being a romencken in the year 2024 is a struggle. we are about 1.5 yrs out from s4 finale. niche ship to begin with. 312 total ao3 works from the same (lovely) group of abt 6 authors. we are #JOEVER
being a romencken truther in the year 2024 is a struggle. we are about 1.5 yrs out from s4 finale. niche ship to begin with. 312 total ao3 works from the same (lovely) group of abt 6 authors. we are #JOEVER
mmmff catching art donaldson using your vibrator on himself . . .
he really thought he was gonna get away with it, too.
‘i’ll just use it really quick and wash it before they’re home—’ he had thought, but no.
you came home early! twenty minutes early to be exact! and he was right in the middle of edging himself for the fourth time!
you walk quietly into your guys’ shared bedroom, unbeknownst to art, and find him writhing on the sheets like a feral animal caught in a trap.
his shorts are messily pushed down with his boxers to his lower thighs, and the bottom of his shirt is haphazardly held between his teeth to keep it out of the way.
he’s pressing his cock against his toned abdomen by holding your pretty pink vibrating wand to the underside of his tip; leaking precome like a faucet as it dribbles down his sides and pools by his belly button. the low buzz of the toy rings out with every other lewd noise in the room.
it’s beautiful and it’s perverted and it’s so him. of course he’d do this to himself. little freak. too caught up in the hum of the heat rapidly balling in his gut again to realize that he’s being quite the exhibitionist at the moment.
you stand there, leaning against the frame in the doorway, and listen to his desperate moans while he bucks against the toy as if it’ll be pulled away in the next moment. as if he isn’t the one controlling it.
you wonder if he’s imagining that you are.
his chest is heaving, his skin is slick and flushed with sweat and heat, and his eyes are squeezed shut as he arches his back and cries out. his moans are coming out muffled through the drool-muddled fabric in his mouth, but you can hear every single ounce of need that seeps into his sounds.
“mmmph! mmngh—! ahhmmph-!”
he’s squirming, and his whimpers and groans are growing in volume and frequency each second that passes by. gosh, he’s close. you can tell. how long has he been going at this? he still hasn’t realized that you’re here. you’re home. you could help him. but you choose to remain silent. it’s probably better this way.
sixty more seconds pass, and suddenly art’s muscles are tensing up all over. his body is clearly becoming overwhelmed from the ever-impending orgasm that he’s been consistently denied via his own ministrations. the blonde’s a mess of shaky limbs and heady, guttural moans of pleasure.
and then—he wails.
you don’t have time to blink before you’re watching him shoot thick ropes up the length of his exposed torso.
each time his pelvis jolts, a squirt of his load will follow right after—like his body is too overcome with pleasure to keep any of it in.. he’s effectively milking himself with your toy. the bright pink, rubbery head of the wand gets painted in a milky white glaze of his sticky filth.
such a dirty boy.
art comes down after catching his breath and shuddering with the aftershocks, and nearly leaps out of his skin when he sees you there observing him. he gets this look on his face like he just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. poor thing.
he feels guilty.
but all you do is smirk, step slowly over to him, and tell him that you expect him to clean your vibe off now that he’s all done.
thinking about needy art...just so desperate for you :((( always so horny and riled up :((( he needs you so bad he can't help it :(((
we love you girl!!!!!! pls don't die!!!!!!!!
-🧶
anon i was literally just thinking about this omfg we're so connected it's crazy (this lowkey wandered into a bit of puppy!art territory, @fawnnpaws your influence is too great <333)
and you're SO right!!! in my mind this is so married art coded. that man literally worships the ground you walk on, there's nothing he wouldn't do for his WIFE. the woman with HIS last name. the woman that wears HIS ring on your finger. you're his whole world.
you're cooking dinner when the front door creaks open, the sound of art dropping his keys and bag clear from where you're stood at the stove.
he's always a keyed up, horny monster after practice, so you're not surprised when two strong arms wrap around your waist from behind. art clings to you like a second skin, pressing his chest to your back and hooking his chin over your shoulder, a sweet "hey baby," muttered into your hair.
you hum, not looking away from the pasta coming to a boil in front of you. "have a good practice?"
art nods, burying his nose in your hair and inhaling your familiar scent. "missed you," he says, voice going all light and airy. it makes you smile, stirring the pasta calmly as art starts grinding against your ass in small circles. you wonder if he even knows he's doing it or if he's more gone than you first thought.
"i did so good today, you'd be so proud of me," he rambles, brushing his lips over your neck as he speaks. his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
"yeah? hope you worked up an appetite, it's almost ready." your tone is overly casual, like you're not soaking your panties at the feel of art's thick cock through the thin fabric of your sweats. but it's all part of the game, ignoring him only works him up more.
"i could eat," he pants against your skin, a pointed roll of his hips pushes you closer to the stove. "god, i couldn't stop thinking about you." he groans, finally done pretending that it's dinner he cares about. he trails wet kisses down your neck, his hands slipping up under your shirt to paw at the lacy cups of your bralette.
the pot's water snaps and pops in warning, threatening the bare expanse of your stomach. you push art's hands down but he's not deterred, dropping them to knead at the meat of your hips.
"let's go to bed," he suggests into the crook of your neck, breath starting to get a little faster as he grinds against you with purpose.
it's tempting, but you're not done cooking yet, and you know this won't take long.
"no," you say dismissively, turning the heat down to let the sauce pan on another burner slow to a simmer.
art whines, nuzzling deeper into your neck. his hand slides around, slipping between your legs to rub your cunt through your bottoms. "please?"
you sigh contently at his touch, letting your head drop to his shoulder. you let yourself get lost in him for a few seconds before you push his hand away again and cast your gaze back to the food, "no."
"the couch?" he tries, "it's just right there, in the living room. i can eat you out, i'll make you feel so good."
you bite your lip, stifling a smile at his needy begging. you bob your head side to side lightly, a considering noise passing through your lips before you deny him for the third time, "no."
art swallows, his breath getting shallow. "right here, i could eat you out right here," he rambles, his hips speeding up. you can feel the wetness of his pre-come leaking through his own shorts to seep into yours. "i could fuck you right here, against the counter."
you hum noncommittally, adding more dried oregano. it's quite, just the sound of art's ragged breathing and the hiss of the boiling water. art takes it up on himself to fill the silence.
"i could," he takes a shuddering breath, "we don't have to fuck, i could just eat you out. i could sit by your feet, you don't have to do anything. i can...i could, i could use your leg."
you almost give in, his sweet voice begging you to let him get his mouth on you too much. you don't have to see his face to know he's gone red and flush, embarrassed but too worked up to stop.
"you want me to abandon dinner because, why? you can't keep your dick down? i'm busy, art."
art’s breath hitches, his hands trembling as they grip your hips. "i’m sorry," he breathes out, though you know he’s anything but. the apology only makes him grind harder, chasing any scrap of attention you might throw his way. “please,” he whimpers, his voice cracking. “i just— i need it so bad. please, baby.”
you click your tongue in disapproval, shaking your head as you turn back to the stove, stirring the sauce with a slow, deliberate motion. “you’re such a mess, art. can’t even wait until dinner’s done before you start acting like a desperate slut, can you?”
art shudders behind you, his grip tightening on your waist as his hips jerk involuntarily. “i’m sorry,” he gasps out for the second time. “i just—fuck, i can’t help it. please, let me—”
"no, if you want to come in here and hump my leg like a desperate puppy, than that's how you're going to come."
art’s whimper is pitiful, his hips stuttering against you, driven by nothing but raw desire. he’s practically drooling, his breath hot and uneven against your neck as he desperately grinds himself against your thigh.
“please, please,” he chants, the word a broken prayer on his lips, but you don’t miss the way he shudders under your cruel tone, his body trembling with anticipation.
“god, you’re pathetic,” you say through a condescending laugh, “you can’t even control yourself for a second, can you? always so eager to make a mess. i should make you clean it up with your tongue.”
art comes in his boxers with a broken whine. the timer goes off a couple seconds later.
amy after seeing that vid from mike’s tumblr i can’t stop thinking about early 2010’s tumblr moot art :’( he follows you one day and you don’t think much of it but then all of a sudden he’s liking every single one of your posts and commenting stuff like “ ❤️ this!” under your writing and when you go to check his blog you’re so confused cause it’s all about his friends and tennis and video blogs and motivational quotes but you follow him back anyway cause despite the graininess he looked really cute in his videos!! not even a few minutes later he’s sending you a dm saying “thank you for the follow back :)” and you start talking regularly and!! if you’re a smut writer it eventually gets brought up in the convo and you find out there’s a lot that lies under art’s soft innocent exterior 🙂↕️🙂↕️
Frnchgirls you delivered once again 😫😫😫
Tumblr user donaldsonart1, he's so adorable :( liking and reblogging everyone's posts because he wants to see the people grow more and more famous, to have their blogs be really loved and appreciated. You question how did he really make it to the fanfiction side of tumblr, especially your own blog, because you mainly write smut about Remus Lupin and Sirius Black. Later, you discover that he really fucking loves Harry Potter.
