch on your skin. It’s slow. Gentle. Familiar. He’s grazing the softness of your stomach before it gets lower. You let him slip it between your legs and you got tense but you still continued with it. You don’t stop it. Makes you feel sick that you want it after just what happened with Patrick. “You’re always so quiet after parties,” he murmurs. His fingers press in, two at once, smooth, and you bite down on a breath. Your thighs twitch. “Still so warm,” he says. “So soft for me.”

His voice stays low. He doesn’t move his hand, just keeps it there, deep, surrounded by the evidence of what isn’t his. “I can’t tell if you’re like this because of me…” he adds, shifting, “or because someone else got to you first.” You open your mouth but say nothing. He curls his fingers, watching you flinch. Then he leans in, his breath grazing your cheek. “You let him fuck you raw?” You jerk like you might pull away, but he doesn’t let you. His other hand moves to your hip, holding you still. “That’s not a no.” He smiles, not angry, just satisfied. “That’s okay,” he whispers like it’s not fucked up. Like everything is alright. “You think Patrick left a mark?” His voice drops, darker, right at your ear. “You have no idea how long I can stay inside you.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. His voice stays calm, loving even- like when he teases you after class. Only now his fingers are inside you, his mouth near your ear, his thumb brushing your hip like reassurance, not control. He feels so gentle but you know that this is not gentleness, it’s his way of punishing you. “You could’ve just told me, you know,” he says softly and he kisses your shoulder. He’s peppering the skin he can touch with his lips with kisses. Soft and gentle. Forgiving even. “if you wanted to fuck my best friend.” He said like it’s decided already. His mouth grazes your jaw, exhaling your scent like a sigh, like he’s disappointed, not angry. “Next time tell me. It would’ve saved you the trouble of whoring yourself out for it.” And he pulls out his fingers from inside and just kisses your temple with all this sweet smile plastered on his face.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

[matchpointfaist]

(in regards to the rockstar art ask) ahh no worries xx maybe we can see how reader and art's relationship advances? reader going on tour with the band?

yeah my boyfriend's pretty cool, but he's not as cool as me

rockstar! art x reader part two

tw for smut, art is lowkey cringe <3

you hadn’t expected it to last more than a few weeks. maybe a month, tops. guys like art weren’t known for consistency. they burned fast, left a mark, and vanished. but you kept showing up on friday nights, and he kept finding you after the set, pulling you into corners, backstage rooms, or the backseat of his beat up van like you were something he needed to touch before the high of performing wore off. he never said anything too serious, never called it a thing, but he stopped pretending not to look for you in the crowd, stopped talking to the other girls who used to hang around after shows, batting their lashes with marker scrawled phone numbers. you weren’t official, not even close, but there was an unspoken understanding. something humming beneath the surface. so when he mentioned the tour, it caught you off guard.

"we’re hittin the road next month," he said casually, cigarette hanging from his lips as he tuned his guitar. it was late, well after the bar had cleared out, the two of you loitering in the alley like the night wasn’t ending. you nodded, trying to seem cool, even though the idea of him in different cities, around different girls, made your stomach twist. "that’s big," you offered, taking a drag when he passed the smoke your way. "yeah," he said, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth, "bigger venues, couple shitty motels, six guys in one van. livin the dream," you laughed, but he was watching you now, something softer in his gaze.

"come with us," he said suddenly. you blinked, confused, "what?" "tour. you should come with me," you scoffed, half thinking he was messing with you, "and what, be your groupie?" he shrugged, shifting closer, the toe of his boot nudging yours, "you already are," you wanted to say no, to tell him that you had a job, responsibilities, a life here. but all that felt so far away, so dull compared to the idea of van rides and gas station dinners and sharing a shitty twin bed in some highway motel room while his bandmates snored in the next one over. "you’re serious?" he nodded, "i like having you around. and besides, someone’s gotta keep me outta trouble, yeah?" you didn’t need much convincing. the next few weeks blurred. quitting your job, packing a duffel full of ripped tights and crop tops, grabbing a notebook and telling yourself you’d write everything down so you wouldn’t forget a second of it.

tour was chaotic, loud. messy, some nights the crowd didn’t even bother pretending to care. others, they screamed like the boys were gods. you stood side stage, always, watching art command the room like it was built for him. he never said you were his, never used that word, but he reached for you every night, curled against you in motel sheets, whispered stupid things into your neck like "don’t ever stop lookin at me like that" when he thought you were asleep. you didn’t need a label, not then, not when his name was still inked onto your collarbone in permanent marker from the last show, not when his laugh echoed through your head hours after he was gone, not when he kissed you like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth.

the eighth stop, art was clingier than ever, his arm draped across your waist like he'd die if anyone pulled him away. he requested, more like demanded, that you sit front row during soundcheck, kept his eyes on you the entire time. he kissed you dizzy before the show, once the lights had dimmed and the rest of the band was already on stage. he'd been restless, eager, jumping all over the place all night. "gonna play a new one tonight," he mumbled against your lips, grinning, "it's a cover, but think you'll like it," "yeah? i can't wait to hear it," you pressed a kiss to his cheek, your hand on his chest, "go on, rockstar. don't make em wait for you," "fuck, love when you call me that," he groaned, half joking, kissing you one last time before walking out on stage, the crowd screaming at first sight of his blonde curls. they played through their set as usual, until about halfway through when art announced the surprise song, familiar chords playing throughout the venue. "i don't usually play cheesy shit like this," he was breathless, but you could hear the smile on his face, "but i know somebody who fuckin loves this song, and it's a special night,"

"and i'd give up forever to touch you," he pointed side stage, and your entire body flushed, "cause i know that you'll feel me somehow. you're the closest to heaven that i'll ever be, and i don't wanna go home right now," your eyes brimmed with unshed tears, a giddy smile on your lips that you couldn't wipe away as he played through your favorite song that he claimed was cheesy. the crowd would never know, but he often sang along until his throat was sore, holding your hand and spilling out words. he finished, the band playing an opening to one of their originals, but he wasn't singing yet. "come out here and gimme a kiss, baby," you didn't hesitate, didn't worry about the crowd, just ran on stage, letting him swoop you into his arms and press his lips to yours. he spun you once before setting you down, grinning against your lips, slapping your ass once as you ran backstage again, giggling. "that's my fuckin girl," he said into the mic, audibly smirking, jumping into the next song like he'd never taken a break.

after the show, he returned backstage, sweaty and drunk off the audience’s praise. “you were so good,” you squeal, throwing yourself into his arms. he catches you, grinning, kissing you like he can’t wait another second, ignoring the band as they whistle around you. “fucking missed you,” he mumbled into your skin, trailing his kisses down your neck, wasting no time, “looked so pretty comin to see me on stage, baby,” “you’re so sweet, art,” you suck in a breath as he nips at your skin, tangling your fingers in his hair, “god, can’t wait to get back to the motel,” “don’t give a fuck about waiting,” he picks you up just enough to have you gasping, clinging to his shirt as he carries you to the venues dressing room, kicking the door closed behind him, dropping you onto the couch, “gotta have you now, pretty girl,” his eyes are dark, lips wet from your kiss, a slight smirk on his face, “you’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you? can see it all over you,” “been wet f’you ever since you pulled me on stage,” you murmured, spreading your thighs, revealing the bare skin beneath your skirt, “snuck in here and took my panties off cause i knew you’d want it,” “oh, fuck,” he groaned, tipping his head back, “so dirty,”

“just for you, rockstar,” you grinned up at him, reaching, “cmere, know you’ve been hard all night,” “yeah i have,” he sinks into the couch beside you, not wasting a second before peeling off his jeans and boxers, pulling you up into his lap and kissing you. your thighs rest on each side of his, your slick practically dripping onto him as you slide in his lap, moans muffled by his mouth. “gotta be quick,” he pulled away just to pant, burying his face in your hair, “gotta be out of here in 15,” “think we’ll manage,” you reach between the two of you so his cock is upright, nudging your entrance, and press your lips to his once more as you slide down onto him. “oh, fuck,” he moans into you, his hands sliding to grip your ass roughly, already rocking you in his lap. “did so fucking good tonight,” you pull away, resting your forehead on his, rolling your hips, “so fucking hot when you’re on stage,” “yeah? you like watching me?” he pushes your shirt up just enough to cup his hand beneath your bra, rolling your nipple between two fingers. “mm,” you stifle a moan, clenching around him, “fuck, that’s good,” he grinds his hips slightly, his pubic bone pressing just right against your clit as he guides your hips, grinding you down against his slick skin, “god, you’re soaked,” “all for you,” you gasp, gripping his shoulders, “oh, god,”

“come on, baby. make a mess f’me,” he pulls you down into his chest, one hand at the back of your neck, his thumb stroking through your hair, “can feel you gettin close,” “you’re so good,” you mewl, “fuck me so good, never get used to it,” “made for you, sweet thing,” he murmurs, back arching slightly, “fuck- come on, baby, i’m close,” he digs his fingers into your hips, rocking you a bit quicker, a bit rougher. you tumble over the edge with a gasp, repeating his name like an anchor as you ride out your high. “fuuuuck,” he groans, throwing his head back as he twitches inside of you, spilling into you, “god, baby,” you smile into his shoulder, catching your breath, “mm,” you hum, satisfied, “think the boys heard?” “don’t give a fuck if they did,” he laughs, not bothering to move you from his lap, grabbing the pack of cigarettes from the side table and lighting one, passing it to you, “let everybody hear you. you’re my fuckin girl,” “yeah?” you giggle, taking a drag, “am i really yours?” “you wanna be mine?” he takes it from you, exhaling smoke, “wanna be official?” “yeah, course i do,” you nod, trying to play it cool, “i’d love that,” “good,” he pulls you in, peppering your face in kisses, “my pretty little girlfriend,”

[castiwls]

Art Donaldson at heart is a male manipulator - he'd never admit it, but deep down he knows it's true.

He knows his jealousy is bad "not every man is a threat." You'd chide whenever you'd get back from whatever party you'd both ended up at. "He was looking at you weird." He'd whine, actually pouting as he slumped onto his bed. He knew exactly what to do to get you back on his side.

Flowers? Sure, take out from your favourite place? He's already gotten it ready and is waiting for when you come back, mad that he'd spent more time with Tashi than you in the last week.

Tears come easily for him, like breathing. All it takes is one look at his sad eyes, lip pouting just enough, and you're letting him melt into your lap — whatever he did completely being disregarded.

It works best whenever he's between your thighs, fingers pumping gently while he murmurs apologies against the skin of your thigh. Eyes wet and adoring as you fall apart again and again and again until you can barely remember why you were so mad, why you'd told him you were breaking up.

You hardly remember it all when he pulls you into his chest, lips pressing to your head as you try and come back down from your peak.

His lips pulled into the smallest of smiles as he sniffled through another apology.

[jesuistrestriste]

we need to see artie with the yummy cupcake lotion!! PLEASEEE

ask and you shall receive ᢉ𐭩

cw (18+) : sub!art, dom!reader, dom!patrick, multiple orgasms (art receiving), sloppy blowjobs, biting, brief dacryphilia, nipple play, handjobs, art gets ruined .

“fff—uhh-ck—!” art’s body shudders atop the mattress hard enough to vibrate it, his aquamarine eyes rolling back and his leg muscles flexing underneath your seat over his thighs. as your hands work the newly-bought (thank you, patrick’s wallet) whipped body cream into his swollen shaft, he fixates on the way your thumbs rub at the vein bulging and throbbing from within the underside of his length. he heaves like he’s short of breath. patrick slings a leg over his chest and smirks down at him, obscuring his view of you.

