#jesus this book is so beautiful
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I want what Iris Kelly & Stevie Scott have 😭
#jesus this book is so beautiful#😭😭😭#ugh my heart#book#iris kelly doesn’t date#Iris Kelly#Stevie Scott
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Update I FINISHED BUNNY and oh my god what a fucking ride that was
I (as I expected) had to put the book down when I finished it and just sit there in complete silence and stillness to process the story I'd just been through lmao fuuucking hell
#that was a goddamn book and a goddamn half#I'm so disappointed it's over tho#I'd love love love to read more of this terrifying drug trip#unfortunately it does not exist#but my god it was great it was amazing#I can feel it rising now into my top five books ever of all time fucking hell#mona awad#bunny#bunny book#bunny novel#I honestly loved how weird and at times confusing it was#it had all this beautiful meaning and purpose there#but it was also really unique and interesting and shocking and horrifying#and the writing was just so clever#Jesus Christ#I feel like I need to reread it rn to pick up on more stuff
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GOMENS TUMBRL FANDOM HI HELLO I JUST WANTED TO SHARE THAT I AM SO FUCKING HAPPY I LOVE CHRISTMAS IM SO SO HAPPY OHMYGOD IM GONNA CRY
#good omens#gomens#i am so happy#i love life#finally i have my bible in my hands#i can finally rest#my little heart#thank you aziracrow you saved me#what a beautiful book jesus christ#i wanna bite it#and swallow it#and digest it#merry christmas
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a starstruck odyssey is for lovers
#more than acofaf even. the love story of the wurst is what dreams are made of#emilymurph sitting next to each other...skip straightest man ever prince of alien slugs learning to be free bc of the crew...gnosis...#best on average npcs. lucienne plug bambi leroux the butch at the space station fuckin space heiress trust fund baby bajar crunch moon jone#and this is not to say ANYTHING of how good the characters are.#they could keep making d20 seasons forever and starstruck will always be a cut above the rest because of how fucking good the setting is#like with crown of candy even tho i loved it sm i feel like some politics were discarded in favor of the others; all out war was eh to me#the build up to a war tho? now that's interesting that's where the juice is basically i wanted asoiaf book one vibes with this cast but#that's a matter of personal preference! i don't feel like acoc did the most that could've been done with a “politics” campaign#dimension 20#dropout.tv#a starstruck odyssey#because of their deep investment in the world and the genre it never feels like starstruck couldn't do anything. it feels limitless!#season two...god if they never do one that'd be such wasted capability#ik fantasy high is so beloved and it is a beautiful lasagna of time and playing style but if i could get multiple seasons w starstruck...#the thing that makes asoiaf asoiaf is that we have a similar level of insight into the minds of baddies like the lannisters as we do into#the minds of the clean jesus allegory starks. and in acoc the “worst” character we got from the heroes was lapin n even he was aligned#to the rocks' cause. saccharina WAS a rocks -- that was her whole deal -- and even then she wasn't a morally reproachable character bc#she was right! i wanted acoc to be down and dirty and when they said ravening would be i was excited but even that turned out to be them#destroying a secret cult which was going to kill the world. no really down low shenanigans!
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jesus christ today was rough
#cried in a very empty class today when my professor (my major advisor) started taking about the student that passed away#who was also her advisee. not prepared to watch her#remember him and feel his loss. it feels strange to get so emotional because i didn't even really know the guy#like i shouldn't be a part of that grieving process#but seeing my professor break down really really got to me#and i can't stop thinking about it. what a beautiful soul we've lost#not to mention the book that we just finished has so much to do with the loss of children and grief—which she pointed out#and said how much he loved words. loved literature. and that he almost took that class but she felt him there with us anyways.#like fuck. jesus. fuck
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like i genuinely cannot believe thegall that she has quinn saying that oh they loved being servants... really??