He looks young too, in his early 20s, you presume, and it's easy to notice he's into tennis. His blog is simple, not too aesthetically decorated, and his bio just says "tennis is love, tennis is life :)" and his profile picture is a slightly blurry photo of him in front of some big ciry skyscraper. Simple but really cute.
Donaldsonart1 uses an awful amount of emoticons as well, his favourite being :) >.< and :3 which makes you think that sometimes you're texting a sixteen year old girl. He's really sweet and sends you pictures of Wolfstar fan arts. That's when you begin noticing certain cracks in his innocent attitude, and little hint of something you people know as nsfw. It starts simply with Art letting you know about his attraction towards certain people, the most mentioned ones being Roger Federer and Hilary Duff.
donaldsonart1: did you see what i reblogged?
donaldsonart1: about the movie cinderella
donaldsonart1: i really like the actress :) she's very pretty
And then a few days later, he really fucking lets loose.
donaldsonart1: i watched a match with roger federer yesterday. he's really good
donaldsonart1: idk why they're dressing him in these tight shirts
donaldsonart1: i wrote a smut about him btw, would you like to see?
donaldsonart1: :)
You read it, of course. Staring at your phone screen with an open mouth, you have a hard fucking time closing it because this is by far the most violently pornographic piece of art that you have ever read. Something so incredibly filthy that you almost doubt someone so angelic looking has actually written. These are not the words of the baby faced guy who's been living in your DMs for the past few weeks.
+ when u guys start getting closer and he's confiding in you, telling you how hard he got from reading something you wrote. you have a few pictures of you up on your blog and he thinks you're the hottest woman he's ever seen-- you don't need to know that maybe he got off to them, jerking his lengthy pink cock in the late hours of the night...
art donaldson loves giving you massages when you come home from work.
he knows your job stresses you out; knows that the last thing you need to worry about when you get through the door is him vying for your attention. so, he makes sure to give you all of his without question. before you even have to ask for it.
he'll walk up to you, take your bag(s), kiss your cheek, and kneel down to help you take off your shoes. his hand will then slip into yours, fingers interlocked, and he'll guide you gently to the bedroom.
the tennis champ will peel off your clothes with tender caresses of his fingertips against your body. once you're naked, he'll lean down and whisper to you, "what do you want this time?"
and you'll always know what he's asking.
he's bought loads of different creams and oils to rub you down with over the time you two have been together. only the best for you though, of course. the pricey stuff.
art'll grab whatever you request, usually this bottle of expensive golden oil with lavender sprigs in it, and he'll tell you to lay on your stomach while he pours the substance over his hands and rubs his palms together to warm it up.
he'll lathe his touch over your bare back first, working the sweet-smelling oil over your flesh and pressing his fingertips and the heels of his hands into the little knots he feels in your muscles as he goes. he'll kiss your right shoulder, and then the left.
every time the blonde does this for you, his love can be felt deeply permeating your entire being–he genuinely cares so wholly for you. you can feel it in the way he touches you, and in the way he tends to your sore spots. he knows where you ache and he knows how to take care of it all.
thus, he knows how wet you get each time he massages you like this. his hands will squeeze your ass gently and affectionately as you let out little noises of approval and arousal, and then he'll tell you to flip over.
he gets a little more handsy when he can see the front of your body, all perfectly laid out for him to touch and play with. more oil will get drizzled over your breasts before he squishes them and works the moisture into your skin. his thumbs will glide over your nipples until they pebble, and he has to resist the urge to lean in and suckle them as you start to moan and writhe on the bedding.
"Art," you'll breathe out, and his cock will kick in the confines of his boxers. but no, no—he has to focus on you, not him and his urges. at least, not yet.
he'll ease his body down to lay between your legs, his face hovering between your thighs, and two of his fingers (still slathered in oil) will slide into your core with ease. he'll hold your hip steady with his other hand while he begins to pump and curl his digits, and he'll kiss your clit while he murmurs little affectionate nothings into the space between you both.
"i wanna take care of you, baby," he'll purr, "m'gotchu.. mmph.. let me help you relax.. is this good?"
you'll nod, no surprise there, and your hands will reach down to tangle in his soft curls. he'll finger you harder, faster, until your hips are arching and your slick is oozing out of you. he'll start licking your sensitive bud in the next instant, looking up to your face as his warm wet tongue flutters over your parts. he'll almost always start to fuck the mattress too by rolling his hips down and bucking into the plushness to relieve the needy ache he's trying to ignore. your pleasure is his priority. always.
when your hands in his hair tighten, and your body starts to lock up, art'll double his efforts and massage your g-spot with the pads of his fingers as his lips purse to suck on your clit with the passion of a million men combined. he’s mouthing at you like a desperate animal.
you'll tell him you're gonna cum. he'll nod against you.
"mhm.. mhmm.. mhmmm—mhmm-! mmm-! mmhmmm!" he'll moan encouragingly just before you tip over that edge and begin plunging into overwhelming ecstasy.
he'll lick and suck and finger-fuck your gushing parts until you're spasming and clamping down on his head with your limbs. just the taste of you is all he needs to cum on his own, flooding his briefs with creamy, sticky ropes of spend as he whines into your heat; eyes rolling back and pelvis trembling.
he'll give you anything you want; everything you need. he'll try his hardest to make you feel as special as he knows you are, because you're his everything. he'll do this every day if it makes you happy, and he does.
the first words he’ll softly gasp once you both come down will fill you with such emotion, it’ll almost be enough to make you cry.
it’ll only be three words, but you don’t ever get tired of hearing them spill out in that dopey, post-orgasm voice of his.
pairing: art donaldson x patrick zweig x fem!reader
summary: it's probably just the weed hitting you funny, maybe it's the lighting, or the fact that they're both practically naked. you don't know what it is but oh god maybe the girls are right, art and patrick are fucking hot.
—or: things shift between art, patrick, and you.
word count: 4.4k
contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, oral (fem!receiving), fingering (fem!receiving), dry humping kinda, dirty talk, drug use, friends to lovers trope is NOT cringe, patrick going to college instead of going pro cause i said so, slight tashi duncan erasure...she's brought up in conversation but...you guys can still stone me for it, nat not knowing how boarding schools work, porn with WAAAAYY too much plot, no use of y/n, not beta read yell at me if there's any mistakes lmao.
author's note: once again no one asked for this but i had to start writing it as soon as the idea pierced through my frontal cortex. i promise i'll actually write the requests in my inbox i just couldn't get over this hehe it's so dialogue heavy towards the beginning but i love yapping and i need more practice characterizing them anyway lmao okay hope you love it! mwah xoxo.
Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig are your best friends. You’ve known them since you were thirteen and they each punched a guy for lifting up your skirt with his racket at practice once.
You don’t even remember becoming friends with them, after that day they were sort of just always there. Bumping your shoulders in the hallway when they walk past, taking up space in your room when you’re trying to study, cheering embarrassingly loud at your matches, picking you up from practice to drive around in Patrick’s Porsche with the top down every night.
They were, and still are six years later, a constant in your life. They’re so ingrained in your daily routine that you hardly remember your life before you met them, and can’t imagine your life without them in it. They're two six foot, largely obnoxious shadows that you can’t shake.
As the three of you got older, more and more rumors started spreading. You weren’t phased by it, you had no reason to be. Art and Patrick are fiercely loyal, stuck by your side all throughout the “So which one of you is she dating today?” taunts.
You just classified it as petty teenage gossip, thinking it’d just fizzle out once you started college. It didn’t just fizzle out, if anything it actually got worse. You constantly hear the whispers and snickers as you walk around campus, as you sit in your lectures, as you eat lunch in the dining hall. They’re always petty jabs at you, and they’re always fucking stupid.
“Why does she need both of them! Greedy much? God, what a skank…”
“You know they only keep her around cause she totally puts out…”
"I heard she schedules them like appointments. Mondays and Tuesdays with Art, Wednesdays and Thursdays with Patrick, and Fridays are for whoever's lucky..."
"Bet she's got a scoreboard at home, tallying who's ahead in the 'who loves me more' contest…"
“Doesn’t she realize they’re just using her for a good time? How pathetic…”
It really doesn't bother you that much, you even start to think it’s kind of funny. Art and Patrick do not think it’s kind of funny. They scoff and frown at each new comment you relay to them, puffing their chests out all macho man style like they were about to go off and fight everyone on campus for calling you mean names.
“No one talks about our girl like that,” Patrick would say, Art beside him solemnly nodding his head in silent agreement. It’s probably remarks like that one that get people talking in the first place.