“so hot when you can barely handle a handjob,” he teases, his palms moving down to cup the back of art’s head and urge it forward to meet his glistening tip, “open up f’r me, watching you get worked up is making me leak..”

art’s never one to put up a fight when it comes to pleasuring you or patrick, so he lets out the prettiest of keens before he relaxes his jaw and swallows his best friend down in one ragged gulp. his cheeks puff for only a brief moment as he stifles his gag reflex, then they hollow as he adjusts and begins sucking the pleasantly-salty flesh with the finesse of a seasoned slut.

pat immediately tosses his head back, letting out a deep, guttural groan that reverberates throughout his chest, and guides his hips to shallowly thrust against art’s face—the flushed tip of art’s nose buried in nothing but thick happy-trail. little “mmn”s from the blonde’s chest escape as the inches are sloppily fed to him with every grinding motion, pushing him to swallow down as much as he possibly can.. and he can take quite a lot..

your hands begin to pump the rigid length harder in your grasp; up, down, up, down, up, and then down, down, down to cup his tightening sack. you smirk. you know each and every one of his weak spots in a way that no one else does; it’s become easier than ever to exploit them for your (and patrick’s) benefit. all it really takes is one specific touch, and he’ll lose it. with that in mind, you drag your fingernail against the soft seam in his balls, chuckling when you hear an unsurprising, muffled cry erupt from art’s body. his hands rush to squeeze at pat’s thighs, his pelvis jolts like he’s a wild horse trying to buck you off, and then he comes. just like that. simple—quick—inexcusable.

his toes curl, his cock spasming as you stroke him through it. your eyes stick to the sight of his spend spurting and spilling over your touch and his lower abdomen. it looks like the icing that glazes cinnamon rolls; it makes you lick over your bottom lip, desperate to finally lap up what you’re craving. in the same breath, patrick reels back and pulls his still painfully-hard erection from the other’s mouth. strings of spit cling and break from their point of contact. while pat’s frame is still shielding the sight of your plaything’s post-orgasmic expression from your gaze, you can hear him breathing and whimpering through the aftershocks, same as he always does. composure is something he never retains after the first climax. you give the middle of his member one last pump before you’re sliding down onto your tummy and patrick is moving in tandem to sit beside art’s torso—grabbing the bottle of lotion from the bedside table and squeezing a deliciously-sweet helping over art’s bare chest. the initial chill of it makes his body shiver.

“that wasn’t even a minute, artie, maybe not even thirty seconds,” you croon, kissing his inner thighs, looking up to him through your lashes, “that was a little embarrassing, actually..”

art moans at your taunting words and the feel of your soft lips pressing to his sensitive skin. his unsteady hands curl into the sheets where they fell from pat. he wants to cry already, you can tell; the urge wells in his eyes like pools of saltwater. you rub his hipbone in an attempt to comfort him before you lick over his flesh and then sink your teeth in hard enough to leave a mark. as soon as he feels your canines, his back is jerking up from the mattress into a perfect arch and he’s gasping feverishly—all stuttered and urgent. you laugh warmly around his flesh caught between your jaws, crinkle your nose with the effort, then let him go. you soothe over the bite with your tongue. his face screws up, his cock throbs back to full-mast, and the first tear spills from the outer corner of his eye. right on schedule. art loves being bitten, but it overwhelms him terribly. mouthing mindlessly at the indentations of your teeth in his skin, you let him be coaxed back to the edge.

“.. ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry, i—i didn’t mean to, everything just happened so fast, and i—“ he sniffles, trying to catch his breath after your recent act of tender sadism. he doesn’t get much time to do so though before your accomplice is having his way with him once more.

patrick gropes at art’s pecs and rubs the cream in, ignoring how close he was to finishing mere minutes ago as he’d been getting some of the best head of his life. blondie is a pro at oral, he performs it like his life depends on whether or not he can make the person fall apart over his tastebuds. pat’s fingers toy with the pink buds on art’s chest and he smirks devilishly when his tennis partner tips his head back and squirms like an overexcited puppy.

“relax,” the brunette murmurs, leaning down just a bit, thumbs rubbing merciless circles over art’s nipples, “and stick your fuckin’ tongue out.”

art does as he’s told. no complaints. why would he? a desperate moan pours from his chest as his mouth opens and is instantly flooded with the sugary taste of smooth vanilla bean—the body cream. patrick’s middle and ring finger nearly suffocate him as they slide as deep as his dick had been. art coughs. he splutters, really. he drools. then he succumbs to the sensations and lets himself be used. the hand still on his chest rubs relentlessly at his right tit.

“uuungh—!” he whines around the digits, feeling a pit of prickly heat boil in his stomach for the second time, “wai—.. w-wait.. i think i—ohh, fuck..! haah—haah-!”

but you can hardly understand him with his mouth full.

you chuckle, making victorious eye-contact with patrick for only a fraction of a second, and then pepper chaste pecks to his tensing lower limbs. art’s golden curls cling to his dewy forehead and splay out over the pillow. he looks princely like this. it only makes you want to take him apart more viciously.

pat dips down and suddenly licks over the top half of art’s chest, letting his spit-covered fingers retreat from the blonde’s orifice and rub at the leftmost bundle of nerves. the man under him nearly wails.

“mmn.. cotton candy icecream,” he whispers playfully before languidly kissing another spot, “or maybe it’s supposed to be sugar cookie,” he kisses another area, “or birthday cake..”

each touch of pat’s mouth has art’s noises pitching higher. more pathetic, more obscene, and certainly indicative of his second climax beginning to creep in and muddle his thoughts, as if he wasn’t already a bit too delirious with ecstasy to function properly. he wonders if he can even withstand the mental weight of another one, but it’s not like he can stop it—even if he did want to. he’s completely at the mercy of you two, and he doesn’t yet plan to attempt to wriggle free.

you’re too entranced by the lewd interaction displayed in front of you to do what you had intended, so you hold yourself steady between art’s legs as the muscles continue to flex and twitch around your head. in the blink of an eye, pat is taking art’s right nipple into his mouth and suckling like he expects milk to flow.

that’s plenty for poor, helpless artie. the rush of fiery gratification floods his body and has him sobbing out a handful of frenzied syllables. his cock bobs in vain against his tummy, gushing more milky fluid.

“im coming,” he yelps, “im coming, hard, hard, hard, im—AAH-“

patrick pulls his pout from art’s bud with a slick pop and flutters his tongue over it afterward to let his buddy ride out his high. he waits until the tremors have subsided before lifting his head and taking in the sight of the spent form twitching on the comforter.

“good boy,” he groans, unable to stop himself from reaching down to jerk his cock in his fist, overcome with arousal from watching art finish twice in no more than seven or eight measly minutes.

now it’s your turn.

you get the last one.

“such a good boy, baby,” you echo pat’s sentiment, not giving your toy a moment more of reprieve before you’re sucking at his softening, hypersensitive cock. you expect his previous two loads to overpower the flavor of the lotion, but they don’t—art eats extremely healthily, so his come hardly tastes like much of anything at all. it’s like he’s made of strawberry shortcake. he’s sweet all-over. you swirl your tongue as you feel his length kick with overstimulation against the roof of your mouth.

“FUCK—“

he squeals, shaking his head, thrashing like a fish-out-of-water. his hands race to squeeze your shoulders, pawing at them and trying to push you away, even if part of him wants nothing more than to pull you in closer. patrick sees this and takes the initiative to check in—he’s good at that.

“you want it to stop?” he strokes his messy fingertips through art’s strands, combing them out a bit as he watches his expression crumple, “y’wanna be all done? if you wanna be done, you gotta tell us.. you know how it works. if you can’t talk, give me the taps. three, and it’ll all be over.. just like that.”

art’s eyes squeeze shut tighter at his best friend’s reassuring instructions. his hands move from your shoulders to fumble blindly for pat’s wrist, clutching it like a lifeline as the sensation of your tongue and lips sends him hurtling toward a third and final release. it coils and stretches and brews in his gut like it’s threatening to tear him apart from the inside-out. he’s hot to the touch, body trembling uncontrollably, a slew of unintelligible noises leaving him as everything builds, and builds, and builds..

“you can give us one more,” patrick mumbles lowly into art’s cheek, “one more.. here it comes.. here it comes, dude..”

you moan encouragingly around art’s length, slurping around it and bobbing your head in imitation of the way he had when he was going down on your dominant counterpart. you look up to his face, you lick at his precome, you pat the side of his torso. he knows that that means. you’re ready to drink everything he can give.

he crashes.

patrick tugs at the back of his hair just the way he likes, you rub your tongue rapidly against his frenulum, and he mewls painfully through the last climax his nervous system is willing to grant him. his thighs clamp down around your face and keep you held close, his dick throbbing in your throat as he spills over. ropes pour one after the other as you swallow—the feeling of your throat convulsing around him only prolonging the intoxicating nature of every tingle and thrum of pleasure that runs up his spine.

“hurt—hurts, hngh, n-no.. can’t.. o-okay—please—done—“ he hiccups out after only a few more short moments, tears fully spilling down the sides of his face and over his temples now. you pull yourself slowly off of him and revel in the way his abdomen contracts in response to the last blinks of sensitivity. you gasp for air when you’re sat back upright, and then you’re crawling up to cup art’s cheek.

“we’ve got you.. you’re alright,” you kiss the words into his neck, patrick moving to press a kiss to his brow as well, “didn’t that feel so good?”

art manages a nod, but that’s all he has in him. everything else has left his brain and melted into the bedsheets. it’ll be a while before he’s back to his usual self. you and pat know what he needs—this is almost routine by now.

“we’ll get you cleaned up and taken care of, yeah?” you hum.

he nods again. his eyes flutter under heavy lids. he stifles a tiny whimper.

you watch as the brunette idly palms his flaccid cock, his hand frothy with a release you hadn’t even realized he experienced. must’ve finished when art did. disappointment fidgets and flares in your chest at the thought of missing one of your boys’ orgasms. it makes you frown a bit, but then you get an idea. one that only makes sense—is only fair—right? your lips drag against the outside of art’s ear.

“gotta get you rested up, artie.. tomorrow’s patrick’s turn..”

taglist : @voidsuites @fawnnpaws @artstennisracket @imperishablereverie @ghostgirl-22 @lexiiscorect @cha11engers @patricksbf @newrochellechallenger2019 @pittsick @blastzachilles @oncefaist @tacobacoyeet @nozhdyved @tinythebunni

[golddustwomanwins]

JUNO

Pornstar AU

Pornstar!ArtDonaldson x Reader

18+

I don’t know if y’all fuck with this but it’s something new I wanted to try.

Art had been in the industry for three years when the trend began to arise. He'd usually come into the studio 2-3 times a week, he wasn't as requested as the dark haired, broody guys in the industry. Art was soft. His blondish curls and pale skin made him look like an angel. Not someone who worked in the porn industry. Art was a diligent worker. He’d go to his waxing appointments every three weeks, no speck of gold hair found on his body. Oiled his skin up before every shoot, was friendly and kind and made sure to talk to the girls before a shoot, just to make sure that everyone was comfortable.

In the beginning, his viewers found him too gentle, too meek. Art was loud in bed, he couldn't turn it off, he was insatiable, could shoot for hours if people actually wanted him to. Soft whimpers would fall from his lips every time his hips bucked up or someone dragged their nails over his scalp.

He was usually paired with dominant girls, to balance out his gentleness, someone who knew what they were doing. But just because Art looked like an angel, didn't mean he didn't know what he was doing. On more than one occasion his female artists found themselves reaching their climax during their shoot.

His moment to shine came when the trend of men whimpering and yearning arose on the well beloved Internet. His videos got more attention than ever and Art rose from a few liked videos to the most famous porn star in the industry. There were enough female artists who looked forward to working with him but secretly he had his eyes set on someone for a long time.

As fate willed it, your manager paired you up with Art for one video and the public review went through the roof. You were different, softer and slower than his usual partners. The film makers were worried first that your likeness would not make for a good pairing but your gentleness spurred Art on, made him harder, rougher.