[ID: Text reading:
"“I let them go into the front parlor together, and then I went into the kitchen for lunch, where Jasmine was just telling Big Ramona that they were rich. I hated to break up their happiness with my glum looks and I blamed it all on hunger. Besides, Jasmine had always been rich and so was Big Ramona. They just never wanted to leave Blackwood Manor, everybody knew."/end ID]
#twist rambles#vc posting#sorry im so fucking sick of it. 1. set in 1990. 2. she does this w like quite literally EVERY slave character (of which most are barely#prominent characters outside of her using antiblack stereotypes. as im sure u can imagine which one of those a character named big ramona#fits.) and 3. we are really supposed to be on quinns side after it seems he pressured jasmine into sex after using terms such as#“my chocolate candy” “cafe au laut” “milk chocolate” to her. like out loud. we are supposed to like this guy?? like her racism (annes) know#no bounds atp#ask to tag#yeah haha the servants loveee being here lol they dont even need to be paid ^_^ theyre just that rich bc we are some of the GOOD ones. jesu#and this has been going on since the start of the book and just keeps on coming over and over#like not even to get into how all of these esrvants are objectified and jasmine esp is just reduced to a sex object. but the seconddd quinn#sees a white lady hes literally proposing. but jasmine isnt good enough for that in the narratives portrayal of her. its all fucking vile.#i dont want to hear ANYONE say she didnt have horrific handling of race when all this happens in this book and last book had mar.ius#referring to an indian man like he was an animal and had no human qualities. like genuinely i do not think ppl know how bad it is bc most#ppl stop after the first 3 books. and for good reason. anyways good god im so pissed off. my beautiful lj buddy had about 3 paragraphs on#the insane classism she demonstrated last chapter and it rly just keeps continuing to this chapter. like im sorry idc abt how rich quinn is#i need him dead. for many reasons. anyways good god. this book is hell.
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auntie diaries fr gives me chills
#i despise the queer ppl with 0 media literacy who shat on that song all to hell#that meme of missing point. auntie diaries ------> kendrick lamar is transphobic (woosh: kendrick lamar is detailing a story on his#perspective as a black boy in compton learning to accept his trans uncle and cousin#and also detailing his witness of being able to easily see someone disregard gayness and femininity for idealized straight masculinity but#having a much harder time see someone disregard masculinity for degrading femininity (and therefore gayness whether mary ann is gay or not)#but when it came down to it he was able to disregard his biases and stick up for his cousin to a pastor and calling out hypocrisy in the#church like HELLOOOOOOOO did the people criticizing that song even bother to read the lyrics or did they just see red when#kendrick said faggot? are we going to disregard all of the beautiful books and movies in which characters say slurs in a negative light?#at what point does kendrick GLORIFY the use of faggot????? at what point?????? jesus christ there is just NO media comprehension whatsoever#it pisses me off people will always jump at the opportunity to shit on black people while there are PLENTY genuine transphobic (or at least#perpetuating negative stereotypes) media that queers LOVE. why is kendricks genuine retelling of a story where he learns better so gross#to them?
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ough
#just finiahed reading haunting of hill house and have been crying so hard for a half hour i still thibk i might throw up#FOR SOME REASON AFTER SEEING HOW MUCH THEY CHANGED FOR THE SHOW I WAS STILL GUT PUNCHED WITH THE CHOICE THEY DID DECIDE TO KEEP. AND#ITS#YEAH#5stars easy one of the best books ive read ever let alone this year jesus#nel is going to stay in hill house and my heart in ways that are so new and devistating meeting her a second time#i gotta buy a beautiful copy of this book#and then also a cheap one to draw and write and highlight all over#FULL sobs. i have put the book down and cant bring myself to hit the return button for the library because#she. she just wanted to be seen and wanted andD I. CANT CONTRIBUTE TO THE PEOPLE WHO TOLD HER TO LEAVE. NOT YET.#watch me get matching stone lion tattoos for her#jessssus this was a hell of a thing#the show was hard this one was somehow harder#both stunning. obv.#god im gunna have to rewatch and rip myself apart w the easter eggs wont i#later. not yet.#if i think about them being her literal family members too hard my eyeballs will burst out of my head#irl#personal#god the choice to make luke her twin and theo her older sister is going to chew my up inside forever#mike i have several thousand questions would u like to sit down and discuss
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the first thing people always notice about alana is her eyes.
