mel .ᐟ twenty-two years of apple picking. she/her pisces pumpkin spice. fluorescent beige with chai latte drizzle. art donaldson enthusiast.
new to the haunted house of adulting. patashi apple cider + artrick pumpkin donuts. streaming cozy vibes on apple music. mdni. 18+ to enter .ᐟ
directions to the pumpkin patch: masterlist ᰔ rules ᰔ ao3 ᰔ taglist ᰔ kinktober
currently picking apples: yes .ᐟ
freshly picked apples:: obsessed! art donaldson x milf!reader, cuteness aggression!art, slow sex!patrick, stalker!art part 2, blow and blow frat!artrick, daddy’s home dads!artrick
IN NO WAY AM I SHAMING YOU but please…chapter four of eyes wide shut? i’m in love with it so bad i need closure ahaha n ure thegoat btw but please baaaaaa please 🐐
oh wow this has been sitting for a while i’m so sorry I am very not active here😭
honestly the last chapter is like maybe halfway done? I haven’t opened the doc in so long and I don’t wanna promise anything but I can definitely try my best!
for those that are curious I posted eyes wide shut on ao3 :)
glee club!art donaldson | everybody loves a winner, so nobody loved me . . . ♪
. . . lyrics from maybe this time (specifically the glee cast version).
. . .you’ll never guess what i’ve been watching recently… okay it’s glee, damn. i’m re-obsessing over it </3
. . . glee!art donaldson, who damn near founded his college’s glee club. in my mind, he’s a lot like rachel but more subtly manipulative/controlling. yes, he gets every lead— but it’s not his fault! he loves when others try out for the same parts as him, actually. it reaffirms his own superiority. glee is something he’s great at; he clings to it, desperately.
. . . glee!art who bats his eyelashes just a bit as he offers you a printed poster (his own design!) advertising the glee club. he’s heard you sing once or twice, and you’d make a great duo with him. it helps that you’re cute, too.
. . . you might say no at first, but he’s persistent. donaldson has a class or two with you and he makes sure to bring up the glee club at least once each time he sees you. if you’re walking together, he’ll purposefully guide you past the glee room, never pushing you in but always reminding you that it’s there. it’s there, waiting for you (and so is he).
. . . glee!art who grins as he shows you off to the club. finally, you’ve joined. he urges you to sing a little snippet, then sits next to you as their director begins discussing their next numbers. warm ups come afterwards, though you can’t help but notice donaldson’s eyes on you as you softly sing the solfège.
. . . glee!art who convinces you to try out for half of a romantic duet. he doesn’t tell you he already has the other half of it; no need to ruin the surprise. when it’s revealed you’ll be singing with him for the duet, he takes it as an opportunity to invite you to his dorm. just practice, he swears. practice that ends with the two of you standing nose to nose, his eyes entranced by your lips as you sing… but you don’t kiss, so it’s still just practice.
. . . he’s not someone you’d call domineering or controlling. and yet, the club seems to depend on him for… everything. the only person who doesn’t consider his input is the director of the club (something art has definitely complained about to you). it’s a little strange that the other club members almost worship him (or, at the very least, stay out of his way), but you try not to mind it. he does a lot of good for the club, regardless, and it’s clear he cares.
. . . i’m not sure abt tashi & patrick in this au tbh… srry they’re not my focus here LMAO. maybe i’ll add them later. anyways, i’ll prob write more for this later esp for holiday time bc i think this concept wld be rlly fun then. and i know in the movie patrick is talent and art is training like sportswise but mike faist has canonically been on that musical stuff soo.... #glee!artreal
masterlist + tagging! @artstennisracket, @nozhdyved, @bluberrychampagne, @idioticstar, @tiffysdeath, @savedenji, @allmyn1ghts, @l3oken, @iantoscoffeemachine, @basketless, @vultureangeldotcom, @cinesvega, @voidsuites ✩ click here to be added!
of course you knew that your best friend was a fucking pervert; as if no one knew about that already. you didn’t count the number of time you had found patrick actually jerking off in your bed whenever he came around for a sleepover. his hand deep into his boxers, his other hand holding a picture of you and him from the bed table.
but only if it was just that… you could swear that some of your panties had disappeared from your apartment. your thoughts immediately went to patrick; mostly because he was the only one coming over — if you forgot about your girl friends (which none were crazy enough to steal underwears from you).
but what really did it for you was the day you went to visit patrick. he had texted you, pretexting to be sick and needing to be taken care of. his apartment smelled like dead rats and pizza; which was a weird combination but so patrick-like. and he hadn’t lied, he was truly sick. the whole fever, nausea, aching muscles type of sick.
you had decided to help him out by making him so soup, opening the windows of his room while he was napping in the living room. that’s when you found them… your lost panties. there, under his bed, crusty with what seemed to be semen. your first reaction was to be disgusted; to get mad, to wake him up. “come on, i’m sick… can’t you scold me later?”
“you fucking pervert.” and he hadn’t deny that at all. but deep down, you couldn’t help yourself and thought about it when you got back home that day.
you imagined patrick with your panties in hand, jerking his cock up and down while dirty talking to himself; “fuck, i’m such a pervert…” or something like, “it smells so good… your pussy smells so good.” you imagined patrick with your underwear against his face, sniffing the musk of it like he needed it to stay alive.
you couldn’t help but think of him as he came onto your panties; keeping them near so he thought about you day and night.
⚡︎ — REQUESTED. during a practise session, patrick has you setting pretty on his lap. it comes as a surprise to no one that he wants more than you just sitting there.
⚡︎ — cw .ᐟ 18+. 1.1k words. smut. unprotected p in v. creampie.
⚡︎ — notes .ᐟ um so i'm already obsessed with my band!au pls send more reqs <3
"can you get off his dick for like," art groans, guitar in hand—stood behind the microphone, facing patrick's drum kit. "two seconds? need to fuckin' practise."
"we are practising," patrick smirks. yeah, he might be holding his drum sticks and sat at his kit, but actually focusing on the songs he's playing is the furthest thing from his mind.
your arm stays around patrick's neck, twisting around to look at art's growing annoyance. "was i or was i not singing that whole time?" you taunt, speaking into the microphone into your hand as if to prove your point.
"tashi, help me—please," art whines, as patrick continues to ignore him.
patrick's hands move to rest on the top of your thighs, squeezing as he keeps you there—sitting pretty on his lap. his lips start trailing up your neck, leaving wet kisses behind.
"oh, give me a fuckin' break," art groans—again. you can tear tashi faintly laugh, still strumming the bass in her hands.
the sticks in patrick's hands drop to the floor, as he grabs the back of your head. bringing your face to his, lips attacking yours without a care in the world.
his tongue slides into your mouth, as your arms fully drape around his neck again—microphone dropped from your own hands, hitting the floor with a thud and hit of feedback through the amps.
"fuck this shit." art mutters, setting his guitar down on it's stand, and storming out the door. tashi only laughs, and slowly follows suit. "you owe us an hour of practise!" she teases, as the door closes behind her.
"fuck me, finally." patrick murmurs against your lips, all smug and smirking as his hands trail up under your shirt.
"you're such a dick," you mumble, fingers trailing up and down the bare skin of his back. his skin hot and sweating from the half hour of playing before patrick couldn't ignore the way you were sitting on his lap any longer.
"you want my dick, you said?" he taunts—twisting your words as he always does. pulling back from your lips to look into your eyes. his already darkened, smirk heavy on his lips.
"why didn't you just say so, baby?" patrick mutters, as his hands move to grab a fistful of your ass.
his lips attach to your neck again, mouth sucking the skin—leaving a new mark next to the fading hickey he left last week. he'd paint your entire body blue and purple if you let him.
"stand up a second, baby," patrick mumbles against your skin, guiding you to your feet with his hands still groping the fat of your ass.
his fingers move to the zip of his jeans as you stand, your hands in his hair—eyes looking down to the brunette before you, lip between your teeth.
that smirk doesn't leave his lips, as he hastily frees his growing boner from it's constraints. patrick's hands grab at your hips, pulling you back down onto his lap.
his head falls back slightly, as the lace of your panties meets his member below your skirt. your arms tighten around his neck, rolling your hips softly against his.