After one video came many more until you both settled into a routine. You became fixed partners in the industry.

Art never found himself lacking in his ability to perform but sometimes he was so nervous before a shoot with you, his shaky hands grabbed desperately for his trusty blue pill...just to be sure.

Sometimes he needed to give himself a hand before a shoot with you to make sure he wouldn’t cum too fast.

"Hey, Lucky Girl," a girl greeted you in the make up room as you fixed your blush. You looked at her surprised. The nickname was a usual, most of the girls called you that ever since you started working with Art regularly.

"Why does everyone keep calling me that?" It was the first time you were brave enough to ask. Three girls looked at you surprised.

"Because you're the lucky girl," one said.

"You got the greatest catch in the industry," another added.

You looked at them dumbfounded, making the girls chuckle.

"Art," they clarified.

"What about him?"

"He's just like the most famous porn star in American history?"

"And I heard he makes most girls cum, is that true?" Your cheeks reddened slightly. When the camera was off you were a rather shy and awkward person, didn't like to mix your private life with your work life.

"I don’t—"

"And he's totally in love with you," they added and you almost choked on your next breath.

"What? No. We're professionals," you insisted. Art was a nice guy, the kindest you had worked with so far but it was purely work related.

"Why do you think he's only exclusive with you?" "Because the viewers liked it that way and the more viewers the more money," you were quick to explain.

"Played right into his cards," one sighed as she put mascara on her lashes. "That man is smitten with you and you don't even know."

Their words had been floating in your head for the rest of the day, creating a knotted mass of chaos. Your mind drifted off once again as you were atop of Art, your hands propped on his chest to lift yourself up and down repeatedly. Art's hands were gripping your hips as soft sounds fell from his lips, his eyes trained on the way your tits bounced with every lift and fall.

The light of the cameras was obnoxious today, people shuffling behind the lens here and there. Art tapped your hip three times with his fingers, gaining your attention. It was his way of asking if everything was all right. Your eyes found his and you tried to find whatever the girls had been talking about. But Art was looking at you like he always did. Soft and gentle.

You stopped bouncing and leaned down to kiss him. Art groaned into your mouth, tongue finding yours as his hands wandered over your back, holding you close to him. Your lips trailed along his jaw and down his throat as his heels dug into the mattress and he started to fuck up into you.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from moaning when he hit the right spot inside you. He tilted your hips slightly, going deeper, harder. Skin was slapping as his soft breathes mingled with yours, your hair creating a curtain over both your faces.

"Everything all right?" Art whispered as if he could feel that something had changed. You nodded quickly kissing him again.

"Like that?" This time he asked louder, for the microphone to pick up his voice.

"Yeah," you moaned as he buried his cock into you over and over again. Small shoots of electricity ran through you with every lift of his hips, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Let's switch," Art followed your command immediately. The next second you were under him. He slipped a pillow beneath your hips and slid inside you from behind.

"Fuck," you cursed into the mattress as he thrusted inside, your hips tilted upwards. Your tits dragged against the mattress with every thrust and Art grabbed your neck to stop you from sliding upwards.

"God, I'm gonna cum like this, baby," Art groaned, his thrust become more hurried, the rhythm turning sloppy. You tried to ignore his pet name, tilting your hips up and squeezing around him to quicken the process. You felt your climax build inside you but with the way in your mind you didn’t want to cum.

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck—" Art whined and a moment later his hot seed spilled inside you. When with Art it was always bound to spill. Cum running down his length as he fucked you through his orgasm, spilling past your thighs and onto the mattress.

Afterwards he tipped forward, still inside you, his cock twitching.

"And cut!" Someone called in the background. Art's chest pressed into your back, his breaths uneven and hitting your neck, making you shiver. When he slid out someone handed the both of you something to cover yourself with as well as a wet cloth to clean up.

"Let me." Before you could take it, Art's hand shot out and took the cloth.

"Lie down." He gently pushed you by your stomach on your back and carefully spread your thighs apart. You watched him with parted lips as he cleaned you with focus. His tongue was poking out, big frame leaning over you and your heart stumbled strangely.

"You sure you’re all right? You seemed out of it today," he asked as he moved the cloth over your thighs.

"How can you tell?" You tipped your head to the side and Art looked up at you.

"You didn't come."

Crimson burned your cheeks and you looked away.

"I don't always have too, that's not my job." "I know it's not but you usually do," he still looked at you and you closed your thighs and sat up. You self consciously hugged the robe around you, the newfound information making you uncomfortable. Actors didn't fall in love. This was purely professional and feelings...feelings would complicate things.

You sat in silence as one of the directors approached you.

"What we got is amazing. You two up for another round?"

Art glanced at you, the way you clutched the robe to your body.

"I don't think I can," Art said and your head flipped around to look at him surprised.

"Well, then I'll see you both tomorrow." Dismissed you quickly got up and left the set, without another word to Art.

[jiimeniita]

[sugugori]

────୨ৎ────

I love very casual dominance. It’s always the smallest things, too. It’s one thing to be intentionally dominate in bed, but when they’re doing it out of pure instinct it’s almost sexier. They don’t even realize how attractive it is. Like today, for whatever reason you’re nervous and it’s obvious if not by the way your leg is shaking under the coffee table. And as always, he’s found his spot besides you- maybe his hair is messy because it’s early and you’ve slept in. He nurses a hot black coffee with one hand, and he may tell you twice to stop bouncing your leg but you won’t hear it a third time. He won’t even look away from whatever’s got his attention before you feel the pressure of his hand on your knee. Pressing down until your knee can no longer bounce back up, his grip almost bruising. But his thumb moves to rub gentle circles on the area, a silent apology.

Other times, yeah, it does show up in bed. Like when he’s hitting that spot so good, too good, that you stop breathing for a few seconds. He’s literally taken your breath away, folded you in half and he’s nasty with it. You don’t even realize it’s happening but he’s so in tune with your body that he picks up on every little thing. He won’t stop his movements either, still feeding you deep strokes, hand behind your head to soften the blow of the headboard. And when he notices, he’ll place his hand on your cheek so gently - a stark contrast to how he’s fucking you- and say, “Breathe, baby.”

────୨ৎ────

[ervotica]

hot rod — a.donaldson & p.zweig

pairings; art donaldson x fem!reader, patrick zweig x fem!reader, art donaldson x patrick zweig

summary; patrick comes to visit you and art at college. he finds college life is a lot more adventurous than once anticipated

warnings; mdni, 18+ only, SMUT, threesome, overstim, oral (m receiving), sub leaning!reader and art, more dom leaning!patrick, established throuple, polyamory

a/n; i’m not so sure how i feel about this tbh. i love the dynamic though so i pushed through even when it got away from me a little🥲 there will be another drabble for older!art and his pretty girl soon!!

you and art fuck until you’re brain dead and passed out from exhaustion. always have. neither of you possess an off switch, and when patrick’s not there to rein the pair of you in, things get a little… messy.

his cum is dried in your hair, the sticky substance smeared across your cheek, his knuckles still wet with slick.

patrick walks in, full belly laughs and peels you from art’s sweat soaked form, gives your cheek a pinch when you stir and whine.

he doesn’t clean you up because he likes to leave you naked whenever he has the opportunity — which is more often than not. seriously, you two need close supervision.

he just carries you with him to that shitty little armchair in art’s dorm, the room still stinking of sex and the humid summer air clinging to your skin; art shines with perspiration where he’s face down on the bed.

pat makes do with the lack of room, hooking a bare leg over the backs of your thighs until you’re squeezed snugly against his torso, face smushed to his chest. you’re snoring, and it makes patrick smile, slumping down in his chair to rest his lips against your cheekbone.

you wake slowly, eyes sticky and crusted over with exhaustion. your face is almost nestled beneath patrick’s armpit where you’ve been writhing in slumber and you grumble at the scent of sweat, layered with cheap aftershave. his hard-on presses to the center of your stomach and you can feel everything— the curve it makes now it’s hard and weeping, the feel of the spongy head, the vein that runs through the middle.

“you smell, pat,” you grumble, reaching up blindly to snatch the cigarette from between his teeth and take a long pull from the stick.

“yeah, well you’re not so hot yourself, babe. the whole room reeks.” he reaches down to tug on a loose strand of hair at the crown of your head. “there’s cum in your hair.”

“not my fault.” you stretch upward like a cat, curling into patrick’s chest. “where’s art gone?”

“still sleeping, baby.” he lights another cigarette, sacrificing the first one to you - still resting between your lips - and the clicking of the lighter draws your head upward to gaze through heavy lashes at him.

“come to bed,” you murmur, kissing his knuckles. your free hand coasts a long line across his jaw and you dig your thumb beneath his ear, giggling when he scrunches his features and relents, and pushes you to stand with a swat to your naked backside.

art curls into you instinctively when you roll onto the mattress, your hand threading through the curls atop his head. you scrub sweeping circles across his bare back and he hums a pleased sound, smearing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. patrick splays himself over the pair of you, all long limbs that sit askew to cover as much of your naked frames as possible.

art squints through the yellow light that illuminates the room, bright and artificial on his sensitive eyes. your movements against him don’t halt, a slow, rhythmic, loving sweep of your hands that he’s come to look forward to in moments like this. his jaw tilts upward as he mouths at your neck like a starved man, like you haven’t just gone five rounds and collapsed from overstimulation.

“you two need supervision,” patrick snorts. you quirk a bemused brow. “i’m serious, look at what you’ve done to each other! you look like you’ve been mauled.”

“jealous, much?” art mumbles sleepily, the sound muffled through your skin. you’re laughing and it splits your expression in two, eyes crinkled with amusement as the strawberry blonde boy snipes at patrick.

“should’a come to college with us, pretty boy,” you giggle. “could’a had this twenty four seven.” you dip your head until your brow presses to art’s. “poor pat, with no one to stick his dick in. how will he ever cope?”

“you could help me out, sweets,” he deadpans, the nickname saccharine and sour on his tongue all at once. art watches you through heavy lids. you huff, biting playfully at art’s lip before you tilt your head to face patrick,

“okay,” you chirrup. art’s quick to sit up, separating from your warmth in favour of nuzzling against patrick. patrick tips his chin down, slanting his lips against the blonde boy’s.

meanwhile, you’re working his cock through his shorts, palming the muscle until it chubs up beneath your hand, drooling a wet patch through the fabric. patrick groans, hips rolling up into your touch when you hook your fingers beneath his waistband and tug his cock free.

he moans into art’s mouth and your mouth goes dry at the sight. you’ve always loved to watch them like this, the way they get lost in each other, the way they start fervently pushing into one another’s space until patrick inevitably makes the first move and sticks his tongue down art’s throat.

patrick turns to putty beneath art’s roaming touch, huge paws that squeeze and grope and push at every inch of skin they come into contact with, not stopping even as you press your face to the seam of patrick’s balls, inhaling the sweat-soaked musk that creeps up your nostrils.

art’s hand snakes downward, flicking over pert nipples and ridges of muscle before he’s flicking a thumb over the weeping slit of his cock. patrick’s back bows into an arch as you lave your tongue over his sack, humming into the sensitive skin, full and heavy and begging for release. his hips rock upward into you as you seal your lips over him, eyes heavy with lust as art comes down to meet your mouth over his mushroom head.

it’s filthy and messy, downright pornographic as art licks over patrick’s cock, tongue pressing flat against the corner of your mouth and letting his spit pool there. you’re moaning - unable to help yourself - pressing your face forward to slant your lips over art’s fully. it’s all spit and drool as you lick into art’s mouth, the heady taste of the brunette boy still on your tongue, and then patrick’s bracing a hand against each of your heads and easing his cock through the seam where your spit slick mouths mesh.

you gasp and your damp lashes flutter, heavy with tears, and art’s tugging you frantically by your waist, pressing your bare chest to his own as patrick throws his head back and groans, shallow thrusts deepening. his breath stutters out in short, sharp bursts, chest heaving when your face slides down, down, down, all the way to the base of him until your pretty plump lips are wrapped around his sack.

you suck it into your mouth just as art takes patrick down his throat, the head of his cock bulging through the hollow of art’s throat as spit stretches and bows from the corners of his lips and lands in globs across your face.

you’re too drunk on the pleasure to care, the vibrations of your little sounds shooting right through patrick until you feel his balls tighten; he groans, long and loud, pushing closer to the pair of you as his cock pulses rhythmically and he releases down art’s throat.

you push your way through until your mouth is on art’s again, tongue licking into his mouth to taste patrick, wanting to be marked, claimed by both of them. his lips part, nose pressing to your cheek, and then he’s lifting you into his lap, his cock an angry red and pressed to the seam of your thigh.

patrick groans. there’s no fucking way he’s hard again.