#headcanon. dr. bloom.#headcanon. dr. bloom. a good forensic psychiatrist; maybe the best.#[they’re the frost of water turning to ice before its full freeze in the earliest winter morning.#they’re the color it turns as it thaws slow slow slow and then freezes again. they’re so cold.#but they’re purely near white blue. wolffish and beautiful at once. they can be so cruel. and she can have the kindest eyes you’ve ever#seen. she can make you feel incredibly loved or she can absolutely crumble you with a glance. she KNOWS it too.#all her emotions show through her eyes is also the problem. she lies so well because she forces herself to feel it. so potent.#she can replicate an emotion painfully well for herself. she fucking hates it. it’s so hard and so much to deal with. but without it—#she wouldn’t be her. she’s explained the way her empathy works to a few people and I distinctly remember it was trish who was like#‘Jesus Christ I wouldn’t want that shit’ without even meaning to before going ‘it sounds so overwhelming to deal with’ before Alana broke#down in tears seconds later because she’s not hard and if you think she is you’re buying what she’s selling and you’re being grifted.#Alana bloom is my most dangerous muse and I write kitty ‘nexus of nothingness embodied’ valentine.#but I tend to think: would kitty be tricked into… anything by Alana? oh yeah. like. immeasurable yeah. a yeah the size of Texas.#Alana finds your weakest point because every single diamond has a flaw and she just g e n t l y begins to chip.#she’s good!hannibal. she’s the actual good doctor like. I think Tara Jess and I have unironically convinced the fandom that’s her title.#(lmfao it isn’t it’s lecter’s but book!lecter deserves it. show!lecter was a shit therapist. at least book!lecter was amazing at his job.)#and you know who his protege is? Alana!!!! she’s so deadly I’m in love with her and I’ve loved her for years now.#me: this is the side character I’ve written for more than a decade who causes a chain reblog reaction every time I post that gif set#if you know you know.]
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Goddd Thinking about how piranesi has the most gut wrenchingly melancholy ending ever & the like tonal shift between how he talks before & after leaving leaving the house is so overwhelmingly potent it makes me want to scream & cry & throw up. Haunting
#WRITING THAT HURTS YOU. GOD#really the most book ever fucking written I want to explode#he experiences an immeasurable shattering of his world & still conginues to see the beauty& love in everything!!!!! Jesus Christ!!!!!!#he has to reckon with the fact that there’s a person in him he once was & never will be again TWICE & he treats both of them with respwct!!!#& still forgives the betrayal of the other & puts his remains with the rest of the dead because he still has so much love in heart AUGH
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@many-legged
timeline can't hurt me, they're experiencing the horrors together because i think it's fun
#WOWZA!#HOLY CRAP!!!!!!!#this michael shelley design is makinh me. 👁 👁#just like oml hhhi#the disdoortion#mmhm#why is he so pretty here wtfwtfwtgwthdhfgghgb hhhhhhhhi#mnmm.:)#good fucking god the gender every time i look at him he gets better i havent even started talking about gerry yet#the long slender fingers borrowed later by the distortion#the soft and sandy hair#the laugh lines on his face. he did laugh. right?#the lines on his thin cheek you KNOW he pale and scrawny#good god#wow#op. jesus.#gerry im. idk i have no words youre too hot HRRRRK#the knuckle tattoos. the eyebrow piercing. the eyeshadow. the n a i l s.#i just. i am. the. tje#ykw#transition goals#yeah i said it#uhhhh before i run out of tags#the head arc-eye-vist#the goth book collector#the archivees#of course:#the favourited section#this is the most beautiful art ive seen in forever. i think i need a break from tumblr now.#op. this is my last tag. 💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋🚪💋🚪🚪💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋🚪🚪💋💋💋 the doors were misclicks but keep em!
