geminimoonxs

I remember the taste of cheap red wine

[geminimoonxs]

you can call me mini ✦ she/her ✦ 20+ (MDNI) ✦ fangirl ✦ wannabe writer ✦ brazilian ✦ art donaldson apologist ✦ ask box always open!

divider by @v6que

— hi, i'm mini! i'm fairly new to this tumblr thing, but i created my acc to interact with my favorite content (mainly mike faist/challengers stuff).

— i'm currently working on a fic about dodge mason x oc character that i may (or may not) share here at some point.

— i'd love to make friends and will consider writing requests <3

[geminimoonxs]

stanning low profile people is so funny like… other fandoms are out here thirsting over their fav doing a calvin klein ad or a magazine phothsoot… meanwhile the sluttiest thing that could possibly happen to us is mike faist being spotted twice (documented. no hat.) and getting a job… all in the same month !!!

[alicerohrwacher]

MIKE FAIST as DODGE MASON

in PANIC S01E02 ― "Heights"

[geminimoonxs]

he was so boyfriend here

[musingsofheaven]

Hello!! I adore your Art fics and was wondering if you’d do one with top/dom!Art x Sub!reader and she has a really bad oral fixation throughout her normal day buts it’s especially bad when she’s upset, and she is, also if possible if you could somehow fit in NSFW themes I’d really appreciate it! Once again love love love your work!💕

Sorry if this is gibberish I suck at requesting stuff

SLURRED, SLIPPY, SHINY.

summary: It’s not new. You’ve always had a thing for using your mouth when your feelings get too big and you go quiet. And Art knows that silence, knows exactly what you need when it hits. He never makes you explain. Just cups the back of your head and tells you, “Breathe through it, baby.”

pairings: ceo!art donaldson x young girlfriend!reader

warning: 4.2k words. mature themes. oral fixation. age gap. power imbalance. oral sex (m!receiving). gagging / light choking. spit / drool / mess. aftercare. read responsibly.

note: this request has been sitting in my inbox since june 7 and i swear i wasn’t ignoring it :(! sorry … sighs. anyway, i saw “oral fixation when she’s upset” and i immediately felt exposed. why would you call me out like that. do you know how many things i’ve put in my mouth just to not cry?? like it was a coping mechanism. and surprise!!! it was!!! 🤪 and yep… we’re here now. she’s soft. she’s messy. she’s gagging a little. and she’s regulated by one (1) emotionally available dom named art donaldson. (I WANT SOFT DOM ART) To anon, i’m sorry it took me long. i love you. thank you for requesting this. 💗

You should’ve grown out of it. That’s what everyone said- quietly, politely, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it’s just a phase. Just something you’d stop doing once your brain settled, but it’s not. As much as you want it to stop, it didn’t. It started when you’re young, with your thumb, then your shirt collar that you’re subtly putting between your mouth when you’re alone, hoodie strings chewed until they frayed. Note: Each one of your hoodies.

Teachers, doctors, and relatives offered solutions: rubber sticks, bracelets, soft pens. You tried. But nothing worked like having something in your mouth. It doesn’t work. You almost broke down when someone asked what it was when you left your bag open. It wasn’t just a habit. You know that. It was need- pressure, focus, quiet. It’s something. It’s yours. Something to help you feel safe. A comfort.

You learned to hide it as you got older. No more thumb sucking (when you’re at public), but your pens still had bite marks. You went through straws too fast. Got flattened and looks like it has been murdered. You pressed your fingers to your lips, mouthed your sleeves, and gnawed your cheeks. You thought it would fade. It didn’t. There’s a time you think it’s fading, not until it happened again, when something triggered you.

It’s worse when you are upset, more than the normal things you do. You didn’t cry or yell. You just went quiet. You bit down. Sucked your fingers raw. Let your sleeves stay wet. Full of drool. You hated how it looked. How did it make you feel small. It can be disgusting, but a good feeling at the same time. You tried to be better. Find solutions on your own when you get older. Therapy, coping tools, breathing tricks- you did it all. But your mouth always ended up full again. Again. And again.

It got harder to ignore around people, especially during sex. When your mouth was busy, your head was quiet. Not because you wanted to be good. Just because it helped. But it got messy- too much drool, too fast, too desperate. You look like you’re eager to suck them off or get fucked. You could always tell when they felt weird about it. They’d pull away. Wipe your chin as if it’s giving them problems. Give you a break you never asked for.