“no more, you horndogs!”

[anyalikeslasagna]

bring back men who yearn

[f411en-ang3l]

18+ MNDI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[artstennisracket]

Stalker!Art

cw: nsfw(18+), masturbation, stalking, breaking and entering, and more stalking, fem!reader

Art had been so good. He hasn’t followed you in almost 3 days. That’s a long time. Not knowing what you’re up to. Well also not really true, he was still stalking all your socials. You had public accounts so that was easy. Late at night, watching your stories from beach days or clubbing with friends with his hand down his pants and shirt bitten between his teeth as he cums.

Point being, he hasn’t physically followed you in three days. No watching you walk from class to class with Andrea (your best friend), no watching your soccer practices from behind the bleachers, and even no sitting two tables behind you in the library while you study from 9-11pm every tuesday and thursday. He has completely left you alone for three days. In a physical sense.

So this was a treat—a reward. For being so good and letting you have your space. At least that’s what he has to keep telling himself as he makes his way through your cracked bedroom window on the first floor of your apartment building.

He doesn’t really know what he’s looking for he just knows he needs something. Rummaging around in your dresser. Bras, socks, bikinis. He even finds the red gingham bikini you wore in your last ig post. Letting his fingers feel the material, shiver running up his spine. But he can’t take this, you’d notice it’s gone.

Making his way to your night stand and bingo. Your panties. So many different kinds. Frilly, lacy, plain cotton, boy shorts, thongs, mesh. He almost melts to a puddle right there. Until he spots it. Your small bullet vibrator. Fuck.

It’s a blur but he ends up grabbing a pair of your panties from the designated dirty clothes pile next to your hamper. Not sure why they didn’t make it into the hamper but he doesn’t care, you can be as messy as you want. Be messy with him. For him. On him. Make a mess all over his fucking cock and—jesus, there’s something wrong with him.

It doesn’t stop him from laying on your bed and pulling his shorts down to start jerking off. Dirty panties bunched up in his fist pressed against his nose. Deeply inhaling your scent, mouth hanging open. Silencing his moans to be as quiet as possible. Breathing picking up.

Grabbing your vibrator to press on the underside of his tip and yeah he isn’t gonna last long at all. Thinking about all the times you’ve used this exact vibrator. Pressing it against your clit, teasing your wet hole. Legs shaking, rubbing the sensitive nubs on your chest. Moaning, borderline crying from how overstimulated you are with the vibrator pressed directly on the bundle of nerves.

He would know. He knows because he’s watched you. Many many times. Peeking through your bedroom curtains late at night. He’s memorized your schedule, you don’t do it every night but the nights you do it’s always around 12am. So he’d just wait, every night, outside your window. Most times you’d just fall asleep but some nights you’d reach into that same nightstand drawer and go at it.

Thinking about that one night you came three times, with your voice muffled by your pillow. Face down ass up, surprising yourself when you squirted for the first time ever. Art almost came in his pants on the spot. But now he doesn’t have to hold back, cumming all over himself as his abs flex.

Wiping it up with your dirty panties, stuffing it into his pocket. Making sure to leave everything else exactly where he found it.

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[musingsofheaven]

TALKING BODY.

summary: Everyone expects you to get it. Because you are smart enough to get into this program and smart enough to stay. The overachiever. The one who never needs help. The people who expect don’t need to review because you know it. And they’re not wrong. You’re not dumb and never have been. So why does anatomy make you feel like you are? And what's worse could happen if you start tutoring and leave your lip gloss at his place?

pairings: student physical therapist / tutor!art donaldson x student physical therapist!reader

warnings: 9.5k words. mature themes. masturbation. sexual fantasy. use of personal item (lip gloss). anatomical touching. unspoken power imbalance. edging. read responsibly.

note: hello! this fic is based on a request I received. i know anon didn’t really give specifics and just said “tutor,” so i built it from there, and my mind immediately jumped with what if they’re both student pt? well, i ended up relating it a lot to the program i’m currently in. i might’ve made it a little personal especially about the implication of pressure and the burnout. T_T thank you for reading! <3

If you want something, you have to burn for it. That's what everyone said. There’s no easy path to get that degree that will help your future. But right now? You feel so stupid ever since you entered college. But you’re not even stupid. That’s the thing. You know you’re smart before you even apply to this university. You know you’ll get accepted, that’s how confident you are. And you have this mantra that you just have to study very well and it will work out very well for you.

Of course, you study. You munch it. You eat it. It’s your soul. Who are you without your academic achievements, right? Because you can’t even celebrate your achievements when it’s probably just one of those normal days where you get something but it will feel like an obligation to your eyes. And you are even doing good in your classes. Professors love you. Students envy you. “Did you review?” someone will always ask you, but someone will interrupt the conversation and say, “She doesn’t need it! She has this big brain that can answer everything.”

Love the confidence because maybe you can answer everything. Almost. But you are good with Human Growth and Development. It’s easy. You can study the whole semester in a short time if you have the whole lesson in your hands, but sadly, you don’t, so you have to sit through the whole class. The professor made all of the students from your block list learn all ten principles, and you listed them all in front without blinking, and you did it fast. But not hurried, they still managed to understand what you were saying.

You even correct your professor mid-lecture when she's talking about neonatal reflexes and she makes you recite and explain them to the whole class. When one of your classmates complained about something in the lecture, you offered help and did it like breathing. And don’t get started with Physiotherapy because you love it as hell. You really enjoyed reading through the patient management model, along with the SOAP notes you need to do. The functional outcome becomes your best friend because you like seeing the case your professor gave you and you make many outcomes that can possibly happen.

And one of your favorites is Psychiatry. You already knew the basics before they taught it. Like Maslow’s hierarchy and you turned in your assigned work too quickly after the professor handed it to the class. You know stress because that’s what you’ve been feeling ever since you started college. You could recite the definition given from the book when your professor asks about psychosomatic medicine. When your professor has a final paper and tells the whole class to just pick any topic from the whole semester? You are unstoppable because you made a whole paper about the whole semester too, not just any topic, and made your professor say, quote, “I’m a little concerned but very impressed.”

This is your pre-med and you don’t slack. You have many study techniques, like Pomodoro or anything that works at the moment. You have sticky notes all over your dorm. It’s full of different colors on the walls. You even have a big ass whiteboard inside. There’s a written “YOU ARE NOT FAILING” on the wall with three exclamation marks. You record lessons while you’re reading them so you can listen to them while brushing your teeth or doing something that can’t make you read, so you will just listen. Your friends say you’re intense; you say you’re surviving. You need to survive everything so you endured not attending social events just for you to review something.

But… there’s this one course. This one course that makes you want to jump. Human Anatomy. This evil one. This is a different beast. It’s not that you are a dumb person. It’s also not because you don’t get it. It’s too much. It’s overwhelming. It’s making you crazy. Batshit crazy type. Too many bones, ligaments, fascia, and insertions. Of course, you can point out the easy ones like the iliac crest and gluteus medius, but when it gets harder or the ones sound like a tongue twister, your brain melts.

And the worst part this semester? The muscles. When you study it, you also need to know about OINA which means Origin, Insertion, Nerve, Action. You made flashcards about it using pink colored cards, calligraphy, and glitter pens. You made your own mnemonics to remember everything. It also gets to the point where you have to draw labels on your body. Your must have is having 3D model apps, and let your study app guilt you every time you make a mistake.

But nothing is permanent. It worked until it didn’t. Until everything starts getting into you. Especially when this course has pre and post-lecture quizzes, and there are major long quizzes that have fifty or seventy items you need to take (for prelims, midterms, and finals) before the examination week. It humbled you when you just got scores below 20. Don’t get started with the exam week. It has a hundred-item written exam. There’s the lab exam where you have to label it all.

The worst of them all? The fucking moving exam. Yes. That one. The one with stations but has multiple items. One minute to answer the 5-10 questions before you move into another when the bell rings and you can’t even go back because everyone around you is moving. You once mismatched the muscles and spelled a muscle wrong three times. Ending? You just write sorry on your sheet before you hand it to the professor. It's just sad that you blew up every one of them after studying like there’s a gun in your head. And every time your paper got handed to you, your professor looked at you with pity, as if there’s nothing more you can do. You just smile every time you get it, though, even in your mind, you want to get out of the world.

You just cried when people left and wipe your nose with your sweater sleeves while you can still what your best friend said that maybe you are more of a psychiatry person, but that shit doesn’t feel like a compliment. All of the words from that day keep coming back to your mind like an echo as you sniff, and your breath catches in your throat. Like when your prof suggested earlier to try a study group, but you just nod and didn’t say that they’ve been leaving you out and avoiding you. She also assigned you a study partner because she thinks it will be helpful to your case. It’s Art Donaldson. Yes, that Art Donaldson.

The sporty guy. The one who’s playing tennis. Of course, you know him. Everybody does. Student player and in a health-aligned program? That made the girls wet with the idea. You’ve seen him once in the training room when you walked past it, and he’s wearing a tight shirt that shows off his arms. He’s your batchmate, actually. Well, in the same block, you almost share all the classes together, besides the extra course you want to take. People don’t nknow it, but this physical therapy degree he’s chasing is more likely a fallback in case tennis doesn’t work out well. He already has sponsorships and could just do tennis, but he’s also studying to prevent injury and to know well about his body. You are the opposite because you are studying to go to med school.

The worst part is he’s really a nice guy. Not the performative type of men are nice. Not the fake nice. He’s really nice. He’s soft spoken and shy. People love this personality. You notice how pink his ears get when he talks too much in class discussions. The first time you talk to him about muscles, he already recited the oina about it like an automatic button and he just laughed at your reaction. Now you see him once a week, besides the time you see him from the class lectures, of course, because he’s your tutor and you both review in his dorm. He lets you sit on the floor with the flashcards placed like tarot cards, and tries not to cry over the part you are learning about.

You think this is just tutoring, but Art is not even sure if it is. It all started before the professor offered to be your tutor. Maybe it was that time when you were leaning over the sink, and he managed to smell the scent of your perfume, and he forgot that he was supposed to walk and not stop close to you. Or maybe it’s in some seminar the department forced your whole block to attend and you have this unimpressed expression and say something like, “Oh my god, shut up,” and he laughed too hard.

You don’t even see him. You’re not looking at his direction like other girls do. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe not. And you’ve talked to him, but it’s just nothing because it’s always about academic stuff. It’s always about, “What was that nerve again?” and “Do you have the slide from last lesson?” before you look away. To your eyes it’s nothing. Maybe you treat him as someone who’s smart too, especially if he gets the course you don’t like more than you do. Maybe he doesn’t care if you treat him like a walking answer key like others treat you, but he doesn’t really mind it. He just wants to be something. To matter.