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just finished reading the gospel of jesus christ by jose saramago????? wtff im- uh ???? what the actual fuck jose.
#/pos#but my brain is not braining#ugh once again i wish i was smart enough to understand it properly#thd character of the pastor???#mary magdalene?????#her interaction with jesus literally every scene theyre in together is just so beautiful#the way her love is what “saves” jesus and not god#the way judas dies#the way JESUS dies#and dont get me started on jesus and joseph and mary and his family#(dont get me started i say as if I was able to put words next to each other in a way that makes sense)#fun fact once my grandma came over and she saw the book on the coffee table. now my family is catholic.#she saw the title and picked it up curious but not very amused. she flipped it and read (paraphrasing it bc I dont own an english copy)#“when will the day come lord when you will come to us to recognize your mistakes in front of men?"#she put it down horrified#jose saramago#book tag
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“glorious look to him. hed almost have to die young, wouldnt he?”
the pale blue eye
#GOOD GOD#patsy has the best lines in this fucking book#and the movie#like jesus christ#dropping that shit out of NOWHERE#its so beautiful#its so heartbreaking#the pale blue eye
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thinking about jesus in a very non religious way
#i sent this to my gf and she said it sounded like i wanted to fuck him. anyways#been talking to my gf#they're very poetic#write very beautiful poetry with religious symbolism#just. i can't express how much i love her poetry it makes me insane. yall i will never stop hyping her up#very unfortunately she doesn't post it anywhere but one day she will write a poetry book i just know it#ANYWAYS:#we were talking about our perspectives on religion and especially jesus#because we were both raised religious but aren't anymore#and it's just#so many thoughts#so complicated#and so beautiful and ugly and everything all at once#and the poetry. THE POETRY. OUOGOGOHU.#i think jesus is cool#i hope he's doing ok. wherever he is#idk if i believe in him exactly#but#he's just. cool.#i don't necessarily believe in god#but yeah. i just. idk. it's hard to explain#it's cool in theory#i just don't practice the religion#yknow???#anyways#kez.txt#cw christianity#cw religion
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i’m sorry to say that i am not enjoying normal people by sally rooney even just a little bit
#straight people read this and think it’s a great portrayal of romance and that is exactly why they have the kind of problems they do 😭#it’s actually so insufferable i’m so upset rn#like….273 pages of connell being an anxious wreck and barely dealing with it#and marianne being so self destructive that i even start to feel a sick sense of worthlessness#and i get it i guess that’s the beauty of the book and why they are ‘normal people’ but#jesus fucking fuck#like when does it END 😭#i feel bad saying this but truly when is it over like i never want them to see each other ever again#they need serious healing and again#i know i sound like the worlds biggest hypocrite given my YEARS of self loathing and destruction#but even i…..even i have a breaking point#and this book is smashing me to PIECES
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sweet 'n easy
Art thought dating you would be enough. He's content to have your heart, wait until marriage to have your body, too. But it's proving really difficult when you look like that.
tags: art donaldson x fem! reader, open relationship, guided masterbation, reader's kind of messy in this one (corruption), religious themes/corruption of religious themes. nsfw. minors DNI.
a/n: this is part of what im referring to as the open relationship au and im more than expecting to write more about this dynamic! im also very open to suggestions about it
Art Donaldson is a Good Christian Boy. He's a good, smart young man. He wears his thin silver purity ring on his left ring finger. He wears a delicate silver cross on a chain around his neck. He used to sing in the church choir, and now he spends his Sundays volunteering with the children's sector and frequenting church picnics. If it wasn't for tennis, he'd probably be a priest.