So you stopped letting anyone see it. Bit your cheek. Sometimes it’s too hard you can taste the metallic flavor from your blood. Swallowed the need. Tried to act normal. Masking it in front of other people. Tried to stay quiet without help. You didn’t want to explain. It’s too hard to do it anyway. You didn’t want to see that look- confused, a little uneasy, like they didn’t know what you were doing, or why it mattered.

And then you met him. A quiet gala. A borrowed bracelet. A drink you didn’t finish. He noticed you- not because you were young or pretty, but because you stirred your glass too long, because your fingers kept brushing your mouth like they didn’t know where else to go. The way you lick your lips too much to the point it’s making them dry. You didn’t even realize. But he did.

And for once, someone didn’t look confused. He just watched you more than he spoke. Noticed your jaw, your hands, the way your voice caught when your mouth was empty. But he never pointed it out. Never asked. He just made space. Let you sit closer. Let you speak less. Let you handle yourself. Let you do your mannerisms. Let you know it. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide.

Now- now that you’re here, curled up on the floor of his penthouse, sleeves damp, fingers trembling, mouth aching for something to hold- he still doesn’t ask questions. Just let you stay there. Not really get you up because he knows your habits by now. And he’s in the middle of a meeting. Remote. Earbud in, laptop open, voice low. Even as he talks about projections and timelines and things you don’t understand but his other hand- his free hand- is resting gently on your face, two fingers pressed into your mouth like it’s second nature.

You keep his fingers warm inside your mouth. You’re curled against his thigh, knees tucked under you, breathing soft and shallow as you suck on them. Slow. Steady. Sloopy. Like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart. You’ve already soaked his skin. Spit clings to the knuckle and to your chin. Your jaw aches. Your lashes are wet. You don’t even know how long it’s been.

You haven’t spoken since you crawled across the floor and tugged on his sleeve. Soft and with the purpose of disturbing him in the middle of his meeting. Your chest is tight and your eyes are glassy, too full to say a word. You didn’t ask. You didn’t have to. He looked down once, watched your lip tremble, and slipped his fingers past your mouth like he was giving you medicine. Like he knows what you need. Like it’s your fix.

You’ve been like this ever since- mouthing and whimpering, drooling quietly while he keeps talking like there’s nothing unusual happening. Nothing at all. Just you. You’re on the floor. His fingers dig deep into you. “…no, we’ll review it again on Thursday,” he says, thumb brushing under your chin.

“I’ll send over the final numbers after this call.” You whine around his fingers- quiet, desperate- and he doesn’t even blink, just looking straight at this damn meeting. “Shh,” he quietly murmurs, barely audible. His pinky strokes your cheek. “You’re fine, baby. Just keep going.”

You try to behave. You really do. Keep going, he said. But the second he pulls his fingers free- spit, wet, and warm- your mouth feels too empty to breathe right. So you whimper again unintentionally, lips still parted, breath catching in your throat like you’re falling.

He doesn’t look down. Just wipes his hand on the thigh of his sweats and lifts the edge of the desk with his knee so you can crawl more between him. You do- immediately, silently, settling between his legs like you’ve done this before. (You do. Multiple times. Like you already trained for it.)

He’s seated in his office chair, laptop balanced in front of him, camera on. Framed from the chest up. Mic hot. Voice calm. Authoritative. Composed. “… No, we need to revise the it if the acquisition falls through. We can’t afford a delay.” You kneel more comfortably under the desk, hands light on his thighs, cheek pressed to his lap. Like a lap dog. But you didn’t do anything much, you just pressed it, just for closeness, just to feel him- but the second you catch the heat of him through the fabric, your lips part again. You mouthed at him through the cotton. Lips moving with intent. Soft. Unthinking. Your body leads before your brain can follow. A soft noise escapes your throat- barely anything- but enough to be heard.

There’s a pause. “…everything alright over there?” He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t glance down. His voice doesn’t change. He’s acting like you’re not below him. Like you’re not needy. Like you don’t want more of him in your mouth.

“Yeah,” he says. Just a beat. “All good.”

His hand slips under the desk again, finds the back of your head, and presses down gently against his thigh. Then, without pausing the call or breaking eye contact with the screen, he pulls his cock out- slowly, one-handed- just tugging the waistband of his sweats low enough to let it rest heavy and flushed against his thigh.