How can he not want you when you’re pretty, smart, and talented? You always have your own orbit where you shine and have own lights over your head that make you bright. But he knows you are hiding behind being smart, flashcards, mnemonics, slides, or whatever you do to not show the cracks. Except for him. You don’t know it, but he saw it. He saw you once in the empty lecture hall where you have many textbooks open around you and your head buried in one of them, and your mascara is a mess, your lip gloss that's always on your lips is faded, it’s like you don’t expect to break down that night. So, when did the professor ask him to help you with this course? He said yes faster than a flash because he will grab that chance, and he’s losing his mind over the idea of being your tutor. It’s also okay for him when you show up late at his door today.

Your bag almost slides off your shoulder, and your thumb hooks under the strap, gloss perfect, tank top riding up like it shifted on its own, and you didn’t bother fixing it. He lets you inside like his space belongs to you by default. When both of you settled inside, he stayed at his desk and sat there like he had never learned how to relax, with his hoodie casually tossed over the chair. His tortora book is wide open on his thigh, while you’re settling your things in his place. The only things necessary are a book, notes, and pens.

He even let you sit in his bed with your things resting beside you. The moment you start reading is the moment you start complaining to him like this is not helping. You can’t do this today. But he will just shrug it off and stare at you with his eyes rolling. He let you have your moment first. Complain, skim the book, highlighting everything while he talks to you gently, not trying to be a bad tutor to you. He lets you do your own thing in the first fifteen minutes until you groan and say, “This is so much.”

This will be cuter if he’s not your tutor. He can just watch you complain all you want and still be cute, but this is not that moment, so he shrugs off what he’s thinking by chuckling softly and nodding at you. “We don’t have to study all of it in one go.” Which makes sense because both of you will be overworked if you study it all. And as much as he likes to teach you, he’s not as insane like you are in terms of studying, which can go on for hours and hours. “You’re gonna need to go really slow. I don’t get why there are two muscles with one name.”

He quickly looks at you when you say that, and he just sighs, “It’s technically the psoas and the iliacus, but-” You wave your hand to dismiss him. It’s not like you don’t know that two muscles with the same name came from the anterior fascial compartment of the thigh and muscles of the posterior abdominal wall, because you do know it. But it doesn’t mean you can’t hate that idea. “Yeah, yeah, I know that. Just wish they’d give a girl a break.” No smile was found on your face when you said that, but it still sounds funny because he tucks a smile behind his teeth. “Want to walk through it on the diagram?” he asks you before nodding at the chart taped on his wall.

Teeth quickly find the bottom lip when the suggestion set is placed, and it’s not a bad thing, especially if it’s a good chart. It just doesn’t work for you. Eyes flickering back at him, you notice how flushed his neck is, how his chest his getting broader while he softly speaks, and how his hands touch the mattress before he sits down in front of you. Tilting your head, and your voice honey sweet, you say, “…Could I just use you? Like a dummy? A chart?” A smile finds your lips and you feel nervous before you add, “I swear I just learn better with… visuals.”

The words made his breath freeze. He thinks the words stop when you said that you want to use him as a dummy. Words are catching in his throat and he wants to choke. But he sighs and nods, “Yeah. Sure.” Giggles are found in the room when he agrees and you have this bright smile when you settle close to his knees. You feel the air change, but not uncomfortable in your skin. “Okay, thank you,” you murmur, brushing your hair back, “take your shirt off?”

His mouth opens but nothing is coming out other than a choke of surprise he has. Fingers found their way to the hem before pulling the shirt over his head, and he hoped he wasn’t making it weird. Look casual. Look. Casual. When he takes off his shirt, your eyes can’t help but look down at his body. Shit. So this is what tennis will do to you. Muscles are good. Muscles are heaven. You don’t even hate it anymore because your eyes can’t help to track the stretch of his biceps, the tense line of his stomach, the shirt falling as he leans back, chest naked.

You don’t even realize how he’s gripping the mattress tightly because your mouth almost waters at the sight, and you might pray to all the Gods that exist in this world, just not take this view away from you. Also, thank god Art is such a nervous wreck, he didn’t even notice you are staring. When you scoot over, your fingertips immediately hover at the waistband of his sweats. “So…” your voice almost got cut out from you but you just bit your cheek before speaking again, “iliacus is here, right?”

Hand comfortably settled in his body before fingers started to move and slid down to the curve of his hip. The skin of your hand brushes the soft skin above his waistband. Your touch is gentle, it’s like you are scared to touch him even. But that small touch made him tighten his muscles, and it sparked under his skin. His thigh jumps subtly, and his breath just dies down on his throat. “Wait, no… too medial?” you point out that you might be wrong, “Am I poking your guts?” He swallows his saliva before he speaks, and it gets rough, “Almost right. A little more lateral.”

He nods repeatedly for seconds before your fingers move and his palm glides down, and he can feel your hand hot across his abs. It tightens under your touch but you barely notice it does. “There?” He nods, breath catching. His sweat starts to pool at his forehead before he says, “That’s it. Iliacus. Merges with the psoas.” Hum escapes your mouth when he confirms the position is there while you’re being oblivious to the way he grips the mattress.

Your hand didn't stay in one place like it's some sort of traveler. It’s firmer and you kinda enjoy mapping his body like you are studying him, Art, not the lesson you have to remember in order to pass that course. It drifts even lower, actually. The soft material of his sweats finds your palm when it grazes towards the inside of his thigh near the crease of his groin. “Pectineus?” you ask, still unsure. “Or it’s gracilis?” His throat clears, shaking his head to the second muscle you mentioned, “N-no- you’re right. Pectineus.” He didn’t even mean to stutter, but help him, God, your hand is so close where he wants you right now.

Sometimes you are just stupid, despite being smart in academics, and can’t pick up what’s happening. It applies right now when your hand presses a little harder where your hand is placed before your eyes meet his. “You’re tense,” you comment, just telling how his thigh feels. “Are you flexing?” The air gets thicker as he feels his throat bob. He tries to look away, but you are so close and looking at him, so he just let out a quiet laugh. Nervous and embarrassed, “Trying not to.”

Knee brushes against his when you move closer, your thumb traces the curve of his glute, and drags it towards the seam of his leg like you really have to do that. “This is the obturator internus,” you say softly, but not really confident with your words considering you don’t like what you are studying. “Through the lesser sciatic foramen, right?” He hums at what you said as he feels his breath leave him. “Yeah. External rotation.” A grin forms on your lips along with a chuckle. “God, I’m so smart.”

Art's jaw tightens and his body is betraying him. Blood thrumming every time you touch him. He’s so fucked. So fucked. He feels the drag of your hand behind him, across his waist, and settles at the base of his spine. “Quadratus lumborum… or too low?” His hand hovers at your wrist before guiding it, “A little higher.” Your hand settles there for a moment while he’s doing all his best to hold his breath and not just pin you down on his bed.

After long enough to touch, your hand moves in a slow, kneading sweep, gliding down his thigh. “Sartorius,” you say, voice softer. “Longest muscle in the body.” A quiet giggle, but your hand moves carefully, palming his thigh from hip to knee, squeezing gently. “Sexy muscle,” you tease, not noticing how his grip on the mattress tightens. “Hip flexion, knee flexion, lateral rotation,” he mutters, shaking. “Show off muscle.”

From there, you lift up your hand up and put and rest it on his shoulder. Your thumb presses it there, rolling the muscle slightly. “Deltoid,” you say, “Obvious.” Thumb keeps flickering and brushing on the skin, and you notice him exhaling sharply, breath tearing out. “There are three parts to it, though. You’re on lateral,” he breathes out before his eye looks at your hand resting on his deltoid- or shoulder rather. But your hand has its own life, so he let it slide down to wrap his upper arm. “Biceps brachii,” you murmur, squeezing softly. His muscles are flexing. He has good biceps, and they’re thick too. “All this? Just muscle?” A thumb drags along the vein. “It has two heads,” he says, voice wrecked.

Giggles escape your lips and nods as your fingers skim up again but now settle on his throat, thumb brushing his jaw. “This is sternocleidomastoid,” you whisper, guiding him to turn his head. His throat moves, Adam’s apple jumping, the moment shifting from endurance to surrender. “Two origins,” he murmurs just to add another information, ragged. “Inserts at the mastoid.”

A smile curves on your lips as you fold your legs beneath you like nothing happened, glowing with soft pride. “Did I pass?” you tease. Art stares, mouth parted, ears heating, hands gripping his thighs so hard the tendons shake. He looks like he might be sick, or come, or cry, or all three. No answer comes, because you didn’t pass. You mess him in the head.

Art quickly leaves the bed when you finish playing dummy on his body and he walks so fast to the kitchen to get something. There’s a dent on his bed from where he stands, shape still warm and fresh. He’s thinking so hard not to think about how you almost sit on his lap just to check a muscle on his body. His hand is shaking while he’s opening the refrigerator to get a juice bottle so he can give it to you, but he’s holding it like it might explode.

The room smells of clean detergent and boy, and the scent drifts around you while you yawn, stretching your arms above your head, shirt sliding up, socks mismatched and peeking. Nothing in you cares to fix your clothes, not when comfort and carelessness go hand in hand, not when the soft sprawl of your body says you trust him enough to let yourself sink into his space.

You hear the fridge close as the sheet rustles when you kick your feet, humming under your breath, calling out without calling him over. “These sheets are so soft,” you say to the ceiling, casually and lazily. “I’d fail every class if I had these.” He almost drops the bottle, chest pulling tight at the thought of you here too often, close enough to fuck him up entirely.

Pillow creases line your cheek as you grin. “This smells like you,” you tease, giggling softly like it’s nothing, and Art swallows hard, forcing himself not to drop to his knees just to keep you here longer. He moves to you, steps stiff, eyes dragging over the flash of your stomach, your tank top riding higher with every stretch, your shorts creeping up your thighs. “You gonna give it to me,” you tease, sleepy smile glinting, “or just stand there like I’m part of a gallery?”

That shook him up to go back to reality. He clears his throat, handing over the bottle with both hands like it’s fragile, breath stuck somewhere in the space between you. The cold plastic brushes your fingers, the cup is already opened for you, and you just have to drink it up. “Mmm,” you sigh, licking gloss from your lips, “I was about to start eating your notes.” His laugh is thin, strangled. “Wouldn’t be your weirdest study technique.”

“Exactly,” you beam, a spark in your eye. Juice slides down your throat while the silence between you thickens, and your head tilts. “So, continue? Still my turn, or yours?” Art sits down, closer than he’s ever dared, like the air itself has weight, like the world shrinks between you. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “my turn.” Knees fold under you, soft thighs pressing together, eyes bright as you watch him, unaware of the small shifts that undo him every second.

His hand is gentle when it finds its way towards you. The room feels quiet and the tension is burning you both alive and it’s breathing between your inhale and his. “This is where gracilis lies. Remember moments ago when you mistakenly pectineus as gracilis?” he murmurs, hand finding your inner thigh, not indecent, not innocent, pressing warmth into soft skin and also showing you where it really is since you mentioned it earlier. “It adducts the thigh in and helps bend the knee. It’s also long and sensitive.”

You blink, then smile. “Sensitive,” you repeat, legs shifting unconsciously, shorts pulling higher. Of course he notices, it's almost like he memorizes every twitch of your thigh as he slides his hand higher, thumb at your pelvis, fingers almost shaking. “Here- uh, this muscle…” The voice comes out more ragged while his thumb is still pressing into your body and your breath becomes still. “Adductor brevis. It’s… it helps with hip adduction, moving your leg inward. You’d, uh, use it walking, pivoting, even just… standing steady.” He hates how his voice sounds and how flushed and nervous he is. “Feel that?” he asks, and you nod, small.