You're not right for him, and he knows it. Guys like him aren't made to marry girls like you - girls with low-cut tops that show off the top hem of your lacy electric purple bra. Girls who wear low, low-cut jeans with your matching purple thong hanging out the back. Girls with butterfly-shaped tattoos hovering on your lower back. Girls who spend weekends drinking and clubbing and dancing with absolutely no room for Jesus.
But there's just something about you. Maybe it's your attitude, the way your hand flies up in class whenever you know the answer to a question, the way you speak, with such clarity, such conviction. Maybe it's the way you walk with your friends across campus, beautiful and assertive, a pack of wild hounds. You're terrifying to him. A force of nature, a thunderstorm. Art's managed to get caught up in your jet stream, but it doesn't mean he's any less scared of falling out. You and all your hot, brash, party-girl friends. You and the 'bitch pack', as some of his friends have taken to calling you and yours. The sorority girl, frat party, dim clubs, bitch pack. Girls like you don't give guys like him the time of day: you're too pretty, too powerful, far too high up on an entirely different social ladder.
But you're different. You're sweet. He's watched you stop to pet stray kittens. He's seen you volunteering to donate blood at the campus blood drives. He's seen you stop to help a girl pick up her books even though you were already late to class. He's seen your notes in his biology lecture, your cute, bubbled handwriting and your array of gel pens. He's seen you buy an extra coffee at the campus cafe for a friend. People contain multitudes, or whatever, right?
So maybe it's no surprise when you end up paired up on an assignment and you bring him back to your dorm room. Maybe he shouldn't have been so stunned by the boy band posters and the stacks of fantasy novels and the stuffed bear sitting on your bed. Maybe he shouldn't have been thrown off by your framed pictures - family, friends - and your collection of Beatles CDs. Just a girl. A normal, nice girl. Who lays out all her notes for him, glances up with a sweet smile, and asks,
"Where d'you wanna start?"
He didn't mean for it to go any further than that. For the study visits to start happening at night, after dinner. For you to start blowing off club nights to curl up on your plush blue shag carpet next to art, pointing out lines of text and highlighting things with a bright pink marker. For you to start eating with him at lunch, talking about your lecture, laughing over some stupid thing your professor said or did. For him to start seeing you, really seeing you, and liking that you saw him, too. It happened before he even registered it. Somewhere, somehow, Art Donaldson fell in love.
It's different than how he felt with Tashi. This isn't that painful, all-consuming desire to please, to have her notice him, the obsession with the idea of her and her tennis. This feels sweeter, kinder. This feels like what he used to read about: fireworks in his heartbeat, butterflies in his stomach, the giddy thrill of First Love. A slower, ennobling sort of love.
If he had it his way, he'd date you. Flowers. Expensive dinners by candlelight. Picnics. The works. Court you for the four years you were at Stanford together, then propose once you graduated. Spend a few years engaged so he could do his tennis, make a good amount of his own money. Save until he could plan a dream wedding. Honeymoon somewhere pretty and exotic, like Bali or Punta Cana. Then the country house and the kids, the white picket fence. Except, Art doesn't really ever get things his way, does he?
"I... I don't know," you say slowly, digging your heels into your carpet. You can't meet his sad blue eyes. You can't bear to. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. It feels alien, even in your head.
He stares at you, crestfallen. Your heart plummets and you race for an explanation, for some way to explain this without blaming him. Because it's not Art at fault, it's his Faith.
"It's not that I don't like you!" you scramble. "I do, really, Art, I do. I just... a girl has... needs, you know? There are things I'd want that I can't ask you to give me. Things I can't take from you."
You both know what it is. You'd never ask him to give up on or waver in his faith for you. Never. You like Art how he is. But you know you'd be wanting. You know you can't wait until your wedding night.
"I... I'm just not the dating type, Art," you explain mournfully. "And you don't want to date a girl like me, anyway, trust me. You deserve someone nice."
"But... you are nice," Art says, and he really does look like you've just torn his heart out and stomped on it. It's horrible. It's awful. And you feel like a monster for doing it, but what can you do?