"such a dirty little girl, aren't you, baby?" patrick teases, big hands guiding your movements against him. "gonna let me fuck you right here, where anyone could see?"
your lip is caught between your teeth, nodding softly down to him. soft hums escaping you as his tip bumps your clit with each roll of his hips.
"god, you're fuckin' perfect," he mumbles, as his hand reaches below your skirt. pulling your panties to the side, sliding himself through your slickness, before he positions himself at your entrance.
"say please." he murmurs, holding himself there. eyes on yours, gulping as he looks over your features—eyes all but begging him.
"patrick, c'mon—"
"i said," he mutters, the hand resting on your hip moving up to grab your face. fingers pushing your cheeks together, forcing a pout on your lips. "say fucking please."
his cock is twitching—desperate to buck his hips up and force himself into you, but he doesn't let up.
"please." you whisper, brows furrowed and begging.
as soon as the word leaves your hips, he's pushing himself into you. both hands on your hips, forcing you up and down on his lap.
you can't but cry out his name, fingers digging into his shoulders. the pain of the stretch quickly turns to pleasure, as his length hits your g-spot with every thrust.
your moans echo around the room, and you're fucking grateful that art didn't want to record the audio from today's practise session. patrick's fucking clever, he'd find a way to hide your moans in the next single if he had them on tape.
"always take me so good, princess," patrick coos, as his lips messily meet yours. teeth and tongues sliding over each other, as his hips jackrabbit up from the stool.
your eyes squeeze shut, eyeliner smudging as his speed increases. your hips desperately try to match his thrusts, rhythm off—clinging onto his body as patrick bites down on your lower lip. sucking it into his mouth, before your head falls back in bliss.
"fuck, pat—" you moan, eyes glued to his—breathing heavy. "so fuckin' good—shit."
"yeah?" he breathes out, hands on your hips as pace slows, letting you grind against him. his curls growing slick to his forehead, chest heaving as he lets you use him.
"mhm," you hum, hips rolling back and forth against him. clit bumping the base of him, brows furrowing.
patrick doesn't warn you—hips jutting up harshly, his tip hitting against your g-spot roughly with every thrust. his forehead falling against your shoulder, lips aimlessly kissing at every bit of skin he can reach.
"gonna fuckin' come, baby, fuck," he mutters against your skin, the words barely hitting your ears before his load splutters up inside you.
patrick stays there, catching his breath before pulling his head up to meet yours again. "you're too fuckin' pretty on my lap, baby." he mumbles, pushing your hair back behind your ears.
soft blush washes over your cheeks, as you place a haste kiss to his forehead. "all sweaty." you mumble, scrunching your nose as you lean back.
"oh yeah, and who's fault is that?" he teases, with a soft smack to your ass. you roll your eyes as you stand up from his lap, re-adjusting your skirt as you do.
patrick smirks up to you, covering himself back up as he zips up the fly of his jeans. you lean down to kiss his lips again—softly, as his hands gently caress the back of your thighs.
only does the sound of both of your phones chiming pull you away from him.
opening up your phone, to see two new messages from: CHALLENGERS
art: new band rule
art: NO MORE FUCKING DURING PRACTISE!!!!!
currently reading: scappy little nobody, anna kendrick last song: seigh ride, ella fitzgerald
last film: death becomes her
last series: smallville
salty, savory, or sweet?: sweet
tea or coffee?: coffee
working on?: my fics for dickkory week!
Currently reading Peril at End House by Agatha Christie
Last song D.I.T.B. By fallingwithscissors
Last film (Half of) Funny Games 2008 by Michael Haneke
Last series Smallville (s3)
Salty, savoury, or sweet savoury
Tea of coffee coffee (instant coffee with milk since I was 9)
Working on "Secretary" CH2 & "Together, Forever" (TogetherAU x Patrick Zweig)
i completely forgot that i was tagged in this— oops
thank you so much too my lovely moot @illumoria for tagging me, and here’s 10 more: @pedaltothepetal, @ellaynaonsaturn, @faistrodeo, @roryheartz, @jordiemeow, @coolgrl111, @artstennisracket, @carpenfaist, @ghostgirl-22, and @artspats!!!
⋆˙⟡ emo fuck: scenemo!patrick x afab!cheerleader!reader.
꒰ summary: when you swear you'd never let that loser emo touch you again but here you are, inside the bathroom during a party, his dick inside you. yeah. ꒱
꒰ cw: mdni. +18. 5.1k words. bullying. teasing. mocking. mention of blackmail. name-calling (bitch/whore). dirty-talking. description of reader as a sex-toy. mention of deepthroating. hair pulling. making out. nipple play. oral sex (reader!receiving). protected piv. bitchy!patrick & reader. ꒱
Patrick wasn’t the type of guy to wake up at God’s hour on a Saturday morning, and especially not if the remnant of the party from the night before was still in his veins.
He remembered the Vodka served in the typical red cup, a laughter from behind him and a smirk on his face as he had watched you, passing by with disgust on your face like you liked to show so well.
It wasn’t the first time and probably wouldn’t be the last either; because in the campus hierarchy, Patrick was way under you. Him, and his skinny jeans, his black eyeliner and all the shitty things that made him… him. The cocky emo asshole, as you liked to call him.
Yes, he was a cockroach under your pretty shoes; you were better than him, after all. What could be wrong with the cheerleader captain? You had great grades, friends that liked you, great skin, great hair.
You were perfect in all the ways your friends wanted you to be, superior and superficial. But there was something you could never be; free like Patrick was.
And that? It made your blood boil every time you saw his face on the campus, at the frat parties he knew how to get invited to. The fucker with his cocky smile, his fucking skinny jeans that showed a bit too much in the lower region – the freak who got on your nerves like no one else.
And Zweig always made it his mission to annoy you whenever he was around, throwing you looks like he knew something you didn’t, a cocky fucking smile on his face and eyes that sparkled. Fuck that guy. Quite literally.
The first time it happened, it was during the Halloween frat party. You had been invited by one of your friend’s boyfriend – the type of guy that wouldn’t touch with a stick and you ignored him most of the time.
You went there wearing your cheerleader uniform as a last-minute costume, but you knew how many of the guys there liked it, oogling you like you were a trophy. Disgusting pigs. Though, red cup in your hand, you never expected to find Patrick smoking a joint in the backyard when the music got too loud for your ears.
You could remember the way his eyes followed the curves of your body, his lips curling in a smirk that made the heat pool in your lower belly, even when you tried to disguise it as annoyance.
A few insults were thrown around but mostly on your part, “Which dumbfuck invited you in, loser?”, “You useless piece of shit” or even “You emo fuck.” (Not your greatest insult). And Patrick never backed away from you, that’s probably what brought you closer.
You don’t even know how it had happened really, but by the end of the night, you were both fucking on the side of the house while the party was still going on inside. The loud music covered your moans – how you cried Patrick's name while he pistonned you on his cock.
Your fingers tugged on his hair, your pussy creamed his hardness like no one else did before and you held onto him while coming from your high. You couldn’t lie to yourself; it had been the best sex of your life.
Yes, but you were too proud and as soon as it was over, you mocked it off and walked away, throwing another insult at Patrick’s face. Since then, it was like he had something to blackmail you with.
You tried your best to keep the disgust on your face whenever he was around, mocking him loudly when your friends could hear and laugh about it. It wouldn't change those moments you had with him under the bleachers; how you gagged on his cock while he called you his little cheerleader whore.
When his fingers tugged on your hair and forced your throat to accommodate to his cock. When he came down your throat and you swallowed, glaring at him with rage and disgust even though he knew you loved it all.
That’s exactly what had happened that night again.
One of the fraternities had thrown another of their famous parties; loud music, red cups being shared around with alcohol so strong that one sip was enough for your throat to burn like a dragon’s. That time, no one had costumes but most of the cheerleaders still had their uniforms on – just being back from a tournament.