“Wait- show me again?” And with that, he presses his hand deeper, it’s like his palm is molding to the shape of your thigh while he feels every twitch under his touch. But there’s a pause between the two of you, a little heavy, and he just moves his hand because setting it there for too long would mean something else. From there, he slides up his hand up to the nape of your neck. Fingers tracing under your skull, just settling there. “Levator scapulae,” he whispered, breath brushing in the shell of your ear. “You tilt your head when you think.” You nod without realizing, your neck open and almost offering to him.

Your eyes are traveling when he moves his hands around your body to show which part of the muscle he’s pressing to and your heart is surely beating so fast that you might want to end this week's session quickly. And his fingers are on the move again. His hand drifts from the back of your neck to slide down over your shoulder. His hand feels warm when it brushes along the neckline of your tank before slipping beneath, but he rested his hand on your neckline first before doing that just to see if you will be comfortable to continue.

It feels like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but you give him a nod. When you do, his shoulder drops from relief and his hand slips under your tank top. His hand is warm against the ribs, while his thumb is caressing softly like he’s getting you comfortable with the feeling. “Pectoralis minor,” he says, voice low, like he’s reminding himself to continue and breathe like a normal person. “It’s placed right here, under the big chest muscle.”

You shrug and blink, trying to track, brows pinching. But… yeah. If it’s about anatomy, you are always confused so you ask, “Which one’s the big one again?” You kinda feel genuinely lost right now which makes you a little anxious because you don’t want to look dumb. There’s a quiet laugh that slips out of him. It’s breathless, and shaky. “The… major,” he says, “that’s the one you can see. This one’s under it, helps pull the shoulder blades down.” And you just nod and hum while he explains like a puppy. “Oh.” You look down, but his hand is in the way, and your eyes go back up to his face. “That’s… a lot.”

Hum escapes from his lips before he breathes out an “It’s okay,” from his mouth. You feel his thumb rub a small circle over your skin, comforting without thinking. “You’ll get it. Just think… breathing, shoulder movement. That’s enough for now.” His hand stops for a moment and it lingers before you hear him clear his throat. He looks away for seconds and just the blink of an eye, it’s already back to you. “So,” he stated, voice soft. “Uh, I’ll move my hand to the back now, yeah?”

You nod at his head up and his hand starts to move from your chest to your back. Fingertips touch your spine and it's a soft trail that causes your breath to hitch. He swallows and his throat bobs before he speaks again, “You can find multifidus here,” he teaches you. His fingers gently tracing lightly along your back, “it’s smaller and tiny compared to other muscles, but it helps you stand straight. It’s still a big help because it keeps your spine stable.”

There’s a silence after that and his fingers just hover there while looking at you. It’s like he’s checking you to see if you follow what he’s telling you. “Hmm.. to make it simple, you can think of it like it’s the spine’s little helpers because they keep you upright when you bend or twist.” His thumb presses more on the area to show you how it works. “You feel that?” he asks, voice tight. A small hum leaves your lips as your back arches into his touch without meaning to. “Tiny stabilizers,” you echo, and he lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah,” he says, softer now. “I could count them,” quieter still, like he’s speaking to himself. His hand stills just under your waistband, featherlight.

“So the next is gluteus minimus,” he says, voice careful. “This one is hard to isolate,” he explains first, not even touching anything yet and his hand is not on your body right now. “What does it do?” you ask, trying to sound casual but really? You want to pass out now because you’ve been feeling hot since that stupid dummy idea of yours happened. There’s a shaky breath he lets out before he states, “Well. It, uh, helps abduct your hip- moving your leg to the side. Keep your pelvis level when you walk.” He adds, “It’s actually important even if it's small.”

“Is it… Okay, if we keep going?” he nervously asks while he looks at you, and after he said that, the silence is too loud while he waits for your answer. You swallow, and your hand clutches on the soft material of his bed and tries to calm down the feelings in your chest and stomach. “Yeah,” you whisper, voice quiet but there is certainty to your answer. “I trust you.” After you said that, his hand latches on to your hip and it slips underneath your waistband. You could feel his fingertips grazing the crest of your hip, but now directly and touching your skin. “Here,” he whispers. “This is it.” You blink once, twice, or thrice before you can catch your breath. You don’t even realize your hip- body is leaning towards his hand.

And like what he’s doing the whole time his turn started, his hand doesn’t linger long because staying will make things awkward. So he pulls his hand away, and he smiles at you, even though his hand is trembling, and he doesn’t even want to leave. To control himself, he sits straight, but his eyes are still glued to you with want, and he’s in limbo, thinking about being just your tutor or doing something more… He lifts his hand, hesitates, and tucks your hair behind your ear with a trembling hand.

Fingers brush against the side of your neck and stop just right at your collarbone before he finds your pulse point. “Scalenes,” he pointed to the muscle he’s touching while you can’t even recover from the action he made. How can he tuck your hair and proceed quickly to the next muscle? “They help you breathe,” he explains and there’s silence again because he’s about to get bold with this, “They also help you tilt your head, like when you look at me like that.”

Lips parted from his words and breath stuck in the throat, eyes meeting his, and your cheeks are burning. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but he quickly shakes it off from his mind, and his throat bobbing as he swallows. His voice is thin when it comes out, “That’s, um…” His eyes look at your body from up to down before he goes back to your face. “That’s all for today.” Words hang like uncertainty, but it needs to be done, or else he might do something more than teach you anatomy.

“You’re breathing faster,” he says anyway, almost to himself. You chuckle and lick your lips before you try to control it. “Am I?” you tease him, and your voice is soft. It almost sounds like you are shy. Art pulls away from you and sits closer to the edge instead of in front of you. You stretch your arm and your tank top shifts up when you do that. Your skin flushes, thighs opening just enough and you are unaware of the effect you are having on him. A breathless giggle, “Thanks for today’s session,” slips out like none of it mattered, like your body isn’t mapped in his hands. You didn’t even notice how your strap slipped off your shoulder when you stretched and it will be an unforgettable sight to him.

One of his secrets today is that when you stretch, he gets a glimpse of your nipples beneath your thin cotton, which is unintentional, and your top has a padded bra, so… it’s killing him right now because of what he saw. Art doesn’t look, jaw tight, eyes locked on the floor, pretending not to notice so you don’t have to feel shy. And he’s letting you right now fix your lip gloss while you hum and toss all the notes and things you pulled out in your bag like you are finally concluding this session over. You tug down your top and fix your strap after you close your bag, and your shorts roll back into place, a quiet sigh your only commentary. “Thanks again!” chirps from your lips, casual lightness in your step as you leave, gloss forgotten on his bed and you don’t even realize you didn’t put it back in your bag. Then you’re gone, and Art remains, kneeling, head bowed, lungs finally allowed to exhale, your shape still carved into the room.

For a moment, he stays in the same place when you're already gone but your perfume is still there. There's still a dent in his sheet from the shape and weight of your body from sitting too long in his bed. Like a damn fool he is, still catching all things happening like it didn't happen in front of him because he's too stunned. The air is heavy, and still, like the room is waiting for him to acknowledge what happened. It's almost like he can even feel your soft body against his palms or he might be getting crazy at this point.

And on the corner of his bed, there's your forgotten lip gloss. He notices it too quickly when he turns his head to the side and it's sitting on the nightstand. It's pink and looks soft. It’s the kind of pink that’s just enough to make your lips not look pale. The cap is silver and shiny, it catches the soft light of his room and it’s expensive, he thinks. There's a Dior logo so it must be expensive, right? When he picks it up, it looks small in his palm and the it's not really light and kinda feels heavy, maybe because of the tube or because it's still not halfway gone.

He actually almost texts or calls you to tell you that you left it in his place. Almost hid it inside his drawer. Almost opened it and brought it to his nose to smell the gloss like some sick freak. But instead, he just put it back in the nightstand beside his phone. He tells himself that he's just going to give it personally and keep it safe, but the truth is he doesn't really want to give it back to you.

Slowly, he settled comfortably again in his bed, back pressing against the headboard and just leaning. Sweat pooling in his forehead, jaw clenched, hands still trembling a little in his lap, and still not over by the feeling of your soft skin and flesh. Could still feel your thigh twitching, your breath against his hand when he's touching your neck, and when you trust him to touch you and don't move away from him. His whole body is burning, and body throbbing, cock been hard for long- maybe since you touched him to his thigh.

He didn't even realize he was still shirtless because you asked him to take it off earlier. Your voice echoes in his head like he's having some hallucinations and his abs tightening each breath with his cock twitching painfully inside his sweats. Words from earlier just keep repeating and hearing them, especially the “I trust you” and “Did I pass?” while his hands were still warm from touching your skin. Frustration filled his body he could just cry, come, or scream. He's not even picky and could be anything from the three, but all he does is whisper, “Fuck.”

Gaze remains in his hands while just sitting there and he might pass out if he doesn't do something soon. He's so… pent up, but even touching himself while thinking about you feels like crossing the line, even though you'll never find out about it. But he's also so worked up right now… and the guilt just shatters away when his hand starts palming himself through the fabric. It's slow, hesitant, and unsure if he's even allowed to feel it. The first few movements his hand made sent shivers down his spine and made him tip his head back against the wall. Lower lip bitten between his teeth when he moves his hips up and grind into his palm like a fucking teenager that needs to cum for the first time. He repeats it again and the drag of fabric is good because of the friction. His cock twitches, and he swears, jaw clenched, pulse thudding in his ears.

Your laugh stuck in his mind. It’s teasing, and sweet. Leaning in closer than you need to, fingers skimming his abs, and asking, “Is this the pectineus, or am I just touching your dick?” You never said that, he knows. It’s also not how you will say it. But it is now. His hips jerk up helplessly, groaning at the sick, sharp pleasure, every part of him wired to want, to take, to keep this feeling that’s you and only you. He strokes himself through the fabric, sucking in air that doesn’t feel like air with vision blurring with the tension building under his skin.

He could finish like this, quick, dirty, fists the sheets, and gets it over with, but he doesn’t. He won’t. He edges himself, lets the pleasure fester, building tension with slow, sick care, palming, grinding, squeezing until he’s leaking down his thigh, sweats are soaked, and he doesn't care because he’s liking the mess, wanting to drown in it, and wanting to suffer for it. Maybe this is his own way to guilt himself because he touched himself. After all, you don’t even do anything at all. You don’t know this lingering feeling he has. You don’t know that even you just smile, talk, and look at him? He’s going to be a wreck.

Can’t even stop hearing right now how your voice works in that tone- sweet, innocent, oblivious like you don’t really know what you are doing at all. And with that he felt his cock twitch when he stroked himself harder. His chest is starting to sweat- his whole body is even sweating because he’s keeping himself on edge until he’s having a hard time with his breathing, his vision is glassy because of the tears, and his teeth are biting on his tongue to stop himself from moaning pathetically. He’s dizzy, legs shaking, locked in a holding pattern between control and collapse, when his eyes flick back to your lip gloss. It’s still there, cap closed, and suddenly, nothing else matters.

Hand reaches for it slowly. Carefully. Like it’s breakable. Like it’s a treasure. Like he found it and decided it would be one of his most beloved things he owned because he can treat it like proof that you were really here. That you’ve been inside his space and are comfortable. His fingers wrap around the tubed gloss carefully and his throat catches his breath. It’s warm in the room. Expensive and glittery, stupidly soft pink. But holding it does something to him. Splits him open, quiet and humiliating. Shameful that he’s the kind of guy who got fucked up by merely having your lipgloss left his dorm. Like he’s always been the kind of guy… sick and freak.

He uncaps it with trembling fingers. The scent hits him fast- sweet and fruity. It smells like berries. He close his eyes when his cock twitched hard again. There’s also an idea in his little fucked up mind and he’s fighting himself not to do it. But… it won. He opens his eyes, while his hand brings the applicator up close to his mouth until the applicator touches his lips. Swipes it across his bottom lip. Then his top. Then again, thick and shiny, shameful, smeared like a kiss he’s trying to fake. His mouth tingles, lips pressed together as he breathes through his nose, eyelids fluttering at the taste and it makes him feel insane.