He doesn't have a solution until a full week later. He pretends (to you, and himself) that he came up with it all on his own, when in reality it was Patrick's idea. Patrick's suggestion, murmured over the phone in cloying low tones, luring him in like sailor to siren, bee to honey, moth to flame. Art, for all his cleverness, for all his ability to read Patrick like a book, could not see it. He trusted Patrick. He should have, he's sent Patrick some of your pictures, talked about you endlessly. But Patrick was on tour, far, far away, where he could do no harm. And Patrick was taken, as he was so keen to remind Art all the time.
"She doesn't have to fuck you, man," Patrick muses. "Date her. Be her good boy, be her fuckin' sweetheart. She can get dicked down with someone else."
"You're suggesting my girlfriend cheat on me?" Art laughs, and even saying it, my girlfriend, even in hypothetical, makes his heart do a flip.
He can practically picture Patrick's face, screwed up with a mixture of pity and disdain. Poor Art. "Nah, man. I'm suggesting an open relationship, you know? Let her fuck who she wants, she's gonna come home to you."
The conviction in Patrick's voice makes Art's heart somersault. Because there's something about that idea that makes his pulse quicken. Patrick's right. You'll come home to him, your heart - the thing that really matters - will be his. He doesn't like the possessive thing that curls up in his chest and purrs at the idea. But he doesn't fight it.
"What if you didn't have to wait with me?" Art asks.
He's twirling a highlighter over his fingers. Cross-legged on your plush duvet, working at a piece of spearmint chewing gum. Gum you'd offered him, gum that you now kept a small stash of in your desk drawer for evenings just like this. The project you'd been paired up on was long over, the proud 96% sitting in your Stanford grading inbox. Now you're just regular homework buddies. Art sought you out for homework he missed because he was at practice and lecture notes he didn't get. You don't mind. You enjoy it, actually. You just wish you could give him more. Hate that you couldn't be what he deserved. It almost feels like leading him on, when he sits with you until the wee hours, sharing diagrams and passing your textbook back and forth. When he brings you your morning coffee before class, or you bring sandwiches and Gatorade to his practices.
Except now, apparently, he has a solution.
"What?" you ask, blinking at him. "What d'you mean?"
Art flushes. Soft pink. Mostly around the ears, you've noticed, red against the gentle gold of his curls. Evening rose.
"I mean, what if..." he looks away. "You know. You went out with me. Dated me. But you could... 'hook up' with other people when you needed to."
You stare at him. Dumbfounded. Art Donaldson. Is sitting on your bed, asking you for an open relationship? Are you dreaming? Has the world suddenly gone mad? Did you go to bed last night and wake up in an alternate dimesion?
"You... are you suggesting... what I think you're suggesting?" you ask faintly.
He nods, ears burning a truly impressive shade of crimson. You suppose you should be flattered, really, the lengths he's going to date you. Most guys would have given up by now, egos bruised, feelings hurt, hearts shattered. And with most guys, you would have been firmer, clearer, colder. Meaner. But Art isn't most guys. Art is sweet.
"I-- shit, Art, wouldn't you rather just date some other girl like you?" you say helplessly.
"I don't want another girl, I want you," he replies plainly. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like there's no other answer.
And that's all it takes for you to agree. It's impossible to say no to those baby doll eyes. The two of you set ground rules - you don't tell him who or where or how, just that it happened. He doesn't ask you any questions. No one leaves you any marks. Immediate friends, such as Art's tennis circle and his church friends, are off limits. And that's that. He's your boyfriend now.
Art thought it would suffice. He likes being with you. Holding your hand while you walk to class. Seeing you in the stands when he plays a match. Chaste little pecks here and there. But you're like a pit of quicksand, a hurricane. You draw him in quicker than he thought possible, and now he can't breathe, can't think, can't move. The corruption is slow, certain, and inescapable.
He starts to find himself wanting more.