You just smile, biting back the urge to tell them that the fierce feelings of ownership and protectiveness they have surrounding you often draws more attention than any bitchy whispers ever could.
Even the girls on your tennis team give you a hard time, badgering you with question after question of “But they’re so hot! How have you not fucked one of them yet? Come on, you must have at least thought about it…”
It’s more lighthearted coming from them, they don’t really think you’re a tramp or a skank or whatever it is people are calling you behind your back. You roll your eyes every time, telling them to shut up and mind their own damn business.
The truth is you just don’t think about Art and Patrick like that. So what if your relationship is a little different than what other people might consider a “normal” best friend bond. Does that automatically mean you want to jump each other's bones? No.
Like, Patrick’s just a really physical person, he loves touch. It’s not like he’s sending you “fuck me” signals when he throws an arm around your shoulder as the two of you walk around campus, or when he shoves your feet off the mattress to sit down only to move them right back onto his lap when he’s settled, or when he sits on the floor between your legs when there’s no more room on Tashi’s futon for all four of you. It’s just who he is, he had shitty parents he needs to be validated through touch sometimes.
It’s the same thing with Art’s doting, he just really cares about the people around him. He’s not expecting you to bend over for him every time he massages your sore shoulders after you go too hard during practice, or when he drops to a knee in the middle of the quad to re-tie your shoes after he notices the laces came loose, or when he practically forces you into the hoodie off his back if he even slightly suspects you’re cold. He’s just a nurturing guy, his grandma raised a goddamn gentleman.
It has nothing to do with you. Seriously nothing. They’re still your best friends, closer to you than brothers. You’ve been “their girl” since you were thirteen years old and you weren’t going to ruin it for some one-off, meaningless fuck.
“They’re just a bunch of jealous assholes,” Patrick commented from where he was perched next to the open window of his and Art’s room, a cigarette dangling from his lips, “They don’t know shit, don't listen to them.”
It’s late, maybe a little after eleven. You snuck into their room after curfew, like you do most nights. You’re technically supposed to be studying for your lab practical in a few days, but Patrick lured you out of your room with a text of ‘WHERE R U??? COME OVER’ followed quickly by ‘WE HAVE GRASS :]’
You were looking for an excuse to stop studying anyway, so you folded easily enough. As soon as you got there you regretted it, Patrick’s texts conveniently left out the fact that their AC was broken and it was absolutely hot as balls in their room. You felt it as soon as Art opened the door to let you in, a wave of heat and humidity spilling out into the hall.
The tiny window was cracked open as far as it could go with the shitty ceiling fan running overdrive in a feeble attempt to let some cool air flow through the room, and so Patrick could smoke without setting off the alarm.
Patrick and Art were reduced to their boxers, various articles of clothing they were probably wearing earlier strewn all around the room. You were thankful you hadn’t changed before coming over, even the thin tank and shorts you were wearing felt like too much.
“I’m not listening to them,” You repeat for the millionth time, rolling your eyes as you lean back on your hands on the carpet. “I’m just saying, it’s a little hypocritical. Like, why am I always the slut and you guys are the poor souls I’m leading on? What if you guys were the ones taking advantage of me this whole time?”
Art snorts from his spot across you on the floor, shaking his head as he meticulously rolls the second joint of the night. Patrick raises an eyebrow, taking another drag of his cigarette with a smirk. He flicks the butt out the window, walking over to you and Art. “You’re just that irresistible,” He teases, reaching out to tousle your hair affectionately as he passes, "We’re powerless against your charms.”
You laugh dryly, the sound mingling with the lazy hum of the ceiling fan. “Right, my master plan to corrupt you both with my presence is finally starting to work after six years. I should get a medal for my sluttiness.”
Art chuckles softly, lighting the joint with practiced ease before holding it out to you. "If anyone should get a medal, it’s us. Six years of being led astray by your slutty tendencies," he jokes, the words punctuated by a playful nudge against your leg.
You scoff, but a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You take the joint, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke before releasing it in a slow, steady stream. The familiar sensation starts to seep into your bones, relaxing you despite the oppressive heat. “You guys are such assholes, literally zero help. I knew I should’ve just talked to Tashi, she’s the only normal person I know.”
Patrick joins you and Art on the floor, legs stretched out as he leans back on his palms like you. “Hey, don’t throw me in with him.” Patrick said in mock offense, bringing his hand up to clutch his chest dramatically and nodding his head towards Art. “I’m a saint.”
Art just laughs, shaking his head as he takes the joint from you. “If you’re a saint then I’m the fucking Pope, man.”
The room fills with laughter, the three of you falling into easy conversation as you pass the joint around. The pungent smoke mingles with the already thick air, swirling around in the fan's wind before it filters through the open window. The oppressive heat seems to melt away, replaced by a soothing warmth that always envelopes you when you're around Art and Patrick.
They get lost in their own animated conversation about some new movie coming out that you weren’t really interested in. You lean back, content to just let their voices wash over you. The joint continues to make its rounds, each puff adding to the hazy atmosphere that blurs the edges of reality just enough to make everything feel softer, more manageable.
You languidly study Art and Patrick through half-lidded eyes, watching how easily they interact, how relaxed they are in this moment. Miles and miles of toned, freshly tanned skin from all the tennis they’d been playing recently on display. The sweat making the sharp cut of their hips and collarbones glisten under the shitty light of their desk lamps. How their happy trails disappear temptingly into their boxers, Art’s light and Patrick’s dark.
You lick your lips, the dryness from the smoke and the sight in front of you combining to make your mouth feel like a desert. The buzz in your brain is making everything seem sharper, more vivid, and you can't help but let your eyes linger a little longer on the defined lines of their bodies.
You’ve seen them in their boxers more times than you can count, but something about this is different. The heat in the room is almost too much now, but it's doing things to you, and you're not sure if it's the temperature or something else entirely.
It’s probably just the weed hitting you funny, maybe it’s the lighting, or the fact that they’re both practically naked. You don't know what it is but oh God maybe the girls are right, Art and Patrick are fucking hot.
The realization is like a smack to the face, making you acutely aware of every detail– the way Art’s muscles ripple as he leans to pass you the joint, the obscene spread of Patrick’s hairy thighs making his boxers ride up even higher, the subtle scent of their colognes mixing with the smoke in the air.
It’s all too much and not enough at the same time, sending a shiver down your spine as you try to play it cool, pretending not to notice the way your heart stutters when Art’s fingers brush against yours as he passes you the joint.
You shift uncomfortably, suddenly hyper-aware of your fluttering pulse and the wetness starting to gather between your thighs. That’s definitely the weed, you’d never get wet thinking about your very platonic closer-to-you-than-even-brothers-would-be best friends if you were sober. At least that's what you try telling yourself, not fully meeting Patrick’s eye as he takes the joint from you.
You must zone out for a bit, shaken by the kind of life-altering realization that you just might, a teensy tiny bit, want to fuck Art and Patrick. You don’t notice the way their conversation slowly trails off, how Patrick notices the sudden shift in your behavior. His eyes rake over you, lingering on the sliver of skin showing where your top doesn't quite meet your shorts. He shoots Art a knowing smirk, kicking his knee lightly. Art follows Patrick’s gaze, eyes darkening with understanding. He looks back over at Patrick, a tiny grin on his face as he gives him a single nod.
“I mean, it wouldn’t even be that big a deal if we did,” Patrick says casually, bringing the dwindling joint up to his lips, “If we fucked, I mean.” He clarified, head lolling to the side sluggishly.
You snap out of it, looking between the two of them– the mischievous glint in Patrick’s eyes as he exhales smoke lazily into the air, the slight pink tint to Art’s cheeks slowly reaching the very tip of his ears as he nervously chews his lower lip.
The weight of Patrick’s words settle over you, adding another layer of nearly suffocating warmth that has nothing to do with the broken AC. The implications of what he just said swirl in your mind, a heady mix of curiosity, arousal, and slight panic.
You don’t know when or how it happened, but they both seem closer than they were before. The two of them crowd around you, pressing in on either side, green and blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your thighs clench together.
You turn to Art, ready for him to shut Patrick down and defend your honor from his sleazy lines like the good cop he always is, but instead, Art’s grin widens, his eyes never leaving yours. He shifts in front of you, his hand brushing against your knee sends a jolt of electricity through you. “We’re friends,” he says softly, eyes big and earnest, as if reassuring both you and himself, “and we trust each other. It’s not like it would change anything, right?”
Never content being one-upped by Art, Patrick reaches out to settle his hand on your thigh, high up enough that his pinkie makes contact with the edge of your shorts. “Everyone’s already thinking it,” he reasons, stubbing out the joint on the plate Art was using to roll, “why not give them something to really talk about?”
