fawnnnn!!! ♥️♥️♥️ ive been missing you, how have you been? ;-;
SAAAAAGE!!!!
ilysm how am i just now seeing this… i am so good!! i moved into my own little apartment a couple months ago, sorta started seeing someone (fawn + situationship = crush induced madness) and have been working a bunch, so i’ve barely existed here (tragic, i miss u so bad)
i am giving u a KITH!! i hope u have been well my beautiful oomfie i need to stalk ur blog and see what ur cookin up… ily ily ily & HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!! 💌🏹🔮🌙🍂🪻✨
mdni, 18+ - art donaldson x f!reader
word count & warnings – 1.6k. mentions of car sex, conference room makeout, fingering, f!receiving oral
notes – coworker!art was one of the first things i ever wrote so writing this felt like coming home. in case you need it (bc i know i do), coworker art is here to remind you that there's so much more to life than work <3
౨ৎ⋆˚ dedicated to my nori @leftoverghosts 💚
Somehow it was only Monday. You sit at your desk in a post-lunch slump, eyes closed as you take a breath and try to figure out how to claw your way to the end of the day. An unmistakable *ping* comes through your headphones, interrupting your attempt at a self pep-talk. You have to hold back a groan as your eyes rake over your direct messages, wondering what your manager could possibly need-
Oh.
You remember when you first met Art in person. Had met once a week onsite for "better collaborative opportunities" while you worked on your cross-team project together. After messaging on the side during every working group call, you'd finally been able to put an in-person face to a Zoom one.
He'd even let you take the last cookie in that one company provided lunch, insisting he'd be just fine with the apple that left him.
"It's perfect actually. This right here? Peak Granny Smith," he'd said, taking a crunchy bite. "I'm so fortunate to work here."
So apples kind of became your thing. You'd send an apple emoji - you'd send red, he'd send green - whenever Ryan or some other prick said something particularly stupid as you'd try to keep a straight face. You'd leave one on his desk, and in return he'd leave on yours a cup of coffee, exactly how you like it. As much shit as you gave each other, he was sharp and observant - made him good at his job.
Though what you liked the most about Art was how you felt seen with him. He looked past all the ass-kissing, corporate ladder climbing nonsense and just saw you. After-hours work sessions on the cross-team project quickly became chats about everything and nothing simultaneously.
You'd talk about how he'd grown up going to tennis boarding school with his best friend, how you were definitely going to snap and end up attacking your manager one day, how he'd call you in prison when she definitely pressed charges.
He'd become your safe space. You didn't mean for it to go any further.
–
But one night, he'd asked you to drinks after a particularly bullshit work session, and you couldn't say no to the idea of blowing off some steam.
"Finally gracing me with your presence outside of Zoom or those bullshit lunches, huh? I'm honored," he says, eyes crinkling as he takes a sip of his beer.
The truth is, he'd wanted to ask you out since he'd gotten his first look at you on that call all those weeks ago. The one where he got caught staring at your face in the little Zoom box.
"Shut up," you bite back, chewing your lip, no heat in your voice,"You know why, Donaldson. Clock hits 5pm and I'm out of there."
Work was work. You were trying to develop better boundaries and let yourself compartmentalize when it was time to think about work and when it was time to go back home to your bed. Emphasis on trying.
"Mmhm," he says, curls bouncing as he nods, "And that's why that pretty little circle on Slack was green until 9PM last night."
You can't help the way you blush at his attentiveness.
"Aww, you really keeping tabs on me like that?" you tease. But he was right. You were spending entirely too much time working. Practically playing into the hand of the bureaucratic bullshit at this point.
"Why were you on that late though, Art?" He shrugs.
"Had shit to do", he says, taking another sip, "Gotta say though, I felt like I was in good company. Just a couple of fucking corporate sellouts online way too late."
You didn't mean to let him kiss you in his car later that night.
Definitely didn't mean to allow him a taste of your cider as he licked into your mouth - or allow his hands to explore the expanse of your back, unhooking your bra, freeing your your tits in his face as you bounced up and down in his lap.
Definitely didn't mean to. But something became clear that night:
He was the release you didn't realize you needed.