A kiss in his dorm room that deepens instead of stops, one hand cupping your jaw, the other floating to rest on the small of your back, above the waist of your low jeans, on the warm, bare skin there. A glance that feels more than affectionate, his eyes roving over your collarbone, the glint of your skin in the sun, the line of your bra beneath your sheer, tight shirt. He sees you smile at another guy and a hot flash of jealousy surges through him as he wonders if this is one of the guys you're fucking, if that guy, that random piece of shit, gets to touch you, see you, feel you. He tamps it down, and it feels too little, too late.
You'd be a fool not to notice. Stupid, not to feel the press of his hard-on when he hugs you from behind. Not to sense the shift in the way he kisses you, tongue slipping past your lips, hands sliding down further than they usually do. He plays it off, always. An accident. The heat of the moment. But you know. And because you're weak, because you're a terrible person, because ruining Art Donaldson is the most beautiful thing to ever happen to you, you let him.
"Art, do you ever touch yourself?"
He falls off his chair in his hurry to spin around and look at you. From the floor of your dorm, he stares with wide blue eyes and pink cheeks. "Wha--"
You shrug. "You know. Do you ever..." you make a crude gesture with your hand, and he buries his face up to his nose in his collar.
"No," he says, muffled into his tee shirt. "It's sinful."
It takes every fibre of your being not to laugh. He's so precious, so pure, sometimes you wonder why a guy like him could ever be interested in you at all. Your looks are one thing - you know you're hot. But Art likes you. He likes you even when he can't fuck you. He liked you even when you told him you wouldn't date him. He likes you because you're you. Which makes you feel a little shitty about what you do next, but you can't help it.
"So, what, when you're hard, what do you do?" you press casually. "Send up a Hail Mary and wait?"
Art's ears, which peek out over his shirt collar, are so red they could have been on fire. He shakes his head, a little frantically. He flushes easily, you notice, blood flowing quickly whenever he's even mildly embarrassed. It conjures images of his cock, whatever it might look like, red and aching with need. And you feel a lot less bad, the mental image of Art's dick fuelling the way you lean over, sliding off your chair to join him on the floor. You kneel, hands resting on your knees, and you know he's getting an eyeful of your tits. You keep your eyes on his face.
"Show me," you murmur. "I won't touch you. I won't even touch myself. I just wanna see."
He stares at you like you've asked him for his social security number and all his credit card info. Which, honestly, he probably would have given up a little easier. And you're an awful person, because you know the effect you've had on him, especially these days, you know that Art will probably do anything you ask of him, just for the pleasure of pleasing you.
"Please?" you wheedle, cocking your head to one side lightly, staring up at him through your lashes.
And, really, how could he say no to that?
"I-- okay," he says, and he tries to pretend like he's relenting a lot more than he actually is. Pretends like he's doing you a huge favour, as if his cock isn't straining at the mere idea.
Art doesn't jerk off often. He's only ever used his hand once - the single time Patrick showed him. After that, he'd cried in the bathroom and washed his hands so many times he got a contact allergy. But he's figured out an alternative. One that doesn't involve him touching himself at all. So he slides off his sweats, all too aware of your steady eyes on him. You look at him like you've never seen legs before, as if you haven't seen him at a thousand practices. You look at him like you want to eat him.
He tries to tell himself that's not what's making his cock throb in his boxers. He keeps those on, more for his sake than yours.
"You can lie on my bed," you offer innocently.
Art almost moans. Because it's your bed. Because it's yours, and when he lies down it's almost like lying with you. When he buries his face in the pillow, he can smell you, your vanilla and roses body wash, and, beneath it, the gentle smell of you. It's your sheets he starts to cant into, hips rolling in a familiar motion as he starts to work away the desperate pressure in his cock. It's your pillow he bites in a futile attempt to muffle his moans. And when he looks up, eyes half-lidded, he can see you watching him. You're biting your lip, looking flustered, and it's the cutest he's ever seen you, and he moans your name without meaning you.