All the girls were glad for this party and even you, being the captain wasn’t always easy, even if you were confident enough to know you’d win the trophy again.
Your body pushed past others, waving and smiling at those who talked to you like you were friends or just acquaintances. Your feet walked and you found yourself in the – what seemed to be the kitchen – and when you turned your head to the side, you saw him.
The fucker.
Here, again, with his glorious cockiness and his fucking black skinny jeans like he knew those were your kryptonite. The bulge they were creating was candy for your orbs but you tried to keep those up, to his face – just to see him already looking at you.
You scoffed and rolled your eyes, and for a second, you cursed the fact that no one you knew seemed to be around at the moment. Your movements faltered and Patrick took the occasion to speak. “Didn’t think you’d be here. The tournament went well?”
You could feel the mocking in his voice like he had any rights to use the tone with you, that fucking freak. You ignored him for a second but the urge to reply was too heavy.
“T’fuck you want, loser? Why you care?” You asked back at him, eyes glowing with disgust even if you knew Patrick would see through it. He shrugged and looked away, acting like he didn’t really care. Maybe he just wanted to annoy you, like he always did.
A silence (not so much, with the loud music, the chatter, the laughter) fell between you both and you took a sip of your red cup, leaning back against the kitchen counter.
But even with that, you couldn’t help yourself and kept talking.
“Who the fuck invited you, anyway? You have friends here, emo fuck?” You threw at him, the childish mocking evident in your tone. Patrick’s eyes shifted back to your face and he didn’t even look insulted. He smirked, sipping his own drink – alcohol – as you guessed.
For a second, he did just that. Drinking, looking at you through his eyelashes before he licked his lips, pink tongue dragging along his lower lip and wetting his lip ring.
“You’re such a bitch, uh? Think you better than me?” He finally spoke and you scoffed at his words. Thought you were better than him? Of course you were. You were the cheerleader captain, the one with lots of friends, idolized by almost everyone on the campus, with the good grades and pretty face. While Patrick was the fucking loser. Just Patrick.
“Babe, of course I am. I am better in any way.” You said, looking at him up and down.
“That’s not what you said when I had my fat fucking cock inside your pussy, two weeks ago.” The words made you straighten your back and you snarled at him, disgust on your face that, for once, looked more natural than any other expressions.
Your shoes hit the floor as you approached him, one finger pointed at his chest. “Shut the fuck up, you fucking loser. This never happened, heard me?!” You replied, even though you knew there was no way you could threaten someone like Patrick. Not someone that didn’t give a fuck about anything.
Patrick smirked again – like it was his favorite thing to do whenever you talked because in a way, he was the one mocking you more than you mocked him. You could act high and mighty but he had you wrapped around his finger like the pathetic thing you were.
“Yeah, yeah. I never made you cream on my cock, I guess.” The words were said with amusement – this was nothing but a game to him. To you, it was your reputation on the edge if anyone heard this conversation.
So you did the only thing that made sense and grabbed his wrist, fingers tight as you tugged him away from the kitchen and into the crowd of party people. No one seemed to care; either too drunk, too high or too busy with having fun.
You couldn’t help but throw glances around to make sure no one could blackmail you with being seen with the emo loser of Stanford University.
The sound of yours and Patrick’s steps on the stairs was eaten by the loud music, even when you both made your way to one of the empty bathrooms of the second floor. You pushed Patrick inside, realizing he held little to zero reticence to what was happening.
He moved to lean his back onto the counter, crossing his arm onto his tight shirt, bracelets clicking onto one another. You closed the door behind you both and for a second, you gave yourself the permission to really look at him.
Black skinny jeans, two belts on his waist, a tight black shirt (one that looked more of a crop top the way you could see his happy trail) with a stupid trash print on it – probably from a band he listened to – some beat Converse shoes, black painted nails, one streak of red in his hair.
He was the typical stereotype of an emo boy.
“If you wanted me to fuck you again, you just had to say it.” His words took you out of your thoughts and you groaned at him, rolling your eyes. “You’re not as funny as you think you are, you fucker. Stop joking. It happened like… twice and won’t happen again.” You replied to him immediately, leaning back against the door, arms crossed on your cheerleader top, a sliver of skin showing between the fabric and the hem of your skirt.
But who were you kidding? You both had sex twice before, you had gagged on his cock at least three times and let him finger you under the bleachers before too. It was bound to happen again.
Patrick’s eyes seemed to follow where your skin was showing, finally, and didn’t reply. He hummed under his breath, words you didn’t care about enough to ask about. He licked his bottom lip again, and you had to look away because you knew the effect that had on you; even if he was unaware of that.
You refused to let him use it as a weapon against you. And you refused to fell into his fucking game once more.
You refused to think about his lips on yours, his fingers tugging your panties to the side, stretching your pussy out with cold digits, his tongue licking stripes from your hole to your clit. Thinking about his pink tip pushing inside your pussy... Fuck, no.
You sighed, pushing the thoughts away before looking at him again but his eyes were already on you like he understood what you were thinking about. He smirked again and pushed himself from the counter to approach you. “I bet you’re wet right now. Popular cheerleader wanting to be fucked by the emo loser, flashnews.”
You hated the tone in his voice but couldn’t deny the truth those words held. You didn’t reply and Patrick took that as an invitation.
Soon enough, he was close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath on your face – the stink of alcohol made you furrow your eyebrows in disgust – his hands moved to your hips and you did nothing to move away, but your lips parted.
“The fuck you think you are doing, you asshole? Move your fucking hands.” You snarled at him, your own hands grabbed his biceps, his short sleeves making you able to feel his skin under your palms.
His muscles bulged under your grip and your attention shifted to where your hands rested; thinking about how this loser could make you feel like that. You hated this. He was nothing compared to you, he was no one, and never will be.
You could never be seen around this fucker, you; the one on top of the hierarchy. Yet, you couldn’t deny the attraction you felt for him or how the heat pooled in your belly every time he gave you his infamous smirk.
“You listening to me?” Your eyes shifted back to his face when he talked, and that’s when you realized his hands were now under the top of your uniform, cold onto your warm skin, fingers spread onto your ribs. You didn’t move. Not because you couldn’t, but because you didn’t want to.
“I said… I bet your tits are as soft as they were last time. Going to let me touch them?” Patrick’s voice was filled with mocking, like he was the one holding the reins, and maybe he was, in that moment.
You sighed, expression turning into disgust once more before you replied to him, trying to shift the dominance back your way. “I mean, that’s the only pair of tits you’ll never touch, eh? I’m probably being generous to you right now.”
He chuckled at the words coming from your mouth but instead of keeping the banter going, he only moved his hands higher on your body – until they stopped to cup your breasts above your bra.
He didn’t stop there, and lifted the fabric of your top above the valley of your tits, only so he could see what he was doing and probably so you could feel the humiliation of his eyes on your body. As if you were ever going to give him that – to him, to this loser.
Patrick’s eyes then moved back to your face like waiting for permission, and only being given a look in return. One he understood, since his fingers pushed your bra up, your breasts bounced back for his pleasure – he grinned at the view he had now. “Just as I remembered.” to which you replied with a grunt, “Shut the fuck up, oh my God.”
His cold hands moved to cup your bare tits, heavy in his palms, cold thumbs brushing onto your nipples – the action made you shiver and arch closer to him. He immediately smirked and looked at you like he won the round. Like he was the winner of a game he was playing alone in this bathroom.
He didn’t say anything and he suddenly pinched your nipples between his fingers, rolling them until you gasped and your thighs clenched. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing you liked it – but the pleasure was too visible on your face.
Patrick kept silent, tugging and pinching your nipples. “Fuck, you're such a fucking loser…” The words left your mouth before you could help yourself but they were more of a habit than a real insult, for once.
And Patrick, fucking loser that he was, replied by lowering his head to your chest, sucking one nipple into his mouth. Lips closing around your bud, tongue circling it, teeth grazing it as you threw your head back against the door. The cold metal of his lip ring made you shiver.