–
To the delight of your bosses, you and Art had worked well together, it turns out. The project you'd been assigned to work on had ended months ago, and you'd gotten glowing feedback from leadership.
In the weeks immediately following, you found yourself feeling his absence. An excuse to talk to him every week. How he'd banter with you and make snarky comments about your fellow coworkers in over Slack.
You missed the way he'd nudge your leg with his when you'd let your cool facade slip after someone said something just a little too off the wall. The way his cheek would dimple with that fucking smirk of his.
That same smirk was on his face as you look at him from where you stand in the doorway of the conference room.
–
Magnolia Glen was a conference room with built-in audio-visual capabilities, a max occupancy of 8, and a current occupancy of 2.
You step into the room and hardly get a glance at Art's pristine pressed collared shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms before he cups your face and captures your lips with his. Your hands tangle in his soft curls and pull, tethering you to the Earth as the sweetness of his attention threatens to take you to new heights.
"Hadn't gotten any apples from you in a minute," he says between kisses, "Was worried you'd forgotten about me."
Art pulls away from your grasp and pushes you against the door of the conference room, peppering kisses up your neck. You can almost hear the smirk in his voice as he whispers against your ear, tone comically serious. "Henry wants to know if you have any status updates on the workstream that's still unresolved..."
"You know I don't have ohhh–"
He cuts off your words with a nip to your pulse point.
Art wastes no time, lifting you onto the conference room table and stepping between your legs before descending back on your mouth. As he deepens the kiss, tongue intermingling with yours, you taste cold brew and cinnamon gum, his warm fingers brushing against your collarbone before deftly unbuttoning the buttons of your blouse.
"Art, we probably shouldn't keep doing this," you say, begrudgingly breaking the kiss. You can't even imagine what would happen if someone found out about this, if someone walked in on your little conference room trysts.
"When has that ever stopped us?" he asks, unable to help the smugness in his voice.
You roll your eyes, and he stops to look at you with those pretty mostly-blue eyes of his, before taking your chin in his fingers, an earnest smile crawling up his face.
"You really want to stop? Because if you do, then we can. Seriously."
You take a beat, considering his words. He really meant it. Eventually, you smile back at him before shaking your head.
Oh, thank god.
–
He kneels in front of you, knees hitting the conference room floor as he widens your legs for him.
"So wet already," he says, pushing up your pencil skirt around your waist to brush his thumb over your clothed slit, "This really all for me?"
Art pulls your panties to the side, groaning as he feels your wetness causing the fabric to cling to your cunt. He slips a finger, then two inside of you.
"Still so fucking tight," Art moaned as he leans down to press a kiss to your mound.
He licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, moaning as he does, eyes closed as he relishes in the flavor of you. Your hands instinctively go to cover your mouth, to muffle those beautiful sounds you always make for him.
The only thing he could think about was how much he wanted to fucking devour you. To make it as hard as possible for you to be quiet.
"The people who sit in this section are only in Wednesdays. You can be as loud as you want," Art says as he slips two fingers inside of you, scissoring them to stretch you out as he continues to give attention to your puffy clit.
When he begins to suck, you tangle your fingers once again in his golden curls, holding him impossibly closer to your center.
"Oh my god. Fuck, Art."
He nips your inner thigh as the swear leaves your mouth, tsking as he continues to fuck into you with his fingers.
"You should really watch your language in the office," he teases, "But don't worry, keep being a good girl, and I won't tell anyone."
Art laughs to himself as that pushes you over the edge, not ceasing his assault of your pretty pussy with his fingers and mouth.
"God, you're fucking gorgeous like this. Gonna give me another one, aren't you?" You honestly lose track of the amount of times he brings you over the edge with his relentless ministrations.
You can't help the blush that burns on your cheeks as he stands up, adjusting himself in his pants. As you reach down to try and palm him with your hand, he grabs yours with one of his own, placing a kiss on the back of it, smirk crawling up the side of his face.
"Can't, sorry. Have a 3pm. Good luck with the rest of today, though."
Art gives you a wink, brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face, kissing your cheek before sauntering out the door of the conference room.