The air grows heavy with tension, each breath you take feeling like a Herculean effort. Art’s fingers trace light, teasing patterns on your knee, his touch both comforting and maddeningly slow. Patrick’s hand remains firm on your thigh, "Imagine," he continues, his voice low and seductive, "what it would feel like to be touched, kissed, fucked by both of us. At the same time."
Art's hand inches higher, and you shiver at the sensation, a soft gasp escaping your lips. "We could make you feel so good," Art adds, his eyes shining dark with desire. "If you want it."
You look at them, gaze trailing from Art’s sweet face to the challenge in Patrick’s eyes, daring you to break the tension or back out. Your mind races, torn between the overwhelming want coursing through you and the nagging voice of caution still present in the back of your head. But as Patrick's fingers toy with the thin material of your shorts, and Art's breath grazes your neck, the decision becomes easier.
“Maybe we should,” you hear yourself saying before you can stop, the words tumbling out, shaky but determined. Patrick's smirk widens, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he turns to Art. His gaze lingers on Art’s calm demeanor, a dare unspoken yet unmistakable. Art meets his eyes evenly, a tiny smile on his lips betrays his facade. They share a look, a sort of silent conversation shared between them before they're leaning in.
Your eyes are closed, but you can still tell it’s Art who kisses you first. Big hands coming up to gently cup your face as he leans in, you can smell the mint from gum he chews constantly. His lips are so soft, so gentle, and so hesitant; almost like he’s worried you don’t really want this. You respond eagerly, throwing your arms around his shoulders and dragging him forward. He’s on you in less than second, arms braced on either side of your hips as he really starts to kiss you.
Art’s tongue drags over the seam of your lips, licking at your mouth like he’s eating pussy. Laving quick, dirty drags of his tongue until you part your lips on a high moan so he can slip it in to brush against your own. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him even closer as the kiss deepens, getting messy and desperate. You can feel his heartbeat pounding up against his rib cage where his chest is pressed tightly to yours, you can feel the thick length of his hard dick burning a line through his boxers onto your thigh.
You get so caught up in kissing Art you forget Patrick’s even there until he’s trailing sloppy kisses along your jawline. “Shit, guys we should make a fucking porno,” he says into your ear, breath hot and teasing, “we’d get fucking rich.” He huffs with a low chuckle, sliding his hand up your tank to palm at your tits roughly. His chuckle dissolves into a throaty groan when his greedy hands find even more bare skin, no bra.
Art gasps against your lips, hips grinding down onto your thigh at Patrick’s words. “Fuck off,” he snaps, but the strong twitch of his dick gives him away. He rests his forehead on yours, breath coming out in ragged huffs to mingle with your own. He looks fucking wrecked, shiny blue eyes glazed over with lust, lips slick and pink, long lashes fanning over his flushed cheeks. He gives you one last quick peck before his hands come up to your shoulders and gently push you backwards.
You’re confused until you feel the warm, bare skin of Patrick’s toned chest on your back. He looms over you, using his free hand to grip your chin and force your head to the side.
The angle’s a little odd, but neither of you seem to mind. Patrick kisses like he’s trying to kill you, a mess of too much tongue and rough bites to your lips and so much spit it should be disgusting. The slick noise of your tongues sliding together has your cheeks burning with how lewd it is. Normally you’d be grossed out, maybe if it was any other guy you would be. You’d shove him off of you and kick him out of bed, but it’s not some guy; it’s Patrick. You can’t help but whine into his mouth, craving more of his brutal affection, feeling the dizzying rush of passion that borders on pain.
Art’s lips are on your neck, sucking marks onto your skin, his breath hot and uneven as he murmurs something you can't quite make out. You should tell him to stop, that people will talk if they see you all marked up, but maybe you don’t give a fuck anymore. Maybe you want people to talk. His hands are everywhere, fingers digging into your hips, tugging you closer, grounding you in the whirlwind of sensations. Patrick's grip tightens on your chin, biting your lips hard enough to make you whine, and Art responds with a low moan, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear.
It’s so fucking dirty, so filthy, so demeaning and you’ve never been so wet before.
You throw your head back, with a loud moan as Patrick plays with your tits under your shirt and Art lick’s a dirty stripe up your throat. “Fuck! God, Pat…” your chest heaves, back arching up into Patrick’s hands, craning your head so Art has more room to trail sweet kisses along your collar bones.
Patrick just laughs, running a hand down your stomach and into your shorts. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groans, the palm of his hand grinding roughly against the soaked cotton of your panties. “You’re fucking dripping all over me, holy shit,” Patrick breathes, long fingers sliding easily through the wet mess of your folds. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, staring down at where his hand disappears beneath the waistband.
“I think,” Patrick breathes, “that you need to let Art eat your pussy, and I think I need to watch.”
Your mind goes blank, sparks going off at the base of your spine as Patrick’s words echo in your ears. Art’s lips still against your neck, he’s practically whining, greedy hands roaming all over your soft skin.
You feel a rush of heat, your pussy aching with the need for exactly that. The thought of Art eating you out, with his gentle touches and caring eyes, juxtaposed with Patrick's commanding presence looming over the whole thing, sends you spiraling. You can hardly breathe, every nerve ending alive with anticipation and desire. The room seems to shrink around you, the air thick with tension, as you struggle to find your voice, to process the electrifying proposition that now hangs in the air between you.
You meet Art’s heavy gaze, his pupils dilated with a mix of want and need completely swallowing up the blue. His breath is hot against your skin, and you can feel the tremor in his hands as they move to caress your thighs. Patrick's presence is a steady force behind you, his hand gently but firmly guiding you to make the choice you know you both want.
Finally, you manage to whisper, your voice trembling with anticipation, “Yes.”
Art wrestles your shorts down your legs quickly, yanking them off and tossing them behind his shoulder. Your panties are quick to follow, rolling and bunching up until he huffs in frustration and rips them straight down the middle, leaving the tattered fabric to hang limply around your ankles. The surprised moan that leaves your lips at Art’s restraint finally snapping is almost loud enough to drown out the sound of Patrick’s laugh at how fast Art’s on his stomach between your legs.
Patrick hooks his thick legs over yours, keeping you spread open and exposed. Art’s eyes screw shut, his head falling to rest on the ground, like the sight of your slick pussy is just too much. “Shit,” he mutters, hips twitching slight against the floor.
“Come on, Art,” Patrick goads, “know you wanna taste this pretty pussy.” He reaches over and spreads your pussy open in a lewd “v” with his fingers, “Make our girl feel good.”
Art looks up at you, face flushed and eyes wide, blonde curls flopping over his forehead messily. “Is this okay?” He’s so close you can feel his hot breath fanning over your slick, aching clit.
“Yes–” You barely get the word out before Art rushes forward, trailing kisses along your inner thighs. His mouth is everywhere but where you want it to be. You whine, hips twitching towards his face in an attempt to get him to touch you. “Please, Art.”
“Thank you,” he whispers, tone way too earnest for what he’s about to do, finally sliding his tongue through the wet lips of your pussy. He drags it teasingly up the seam of you, all the way up till he’s circling your clit. His tongue laving over the tips of Patrick’s fingers each time.
Being sandwiched between the two of them is almost too much and somehow still not enough. Art splayed out on his stomach between your legs, head buried in your violently trembling thighs. Patrick plastered to your back, sweaty and firm as he spreads you wide open for his best friend's mouth.
Art’s big hands grip the sensitive skin of your inner thighs hard, his tongue licking broad strokes over your pussy as Patrick’s fingers start to rub fast circles on your clit while he spews filth over your shoulder.
“Fuck that’s so hot,” Patrick growls, “look at you, all spread out for us.”
You look down at Art to see he’s already looking at you. Sparkly eyes shiny and wet, brows furrowed as he keeps licking and licking, so messy with it that spit drips down his chin. His nose pressed up against all the right spots, making you see stars every time you blink. You never would have guessed it but he is fucking good at this, either he’s way too humble or selling himself short because holy shit.
Art's moaning and whining into your pussy like he's the one getting head, hands surely bruising your thighs with how hard he's gripping them. The roll of his hips fucking down against the ground is sinful.
“God– fucking shit, Art,” You whine pathetically, shaking with just how much ecstasy is coursing through your body. You think you may pass out.
“You like that?” Patrick asks hotly, lips brushing against your ear as he speaks, “You like watching him fuck the ground like a slut while he eats your pussy?” His fingers raise to give your clit a light slap, your head rolls back onto his shoulder as you cry out.
“Mmph, Patrick-!” Your thighs clench, trying in vain to squeeze shut. Patrick keeps them spread, his free hand coming around to grip Art’s hair, roughly dragging his head up and down your pussy faster. Art groans so loud against your clit that you actually feel the vibration, his hips rutting into the ground faster.
“Art–! I’m so close, God, I’m coming, Patrick, I’m coming, I’m com-” You cry out, cut off by Patrick's mouth slamming over yours, sucking your tongue into his mouth. “Do it,” he spits, biting your lower lip meanly, “fucking come, come all over your best friends face.”