“Come on,” he whispers to you, too quiet for the mic to catch. “Since you’re already shaking.” You lean in automatically, lips parted, spit already pooling, and wrap your mouth around the head with a soft sigh. You lick the tip like a lollipop. Tasting his pre cum under your tongue. He exhales through his nose, doesn’t react. “…we’ll circle back on Friday,” he says into the call, calm and smooth, while you suck him quietly under the desk.

He doesn’t know what upset you. Not yet. Not ever since you crawled underneath, since he’s already in the meeting when you did that. But he knew something was wrong the moment you knelt beside him- sleeves tugged over your hands, mouth trembling, silent. You hadn’t said anything. You didn’t need to. You just looked up with your glossy eyes, like you just came from crying and your mouth shining with spit. You touched his wrist, and he gave you his fingers like it was instinct.

Now your mouth is stretched around something thicker, deeper, and you’re curled between his legs, hands braced on his thighs, jaw working slowly. Your spit drips down your chin and onto your hands, but his voice doesn’t change. “…that’s fine. Just update them before it goes to legal,” he says evenly. You hum around him like you’re agreeing. Like you’re part of his little meeting. His hand flexes at the back of your head after you hum, must the vibrations of it have affected him. He holds it not for praise, not control. Just contact. You always need contact.

He glances down once. Just to see you like this- lips soaked, brows furrowed, throat working hard to take more than you should. He almost thrust so deep that you could be stuffed, but he didn’t. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t slow you down. He knows you’ll talk later, after your jaw stops aching and your head clears. Right now, this is the only way you know how to speak. But you’re struggling now- your lips stretched wide, eyes burning, spit messier by the second.

The harder you try to stay quiet, the worse it gets. The more noise threatening to escape your mouth. A whimper escapes, soft and broken, and he feels it. He’s aware of how you are acting below him. Still, he doesn’t pause the meeting. He just lifts one hand off the desk and presses his thumb into the corner of your mouth- not rough, not gentle, just there. Steady. Firm. Guiding.

He eases you off with slow pressure, lets your lips fall from his cock with a gasp. Then pushes his thumb over your tongue, wetting it, quieting you. Grounding you from breaking from it. He knows sometimes you can get overstimulated even if you've already stuffed your mouth.

He lets his cock rests hot against while his thumb plugs into mouth beside it like a stopper, keeping the sound in. “…yes, I’ll review the contract tonight,” he says calmly to the meeting. “No changes on my end.” You blink up at him, glassy-eyed, his thumb still resting against your tongue. You suck on it too, softly, rhythmically, just to keep yourself grounded. To stay in your body. To not cry.

And he lets you. Keeps you there- knees sore, chin sticky, heart pounding, mouth full of him- because this isn’t about making you feel better right now. It’s about keeping you still. Quiet. Held. Just content until the meeting concludes. He doesn’t stroke your hair. Doesn’t tell you you’re good. He just finished his work. Lets you stay where you are, sucking on him like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground. When the meeting finally winds down- just wrap-up and sign-offs- he clicks once, flatly: “I’ll review everything by tomorrow. Thanks, everyone.” And then he ends the call.

Click. Silence. Like he’s so eager. The shift is instant. He exhales once, slow, and reaches under the desk to grab your wrist- not rough, just firm enough to say: you’re not staying down there. You don’t have time to react and you barely get your hands beneath you before he’s pulling, slow and steady, making you crawl out with your knees catching on the floor. You pout at him because it made you remove your mouth from him.

Your lips are swollen, eyes stinging, his spit and slick cock brushing your cheek as you move. You end up kneeling between his thighs, half slumped in his lap, fingers clutching at his sweats like you’re afraid he’ll take it all away again. But really? In this state? You’re afraid he’ll do it. His thumb shoved back inside your mouth, lazy and wet, soaking from how long you’ve had it before he pulled it out for a moment to get you underneath the desk.

He brushes your chin, glances at your face- pink, glossy, ruined... and pretty. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asks, voice low. You shake your head. Just enough. Too shy to say it. Not ready to talk about it. “No?” he repeats, brow twitching.

You pull off his thumb slowly, spit stretching from your lips, then whisper, “Don’t wanna talk...” It cracks your voice. He knows what it means. He knows what he needs to do. You sound shameful. Quiet. Like it hurts to admit. He looks at you for a long second, blank, unreadable- then leans back in his chair and spreads his thighs. “Alright,” he says. “Come get it.”