He was going to be the death of you.
a/n: thanks for reading one of the most self gratuitous things i’ve ever written. i had a blast. 🤍🪽let me know what you thought if you want! all interactions appreciated <33
i’m gonna straddle his lap and grab his arm, licking his finger and then slowly suck his wedding ring off of his finger while i stare into his eyes as he whines
cw (18+): switch!patrick zweig, switch!reader, happy trail worship, sloppy blowjob, face-fucking, coming untouched and coming in mouth, porn w/ some plot (but mainly porn)
pat and reader use "going camping" in the relatively-remote wilderness as an excuse to have public sex..
camping in the middle of nowhere—which had really been patrick's idea more than yours—meant being away from most of your usual luxuries; sleeping on a bouncy, plush mattress, cooling down with proper AC, being able to use the stove or the oven or the microwave, being able to kick back on the sofa and watch recordings of your boyfriend's tennis matches play out on the television screen, being able to take a real shower..
it had only taken one afternoon of "roughing it" before you were ready to go home.
you were sweaty, sticky, and had admittedly not smelt your best.. deodorant can only do so much when you've been hauling camping supplies around in the forest for over an hour and a half.
and so it was pat's idea to shower in the river.
you'd fought him on it at first, arguing that the river was ‘probably going to be muddy’ and that it would be ‘bad for the environment to let regular soap be washed downstream and interact with the connected ecosystems’.
but, upon arriving at the secluded spot that he wanted you two to set up camp at, he’d presented you with solutions: a) the river was beautifully clear—smooth stones and sparkling sand covered the bottom, and the crystal-like water was cool to the touch but not uncomfortably so; and b) he'd bought a big bottle of biodegradable soap because he knew how you'd be (you were "annoyingly eco-conscious" .. his words ).
so, fine.
river shower it was.
—
the tent’s set up about twenty feet from the edge of the stream, patrick’s started to put together a place for the fire after the sun goes down, and you’re laying out two fresh sets of clothing for after your guys’ hop into the flowing water. you sigh.
“which boxers do you want tonight?” you call out as you rifle through his backpack near the tent, “black or.. gray?”
“gray,” he huffs out as he drops an armful of sticks of varying sizes in the makeshift fire-pit. he places his hands on his hips afterward like a suburban dad of three.
your fingers snag on the waistband of the pair in question and you set them aside. pushing yourself up from the dusty earth, you brush your hands off on your shorts and walk over to your boyfriend, placing your warm hands on his hips from behind. it’s easy to tell just from the way he stiffens in response that he’s sporting a cheeky smirk.. maybe even a dusting of pink over his features.
“have you even ever been camping before?”
he snickers, then scoffs in the same breath.
“sort of,” the words fall from his lips aimlessly, unsure, “.. okay, no.. i haven’t. but i did boyscouts for a summer with art before my dad pulled me from it. he said it ‘took too much time away from the courts’.. i think i got the gist of it, though.”
you kiss the back of his neck, your fingertips tracing the cartilage of his left ear. goosebumps spring up on his skin, a soft sound bubbling up from his chest. “right.. so what’s the gist of it?”
he steps away from you and then turns on his heel to look down into your eyes, almost comedically stiff—like a plastic toy-soldier with something to prove, “three hours without shelter, three days without water, three weeks without food—“
the freckles on his cheeks look more prominent than ever under the golden light of the sun. you give him a look of skepticism, and he rolls his eyes in return. he takes your hand in his and points it toward the river.
“that’s north, just so you know. like, if you ever get lost, you’re supposed to go that way.. or something.. i think.”
you sigh.