One of your hands immediately left his bicep to tug on his hair, pulling him closer. One nipple inside his mouth and the other between his finger; you felt the wetness pool between your thighs, pussy clenching around nothing as Patrick only gave attention to your chest.
At that moment you knew that you didn’t want him to stop; because even if you hated him — or acted like you did — he made you feel good.
His hips moved to grind against your thighs, the rough fabric of his jeans scratched your skin due to the short cheerleader skirt you wore. You could already feel the bulge rubbing onto you; Patrick rutting like a dog in heat and almost begging to put it inside you.
“I hope you have a fucking condom, I’m not letting you fuck me raw.” The words escaped your lips and he finally let go of your nipple in a loud pop; now wet with his saliva.
Patrick lifted his head back to you, serious and he moved his free hand in his pocket. “Yeah, yeah… Somewhere in here.” He replied before taking his wallet out. You rolled your eyes at his action until he took a condom out, and just placed it on the bathroom counter.
“Let me just… Okay, maybe I’m the one who really wants to fuck now.” He joked but you didn’t laugh.
He moved his attention away from your tits, his hands tugging at the uniform skirt you wore, until it pooled at your ankles. You helped him by shifting your legs open, hands on his shoulders as he fell onto his knees in front of you. Patrick sighed like he had just seen Heaven, focused on the damp patch of wetness decorating your panties. “Looks so fucking good—”
You groaned at him, one hand snaking into his dark curls just to tug on it. “Are you going to talk or eat my pussy out, loser?” Those words made him smirk again and you almost regretted them.
He looked up at you when his cold fingers slowly pushed your panties down; past your hips, down your thighs and at your ankles. The cold air hit your skin, making you realize how wet you were at that moment.
He licked his lips when looking at you, hands moving to your thighs to spread them a little, making you move your feet apart. You kept holding on onto his shoulders, looking at his face with impatience.
“Hey, weirdo, stop looking and—” You couldn’t even finish your sentence as Patrick went for it without any warning. He immediately closed his lips around your warm clit, sucking and swirling his tongue in circles. You gasped, almost folding over but he held you firmly with his hands on your thighs. “Fuck—” The curse left your mouth as he sucked more.
It was the first time Patrick ate you out so you couldn’t really compare to previous experiences; but you could tell that it was going to be good, the way he played with your clit.
And even as he finally let go to flatten his tongue and lick stripes along your wet folds, hands moving to spread your lips out, you couldn’t stop looking at him. His nose rubbed against your bud of nerves, doing it on purpose as he saw your thighs shaking every time he did. Patrick wanted you to be on the edge and yet, not enough for you to cum. And it was sweet but torturous when he fucked your hole with his tongue.
He moaned at the taste of your pussy, the vibrations making you moan and curse at him.
Something tightened in your belly as he went back to sucking on your clit, and you squirmed; but when you felt the sweet deliverance of your orgasm… It was gone.
Patrick moved his head away from between your thighs, smirking and proud of himself. You tugged on his hair, eyebrows furrowed and anger on your face. “What the fuck? What are you doing? Go back to it.” You told him.
But he could care less about how you felt as he stood up from the floor; licking his lips to taste you again. His chin and nose were glistening with your juices; it was obscene and perverted but it made you clench. “Didn't know your pussy tasted that good.”
Before you could do anything, his lips were on yours; clashing and violent. You tasted yourself on his tongue as he pushed it inside your mouth; hands pulling at your hips to bring you closer. His own hips rutted against your bare thigh, making you feel his hard cock under the fabric of his skinny jeans once more.
Your hands moved to undo his button and he groaned.
Your fingers were cold as they snaked inside the fabric of his boxers, Patrick gasped and pulled away from the kiss. “Fuck, you going to jerk me off? Not sure if your tiny hand is going to handle my big cock.” He said, a tone filled with cockiness.
You didn’t reply as your fingers found him, hard, tall and proud. You scratched your nails against the bush at the base of his hardness, before grabbing him.
His hips thrusted forward as a reflex; but you didn’t move. Your eyes lifted up to look at him and at that moment, the dominance shifted back to you. It didn’t matter that he had eaten you out a few seconds ago, or that you imagined his fat cock inside your pussy, pounding you for hours.
No, what mattered was the fact that you could play with him if you wanted to. Like he knew it was going to happen and still let it.
“Want me to move my hand, loser? Want me to jerk you off?” You asked him and he smirked, not backing down from whatever you were doing now. Like it was actually making him harder — because you felt his cock pulsating inside your hand. He was warm.
“Are you going to be nice or does the stinky loser that I am have to beg? Don't be a bitch now.” He replied.
You could tell him to beg, to whine for you and get on his knees. You could leave him in the bathroom all alone while finding someone else to fuck you. Because Patrick Zweig didn’t matter; his cock did. And fuck, you wanted it.
So the bathroom fell silent and you moved your hand around his cock; slowly and torturously sweet. Patrick maybe expected something else; since he gasped and his face fell into your neck. You could feel his warm breath on your skin as you explored every millimeter of his cock — the veins all along, the sticky tip, the bushy base. It was heavy in your hand, and only waited to be played with.
Your hand moved; raw, but Patrick didn’t seem to care. His hips thrusted along every movement of your hand, pathetic and needy and he whined into your neck.
You almost wanted to call him out on it, telling him how much of a loser he was at that moment but you decided to give him the pleasure of shutting up. After all, you weren’t going to let him cum either – and he probably knew that.
But Patrick was the one to decide he had gotten enough as he pulled away, your hand leaving the warmth of his boxers. “Fuck, okay – can’t wait anymore. Need to be inside you.” He spoke before his hands grabbed your hips and turned you around, front against the bathroom door.
You gasped but bit on your lips, the anticipation was too good to care about how he’d fuck you.
Behind you, Patrick was struggling with the condom, cursing and hands shaking with how aroused he was. The lack of actions made you roll your eyes, turning your head to look past your shoulder. “What are you fucking doing? You need a degree to put a condom on, loser?”
The words made him chuckle, before he looked up. “M’too excited to fuck the Regina George wannabe of campus.”
Your lips parted to curse at him again but instead, you gasped at the feeling of his latex-covered tip pushing inside your hole; the burning sensation and the stretching made you clench immediately; which made Patrick curse in your nape. “Fuck, just… gonna cum if you do this.”
His own words made him chuckle and you relaxed your muscles. His length pushed deeper inside you, and your hands – palms flat – moved to the door to keep yourself standing. Soon enough, he was buried to the base.
“You sure you ain’t a virgin? You're tight as hell.” Patrick whispered into your ear, the mocking tone of his voice made you sneer at him. How dare he mock you? Him? “I fucked more people in my life than you’ll ever do in yours, fucker.” You replied, thrusting your hips backwards to hit his, making him moan at the feeling of your pussy envelopping his cock.
“Ouch, meanie.” He replied, hands moving to hold your waist so you wouldn’t move and you shifted your feet to open your legs wider. Patrick took this as an invitation to move, so he did. The first thrust made you gasp, face against the bathroom door so he wouldn’t see how good he made you feel. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
After that, he kept moving; slowly and torturous, to see which pace made you feel good – or probably he only cared about his pleasure, you didn’t know.
But his cock rubbed your gummy walls the perfect way, he even angled his hips to search for that special spot inside your pussy that would make you see stars.
However, when you thought he’d only fuck you with that half-assed slow pace, Patrick’s hips started to build a faster speed. His cock slipped in and out of your wetness in a loud pop that competed against the loud music of the party and made you bite down on your lips to not moan out.
“Fuck, Zweig…” Were the only words that escaped your lips and that was probably enough for him as he speeded even more.
His hands lowered to your bare hips to grab them strongly, his fingers digging into the fat there; and he pulled at them with every thrust. His cock buried itself inside your warm pussy like it belonged there. Patrick groaned, “Fuck, that’s probably the best pussy I’ve ever had…”
And for once, you didn’t have a remark to bite back at him, and simply moaned. His hips slapped against your ass, creating skin to skin noises.