You’re already moving the moment he said that, dragging your palms up his legs, mouth open before he finishes speaking. You open your mouth wide enough to cater it. You take the head in first- soft, slow, then deeper. Just enough. Maybe the tip is almost kissing your throat. He doesn’t guide you. Doesn’t hold your head. Just watches. Admiring the way you take what you need. The way your lips wrap around it. The way you look.

When you moan around him, eyes slipping shut, he finally lets one hand drop into your hair. “There you go,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.” You press your palms to his knees and sink until your lips meet the base, breath catching, tears stinging your lashes. But you don’t gag, you move slowly, adjusting to it even though you’ve done it many times now. He doesn’t move. Just lets you fuck yourself on him- slow, sloppy, desperate- until your spit coats his thighs, dripping in strings from your chin. Your whole body trembles from the stretch, from how full you are, from how long you’ve been holding everything in.

Then he shifts. Just a little. He put his hand on your hair and grips your hair tightly, not in a way that hurts. He tilts his hips forward once, deep, slow, and the sound you make around him shudders straight up his spine. God, you sound so good, so he does it again. Then again. Three soft thrusts, lazy and controlled, just enough to hear you choke. Just enough to test you to see if you can take it much today. You flinch, but don’t pull away.

You moan- weak, ruined- and he groans softly. “Fuck. You’re really not gonna stop, huh?” Another push, deeper now, hitting your throat. “Not even gonna try.” You look up at him through wet lashes, mouth stretched, eyes pleading. He holds you halfway down, barely letting you breathe, cock throbbing on your tongue like it’s trying to get something out of you you haven’t said yet.

“You needed this bad, didn’t you?” he murmurs, brushing your cheek, wiping spit from your lip. “What happened, sweetheart? Hm? Who made you like this?” He asks. So filthy, making you squirm. Making you feel the tingling through your body because of the sound of his voice. And then, just to feel your throat a little panic, he thrusts again, rougher now, and you gag, tears spilling free.

He doesn’t stop. Just sighs, voice soft. “There you go. That’s better.” Even when your throat clamps, even when your nose presses tight to his skin and your jaw starts to shake, you don’t stop. You learn to love this, giving a head, because he makes it enjoyable. You make a noise- high, wet, almost hurt- but you take it, nails digging into his thighs, spit dripping down his cock like it’s what keeps you breathing.

He exhales again, heavier this time, brushing your hair back from your face. His thumb wipes your chin clean, then strokes your cheek, down to the corner of your mouth where you’re still twitching, still open, still aching. You let him caress your face while you rest there, and your mouth is still full, but he’s not moving yet. “You still with me?” he asks, voice quiet. You nod, slow at first, then again, more sure-eager, already needy.

“You want more?” he asks, voice warm, cock still heavy on your tongue. You whimper around it. He smiles. “Yeah? You want me to fuck your throat, baby?” Your eyes widen- shiny, breathless- and you pause like the weight of it just hit you. You know he’s asking for a consent, knowing that it can be overwhelming for you to do it... especially when he fucks your throat, considering he’s above average and thick too. Then you pull off with a wet gasp, gaze locked on his, and say it like a confession: “Yes. Please.” That’s all he needs. “Good girl.”

He gathers your hair in one hand, lifts your chin with the other, and slides back in with no resistance- just heat, just hunger, just you opening for him like it’s instinct. “Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs, guiding you like always. Reminding you of the same things even though you already know what to do.

“Tap my leg if you need me to stop.” And then he starts- slow, careful, one deep push forward until he meets the back of your throat. He holds there, steady. Not teasing. Just giving you time. Like he’s training you. His hand stays in your hair, grounding you while your body adjusts, while your breath learns to shape around him.

You’re already trembling. Not from fear- just from fullness. From the weight. From the leak. From quiet. Your lips tremble around the base, your fingers curl into the arms of his chair, and your eyes flutter shut as he begins again- a slow drag out, then deeper on the next thrust. His thumb strokes your cheek. “That’s it,” he says, calmly.

“Don’t rush.” You hum before you feel the gag, soft and shallow, then swallow around him, and he groans- not from need, but from how good you are. How willing. He moves again, never too deep, never rough- just enough to feel your throat clench. “You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s your limit. We’re not going past it yet.”