Your thighs shake as you come, hands gripping Art’s hair like a vice as you gush over his tongue. He moans into your pussy, working you through the aftershocks. He drags his tongue along you until the over-stimulation gets to be too much and you’re dragging his face away by his hair.
“Alright,” Patrick says breezily, dragging his tongue from the corner over your mouth to the hinge of your jaw to catch your earlobe between his teeth. “Art got to have his fun,” he laughs, dark eyes staring pointedly at the wet patch soaking the front of Art’s boxers.
Art's too fucked out to even jab him back, chest heaving with each breath he takes. His lips are slick and red, the complete lower half of his face shining with your come, glazed over eyes half-open and dark. The sight is enough to have your pussy clenching, ready for round two. Patrick’s hips grind into your back purposely, dragging his still hard dick against your ass. “Now it’s my turn.”
pairing: art donaldson x patrick zweig x fem!reader
summary: it's probably just the weed hitting you funny, maybe it's the lighting, or the fact that they're both practically naked. you don't know what it is but oh god maybe the girls are right, art and patrick are fucking hot.
—or: things shift between art, patrick, and you.
word count: 4.4k
contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, oral (fem!receiving), fingering (fem!receiving), dry humping kinda, dirty talk, drug use, friends to lovers trope is NOT cringe, patrick going to college instead of going pro cause i said so, slight tashi duncan erasure...she's brought up in conversation but...you guys can still stone me for it, nat not knowing how boarding schools work, porn with WAAAAYY too much plot, no use of y/n, not beta read yell at me if there's any mistakes lmao.
author's note: once again no one asked for this but i had to start writing it as soon as the idea pierced through my frontal cortex. i promise i'll actually write the requests in my inbox i just couldn't get over this hehe it's so dialogue heavy towards the beginning but i love yapping and i need more practice characterizing them anyway lmao okay hope you love it! mwah xoxo.
Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig are your best friends. You’ve known them since you were thirteen and they each punched a guy for lifting up your skirt with his racket at practice once.
You don’t even remember becoming friends with them, after that day they were sort of just always there. Bumping your shoulders in the hallway when they walk past, taking up space in your room when you’re trying to study, cheering embarrassingly loud at your matches, picking you up from practice to drive around in Patrick’s Porsche with the top down every night.
They were, and still are six years later, a constant in your life. They’re so ingrained in your daily routine that you hardly remember your life before you met them, and can’t imagine your life without them in it. They're two six foot, largely obnoxious shadows that you can’t shake.
As the three of you got older, more and more rumors started spreading. You weren’t phased by it, you had no reason to be. Art and Patrick are fiercely loyal, stuck by your side all throughout the “So which one of you is she dating today?” taunts.
You just classified it as petty teenage gossip, thinking it’d just fizzle out once you started college. It didn’t just fizzle out, if anything it actually got worse. You constantly hear the whispers and snickers as you walk around campus, as you sit in your lectures, as you eat lunch in the dining hall. They’re always petty jabs at you, and they’re always fucking stupid.
“Why does she need both of them! Greedy much? God, what a skank…”
“You know they only keep her around cause she totally puts out…”
"I heard she schedules them like appointments. Mondays and Tuesdays with Art, Wednesdays and Thursdays with Patrick, and Fridays are for whoever's lucky..."
"Bet she's got a scoreboard at home, tallying who's ahead in the 'who loves me more' contest…"
“Doesn’t she realize they’re just using her for a good time? How pathetic…”
It really doesn't bother you that much, you even start to think it’s kind of funny. Art and Patrick do not think it’s kind of funny. They scoff and frown at each new comment you relay to them, puffing their chests out all macho man style like they were about to go off and fight everyone on campus for calling you mean names.
“No one talks about our girl like that,” Patrick would say, Art beside him solemnly nodding his head in silent agreement. It’s probably remarks like that one that get people talking in the first place.
You just smile, biting back the urge to tell them that the fierce feelings of ownership and protectiveness they have surrounding you often draws more attention than any bitchy whispers ever could.
Even the girls on your tennis team give you a hard time, badgering you with question after question of “But they’re so hot! How have you not fucked one of them yet? Come on, you must have at least thought about it…”
It’s more lighthearted coming from them, they don’t really think you’re a tramp or a skank or whatever it is people are calling you behind your back. You roll your eyes every time, telling them to shut up and mind their own damn business.
The truth is you just don’t think about Art and Patrick like that. So what if your relationship is a little different than what other people might consider a “normal” best friend bond. Does that automatically mean you want to jump each other's bones? No.
Like, Patrick’s just a really physical person, he loves touch. It’s not like he’s sending you “fuck me” signals when he throws an arm around your shoulder as the two of you walk around campus, or when he shoves your feet off the mattress to sit down only to move them right back onto his lap when he’s settled, or when he sits on the floor between your legs when there’s no more room on Tashi’s futon for all four of you. It’s just who he is, he had shitty parents he needs to be validated through touch sometimes.
It’s the same thing with Art’s doting, he just really cares about the people around him. He’s not expecting you to bend over for him every time he massages your sore shoulders after you go too hard during practice, or when he drops to a knee in the middle of the quad to re-tie your shoes after he notices the laces came loose, or when he practically forces you into the hoodie off his back if he even slightly suspects you’re cold. He’s just a nurturing guy, his grandma raised a goddamn gentleman.
It has nothing to do with you. Seriously nothing. They’re still your best friends, closer to you than brothers. You’ve been “their girl” since you were thirteen years old and you weren’t going to ruin it for some one-off, meaningless fuck.
“They’re just a bunch of jealous assholes,” Patrick commented from where he was perched next to the open window of his and Art’s room, a cigarette dangling from his lips, “They don’t know shit, don't listen to them.”
It’s late, maybe a little after eleven. You snuck into their room after curfew, like you do most nights. You’re technically supposed to be studying for your lab practical in a few days, but Patrick lured you out of your room with a text of ‘WHERE R U??? COME OVER’ followed quickly by ‘WE HAVE GRASS :]’
You were looking for an excuse to stop studying anyway, so you folded easily enough. As soon as you got there you regretted it, Patrick’s texts conveniently left out the fact that their AC was broken and it was absolutely hot as balls in their room. You felt it as soon as Art opened the door to let you in, a wave of heat and humidity spilling out into the hall.
The tiny window was cracked open as far as it could go with the shitty ceiling fan running overdrive in a feeble attempt to let some cool air flow through the room, and so Patrick could smoke without setting off the alarm.
Patrick and Art were reduced to their boxers, various articles of clothing they were probably wearing earlier strewn all around the room. You were thankful you hadn’t changed before coming over, even the thin tank and shorts you were wearing felt like too much.
“I’m not listening to them,” You repeat for the millionth time, rolling your eyes as you lean back on your hands on the carpet. “I’m just saying, it’s a little hypocritical. Like, why am I always the slut and you guys are the poor souls I’m leading on? What if you guys were the ones taking advantage of me this whole time?”
Art snorts from his spot across you on the floor, shaking his head as he meticulously rolls the second joint of the night. Patrick raises an eyebrow, taking another drag of his cigarette with a smirk. He flicks the butt out the window, walking over to you and Art. “You’re just that irresistible,” He teases, reaching out to tousle your hair affectionately as he passes, "We’re powerless against your charms.”
You laugh dryly, the sound mingling with the lazy hum of the ceiling fan. “Right, my master plan to corrupt you both with my presence is finally starting to work after six years. I should get a medal for my sluttiness.”
Art chuckles softly, lighting the joint with practiced ease before holding it out to you. "If anyone should get a medal, it’s us. Six years of being led astray by your slutty tendencies," he jokes, the words punctuated by a playful nudge against your leg.
You scoff, but a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You take the joint, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke before releasing it in a slow, steady stream. The familiar sensation starts to seep into your bones, relaxing you despite the oppressive heat. “You guys are such assholes, literally zero help. I knew I should’ve just talked to Tashi, she’s the only normal person I know.”
Patrick joins you and Art on the floor, legs stretched out as he leans back on his palms like you. “Hey, don’t throw me in with him.” Patrick said in mock offense, bringing his hand up to clutch his chest dramatically and nodding his head towards Art. “I’m a saint.”
Art just laughs, shaking his head as he takes the joint from you. “If you’re a saint then I’m the fucking Pope, man.”
The room fills with laughter, the three of you falling into easy conversation as you pass the joint around. The pungent smoke mingles with the already thick air, swirling around in the fan's wind before it filters through the open window. The oppressive heat seems to melt away, replaced by a soothing warmth that always envelopes you when you're around Art and Patrick.
They get lost in their own animated conversation about some new movie coming out that you weren’t really interested in. You lean back, content to just let their voices wash over you. The joint continues to make its rounds, each puff adding to the hazy atmosphere that blurs the edges of reality just enough to make everything feel softer, more manageable.