“that’s east.”
he drops your hand, a contemplative look on his face, but then he’s leaning in and kissing your head. “whatever. i tried my best, okay? it’s not like we’re gonna be leaving the campsite.”
his words come out muffled as he speaks lazily into your temple. you’re about to turn and meet his lips, but you're immediately hit with the smell of sweat. usually the smell of patrick's natural body is one that you love, one that sometimes even gets you feeling a bit hot all-over, but this kind of musk is different. you tug on the back of his shirt and lean in, ".. that river is calling your name, babe. i'm serious. no tent-sex until you smell like you again and not like a wild dog."
he pulls the collar of his shirt back from his warm skin and up to his nose, sniffing, and you chuckle when his nose wrinkles and his eyes go all wide. he's cute. your eyes naturally roam from his face to the bit of tummy now exposed from his lifted tee. a flash of hair, chocolate brown and dipping below into his shorts. there's no way to prevent your tongue from reflexively peeking out to lick over your bottom lip. he doesn't notice this—already pulling his top over his head and dropping it to the dirt. his shoes and socks are discarded next, and then he's tugging his shorts and boxers down past his knees before kicking them from his ankles. your eyes take in each and every one of his movements as he works to strip himself bare of any and all fabric, admiring the way his shoulders roll back and his biceps curl and his meaty thighs flex. your gaze hones in on his stomach again.. then the trail of hair.. then the well-groomed bush.
this time, he does notice.
he steps closer, dimples showing and pearly whites stretching a mile long. calloused fingers find your waist next, his naked sex pressed into your hip to make a point. a low hum rumbles within you as you try to quell the urge to jump on him before he's cleaned himself up, and you know that he's making it harder for you to do that on purpose. you clear your throat and place a hand on his toned chest, shaking your head and leaning in to whisper an inch from his lips.
"soap.. water.. and then you can have me.."
you watch him try not to look so disappointed as the cocky grin fades out. when he turns with a heavy sigh and begins his trek to the river, picking up the bottle of soap along the way from beside your bags, you let out the shakiest exhale. it's so difficult to control yourself when your award-winning athlete boytoy is half-hard and begging for your body with a single look. good things come to those who wait; you have to repeat to yourself five whole times so that you don't touch yourself in that very moment..
the initial plan was to bathe in the water together, but by the time you've undressed yourself and placed all of your dirty clothes in the designated plastic bag you brought, you hear the rhythmic splashing of water as he wades back to the surface. you turn, watching him shake his loose, dark waves like a drenched puppy, casting out a misting of droplets. he stands back up straight, clearly proud of himself for taking the quickest "shower" known to man, and then strides over to you. it's already blatantly clear what he's got on his mind, arousal twitching and bobbing as he walks. his hands find your unclothed waist as he sucks in a breath, and not a second later he's burying his wet face into your neck and letting out the most desperate groan you've ever heard. stuttered into four parts, warm breath on your skin, his fingers then roaming up to palm and fondle your chest as if he's one minute away from sinking his teeth into your softness.
"hate it when you make me wait," he almost whines out the words, "y'know i'm bad at it.. but i smell good now, right? i'm not—i can't wait any longer.. not when you're like this—“
a startled gasp leaves your lips when your bare ass is suddenly squeezed.
"god, patrick," your own touch wanders down the expanse of his chest, stopping for only a moment before you wrap your fist around the base of his shaft, reveling in the way his entire abdomen jolts and he curls further into your frame. his hips thrust forward, begging for more than you're allowing him, pleading with you to properly stroke his cock instead of holding him on the edge between discomfort and pleasurable friction. your thumb swipes over a bead of precome from his weeping tip and he mewls, his feet shifting wider apart on the earth and his pelvis bucking twice reflexively.
"please.. please, please, p-please.. please get on your knees for me, fuh-fuck.."
you figure it’d just be mean if you didn’t, and anyway.. you really want him in your mouth.
you drop down quickly like there are weights resting on your shoulders. as soon as you hit the ground, you’re shifting on your knees to push yourself up onto them, closing your eyes as you lean in and begin kissing his spasming lower body. you mouth over his torso and then his hipbone, letting him shudder and choke on needy moans while you work him up to his breaking point. when your eyes finally flutter open again, you’re face to face with the particular object of today’s affection: his happy trail.
it crawls perfectly from the bottom of his belly button to the start of his length, dissolving into a trimmed bushel of hair that surrounds his sex. he’s never shaved it, only kept it from getting ‘too overgrown’, and you’ve never been unhappy about that fact. there’s just always been something about caressing him there that gets him pulsing and leaking like a broken faucet. you’ve never asked him why that is, and instead have gone on assuming that he’s simply hypersensitive in that area.
you chew on the inside of your cheek, a thrum of heat climbs from your gut, and then you’re letting your soft, pink tongue loll out to lathe right over the strip of hair until your nose is buried in the mess of strands. you inhale deeply. he smells like citrus (thank you, biodegradable soap!)
patrick nearly topples over.
his hips bounce, his legs quake, his hands fly to your upper arms and his blunt nails dig in hard enough to leave a mark.