You couldn’t help yourself but thrust back against him, his tip hitting deeper each time you did – letting moans and whines escape your mouth. One of your hands snaked between your body and the bathroom door just for your fingers to circle your sensitive clit.
Patrick’s face leaned into your nap and his warm breath hit your skin as he kissed it. You groaned at the feeling, your fingers sliding against your wet buddle of nerves. “Faster, fuck.” You begged.
You thought Patrick would perhaps mock you for the tone of your voice, slow down but he did none, his hips simply started slamming against yours as he groaned. “Fuck, you want my cock that bad? Wanna cum on it? You're such a whore.” He teased, hands pulling on your hips to use your body as his toy.
He angled himself to slam deeper inside you, finding that gummy spot as he did so. You gasped loudly, your legs trembling as he kept assaulting that location; and you imagined the smug look on his stupid face. Your nipples brushed against the bathroom door, rendering them more sensitive.
Your free hand moved behind to grab his bicep to support yourself up as he kept slamming his fat cock inside your pussy. You moaned loudly, sure that no one would hear you over the music outside of the piece; your eyebrows long furrowed to the pleasure you felt coursing through your body.
Patrick’s hands moved from your hips to set on your shoulders as he pounded your g-spot without any shame. “Sweet fucking pussy, I’ve been jerking off thinking about your hole for weeks.” He grunted into your ear as your fingers swiped onto your clit.
You felt a coil tightening inside your lower belly and moaned, the noise more throaty than the ones that had escaped your mouth before. “M’gonna cum, Patrick! Fuck, don’t stop!” Your fingers started to rub faster onto your clit, your legs shaking as Patrick’s tip hit that gummy spot at the entrance of your hole again.
His hands moved to your ass cheeks to spread them wide, making himself able to hit deeper inside your pussy.
Your walls clenched around his hardness as your orgasm hit you, your eyes rolling up to the ceiling; the hand grabbing his bicep tightening its grip so you wouldn’t fall against the door. You were unable to speak for a second, white sparkles hitting your eyes with the force of the pleasure.
Patrick grunted at the warmth and tightening of you clenching onto his cock, his hips still thrusting forward as he reached his own orgasm with a loud moan against the skin of your nap.
“Fuck– fuck, m’coming, babe…” He buried himself deep inside your pussy as he came, his load filling the condom and for a second you surprised yourself thinking you would have liked him to fill you up. You grimaced at the petname but decided to keep it shut as a thank you for the nice fuck.
Labored breathing could be heard on the inside of the bathroom as you both seemed to realize what had happened. Patrick chuckled and you turned your head over your shoulder to glare at him, squirming so he’d pull out of your pussy.
“What are you laughing about, fucker?” You cursed as you felt the pop of his cock leaving your warmth, immediately feeling empty. Patrick shrugged as he took the full-semen condom off of his cock, tying it up and throwing it in the bin while you pushed your bra and top down on your chest again.
“Just remembered your words when you first met me. Something like I’ll never let you touch me, not even with a baton. And now you let me fuck that sweet pussy. I guess my cock does make you stupid, uh?”
You scoffed at him, rolling your eyes without replying; how would you say anything when he was kinda right? You bent over to pull your panties and uniform skirt up when a piece of tissue appeared in your vision.
“Here, you can clean yourself up.” You heard Patrick and tore the kleenex out of his hand to clean the inside of your thighs and your core before covering yourself in your clothes again.
“That was a mistake on my part, I got weak, that’s it. Don’t imagine anything, Zweig.” You scoffed at him, trying to maintain a reputation. You moved to face the mirror and smacked your lips together, acting like the lipgloss was still there.
You brushed your hair away from your shoulder, looking at him up and down before turning your back to him. “Nice, well… If your mistake could ride my cock next time, I’d love that.” He replied as you walked out of the bathroom, turning your head to grimace at him.
“Shut the fuck up, you loser. Go back to the party no one invited you to.” You heard him laugh at those words before he talked again. “You wanna go on a date or something?” Your eyebrows furrowed; and you scoffed, flipping him off before starting to walk away from the crime scene that was now the bathroom.
“Ask me again in ten years, loser!” And when you were far away enough, the reply was shouted at you.
Shut the fuck up ur actually so lucky I cannot wrap my head around actually being able to see him in person that’s so crazy congratulations babe
I was like stressing lowkey idk why but he’s so sweet and beautiful and tall and ahhhhhhhhhhh. and rebuilding was a great movie, everyone should go see it
Werewolf | Breeding Kink. Art Donaldson/Patrick Zweig.
Phases
Summary: Patrick turns into a werewolf, and no, his best friend absolutely does not think its hot.
CW: 18+ mdni, unprotected anal sex, breeding kink, rutting, hint of knotting (sorry), soulmates and heat, a made up story about werewolf lore
Its been a while since that fateful night. The night of the party they were never supposed to be at but they snuck in anyway. It was a frat party, Art’s big sister is in a sorority and her local friends were throwing a party over summer break.
Patrick— all Art's bad ideas start with Patrick— convinced him to crash. Too young to drink but they tried the punch anyway and danced with hot college girls. It was fun at first. At least until Art’s sister caught them. Then it was the half tipsy walk home at midnight. They took a shortcut they’ve taken a million times, through an abandoned construction site, near the New England woods not far from Art’s home. The crisp night breeze of early summer suddenly felt colder, a little more sinister. That’s when it happened. Patrick giggling and trailing behind more drunk than tipsy, they’d been separated for barely a moment when Art heard the scream. A sound that still lingers in his mind to this day, even just the memory makes his blood run cold. He’d never been more terrified than he was when he doubled back to find Patrick on the ground, bleeding.
Ever since that night it’s been a bit of a whirlwind dealing with Patrick's new affliction. From that first night trying to figure out what bit him and what it meant. Patrick fell asleep that night in Art’s bed, fever flushed, body so warm the sheets clung to his skin. So warm Art couldn’t sleep, he was so panicked that Patrick would die. He pushed to take Patrick to the hospital more than once, but he refused. Patrick was so warm Art got up every few hours to get ice from the kitchen to help cool him down. So warm Art had to pull his own t-shirt off, both of them bare chested and sweaty in the dark. Art so afraid something was really wrong, while also praying that they could hide all this from his parents in the morning. Art had been there in the morning, when the bite had mostly healed but Patrick was forever changed.
They left New England the same week and went back to Florida for the rest of the summer to participate in a tennis camp intensive. Sharing a room like always, Art’s been there every step of the way. He was there when Patrick realized he could hear Art’s heartbeat, that he could still hear it when he was in the room down the hall. That he could count Art’s breaths even through the wall. That he could smell him. Whatever that fucking meant.
He was there when Patrick’s diet changed, and suddenly he wanted meat with every meal. Meat that was barely cooked, much more rare and bloody. And not to mention, Patrick’s tennis skills improved 10 fold. Suddenly he was not only anticipating the ball, but slamming it down harder, faster. They were already unbeatable as a doubles team, now it’s just considered cruel the way no one else even stands a chance.
The whole time Patrick is (unfairly) getting even better looking, lean muscle becoming more solid and firm. Shirtless all day around their shared bedroom, he’s hairier. He needs to shave twice a day now, in the morning and at night, if not a little stubble lines his cheeks. Stubble that lots of girls think is hot. Art thinks it’s whatever.
Art was there when Patrick’s night vision kicked in. “It’s clear as day right now. I don’t even need that flashlight.”
“Really? How many fingers am I holding up?” Art asks, holding up fingers he can’t even see himself on this moonless night.
“Three,” Patrick says.
“Whoa,” Art murmurs. “what about now?”
“Shut up,” Patrick smirks. Smacking Art’s middle finger down. “Come on, I wanna find a safe place to turn.”