You languidly study Art and Patrick through half-lidded eyes, watching how easily they interact, how relaxed they are in this moment. Miles and miles of toned, freshly tanned skin from all the tennis they’d been playing recently on display. The sweat making the sharp cut of their hips and collarbones glisten under the shitty light of their desk lamps. How their happy trails disappear temptingly into their boxers, Art’s light and Patrick’s dark.
You lick your lips, the dryness from the smoke and the sight in front of you combining to make your mouth feel like a desert. The buzz in your brain is making everything seem sharper, more vivid, and you can't help but let your eyes linger a little longer on the defined lines of their bodies.
You’ve seen them in their boxers more times than you can count, but something about this is different. The heat in the room is almost too much now, but it's doing things to you, and you're not sure if it's the temperature or something else entirely.
It’s probably just the weed hitting you funny, maybe it’s the lighting, or the fact that they’re both practically naked. You don't know what it is but oh God maybe the girls are right, Art and Patrick are fucking hot.
The realization is like a smack to the face, making you acutely aware of every detail– the way Art’s muscles ripple as he leans to pass you the joint, the obscene spread of Patrick’s hairy thighs making his boxers ride up even higher, the subtle scent of their colognes mixing with the smoke in the air.
It’s all too much and not enough at the same time, sending a shiver down your spine as you try to play it cool, pretending not to notice the way your heart stutters when Art’s fingers brush against yours as he passes you the joint.
You shift uncomfortably, suddenly hyper-aware of your fluttering pulse and the wetness starting to gather between your thighs. That’s definitely the weed, you’d never get wet thinking about your very platonic closer-to-you-than-even-brothers-would-be best friends if you were sober. At least that's what you try telling yourself, not fully meeting Patrick’s eye as he takes the joint from you.
You must zone out for a bit, shaken by the kind of life-altering realization that you just might, a teensy tiny bit, want to fuck Art and Patrick. You don’t notice the way their conversation slowly trails off, how Patrick notices the sudden shift in your behavior. His eyes rake over you, lingering on the sliver of skin showing where your top doesn't quite meet your shorts. He shoots Art a knowing smirk, kicking his knee lightly. Art follows Patrick’s gaze, eyes darkening with understanding. He looks back over at Patrick, a tiny grin on his face as he gives him a single nod.
“I mean, it wouldn’t even be that big a deal if we did,” Patrick says casually, bringing the dwindling joint up to his lips, “If we fucked, I mean.” He clarified, head lolling to the side sluggishly.
You snap out of it, looking between the two of them– the mischievous glint in Patrick’s eyes as he exhales smoke lazily into the air, the slight pink tint to Art’s cheeks slowly reaching the very tip of his ears as he nervously chews his lower lip.
The weight of Patrick’s words settle over you, adding another layer of nearly suffocating warmth that has nothing to do with the broken AC. The implications of what he just said swirl in your mind, a heady mix of curiosity, arousal, and slight panic.
You don’t know when or how it happened, but they both seem closer than they were before. The two of them crowd around you, pressing in on either side, green and blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your thighs clench together.
You turn to Art, ready for him to shut Patrick down and defend your honor from his sleazy lines like the good cop he always is, but instead, Art’s grin widens, his eyes never leaving yours. He shifts in front of you, his hand brushing against your knee sends a jolt of electricity through you. “We’re friends,” he says softly, eyes big and earnest, as if reassuring both you and himself, “and we trust each other. It’s not like it would change anything, right?”
Never content being one-upped by Art, Patrick reaches out to settle his hand on your thigh, high up enough that his pinkie makes contact with the edge of your shorts. “Everyone’s already thinking it,” he reasons, stubbing out the joint on the plate Art was using to roll, “why not give them something to really talk about?”
The air grows heavy with tension, each breath you take feeling like a Herculean effort. Art’s fingers trace light, teasing patterns on your knee, his touch both comforting and maddeningly slow. Patrick’s hand remains firm on your thigh, "Imagine," he continues, his voice low and seductive, "what it would feel like to be touched, kissed, fucked by both of us. At the same time."
Art's hand inches higher, and you shiver at the sensation, a soft gasp escaping your lips. "We could make you feel so good," Art adds, his eyes shining dark with desire. "If you want it."
You look at them, gaze trailing from Art’s sweet face to the challenge in Patrick’s eyes, daring you to break the tension or back out. Your mind races, torn between the overwhelming want coursing through you and the nagging voice of caution still present in the back of your head. But as Patrick's fingers toy with the thin material of your shorts, and Art's breath grazes your neck, the decision becomes easier.
“Maybe we should,” you hear yourself saying before you can stop, the words tumbling out, shaky but determined. Patrick's smirk widens, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he turns to Art. His gaze lingers on Art’s calm demeanor, a dare unspoken yet unmistakable. Art meets his eyes evenly, a tiny smile on his lips betrays his facade. They share a look, a sort of silent conversation shared between them before they're leaning in.
Your eyes are closed, but you can still tell it’s Art who kisses you first. Big hands coming up to gently cup your face as he leans in, you can smell the mint from gum he chews constantly. His lips are so soft, so gentle, and so hesitant; almost like he’s worried you don’t really want this. You respond eagerly, throwing your arms around his shoulders and dragging him forward. He’s on you in less than second, arms braced on either side of your hips as he really starts to kiss you.
Art’s tongue drags over the seam of your lips, licking at your mouth like he’s eating pussy. Laving quick, dirty drags of his tongue until you part your lips on a high moan so he can slip it in to brush against your own. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him even closer as the kiss deepens, getting messy and desperate. You can feel his heartbeat pounding up against his rib cage where his chest is pressed tightly to yours, you can feel the thick length of his hard dick burning a line through his boxers onto your thigh.
You get so caught up in kissing Art you forget Patrick’s even there until he’s trailing sloppy kisses along your jawline. “Shit, guys we should make a fucking porno,” he says into your ear, breath hot and teasing, “we’d get fucking rich.” He huffs with a low chuckle, sliding his hand up your tank to palm at your tits roughly. His chuckle dissolves into a throaty groan when his greedy hands find even more bare skin, no bra.
Art gasps against your lips, hips grinding down onto your thigh at Patrick’s words. “Fuck off,” he snaps, but the strong twitch of his dick gives him away. He rests his forehead on yours, breath coming out in ragged huffs to mingle with your own. He looks fucking wrecked, shiny blue eyes glazed over with lust, lips slick and pink, long lashes fanning over his flushed cheeks. He gives you one last quick peck before his hands come up to your shoulders and gently push you backwards.
You’re confused until you feel the warm, bare skin of Patrick’s toned chest on your back. He looms over you, using his free hand to grip your chin and force your head to the side.
The angle’s a little odd, but neither of you seem to mind. Patrick kisses like he’s trying to kill you, a mess of too much tongue and rough bites to your lips and so much spit it should be disgusting. The slick noise of your tongues sliding together has your cheeks burning with how lewd it is. Normally you’d be grossed out, maybe if it was any other guy you would be. You’d shove him off of you and kick him out of bed, but it’s not some guy; it’s Patrick. You can’t help but whine into his mouth, craving more of his brutal affection, feeling the dizzying rush of passion that borders on pain.
Art’s lips are on your neck, sucking marks onto your skin, his breath hot and uneven as he murmurs something you can't quite make out. You should tell him to stop, that people will talk if they see you all marked up, but maybe you don’t give a fuck anymore. Maybe you want people to talk. His hands are everywhere, fingers digging into your hips, tugging you closer, grounding you in the whirlwind of sensations. Patrick's grip tightens on your chin, biting your lips hard enough to make you whine, and Art responds with a low moan, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear.
It’s so fucking dirty, so filthy, so demeaning and you’ve never been so wet before.
You throw your head back, with a loud moan as Patrick plays with your tits under your shirt and Art lick’s a dirty stripe up your throat. “Fuck! God, Pat…” your chest heaves, back arching up into Patrick’s hands, craning your head so Art has more room to trail sweet kisses along your collar bones.
Patrick just laughs, running a hand down your stomach and into your shorts. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groans, the palm of his hand grinding roughly against the soaked cotton of your panties. “You’re fucking dripping all over me, holy shit,” Patrick breathes, long fingers sliding easily through the wet mess of your folds. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, staring down at where his hand disappears beneath the waistband.
“I think,” Patrick breathes, “that you need to let Art eat your pussy, and I think I need to watch.”
Your mind goes blank, sparks going off at the base of your spine as Patrick’s words echo in your ears. Art’s lips still against your neck, he’s practically whining, greedy hands roaming all over your soft skin.