“ohhh, god,” he whimpers, breathy moans following suit as his head tips back, “that—haah, shit—don’t stop, okay? don’t f—don’t stop, i’m—“
his desperate words trigger that bolt of heat in your stomach to burst into flames. the sensation floods your chest and sends warmth to your face, melting your brain into near-mush and coaxing your tongue to slide back up the trail and down again. it’s the same thing you do when you’re teasing his dick. right on cue, his toes curl and a dribble of wetness leaves his slit and his chest revs with a slurry of wanton, panting cries that begin to increase in both volume and pitch. he rolls his hips against your moving mouth like he’s stuffed down your throat and not just getting his stomach licked. it’s a bit pathetic.. but it makes your thighs press and rub together hungrily. fuck, you want him so bad, even if especially if he can be a bit pathetic when he’s this turned-on.
you lap at his coarse hair until he’s hiccuping and his brows are pinched together, eyes closed tight and his touch now blindly holding the back of your head for leverage. thin, glistening strings of spit cling to his skin and the strands as you continue your efforts, and then you kiss over his hipbone once more.
“does that feel good?” it’s a dumb question, but you just like to hear him say it.
“yeah,” he gasps, “so good, i.. i think i’m gonna pass out..”
it’s a joke, but patrick doesn’t really laugh. you look up, curious, and then suddenly see how truly dazed he looks, almost like he really is lightheaded just from all of the desire coursing through his systems. he dribbles again, and it trickles down his entire length to his heavy balls, to the densely-packed dirt of the ground. it looks like a drop of rain. you surge forward and bite at his stomach, no longer able to find any reason to restrain yourself, and listen closely to the wonderfully shattered noise he lets out in response. as you flutter your tongue over his happy trail once more, you feel the thumping of a vein against your mouth. you pull back and pet it with your index finger, which only makes your boyfriend squirm. you kiss his trail again. one more lick, one more nip, one more suck, and then all of a sudden his spine is arching backward.
“wait, wait, wait..! f-fuck, fuck, haah—AH!—no, fuck, i’m about to—!”
you’re not sure what is exactly happening until you feel something bump your chin, followed by sticky, hot ropes of fluid gushing out over your neck and chest, spilling down your skin. you gasp, pulling back and steadying pat with your hands on his lower back as he convulses and jolts in time with the heady waves of orgasm. his eyes roll back like he’s meeting god, and he wobbles down to his very marrow as the high of his climax fades out in prickly bursts.
“patr—“ you start, a new fire roaring to life in your lower half at the realization that you just made patrick zweig come from drooling all over his tummy, wanting nothing more than to push him down now and sit on his aching parts until he really does lose some semblance of consciousness, but he takes himself into his trembling right hand and feeds his cockhead past your lips before you can even get the second half of his name out.
you moan as the taste of his release smears across your palate; sticky and salty and laced with affection. it's second nature by now to take him into your mouth the way that you do, your lids lowering as you hollow your cheeks and suck him down your throat, coughing and choking a bit at the intrusion before he reels back and groans deeply. you open your eyes just enough to see his expression crumple from overstimulation. it doesn't last for long, though.