That seems to be the only thing about all this whole situation that really, truly scares Patrick. At least from what Art can tel he’s enjoying everything elsel. All of Art’s free time is spent looking up lycanthropy now, and tonight isn’t an exception. Stretched out in Patrick’s twin, feet up on the wall decoding some book published in the nineteenth century that he checked out from the public library.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone. You have to lock me up. You have to lock me up and keep everyone away. Including yourself.” Patrick says for the millionth time as the full moon approaches.
“I know Patrick.”
The day of his first full moon… they plan everything out. Putting Patrick in restraints in an old abandoned pool no one uses outside of the occasional skateboarders who’ve turned it into a makeshift skate park in the day time. Patrick keeps waffling about whether or not he wants Art to keep watch, whether or not he wants him anywhere near him. But Art doesn’t give him the choice. He’s gonna be there whether Patrick wants him to or not. The restraints are heavy duty, metal handcuffs and thick heavy ropes. They’ve tested it out once. Strapping Patrick to the handrail that’s welded into the concrete floor of the abandoned pool. Only Art has the key to the handcuffs and he wears it on a chain around his neck.
“Art I think it’s happening,” Patrick breathes. Art looks up from the glow of his cellphone. With the moon just beginning to rise, it’s almost as clear as day but Art shines his flashlight on Patrick anyway. Patrick’s eyes turning a more vivid shade of blue, the flecks of gold catching the moonlight making them glow is the first sign of transition. Then he gets hairy, dark curls lengthening, his sideburns grow thick, his face takes on more wolf-like features, his nose widening, flattening into a puppy snout which is oddly adorable. The fangs are the most fascinating part, descending razor sharp as Patrick bares his teeth, shiny and pearly white. His nails lengthen into razor sharp claws while the hair on his arms and legs thickens and his muscles bulge thicker. The white t-shirt he’s in, suddenly tight to his body. He doesn’t turn into a full wolf. No, it’s clear he’s a hybrid human. But the animalistic side is definitely running the show.
Art watches the whole thing. He should be horrified. He should be wetting himself with nerves. Between him and Patrick he’s the scaredy cat. He still has nightmares from the time Patrick let him watch Child’s Play when they were 12 years old. But for some reason he’s not afraid of this. Not even a little bit. Oddly enough his stomach hurts in a familiar way. The same way it felt when he lay in bed listening to Patrick touch himself for the first time. Too clueless to understand why his skin was tingling or why his mouth felt too wet.
Patrick is growling, panting, eyes glowing, muscles straining as he fights the restraints and Art refuses to look down at the bulge growing in his own shorts. Holy fuck. He can’t be attracted to this. No. That makes no fucking sense. He’s come to terms with the idea that he does find Patrick attractive and he can ignore that but this… god… there’s something wrong with him. His best friend has just turned into some kind of impossible superhuman monster and somehow Art is still the real freak.
He keeps his distance.
Patrick is fighting the restraints. “Art…? Art.” Patrick growls his name. Voice soft and a little deeper than his usual lilt. Art shivers, he likes the added bass. “Lemme go. Artie…come on lemme go.”
“You told me to keep you like this until…”
“I know who turned me. I feel him in me. Come on lemme go.”
“Patrick.”
Patrick growls. Fighting the restraints as they dig into his wrists.
“Patrick stop,” Art says. He doesn’t want Patrick to hurt himself but Patrick doesn’t stop. They had the brilliant idea that maybe Patrick would feel good in wolf mode if he had something to eat. Art goes to the grocery bags and pulls out the fresh 20 dollar steaks they bought from the grocery store. “Hey Patrick just relax okay.” He takes one of the steaks, getting as close as he can without being within biting distance. Patrick bares his fangs, a warning, saliva dripping from them. Art can’t believe he’s considering putting this into his rotation of things to get off to. “Here…” he tosses the steak the rest of the way. “Come on, eat… it’ll help.”
Patrick glares at the steak and then at Art. Then he takes it between his teeth and pulls it close to eat it up raw. Art’s heart pulses loudly in his ears. His logical mind repeating the mantra: This shouldn’t be hot. This shouldn’t be hot.
Wolf Patrick is a little calmer after eating but Art is still concerned for all the bruising and the way the handcuffs bite into his wrists as he fights to get free. Regardless of what he does, the restraints hold. “I’m sorry… you told me not to let you go. No matter what you say,” Art says.
“And I was wrong. Please. I won’t kill you. I won’t get that pretty neck between my teeth and tear out your gorgeous throat. I promise. I promise. Please Art. Let me fucking go.” The last words are a harsh growl.
Art shivers again. Did wolf Patrick just call him gorgeous? Jesus Christ, he needs help. He’s up on the pool edge, he lays down on the tiled patio and closes his eyes so he can take his mind off of what Patrick is doing to his arms. So he can take his mind off of what the sight of Patrick like this is doing to his cock. It doesn't help anything listening to him panting, and growling. Soon Art is edging from the sounds alone.
“You know I can smell you right,” Wolf Patrick grunts. That raises goosebumps on Art’s arms. “I can smell it all over you. You’re aroused.”
Art bites his lip. “That’s not… it has nothing to do with…uh with you,” no he’s not making excuses to a werewolf. He changes the subject. “Uh okay look…why don’t you just… tell me what you know about your maker?”
Patrick growls again and goes back to pulling at the restraints. The clank of the metal on metal going loudly for hours. It reminds Art of his pet hamster from middle school that used to pointlessly bite at the bars of its cage all night. Art lies on his stomach trying not to think dirty thoughts. He can only hope that what wolf Patrick knows about his arousal won’t be transferred into real Patrick’s brain.
When daylight comes and Patrick goes back to himself, Art removes the restraints. Patrick’s arms are a mess, skin rubbed raw. Art touches it gently and Patrick flinches. “We need to get you some kind of salve,” Art says softly then he hesitantly meets Patrick’s jewel eyed gaze. “Do you uh– do you remember any of that?”
Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and groans, nonchalant, “a little… not really… I’m real fucking hungry though.”
They stop at McDonalds and he orders two Quarter Pounders… disappointed because the meat is too processed he still inhales them. When they get home Art goes into the bathroom and takes hold of his dick immediately, jerking himself raw as he actively does not fantasize about the monster in Patrick. Or the rippling muscles in wolf Patrick’s biceps, and thighs. Or those lethal pearly white fangs. He cleans up in the shower. Touches himself one more time for good measure under the faucet and then gets out.
Patriick is watching him when he re-enters the bedroom. Curious expression on his face. “Uh… all yours,” he tells Patrick awkwardly. Art can’t help but notice any bruising Patrick had from the restraints has already disappeared. It’s fine.
The next days of the full moon go smoothly, the restraints never break, Patrick generally heals from any harm he does to himself and he doesn’t really remember what happens while he’s wolfing out. It becomes their monthly routine. Sneaking out of their dorm and spending the night at the empty pool/skate park while they’re at the academy, training all summer. Art brings reading books, sometimes he’d bring his gameboy, sometimes he just lies down under the stars with only his phone and tetris as entertainment. He watches over the werewolf Patrick. Keeping him safe and fed, raw steak meat and attempting to keep him calm so he doesn’t fight as much. Not that it matters. The restraints will hold and Patrick will be fine. Maybe Art just wants to keep him company. Maybe he likes spending the night aroused by the animalistic nature of the werewolf in Patrick like a real fucking weirdo. Art has made masturbating in the morning a part of his routine too... but of course he keeps that little part to himself.
Patrick’s wolf self starts to get used to Art too. Even if he’s still not trustworthy. He’s not as mean. In fact he gets to be… a lot. “Come on blondie. I won’t bite. Why don’t you come over here? I know you want it.”
“I’m not doing that Patrick.”
“You know mine is hard too, right? You want to see it?”
Art looks up from his phone.
Patrick’s wolf almost purrs when their eyes meet which makes Art squirm just a little more. “Take me out of these and I’ll show it to you. It’s bigger you know… thicker than normal. Come here… Art. Come on. I wanna show you. Wanna let you touch it.”
Art closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath as the wolf Patrick chuckles lowly.