You feel a rush of heat, your pussy aching with the need for exactly that. The thought of Art eating you out, with his gentle touches and caring eyes, juxtaposed with Patrick's commanding presence looming over the whole thing, sends you spiraling. You can hardly breathe, every nerve ending alive with anticipation and desire. The room seems to shrink around you, the air thick with tension, as you struggle to find your voice, to process the electrifying proposition that now hangs in the air between you.
You meet Art’s heavy gaze, his pupils dilated with a mix of want and need completely swallowing up the blue. His breath is hot against your skin, and you can feel the tremor in his hands as they move to caress your thighs. Patrick's presence is a steady force behind you, his hand gently but firmly guiding you to make the choice you know you both want.
Finally, you manage to whisper, your voice trembling with anticipation, “Yes.”
Art wrestles your shorts down your legs quickly, yanking them off and tossing them behind his shoulder. Your panties are quick to follow, rolling and bunching up until he huffs in frustration and rips them straight down the middle, leaving the tattered fabric to hang limply around your ankles. The surprised moan that leaves your lips at Art’s restraint finally snapping is almost loud enough to drown out the sound of Patrick’s laugh at how fast Art’s on his stomach between your legs.
Patrick hooks his thick legs over yours, keeping you spread open and exposed. Art’s eyes screw shut, his head falling to rest on the ground, like the sight of your slick pussy is just too much. “Shit,” he mutters, hips twitching slight against the floor.
“Come on, Art,” Patrick goads, “know you wanna taste this pretty pussy.” He reaches over and spreads your pussy open in a lewd “v” with his fingers, “Make our girl feel good.”
Art looks up at you, face flushed and eyes wide, blonde curls flopping over his forehead messily. “Is this okay?” He’s so close you can feel his hot breath fanning over your slick, aching clit.
“Yes–” You barely get the word out before Art rushes forward, trailing kisses along your inner thighs. His mouth is everywhere but where you want it to be. You whine, hips twitching towards his face in an attempt to get him to touch you. “Please, Art.”
“Thank you,” he whispers, tone way too earnest for what he’s about to do, finally sliding his tongue through the wet lips of your pussy. He drags it teasingly up the seam of you, all the way up till he’s circling your clit. His tongue laving over the tips of Patrick’s fingers each time.
Being sandwiched between the two of them is almost too much and somehow still not enough. Art splayed out on his stomach between your legs, head buried in your violently trembling thighs. Patrick plastered to your back, sweaty and firm as he spreads you wide open for his best friend's mouth.
Art’s big hands grip the sensitive skin of your inner thighs hard, his tongue licking broad strokes over your pussy as Patrick’s fingers start to rub fast circles on your clit while he spews filth over your shoulder.
“Fuck that’s so hot,” Patrick growls, “look at you, all spread out for us.”
You look down at Art to see he’s already looking at you. Sparkly eyes shiny and wet, brows furrowed as he keeps licking and licking, so messy with it that spit drips down his chin. His nose pressed up against all the right spots, making you see stars every time you blink. You never would have guessed it but he is fucking good at this, either he’s way too humble or selling himself short because holy shit.
Art's moaning and whining into your pussy like he's the one getting head, hands surely bruising your thighs with how hard he's gripping them. The roll of his hips fucking down against the ground is sinful.
“God– fucking shit, Art,” You whine pathetically, shaking with just how much ecstasy is coursing through your body. You think you may pass out.
“You like that?” Patrick asks hotly, lips brushing against your ear as he speaks, “You like watching him fuck the ground like a slut while he eats your pussy?” His fingers raise to give your clit a light slap, your head rolls back onto his shoulder as you cry out.
“Mmph, Patrick-!” Your thighs clench, trying in vain to squeeze shut. Patrick keeps them spread, his free hand coming around to grip Art’s hair, roughly dragging his head up and down your pussy faster. Art groans so loud against your clit that you actually feel the vibration, his hips rutting into the ground faster.
“Art–! I’m so close, God, I’m coming, Patrick, I’m coming, I’m com-” You cry out, cut off by Patrick's mouth slamming over yours, sucking your tongue into his mouth. “Do it,” he spits, biting your lower lip meanly, “fucking come, come all over your best friends face.”
Your thighs shake as you come, hands gripping Art’s hair like a vice as you gush over his tongue. He moans into your pussy, working you through the aftershocks. He drags his tongue along you until the over-stimulation gets to be too much and you’re dragging his face away by his hair.
“Alright,” Patrick says breezily, dragging his tongue from the corner over your mouth to the hinge of your jaw to catch your earlobe between his teeth. “Art got to have his fun,” he laughs, dark eyes staring pointedly at the wet patch soaking the front of Art’s boxers.
Art's too fucked out to even jab him back, chest heaving with each breath he takes. His lips are slick and red, the complete lower half of his face shining with your come, glazed over eyes half-open and dark. The sight is enough to have your pussy clenching, ready for round two. Patrick’s hips grind into your back purposely, dragging his still hard dick against your ass. “Now it’s my turn.”
art going through crazy subdrop where he just needs to be filled
he’s pawing at patrick to fill him up and he’s whining at you to ride his face
he just needs to make his two doms feel good
patrick’s trying to calm him down bc he’s practically humping the art atp
“daddy, please. need to feel u in my guts please” he’d beg
“baby, you gotta give us a second, okay? we’ve all already cum” you’d tell him, brushing his hair away from his face
ughhhh I NEED THISSS
GODDDD art having zero refractory period and just needing to go again and again and again until he passes out, meanwhile you and patrick are like “baby boy PLEASE we have to rest” so art just has to wait :(( he whimpers and whines, pawing at the two of you periodically, asking with his sad puppy eyes if you’re ready to go again. the solution is toys, lots of toys to keep him occupied before you can go again. you hold him, letting him suck and mouth at your tits while patrick fucks a dildo into him at a ruthless pace. when you’re both gone you set him up with a fuck machine. sometimes, you and patrick take a nap and leave art to his own devices, giving him blanket consent to hump the two of you as he pleases… you always wake up very sticky with him panting above you, begging you to let him inside your pretty pussy. he was so good, mommy, please let him fuck you now, he waited until you were awake!! he didn’t touch mommy’s cunt, he just humped your thighs like a good boy!! patrick likes to make him hump pillows, especially when you’re gone - he’ll take one of your pairs of dirty panties from the laundry basket and stretch it over a pillow so art can hump against it and cover it in his cum. then he makes art lick his mess clean while he finally fucks him again. aauurrr the two of you torture him, but he’s so insatiable he takes it all just for the opportunity to feel you both again <33
art’s the type to get his girl a promise ring he knows it’s way too early to propose ur both still in college so his compromise is wearing promise rings bc commitment turns him on😌
ugh absolutely!!!
he knows he wants to be yours forever the second he meets you. that want turns into a need once he finally builds up the courage to ask you on the date and spends the best night of his life with you. so the morning after your first date, he's speeding to the nearest jewelry shop and spending far too much money on a promise ring that he knows you'd love. he had considered an engagement ring but ultimately decided a promise ring would be a better first step.
he doesn't give it to you until you're certain about him in the way he's certain about you. it takes a bit because you're cautious about rushing into things. art waits patiently as you test the waters and get comfortable around him. he's already waited 20 years for you, what's a little more?
he finally gives it to you on your one year anniversary. tells you he's been sure about you since he first saw you and has held on to the ring for all this time. it's cute and mushy and gross but you both love it all the same.
plus, the sight of the ring around your wedding finger makes art rock hard.
dom!reader with stanford!art, you guys have been dating a few weeks and you catch art (not really) flirting with another girl. you decide next time you see him you’re gonna punish him. the next you see him is after your tennis practice. you go to his room and angrily kiss him before sitting on his face. (it’s kinda dub con lowkey but then art gets into it and is begging you🤭)
FAWK !!
imagine he's not as defined and filled out as he'll be in a few years - so you can easily yank him around - need to grab him by his arm and not even speak because you're so fucking angry and filled with possessive jealousy you're seeing red - nails digging into his arms making him flinch as he stumbles behind you.
"hey - hey - fuck! ow! what the fuck - ?" as you drag him into his dorm room and slam the door behind you. don't even bother to lock it. he looks terrified to be frank, and that shouldn't make your cunt throb but it does. makes you sticky between the thighs and you keep eye contact with him as you yank your skirt and panties down. he watches the action with a slack jaw and wide eyes, bubblegum lips parted in shock and lust as your bare cunt is exposed.
words get shrunk in his throat but you don't even care what he has to say anyway, shoving him back until he falls against the bed - his stupid fat falling from his head and his blonde curls tumbling free. he looks the picture of angelic beauty, hair like a golden halo around his head - pale face splashed and mottled with pink -
"what -" he attempts to stutter but you straddle his face - dive a hand into those soft cornflower locks and hiss - "you've done enough talking for the day." before sinking your wet cunt onto his face in the next breath.
you feel his startled inhale against your flesh - but you don't waste anytime waiting for him to catch up. his hands fly to your waist but they don't push you off - even as he whimpers under you in confused lust as you begin rutting your pussy against his lax mouth.
the sensation of his soft pouty mouth is so good against your sensitive flesh. you moan as you use his mouth, rubbing your cunt down against him hard enough that your labia parts and you're dragging your drenched slit up and down his chin and lips. "you're mine." you moan - using his whole face really, clit bumping his nose. "you fucking slutty boy - you think just because you're good at tennis now you get to flirt?" you look down at him - noting how his eyes have gone weepy and blown out - drunk off you using him like this without a thought. he whines against you at your words, hips jerking up on the bed, fingers digging into your hips. he shakes his head rapidly and you grunt at how the motion drags his lips back and forth across your pussy.