"can i put it in?" he strokes your cheek, thumbing your upper lip to see your pretty left canine, "i can go again.. i promise.. i can go again three times over if it means you'll let me fuck your mouth.. i need it s'bad.. please, baby.."
this might be the most wrecked you've ever seen or heard him be. you wonder if there's something about being outside—about being in a place where it's possible that someone could walk by and see you two at any moment—that's making him shift into some kind of primal state. you don't dwell on the thoughts, opting for giving him a nod of your head instead and then presenting your slacked jaw to him as proof of your compliance.
patrick doesn't hesitate, not with you. he tenses as he eases himself back inside your warmth, letting you constrict around his girth, and then begins rocking his hips like its easy. the sound of your stifled gags makes him swell even further, pulsing against the roof of your mouth as the sound of wet, sloppy suction echoes out amongst the woodland ambience. he cups the underside of your chin with one hand and steadily holds the base of the back of your neck with the other, making sure you're right where he wants you to be. you sniffle and whine; he moans and keens. saliva floods in and drips from the corners of your lips, adding to the mess, while his tip mercilessly prods at the back of your throat. you feel a blurt of precome spill out, and you gulp it down without question. you'll take anything and everything that he gives you—he's been good for you up until now, you can stand to be good in return for awhile.
"i'm gonna come again," he urgently growls out mid-thrust, "take it all for me, babe.. please, take it.. don't waste it, i wanna feel you swallow it.."
your palms slide to the backs of his thighs and you tap your fingers against him there, giving him a wordless signal to use you however he pleases. as soon as he feels you tap, he's focused on nothing but finding his second tipping point, chasing a high that's seconds away and almost within reach. your eyes flutter as you struggle to pull enough oxygen into your lungs with him taking up so much space, but another tap to the back of his legs causes him to ease up while he waits for you to breathe. a few beats of greedily gasping, a third tap and final tap to his limbs, and he's back to it. the way you two have found your rhythm over time is like nothing else you've ever experienced. its natural, it's love. you both know exactly what the other needs and when because you both know how to tell one another exactly that. you feel your head quickly fogging with the sensation of your tongue being rubbed against and your airway being full of nothing but patrick, patrick, patrick..
a few more thrusts and his pace is faltering. stuttering, really. you brace yourself as he pulls you in close, your nose smushed into his dense bush, and wails.
"gonna—" he quakes, "gonna—gonna—gonna-! 'm c-coming—!"
right as you feel his length kick against your insides, you simultaneously feel your boyfriend's hand maneuver from under your chin to the front of your neck.
"i'm coming inside you.." he slurs.
you do as you've been told. you let your eyes flutter shut and you let him feel you drink every drop of his spend as it flows out in overwhelming bursts. he jerks forward and seizes up when you swirl your tongue around as much of him as you can, prolonging his ecstasy and guiding him into painful hypersensitivity. he can only stand a bit more before he's stepping back and relieving you of your efforts. his cock softens, giving one last throb—letting out one last glob of his milky fluid—before it relents. it takes everything in him not to collapse. you can tell.
you're the first to speak as you raise a shaky wrist to wipe at your slick lips.
"you gonna return the favor?"
he can barely manage a chuckle.
"of course i am.. and then we'll really need to clean off.."
".. yay, river showers.."
it's sarcastic when you say it.
"yay, river showers.."
it's earnest and tender when he does.
either way, the camping trip is off to a great start.
Artricks friendship being so close that they jerk off together and are just so normal about it that its not weird for them if (reader) starts giving one of them a handjob or blowjob during a movie in the same bed, theyre just so chill about it like its just cuddling with friends
god that's so crazy...
starting off by just kissing Patrick's throat, nipping at his jaw. You can feel how hard his heart is beating against your lips. You're keeping it pretty tame until he grabs your hand and moves it down to his sweats, where he's half-hard and twitching with need.
You spare a quick glance at Art, who's staring at the screen and pretending he doesn't notice what you're doing. Patrick just insists that it's fine, he's seen worse. And bucks into your grip. Before you can slip your hand into his sweats, he grabs your palm and spits into it.
You can hear Art squirming a bit as you jerk Patrick's cock, but you're too occupied with gentle throat kisses to actually spare him a second glance. But you can feel his thigh warm and pressing against yours. Patrick's panting and thrusting up into your tight fist, grabbing your thigh, not even pretending to pay attention to the movie.
And then Patrick's grabbing your free hand and moving it into Art's lap. "It's fine," he insists. Art's so hard under your grip, tenting the thin fabric of his shorts. "C'mon, you can help him out. It's not cheating if I'm here."
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