One night the wolf changes tact, instead of fighting the restraints he starts panting, grunting while pawing at the bulge of his cock along his thigh. Art can’t stop staring. His mouth falling open. Wolf Patrick smiles, or maybe he’s just showing his teeth. It doesn’t matter. Art is attracted to the danger of those pearly white fangs glistening in the moonlight. “I know you want to feel it Artie. Come closer and I’ll let you touch it. Come closer and I’ll fuck you doggy style.”
Art chews on his thumb. That’s probably the worst bit of temptation he’s felt. For a moment he’s terrified wolf Patrick will start masturbating in front of him. He thinks he’ll go insane if he sees that. He doesn’t though. And as always when he’s transitioned back, real Patrick doesn’t say anything. Art just prays that real Patrick and the wolf are really as separate as he imagines them to be and that Patrick doesn’t remember the things he and Art discuss when he’s all wolfed out.
It’s fall break which means going home to New England for a week. There’s no upcoming full moon thankfully, so they don’t have to worry about finding a place at home to restrain Patrick because Patrick insists on coming back to Connecticut with Art.
“I want to find my maker.” Patrick says. “I want to make sure he’s not hurting anyone else. Besides, I think trick or treating together this year might be kinda fun.”
”We’re too old to trick or treat, dude,” Art says.
“Oh come on, what are they gonna do? Ask for our IDs and then deny us candy.”
It’s not surprising at all when Art’s parents mention they’ll be away traveling all throughout his trip home. It’s campaign season after all. As if either of them will lose their seats as the standing Democratic representatives but whatever.
Art’s sisters are still away at college. That means Art and Patrick will have the place to themselves. They stay up too late on Halloween eve, they eat too much junk food, order a meat lovers pizza from dominos and bake pillsbury sugar cookies with Halloween designs. Patrick forces Art to watch scary movies. “Come on, you’re with a werewolf, these movies can’t hurt you now.”
“Yeah only you can.” Art snorts. They’re inches away from each other even though they’re on the massive sofa all alone and even though Patrick isn’t wolfed out, it’s not like that’s the only time Art finds him hot. If anything the feelings have only intensified.
“You know I would never hurt you,” Patrick grins at Art. Art swears even when Patrick’s fangs aren’t descended his grin has still turned a little wolffish. It’s one of the hottest things about the change, watching the fangs descend. Art shifts in his seat not sure why he feels the urge to ask Patrick to bite him. He doesn't of course. Because that’s weird. Though Patrick does start sniffing him. Which is… also weird.
“What’s it feel like? When you– when you’re changing?” Art asks. “Can you remember any of it?”
“Some of it. Uh… it’s overwhelming. My instincts feel more powerful than my thoughts, like hunger, the desire to hunt, the desire to….” he trails off and pauses for a moment before continuing. “It’s like when you act without thinking but in overdrive,” he laughs. “I keep thinking one night you’re gonna tell me I howled at the moon.”
Art grins. “No… no you don’t do that.”
“What do I do?” Patrick rubs his nose against Art’s shirt and sniffs there. It’s really distracting, having him this close, doing whatever he’s doing.
“You uh… you just growl a lot. And try to convince me to set you free. Uh… like I told you. Um… why are you smelling me?”
Patrick laughs. “Oh shit… I don’t know. I didn’t even realize. Are you using a new shampoo or something?”
“Nope… just my regular shampoo.”
“Smells good.” Patrick takes another big inhale. “You smell good.”
Art can feel heat radiating from him. Patrick runs even hotter now but this is making Art sweat in his usually chilly home. “Dude are you okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
Art turns to look at him properly. He sits back and Patrick scoots closer, closing the distance back up. Art shakes his head and puts a hand on Patrick’s forehead. “You’re burning up like when you got turned. Dude, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah? I feel fine. Shit. I feel really good.” He pulls Art closer, his eyes catch the light the way they do when he starts to change and Art panics. “You remember how we used to jerk each other off?” Patrick leans in and starts mouthing at Art’s throat. “‘M so fucking hard right now,” he grunts.
“Patrick,” Art pushes him off. His eyes are normal again but he’s panting and Art chews the inside of his cheek, all his studying of lycanthropy and he doesn’t get what’s happening here, he just knows Patrick isn’t himself.
“What?” Patrick demands, hands on Art again.
“Nothing… just… are you wolfing out or something?”
“Mm I don’t think so… I mean… fuck… Art, you know what frustrates me? What really drives me crazy?”
“What?” Art swallows on something thick. His skin burning up just from the proximity.
“You. You… I can hear your heartbeat. I can smell how turned on you are—how fucking hard you are all the time. Especially after we get home on the full moon and you touch yourself. It drives me fucking crazy.”
Art looks away, shame welling up. “Patrick I–”
“It takes everything in me not to… oh god look at you—“ he laughs, “Fuck…I don’t know why I’m saying this now. I can usually control it… maybe something is wrong…” he groans. Hands on Art’s thighs, on his hips, trailing up his waist to lift at his t-shirt.
“Patrick, it’s not a full moon for another week… what’s happening? Do we need to tie you up?” Art’s voice is foreign to his ears. Why is he so pitchy?
“No… but I wanna… Art I really wanna…” he’s pushing Art onto his back, kissing him on the mouth as he does it. It doesn’t feel possible. It feels very much impossible. The way they’ve danced around it. Lingering touches, withering glances, sitting, standing, talking too close but never crossing that line. Art opens his mouth and feels Patrick press his tongue inside, deepening the kiss, only pulling back to get Art’s shirt off. To tear his own shirt off like its nothing. Art is hard already. What’s difficult is not knowing what’s happening… if Patrick is wolf Patrick or just… his Patrick. Or if it even matters.
“Need to… need to be in you.” Patrick grunts.
“I uh… I… my parents have lube in their… in their…”
“Get it,” Patrick growls and Art scrambles out from under Patrick to get to his feet
He goes upstairs and digs through his parents’ nightstand. It feels so fucking inappropriate. And god what if they realize some is missing the next time they… no he’s absolutely not thinking about that. It feels even more insane when the door shuts behind him. Patrick followed him.
“Dude I got it let’s– we can’t–”
“Good,” Patrick says, crowding him up against the nightstand, kissing him roughly as he grabs the lube out of Art’s hand. Art lands so hard against the nightstand that the lamp almost falls to the floor and shatters. Art grabs onto it, breathless as he steadies it again. The whole time Patrick is kissing on his throat and bare shoulder as if none of it is important. Art can see him undoing his jeans.
“Need you so bad.” Patrick takes a deep inhale of him. Rough hands on his waist he lifts Art onto the king sized bed like he weighs nothing. Which is actually really… insanely fucking hot and Art draws his knees up as Patrick crawls between his thighs. Patrick wastes no time dragging his own boxers down and letting his cock bob out. He starts lubing up. Art’s heart is racing as he shimmies out of the rest of his clothing. All the blood in his body pumping into his cock. Patrick’s eyes catch the light for just a moment as he grabs roughly at Art’s thighs. “Fucking mine.” he growls.
Art should be better than this. More well behaved. He’s not even supposed to come into his parents bedroom, let alone let his friends in here but he’s helpless as Patrick enters him. He’s only done it with a boy once before. Sex with a guy from the team. Just to try it. He never even told Patrick about it till now which doesn’t seem to do anything but make him angry and possessive. And now here Patrick is…rutting into his prostate, because that’s what it feels like. It feels like he’s pounding into him impatient, possessive, hungry…and Art’s not sure at what point that he loses all sense of time and place but his thighs are trembling so much Patrick has to hold them up, and he’s drooling on himself, going cross eyed and it’s the best sex he’s had ever… with anyone. He’s so close when Patrick starts rubbing his tummy. “That’s right… nngh…fuck, mm gonna come inside till your full, sweetheart. Wanna breed you. Make your tummy swell for me.”
“Ahh–ah– holy shit what are you– what do you mean?”
“Come on… you can take my load. It’s what you wanted isn’t it? Ah you get so horny whenever I turn… you get so fucking…gah fuck…” Patrick groans, his voice deep, wolf like.