But that’s not enough. Not even close. He pulls out his cock from his sweat using his free hand. Giving it a few strokes before he lets it go. Eyes glaze down to his open hand and he drags the wand down across his palm, painting a wet streak from heel to finger, then another, and another until it’s enough. The stickiness clings to his skin, glossy, pink, and so wrong. He caps it again gently using one hand, like he didn’t just use it for something unspeakable, and sets it back on the nightstand. Then he spits into his palm, letting it mix there. It’s warm, humiliating, and slicking the gloss down until it’s perfect.

His hand wraps that hand around his cock and he starts stroking it. It’s slow at first, and he’s feeling the drag of slick over aching heat: obscene and hot, so stupidly close to real he could cry. The contrast is too much- sticky, wet, hot, like a simulation of your mouth. His head tips back as a moan breaks, loud, cracked, desperate, hips jerking, body flexing. The friction is obscene, the sounds alone making him feel deranged. Throat raw and keep bobbing down inside the sick feeling because it feels like you. Almost. Or that’s what he likes to think. He’s fucking into his fist now, messy and fast, thighs trembling.

His other hand moves to his mouth without thinking, thumb smearing across his bottom lip like he’s trying to feel your mouth there. Like he’s imagining you are kissing him because he has your gloss on his mouth and he feels it tingling, and he doesn’t care. He wants to feel kissed. He wants to pretend. And he does. Because suddenly, it’s not just gloss on his hand he’s imagining- it’s you. Your mouth, glossy and warm, stretched around the head of his cock while you blink up at him, all eyelashes and no idea what you’re doing to him.

What makes things worse is that you probably don’t know what you are doing. Maybe it’s just in his head you are this… studious and he has never ever seen you with someone. Dating or hearing about you hooking up with someone else. In his mind, you’d be humming something, maybe, or you’d be giggling like you’re not sure you’re doing it right. Hand loose around the base, glossy lips working messily over the tip. Sticky and pink smearing down his cock like you’re sucking an ice pop, glitter in your spit, sparkle on his skin, that stupid gloss painting him in your mouth.

He groans loudly because he can feel it like it’s real, like you’re there. Cheeks hollowed out, lips stretched, and still wearing the sweet lotion clinging to his sheets. Warm smear of gloss drags down his cock. It’s wet and sweet. Lips pressing to the vein like it’s something to taste, to learn, not even teasing, just curious. He almost can hear your soft little whines while his hand smearing the sticky pink gloss as he thrust up and fucking his hand. That’s when it slips out, cracked and hoarse: “Yeah,” breath catching, hips stuttering, “like that, baby…”

His hips continue to move up into his fist, another moan- louder, like he’s not alone, like he’s too deep in the fantasy to come back. “You gonna lick it off too?” he said out loud like you are really here with his eyes shut. “You gonna swallow for me? Yeah? Gonna let me fuck your throat, pretty girl?” His hand moves faster, spit and gloss mixing like the sickest fantasy of having your mouth. His thighs are trembling with his stomach tight, and every part of him is clenching to hold the moment.

There’s the edge to drag it out, and to make it last because if he opens his eyes you’ll be gone from this little fantasy of his with your voice in his head whispering with a soft and perfect voice: “Wait… am I doing it right?” That’s the trigger. That’s the red buzzer that was pressed. He comes like it’s his first time doing that. It’s loud and gut-deep. Legs shaking and his cock twitching as his cum paints his stomach, thighs, and his palm.

Free hand flying back to his mouth like he’s choking on the sound, but the moan rips out of him anyway. It’s high, broken, and full of your name. Then it’s quiet, breathless, and shame-drenched. He’s still throbbing with how badly he wants you. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he just breathes. Wrecked and still half-naked, chest flushed, abs sticky with come. Not so long after, he quickly wipes himself off with the shirt he was wearing earlier, and he throws the shirt on the floor as if it offends him.

Must be going crazy because he can still your laugh in his room and the shitty part is your gloss still shining on his mouth. He can’t stop thinking of the way your thighs almost cradle him when you are going through his body to check which muscles you are touching. He stares at the ceiling, breath catching, heartbeat slowing, remembering how you had to feel how he was shaking when you touched his thigh, the way he swallowed when you leaned in. You weren’t dumb. You knew. And you still kept going.

“Could I just use you? Like a dummy or something?” God. You said that as if it’s the best idea in the world. His cock twitches again, and he groans, rolling onto his side, arm flopping over his eyes like it will block out from thinking about what happened. You wanted to use him. You chose him over diagrams and other visuals, said it helped, smiled like he made it easier, like you felt safe, or comfortable, or- shit. He swallows, brain foggy, stupid, and desperate.

Fuck, you have to like him, right? At least a little. Who does that with someone they don’t feel at least a little attracted to? You said thank you like you meant it, touched his chest with that soft smile, looked up at him like- like- goddamn. A beat passes, then another. The ceiling doesn’t answer. The silence creeps in slowly, sick, suffocating, and it all feels different. Too quiet. Too much. You touched him like it meant nothing, he thinks.

When he came to his senses with eyes blinking up like he just did a murder he just realized it was wrong while sitting up, and chest sticking where it wasn’t wiped thoroughly. His face grimaces at the same time his shame hits, which feels hot and itchy in his bones. A hand rakes through damp hair, his breath shallow, and his chest tight. Of course, you didn’t like him. You're just being nice, trying to study, trying to pass the quiz you both have to take next week. God. He fucked up, again. Got in his head, thought too much, made it weird.

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, and thumbs through his contacts. Not you, though. Can’t text you. Would say something too much, and you’d know. So he texted Patrick instead.

Art: You free to hit rn?

He waited for a few minutes and then:

Patrick: Yeah. You good?

Art: Just need to clear my head.

Patrick didn't reply after that, which probably means he's on his way now while Art is lying back on his stomach and head pressed against the pillows. Screaming one more time. Second. Third, before he looks at his nightstand again where your gloss is standing. This pink and sticky and innocent, staring back at him. He scrubbed a hand down his face, guilt tightening in his stomach. He feels he used you, or used the idea of you, the version in his head that laughs like you’re already his. So fucking gone.

By the time Patrick shows up, the sun's dipped low against the blinds. The room still carries that faint scent of cum and your glass. The guy walks inside like this is his own fucking dorm and drop his tennis bay so loud. “Jesus Christ,” comes out of him, “what the fuck happened in here?” He could give him the real answer. Or make something up. Or just smiles at him but there's no answer. Head down, eyes nowhere. While Patrick is already snooping, picking up everything he sees like a crime scene.

It's like he already knows what happened with the tangled sheets, messed up shirt on the floor. And then the nightstand. Patrick sees it. Steps closer and he’s too stunned by the sight. “…No fucking way.” He picks it up like he's grocery shopping, holding it between two fingers. “Bro. Did she leave this here on purpose, or are you just keeping her shit like a stalker?” Patrick looks at the pink gloss and goes back to him. It’s the same gloss you always reapplied before leaning over the notes like it helped you focus.

Art heard Patrick open the cap and sniff the scene before saying, “Smells like a fucking strawberry jam.” He presses his knuckles to his lips while he's ignoring Patrick's comments, like maybe he can force himself to stop thinking about it. Because he knows what Patrick doesn’t. Knows it wasn’t forgotten. You dropped it there mid-study, barely noticing, even though you should, since this lip gloss is something you always use. You didn’t even kiss him, and still, it feels like the most intimate thing in the room. Patrick scoffs, drops it back, and lets it roll into place beside the lamp. “You need a hobby,” Patrick says. “Or a blowjob. Or both.”

A long, low exhale through the nose. A laugh that will sound too much like a cry while Patrick waits for a punchline. “You good?” he asks, and this time, it’s real. He just gives him a quick nod, before standing and putting his shirt and sneakers on. “Let’s go,” he said since his tennis bags are already full of what they need for this quick hit. And god, when they got into the court, the feeling stayed. There's still the burning inside his system.

It's not because of the fucking color. Or how pink it is. How fruity the smell. Or not the shape or the size of the tube is. Maybe it's more like he's going crazy about the lingering touch that happened earlier really meant nothing at all. And it's fucking everything up. His movements on the court feels shitty. Each step he made was late. It’s like he doesn't have a sense of reaction. Or the serves are mid or maybe not him at all.

Patrick quickly clocks it, grinning like he’s watching from a television show. “Bro,” he said after a missed backhand, “are you playing on two hours of sleep, or are you showing how much of a loser you are?” No answer. His sweat wipes down his face, salt stinging, pulling the memory closer. Your laugh, your hands on his waist, the glow of where you touched him still hot under the skin. The ball bounces once, twice, too hard. “She touched my fucking sartorius,” slips out, hoarse.

“The what?” Patrick’s racket lowers. “Muscle in the thigh. Long one goes diagonally. She… she followed it with her finger like she was tracing a line only she could see.” Art sees Patrick look at him like he's insane then bursts out laughing. “You’re unwell,” he says. “Actually sick in the head.” It earned him a glare from Art with that comment he did.

His next serve is tossed, missed. Racket dangling, and eyes gone far-off. “She kept doing it,” voice raw and frustrated, “naming muscles, pressing on pressure points, said she needed visuals. She sat between my knees and touched every inch my body like it was a fucking test review.”

A low whistle. “You gonna cry or jerk off mid-set?” And there's this quiet, and honest confession: “Need to fuck her. Need to get her out of my system.” His hands dropped to the side before his free hand ran to his sweaty hair. Silence. Then laughter, sharp, incredulous. “That bad, huh?”

Art’s jaw flexes, grip shifting on the racket like it’s your wrist, or your throat. “She touched my iliacus,” slipping out, “just inside my waistband, looked up at me, asked if she was pressing on my kidney.” He starts pacing around while he's thinking about it, remembering the feeling too. How tense he was. How warm your touch is. Patrick chokes, wheezing. “What the fuck?”

Eyes close. “I couldn’t breathe. Hard the entire time. She didn’t even notice. Or maybe she did. I don’t know. It was worse,” he adds before his eyes snap back to Patrick who looks like he needs a good laugh and he's giving him one. “Jesus.” Patrick nearly drops his racket from laughing. “You’re in love with a girl who doesn’t even know she’s edging you. That’s fucking tragic.”

He didn't laugh in return. Eyes on the court, ready to scream or collapse or call you to finish what you started. “Can still feel her lip gloss on my mouth.” Patrick shakes his head. “You need to get hit by a bus.”

Art nodded like he had just heard a very good idea and was ready to do it. “Or a concussion.” Patrick throws a new ball over. “Or a rebound. Come on. Play like you’re not actively being haunted by her hands.” And there's a clean hit, but the ball lands wide. He cursed under his breath, racket lowering, sweat dripping down his spine. This isn’t getting out of his system anytime soon. Not when the system is entirely yours now.

He slump onto the bench, wrist draped over a knee, shirt clinging, chest can't calm the fuck down. It’s deeper than the match, like something lodged under the ribs, like he spent the last hour trying to outrun the feeling of your fingers on his skin. Patrick tosses a water bottle with a lazy grin. “You play like someone who came into his own bed and never recovered.” He didn't respond because what Patrick just said is true.

“You know you were grunting louder than usual, right?” Patrick leans on his racket, smirking. “Thought you pulled that long muscle she touched. What was it? Sartorius?” His snap up, flat, jaw tight. “Shut the fuck up,” he murmurs before he gave him the finger to say fuck you.

There's a smirk on Patrick's mouth and he looks like he's really enjoying whatever is happening with Art. “Just saying, if her little med school routine gets you that distracted, what’s gonna happen when she actually wants something from you? You gonna fold again? Or bust in your shorts and text me again for a hit?”