"yeah, that's what I thought. everyone wants to fuck you so bad but you're all mine. this - ah - this sweet fucking mouth is made for my pussy" you tell him. grind hard and feel his tongue as he begins licking you finally. "yes - yes, baby, lick my cunt. show me you're my good boy."
you hump his face - nearly bouncing on his chin, coming down on his tongue as it laps between your lips and drags up and down your wet slit. you drag your flesh down until he can seal his mouth around your clit and throw your head back when he expertly draws the hot nub into his hot mouth. "you’ve gotten so good at this -" you moan, proud - your anger melting away the more and more he licks at you - "I did that - I showed you how to eat pussy this good - ohhhhhh."
he used to have no tact - sloppy and eager - but he was a damn master at it now. sealing your clit in his mouth and lashing his tongue across the throbbing tip of it - his moans vibrating through your whole pussy and making your thighs shake.
"no one else gets this." you babble - rocking faster as your peak starts to build. "n- no one else gets to feel this mouth and that tongue - " you roll your hips - letting go of his hair in favor of leaning back and balancing your hands on his knees behind you, using the leverage to fuck your cunt onto his tongue. it punches your clit with every thrust of your hips and fuck you're gonna cum soon.
"no one else gets to fuck you but me - your cock - uhhh, yes ! - your mouth - fuck, fuck - it's all for me -"
art wraps his arms around your waist now and you allow yourself to fully collapse backward. his hold around your body keeping your pussy plastered against his face. you barely have to move anymore as he drags you up and down over his hungry mouth himself - moaning and whimpering as he eats you. arms locked around you so tight you're locked in place - and your orgasm crashes through you hard enough to bring tears to your eyes - wet gushing from your cunt and into arts eager mouth as he sucks at your pussy - swallowing every drop.
your body is completely limp after - thighs twitching by arts ears. he gently kitten kisses at your folds. turns his head to lick and kiss your thighs too.
"m'sorry for flirting." he nuzzles you. "didn't mean it. I only want you - it just - it feels good - " he blushes. "it feels good to be treated like m'important."
you sit back up. "you're always important to me." up on his lap now, stroking his hair. "but you've always been a slut for attention, hm?"
he pouts. "you're mean."
"you like it."
he bites his bottom lip. you feel how hard he is under your ass and grin as he blushes. squirms under you. his hands are restless as they move up and down your hips and waist and ass. like they don't know where to rest.
"can we.... " he looks up at you with the most endearing puppy eyes.
"can we what?" you tease. rock back against his hard-on and making him hiss.
"y-you said all of me belonged to you." he says.
"mhmm."
he pushes his hips up and you gasp a little when his hard cock presses against your bare pussy through his jeans. so thick and big.
"show me please." he begs. "s-show my cock.... it belongs to your - to your pussy -"
letting your bi!husband art donaldson fuck another man because you know hes never explored that part of his sexuality and you love him - not expecting to want to fuck patrick zweig yourself. it was supposed to be a one time thing, you were only supposed to watch, really - but it doesn't end that way. you somehow end up riding art while patrick fucks him, patricks chest hot and broad at your back, tossing your head back onto his shoulder as he kisses your neck. you wanted this to be about art - but your mistake was thinking you could ever be an outsider - and you're right where you're meant to be.
hghghfhfhf patrick saying stuff like "you've got a hot fucking wife, donaldson." when you didn't expect the attention to be on you - you've just taken your panties off to touch yourself. patricks three knuckles deep in arts ass and they're both looking between your legs at your pussy with wanton expressions. art with the same amount of open desire he's had since the first time he saw your bare cunt - patrick like he just found something he wants to fucking eat.
"I know," art hiccups. cock twitching on his stomach, flushed and pink. "god, I know - fuck -"
patrick makes you fuck yourself at the same tempo he's fucking art with - both of them watching you, and when he pulls his fingers out and positions his cock at your husbands entrance, arts hand shoots across the comforter to wrap around your ankle - tugging. "c'mere, please." and you go to him because you can never deny him anything. letting him pull you on top of him. "you were too far away." he runs his hands down your sides and you feel your eyes sting a little - "need you close." its not like you were forcing yourself into this - it's just that you were prepared to put your own needs aside for a night to let art explore. but the fact that he doesn't even want to explore if it means you're out of reach? you love him so much.
and then you feel patricks hands, strong and rougher than arts, slide up your spine. press you down so your tits are pressed to your husbands chest - your bare cunt sliding against arts cock - "fuck I got lucky -" you hear patrick grunt from behind. "kiss your wife, art. wanna hear you moan into her mouth when I take this virgin ass."
art does just that - and you get the pleasure of feeling his gasp against your lips, his hands gripping your waist, fingers digging into your ass as patrick slides himself inside your husband. he kisses you sloppily and fervently. rocking his hips up into you, his cock sliding through the lips of your cunt. "oh god -" he moans and you whine against him. his desperation bleeding into you and making you drench his dick.
you rock back and forth against him for a time - before you feel patricks hands coming under you, and you gasp when you're yanked up, sitting up fully on arts lap. patricks chest coming to meet your back and you look down at art as he looks up at you with his eyes shining and pink lips parted. patricks hands come around to cup your tits and you can't help but moan - humping down against art - making his eyes flutter.
"such a good little wife." patrick tells you. "sitting pretty on her husbands dick while he gets fucked. you want it inside you, huh? there's not just one greedy hole here tonight - but two."
you whine. art whines too - he can feel how wet you are, sliding back and forth on his cock as he's fucked. every time patrick fucks into him his cock slides through your folds, bumps against your clit. it's the most overwhelming sensation.
"please." he begs. slides his hands up your trembling thighs to your waist. "please ride me, baby. I need to feel you -"
but you're still hesitant, even with patricks hot hands on your breasts and arts pleading eyes, you still want to be sure this is what he wants from this experience.
"you want me to? I can go back to - " you gasp when patrick pinches a nipple. "I can just watch." even though the throbbing in your cunt tells you you'd hate that right now. too fucking worked up now. you want to be apart of this more than you thought, you don't want to be sidelined. art is yours.
art shakes his head wildly - curls bouncing - "don't want you to watch." his eyes have that hazy quality to them, blown out and fucking hungry as he looks up at you. "I want you to sit on my fucking cock and bounce."
oh. well.
patrick moans behind you at the same time you gasp. art being vulgar is so fucking hot, you know.
"shit, you heard him, baby. up you go -" he helps you sit up more until you can reach down and guide arts cock to your sopping wet entrance. his hands go to your hips, over arts, as they both bring you down onto him - "there it is." patrick coos, as you sink onto your husbands thick cock. "oh, you take him so fucking well - that pussies his home, huh?"
you and art are both lost in it - arts head thrown back as your tight warm heat envelops him. you whimpering as you're stretched and filled like you love to be. but you nod anyway, to patricks question.
"fuuuuuck - look at you two." patrick sounds in awe. he works himself slowly in and out of arts hole, but he's holding you back against him. leans down to mouth at your neck - "made for eachother."
ive seen so many sugar daddy! art posts and I love it... Im also thinking about shy! art being a sugar daddy. how he can't believe he got a girl as sweet and gorgeous as you just as excited to be spoiled. it's his first time ever really getting to treat someone because lets be real. if tashi wants something she isn't going to wait around for someone else to gift it to her. she has enough money for her own needs and hates surprises. and here's art, who's so eager and kind, asking if he can send you money even if he did just a few days ago, texting you to hang out again even when you're busy or had an arranged time later in the week but he's desperate for attention and u always give it to him.. like hello I need to reward him with hot steamy sex
+ when u thank him for taking you shopping or buying you a little necklace with your initials on it by giving him the sloppiest blowjob he's ever had he's clutching the sheets and whimpering "thank you, baby, ohmygod fuck that's so good just like that princess"
he's beet red when you finish and insists on buying you a new dress for your 'troubles.' also when ur like "which one do you like the most??" he insists that his opinion doesn't matter and it should be what you want but it's genuinely just because he gets equally hard looking at u in any of them
pixelskylines
amandla
jacobvanloon
origamiaround