Art can feel it, the load… swelling up inside him. An insane sensation. He loses it then, coming, clenching as Patrick swells deep inside him. Art is slowly coming back to himself and Patrick is still filling him, kissing him through it till he gets hard again. Biting, nibbling, claiming him, while they fuck with barely any rest time between. Like the wolf in Patrick has no refractory period. Like he needs to fill him with as much cum as possible. Overstimulating Art’s prostate, whispering filthy words about breeding him. All night in his parents bed till they’re sweaty and sticky and sore and Art thinks he’ll feel it for days.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep but he wakes up aching in places he didn’t know he could ache. He’s got Patrick’s marks on his skin, scratches and bites and the imprint of his fingers but he’s still alive. Still… human. He nudges Patrick awake and he groans and rolls over. “Oh… it was real,” he smiles. And then settles back onto his pillow. “Fuck… I don’t know what the fuck just happened to me.”
“Happened to you? So it was the wolf?”
“No… I mean… yes… I mean… I don’t know, Art. I just… I remember it all… not just bits and pieces.”
”You normally remember bits and pieces?”
Patrick grins. “I didn’t need to be wolfed out to know you wanted to fuck me, you pervert. Relax.”
Art’s skin suddenly heats up. “Whatever. You just tried to breed me so fuck you, pervert.” He mumbles. “And get up we have to get all this stuff to the cleaners. My parents will be more dangerous to you than any hunters or your maker if they find out what the fuck we just did in here.”
Patrick groans and forces himself to get up. They clean themselves up and run the errand of getting his parents ornate comforter to the cleaners. It’s Halloween and his wealthy little Connecticut suburb of Beacon’s Hallow is all decorated. Even the little shops have Halloween decor. They’re leaving the cleaners when Patrick grabs his arm. “My maker. I smell him.”
Art’s heart rate picks up. “Seriously?”
“Yes… he’s nearby.”
It doesn’t take long to find him. Patrick sniffs him out and Art thinks he’s made a mistake. He’s just some guy. Short dark hair, strong jawline and pale blue eyes. Probably not much older than they are… early 20s or something working at a video store. “Hey I’m Jason.” He knows right away what Patrick is there for and gestures that they come in the back.
“Yeah uh… I’m sorry.” He says weakly.
“Sorry?” Patrick squints. “Really?”
Apparently lycanthropy runs in his family. He’s a pure blood and turned on his 21st birthday. “I didn’t take it as seriously as I should have… didn’t take the proper precautions and ended up losing control on night one and you were the unfortunate victim of that.”
Through him they learn what the proper precautions are. Apparently it’s having a meal rich in iodine or drinking several glasses of salt water but it has to be at a specific time of the month. It’s apparently one of the ways to keep your mind human while you wolf out. “Works nearly all the time except last night when… well actually that probably won’t apply to you so you don’t have to worry.”
“What? What about last night won’t apply to me?” Patrick asks.
“Blood moon… mating moon. But it only affects alphas so you should be good. Alphas are the only ones who can turn people too.” He settles back on his office chair. “It was actually when I turned you that I realized I was an alpha. It’s really rare. Normally if one of us gets out of control and accidentally bites it’s… you know… just blamed on an animal attack but…an alpha turns people. Sorry again.”
Patrick and Art look at each other. Jason continues, “Blood moon is crazy. I was horny as fuck but luckily it wasn’t also a full moon. That drives you up the walls needing to breed your soulmate and it fucking sucks if you don’t have one. I don’t yet… but I got this fleshlight that feels just like a—”
“Wait can you uh… can you back up to the part about soulmates?” Patrick says, scratching his head. His cheeks going a shade of pale pink.
“Well wolves mate for life… real wolves. Werewolves aren’t much different. We imprint on our soulmates. Sense them… feel them in a way… whether it’s touch or taste or smell or all of it. This is only the alpha though. Betas, omegas and lone wolves don’t have to worry about that, they just… you know do the whole dating thing like normal. You know…as normal as you can with the I’m also a werewolf reveal. But for alphas we usually have one, probably max two, mates in a lifetime, a soulmate, and we mate for life.”
Art feels his stomach flutter. His mind is going crazy. Patrick is his best friend and one of his favorite people to be around but soulmates? God doing what they did last night for… for life… he probably needs to sit down but he’s still so sore and the only bench in the office looks really hard.
“So if… well… do betas feel the impact of the blood moon?” Patrick asks, he looks just as panicked and embarrassed as Art feels.
“No… I mean… outside of feeling a little amorous probably. Are you—“ he glances at Art for the first time. His eyes land on a pretty inflamed looking hickey on Art’s be collar bone. Art pulls his shirt over it feeling his own skin prickle with warmth. Jason turns back to Patrick. “You’re an alpha aren’t you?”
”I don’t fucking know. You’re just telling me all this shit now Jason Werewolf or whoever the fuck you are. I’m not a fucking expert on what I am. I never even paid attention to the cycles of the moon before this. Do you have any other tips for just being a werewolf in general?”
“I’m Jason McCall. Not Jason Werewolf,” Jason says dryly.
“Sure whatever. Just tell me what other weird shit I have to expect please? Am I never gonna be able to fuck another person again?”
”I mean… you don’t… you don't have to be exclusive. But you’re gonna feel… I don’t know a sense of possessiveness over them…. And on the blood moon if they’re nearby you’re gonna want your mate. It’ll feel overpowering. It’s just how it is. And they’ll want you too. It’s the uh… the pheromones. Guess I shoulda realized that because your scent is all over him so….”
Art distantly feels aroused at the idea of Patrick covering him in his scent… and a little relieved that he’s not crazy for desiring Patrick to the point that his mind shut off. It’s not all his fault. That being said, this is still insane.
“He’s my… you keep saying mate… that doesn’t mean he’s gonna like… have a litter of werewolves or something? Does it?” And damn if Patrick doesn’t sound hopeful.
“Dude,” Art glares at him, he doesn’t think it’s possible to be more embarrassed about this guy knowing more or less what happened last night but now Patrick asking if he’s capable of impregnating Art is just next level mortifying. He knows he’s never going to hear the end of it with Patrick. Soulmates this. Soulmates that. Hell he probably won’t even be able to date without Patrick barging in and ruining it.
“No uh… you’re not gonna change his biology. Just as an alpha wolf you’re uh following your instincts… so to speak. Here look… I'll give you my phone number. Or you’re welcome in the store anytime… just… I can keep you posted on tips and tricks my family has to… you know exist as a werewolf in the modern world.”
“Right… thanks.” Patrick takes the number and runs his free hand awkwardly through his thick black curls. “So uh one more thing…there’s no… van helsing coming to get me, is there?”
“Well there are generations of hunters… but they only get wind of things when there’s a spread of new werewolves who don’t know what they’re doing and they’re causing chaos. Our family has learned to handle it so we have a uh… truce… which I technically broke because of you but now you can learn and uh… yeah you’ll be fine.”
Patrick accepts that. They go back to the dry cleaners and, thankfully get his parents comforter back, good as new. They take their time reorganising the bedroom. “We can never do that again.” Art says.
“Yeah tonights harvest moon we’ll just fuck in your bed.”
Art narrows his eyes.
“What? You heard him, soulmate. I’m gonna need to fuck you. Imagine that on a full moon.” Patrick smirks, playfully nipping at the hickey on Arts collarbone. Art shoves him away, rolling his eyes and smiling in spite of himself.
“We can go trick or treating first. I think I'll need candy to keep my energy up.” Patrick says.
“You were serious about that?”
“Of course.”
It goes as smoothly as it can…Patrick dressed like Michael Jackson from that Thriller music video. Art dressed like Captain America… his costume from last year that still fits. Of course Patrick drags him home early once the moon rises and maybe its the pheromones or maybe Art really is just a little bit of a freak at heart but the whole finding your soulmate in high school doesn’t really seem all that bad. Even if he’s a he…and his best friend… and a werewolf. Art can work with that.