“Patrick,” he groans. It's almost like a kid having a tantrum over something they didn't get, like candy or something. He's acting like that right now, keeps complaining but doesn't do anything about it. The grin doesn’t leave. “You’re so far gone it’s embarrassing.” No argument there and just a swipe of the hem of his shirt across the face. Both hands are dragging through hair. Breathing like he has a mind map of you, on your knees, asking if you could use him, calling it studying, touching him like it meant nothing.

Then his phone buzzes.

“Hey, sorry if I left my gloss at yours?? :(”

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

[matchpointfaist]

lover girl reader x stanford art?? maybe some angst with a happy ending!

of course, i'll let you break my heart again

lovergirl! reader x stanford! art

tw for angst, friends w benefits vibe, art is kinda a fboy, mentions of smut

you knew the second he kissed you behind the tennis courts, that art donaldson would take up a special place in your heart. not because it was slow or soft or intimate. it wasn’t, not really. his mouth was rough and fast against yours, his hand too tight on your waist like he wasn’t sure how to be gentle. he pulled back right after like he’d been caught, like maybe he’d made a mistake. "don’t overthink it," he said the next day, looking at the pavement instead of you, which was funny, honestly. because overthinking was sort of your thing. so you laughed, too high and too bright, and said, "no worries! i wouldn't dream of it!" he didn’t laugh, just looked at you like he couldn’t decide if you were exhausting or if he was the one who was doomed. but he texted that night. and the next. and the one after that. "don’t overthink it" turned into 1 am texts, "are you up?", kisses on your neck in your dorm bed, his shirt half-off, your hands in his hair, the way he always muttered your name like a swear right before he kissed you. you knew better. but you were never good at listening to warnings, especially your own.

that's how you find yourself at a party thrown by his team, the music too loud, the drinks too strong. you're curled up on the couch listening to some girl you hardly know babble on about her boyfriend, and really, you're trying to listen. but art is across the room, talking to a girl with a rich voice and long legs, and you can feel the alcohol warping your jealousy into anger, hurt. she's smiling, bright and easy, and you fucking hate the way he's smiling back. you stand before you're forced to watch a moment more, walking outside into the cool night air, settling onto the curb. that's where he finds you, ten minutes later, your heels beside you and your chin rested on your knees. "didn't see you inside," he sits beside you, tentative. "you were busy," you force yourself to shrug, "didn't wanna interrupt the moment or whatever," he sighs, "you’re upset, "no," you say, too quickly, "i’m just dramatic. it’s kind of my brand," he doesn’t say anything, so you keep talking. you always do when it’s too quiet. "i’m fine," you say, brightly, "i promise. i mean, this is casual, right? fun, chill, good vibes only,"

you peek at him, at his too tense posture and uneasy expression. "you said that," you remind him like it's obvious, "no pressure, don't overthink it," he watches you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking or close to snapping. "do you even like me?" you ask, finally. your voice comes out too soft, too real. he flinches, just slightly, opens his mouth like he has something to say, closes it again. you smile, but it feels shaky this time. "it’s okay," you say, quickly, "you don’t have to say anything. i mean, i fall too fast. i know that. i always do. i think that’s why people like me, but not for very long-" he’s quiet, and the words die on your lips. you bite your lip, fingers twisting the bracelet on your wrist. "i know i’m a lot. i talk too much and i cry at commercials and i write love letters to people who don’t even like me back," you laugh, a small one, "you’re, like, the opposite of all that. you’re quiet and good at everything and you only ever smile when you win," his brow furrows, and you think for a moment he might protest.

"and i pretend i’m okay with this , the sneaking around, the no labels, the late night whatever this is, but i’m not. because i do what i always do. i care. and i know you know. and i think you let me do it because you’re not gonna stop me, and you don’t have to feel anything back if you don’t say anything at all," your voice cracks, "but i don't want to be a secret anymore, art," he says your name, quietly, like it hurts him. you blink fast in a last ditch attempt to keep your mascara from smudging. "just tell me," you whisper, "you’re going to break my heart, aren’t you?" he looks at you like it physically hurts, "i wasn't trying to," he says, voice quiet and rough, "but yeah, i think i am," you force a smile again, nodding, tears slipping, "yeah, okay,"

he doesn’t sleep that night. he doesn’t do much of anything, really, just lays down and stares into the darkness of his dorm, thinking of that trembling way you'd asked if he was going to break your heart, how he said yes, like a fucking idiot. the thing is, he’s never really done the whole feeling thing, at least not like she does. he doesn’t get the impulse to send people good morning texts with too many exclamation points. doesn’t understand the way she hands her love out like she has to, like everyone deserves to feel special. she called him unbothered once, with a smile, like it was a compliment. but she was wrong. he is bothered, all the time. every time she shows up to his matches wearing a stanford hoodie and carrying two iced lattes. every time she giggles at something dumb and touches his arm for no reason. every time she writes him stupid little notes like "you are so talented. and hot. i think you’re hot." and hides them in his tennis bag. he pretends not to care, but he keeps every single one in a shoebox beneath his bed. he doesn't even know why he kept them. at first, it was sort of a joke, but then it became a habit, then something he couldn't not do. he thinks about that box, about how she’ll never write him another one. thinks about how he let her walk away.

the next day, he goes to practice. he’s off the entire day, misses a serve so badly it ricochets off the net and nearly hits someone. "get your head on straight," his coach mutters behind him. that night he scrolls through your texts, stops on one where you sent him a blurry picture of a frog sticker you saw in the library. he never answered. he doesn’t even know why. he doesn’t go out all weekend, which is very unlike him. he just stays in his dorm, thinking about all the ways you tried to love him, how easy you made it. how many chances he had to love you back, and how many times he chose silence instead. he keeps thinking about that look on your face right after he said yes. not even surprised, just resigned, like you expected it. sunday night, he finally caves. hey. can we talk sent at 11:50 pm. you don't respond, and it kills him.

you don’t ever expect him to knock. you’ve spent six days trying not to expect anything from him. six days of rewinding the conversation in your head, picking it apart word by word like maybe there’s a version where it ends differently. six days of telling your friends you're fine, you swear, and crying in the shower so no one hears you. you’ve almost convinced yourself you made the whole thing up, admittedly. the look in his eyes, the way he didn’t stop you, the way he said yeah like it didn’t mean anything. but then you hear the knock. you freeze, a half finished cup of tea in your hands and mascara smudged from where you rubbed your eyes earlier. you open the door, slow and hesitant, and there he is. art donaldson, on your doorstep, in the rain, holding flowers in one hand, and a shoebox in the other. he looks terrified in a way you've only seen him before a match. not the usual cold, unreadable version you'd grown used to. this is raw, real, vulnerable. "art?" he clears his throat, shifts on his feet, "uh, these are for you," he holds out the flowers, peonies, with a small smile, something closer to a grimace.

you don’t even move at first. "you called flowers pointless," he nods, closes his eyes for a moment, "yeah, ub, i was wrong. about a lot of things, actually," he holds the shoebox forward, "i brought these too," your brows furrow, "what is that?" "your notes," he says, "the ones you left me. i kept them," your heart drops, "you- what?" "i kept them," he says again, eyes locked on yours, "all of them," you didn’t even think he read half of them. all those silly little sticky notes and handwritten messages and doodles on his textbooks. things like "you’re my favorite tennis player even when you’re grumpy" or "you don’t have to talk, i like being near you anyway." you wrote them because you couldn’t not, because loving him made you want to leave something behind, even if he didn’t notice. and now he’s standing here saying he noticed everything. "i didn’t know why i was keeping them," he says, voice low, "not at first. but then it became- i don't know. the best part of my day. finding one. reading it. knowing you were thinking about me," your throat tightens as he speaks, "i'm not good at this," he goes on, tentative, "i didn't know how to tell you. i guess i thought if i didn't say anything, it would stay easy. but you-" he laughs, breathless, "you're not easy. you're not easy to forget, or ignore, or stop thinking about,"

you’re quiet. he steps forward a little, slow and careful. "you told me i’d break your heart," he says, voice thick, and i did. and i’m so fucking sorry," your hands are shaking, you're distantly aware. "but i need you to know, i was already in love with you when i said it. i just didn't know how to say it," your chest is full of something you can’t name. hope, maybe, or fear, or love you swore you were done giving him. "you love me?" you whisper. he nods, quick, like he doesn't have to consider it. "i do. i love you. i love all the things about you that made me nervous. the notes, and the jokes, and the way you just give so much without asking for anything back. i love how you see the world. how you saw me. even when i didn’t deserve it," your eyes sting. you want to believe him, to throw your arms around him and never let go. but you also want to protect your heart this time, even just a little. "why now?" you ask quietly. "because i couldn't stop thinking about you. like, full body aches, can't sleep, kinda way. i realized i'd rather screw everything else up than lose you again," you don't even speak. you just step forward, wrap your arms around him, crushing the peony petals. "i missed you," you exhale, like you can finally breathe. he laughs, like he can't believe it, "and i love you too, you idiot," he drops everything, pulls you tight against him, even spins you around a little for dramatic effect, like they do in the rom coms he studied just to be good for you.

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── SMOOTHIES ♡

♡ pairing: dilf!art x reader

♡ summary: art has… some trouble in the bedroom, and to help him out, you slip something in his morning smoothie.

♡ warnings / tags: smut, MDNI! piv, slipping viagra in his smoothie.

♡ author's note: i love the concept of ed art so <3 also yes i made a viagra divider just for this… 😭

ART DONALDSON MASTERLIST ♡ 5K MASTERLIST

sometimes, art had... trouble when it came to the bedroom. but you never blamed him, all too aware of how stressful the life of an athlete could be. during the times he couldn't perform, his head would end up between your thighs until your whole body was trembling.

but it had been four weeks since he'd last gotten hard, and all you wanted was to have him inside of you. sure, you had one of those homemade dildos in the shape of art's cock, and he'd use it on you, but you missed having him inside of you. not a silicone toy. art.

and you could tell that art was feeling self-conscious; he'd never gone that long without managing to get an erection. you'd heard him through the door while he was in the bathroom the other night, quietly talking to himself, beating himself up over it

no woman would want their man to feel bad about themselves, right?

that was what you told yourself as you poured the blue powder you'd just crushed up into the green smoothie you made art every morning. you could see the look of disappointment that fell on his face every time he failed to get hard, each 'i'm sorry…' he said practically making you cry… and it's not like you could ask him to take them, some men were fragile about these things.

you just wanted to help art regain his confidence. there was nothing wrong with that. right? it's not your fault that you didn't remember he had an important meeting that day…

he ended up having to cancel. because by the time you're on your fourth orgasm, art still has you pinned to the bed, still as hard as a rod, your poor pussy already starting to get sore while he continues to fuck into you.

"i... have... no idea... what's going... on..." art groans between each thrust, your bedroom filled with the lewd squelching noise of art's cock thrusting in and out of you, hitting that that sweet spot inside of you each time, "'m so sorry..." he mumbles, your hands twisted up in his blonde hair, tugging on the strands, your brain too fuzzy with pleasure, with stimulation to be able to even comfort him; to offer him those honey-sweet words that came so easy whenver he had difficulty getting hard.

all you could butter out was "so... good..." even as art kept fucking into you with no mercy, basically sliding into you from all the arousal leaking out of you.

but two, grueling, filled up hours later, art was finally soft, collapsing right next to you on the bed, covered in sweat and other fluids; and although you were sure your pussy was going to be sore for a week... you couldn't help but think of the next time you could slip something into his smoothie.

"you know…" art mumbled breathlessly, "my smoothie tasted a bit different this morning…"

you bit down on your lower lip, turning to look at him, both of you covered in sweat, "i might've added in a secret ingredient." you shrugged, making art laugh, bringing his hand to your cheek, tucking a sweaty strand of hair behind your ear.

"it didn't taste half bad."

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