You keep your promise, hands folded neatly in you lap as you watch Art rut into your bed like a wild animal, like he's in fucking heat, like your sheets are a person and he's fucking it. Like your sheets are you, you realise, as his eyes meet yours and he whines your name. He's pretending he's fucking you. It's hard not to give up and shove one hand into your panties, but for his sake, you try. Art's moans are almost musical, and with a sharp slap of embarrassment, you're reminded of the sounds he makes when he hits the ball at practice. The same whining grunts of exertion, except now they're fuelled by pleasure, spurred on by the desperate grind of his hips into your sheets, not a fucking tennis ball.
"Oh, oh, fuck," Art's voice gets a little higher. "Oh, fuck, it's so good--"
You can feel yourself soaking through your panties, and you shift slightly. His movements grow a little more erratic, hands balling up into white-knuckled fists into the soft fabric of your sheets. You drink it all in while you can - his ears are red, his cheeks are pink. You follow the curve of his ass in his boxers. You stare at the muscles in his thighs. The bones of his hips.
Art gets breathy when he's about to cum. Breathy, very whiny, almost crying if you're being honest. You file that information away for later.
"Please, please, can I?" he gasps, staring up at you with pupils blown wide with lust. "Can I cum, please, fuck, need it, need it-- you-- fuck, please?"
It's surprising he can even string together a full sentence. "Of course, baby," you murmur, already resolved to not changing your sheets until after you've cum in them too.
Another nugget of information: Art favours a deep grind when he cums, like he's looking for a place to put it, to bury it, looking to breed, to mark, to keep. The sight of him pushing his hips as far into your mattress as he can before he cums, a cry of your name and a shuddering breath slipping from his lips, will probably fuel your nighttime ventures for the next few weeks. You'll use it when you find your next hook up, it'll probably send you right over the edge.
You don't know when you started thinking of Art while you fucked other guys. You just know that now, it's tricky to get off without it. It's hard enough biting your tongue so you avoid saying his name. Now, you'll have the image of his face when he cums locked in your brain forever.
"Shit," Art curses, still breathless, sitting up to examine the sticky mess soaking from the front of his gingham boxers, all the way into your sheets. "Sorry."
You just shake your head. "Don't worry about it. That was... really hot. That's actually how you get yourself off?"
He nods, embarrassed. When he shuffles off to shower, borrowing your shower caddy and a towel, you wait until your door click, and then you practically rip open your nightstand. It takes less than ten minutes with a vibrator and the memory of Art's voice moaning your name for you to add your cum to his. You imagine his hips fucking into you, not your sheets. You imagine pulling his stupid fucking purity ring off and wearing it like some fucked-up engagement ring. His hands are so big, you'd probably have to wear it on your thumb. His hands. You imagine them grabbing you, holding you, sliding up your skin. You wonder what it would be like to have him revere you, not his God. Worship you. You want him to, you think. The idea of him shattering every promise he's ever made, just to be inside you? It sends you over the edge with a muffled cry of his name.
It's that feeling, that messy need for him, that drives you to that frat party. You told him, obviously, and while he seemed sort of put-off when you mentioned you were probably going to sleep with someone, he told you it was okay. Told you to be safe.
You wish you could tell him, but you're worried it'll scare him off. Don't worry, Art, every guy I fuck, I pretend he's you. And now I'll have the knowledge of exactly what you look and sound like when you cum to help me out! Not exactly girlfriend material.
Still, you're thinking of Art when your eyes land on a boy playing beer pong. He's tall, all messy black curls and tanned skin. Handsome, too, if you're being honest, in a messy, frat boy-y kind of way. Hook up hot. You're thinking of Art when he waves you over, holding up a beer like it's a peace offering. You're thinking of Art when you give him your name and ask for his.
"Patrick," he tells you easily. "Patrick Zweig."
#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x fem reader#challengers smut#art donaldson smut#kit.writes#open relationship au
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