Your jaw aches. Spit spills freely now. He lets you sit there, face pressed to the root of him, mouth stretched and wet, like you’re trying to breathe through need alone. “You’re doing so good,” he says, like it’s just the truth. “Making space.” Then he slides out, dragging slick along your tongue, and pushes back in deeper this time- firm, measured, until your nose brushes his stomach and your whole body gives out. You’re crying again- he can feel it in the way your throat tightens, then relaxes. In the shift of your breath, the way your hands go soft. The way you go quiet.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, and this time he means it. He rocks forward again, deeper, surer now- committing. You don’t gag. Don’t flinch. Your lips are red and swollen, your throat open and warm, and you’re wrapped around him like you were made for it. He feels the moment you surrender- when your tongue goes lax, when your breath slows, when your whole body holds still like you’ve given up everything but him. And it hits him all at once- not restraint, but awe. The way you fall apart just to feel full. Just to be good for him.

He lets you breathe there a moment, thick in your mouth, thumb brushing under your jaw while your lashes flutter and your body twitches. Then he leans forward, voice low and too gentle for how he’s looking at you. “Can I go a little faster now?” he murmurs, thumb swiping your spit-slick bottom lip. “Only if you want it.” You blink up at him, tearful and eager, nodding before your brain even catches up. You try to say yes, but it comes out muffled around his cock- your throat flexing like your body’s already answering for you. He groans quietly, settling back in the chair with both hands in your hair, still gentle, still grounding. “That’s my girl,” he says softly. “You’re sure?” Another desperate hum from you. That’s all it takes.

He starts slow again, but this time there’s rhythm, pace, weight, and pressure. His hips roll deeper, steadier, his grip guiding you only slightly as your lips stretch around him. Not forced. Not rushed. Just deliberate. Just enough. You gag once, shallow and quick, then breathe through it, moaning as your spit runs down your chin. You’re making a mess, and he loves you like this- loves how badly you want it, how completely you give yourself up to stay full. “So fucking good for me,” he murmurs, breath catching. “Look at you.”

And then he starts fucking your throat- slow and controlled, rocking into you with more force now, just enough to give you what you asked for. Something to keep your mouth too full to cry. “You’re okay,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re doing so good.” And you are. You take it all, steady, obedient, dripping, and let him use your throat like it’s the only thing you were built for. You fall apart quietly, trembling with each deep push, your whole world narrowed down to the pressure, the stretch, the weight of him keeping you still. You’re safe. You’re here. And your mouth is where it belongs.

He’s getting close. You feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, the way his breath catches, how his cock throbs a little harder with each thrust. He slows down, lets you breathe around it, and rests heavily on your tongue. “Gonna come soon,” he murmurs, voice low. “Can I do it in your mouth, baby?” You nod right away- messy, needy, already whimpering for it. You don’t pull back. You don’t even think. Just press closer, mouth slick and stretched and shaking, and he groans when he sees how much you want it. “Good girl. Don’t move.”

He doesn’t thrust. Just holds you there- deep, swollen around the base- as he comes in slow, warm pulses, filling your throat while you take it, tear-streaked and open and perfect. You don’t stop. You swallow around him like it’s all you’ve ever known how to do. His hand stays in your hair, thumb stroking your temple, like he’s holding you together while you shake. You stay like that even after he’s finished, mouth still parted like you’re not ready to let go.

He slides out slowly, wet and sensitive, and your breath hitches at the loss. His thumb catches what’s leaking from your mouth and tilts your face up, not rough, just enough to see you. Your eyes are red, your jaw still twitching, your lips parted like you don’t know how to close them yet. He says nothing. Just breathes out quietly and reaches for your wrist.

You’re still trembling when he pulls you into his lap, steady but gentle, guiding you into place like he’s done it before. The office chair isn’t built for this- not wide enough, not soft- but you climb in anyway, folding messy and small. One leg drapes across his, the other hanging off the edge, and you curl into him instinctively, arms around his neck, face buried against his shoulder like you’re trying to disappear.

He holds you close. One arm across your back, one hand in your hair, thumb stroking slow circles through your sweater. You don’t speak. You just breathe, quiet and uneven, body limp but safe. The crying hasn’t stopped completely- it’s softer now, more like the aftershock than the storm. Your knees shake. Your mouth aches. Your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re holding onto gravity.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, voice low against your temple. “Shh. You did so good,” he whispers. “It’s over now.” You nod faintly. He asks if it hurt. You shake your head. “Good,” he says again, lips brushing your hair. “That’s all I care about.”

He doesn’t ask what upset you. Doesn’t press. Just holds you tighter, arms wrapped around your back like you’re something worth keeping still. You’ll tell him later- when your throat doesn’t burn and your heart isn’t stuck in your chest. Right now, he lets you stay soft.

You melt into him slowly. Floaty. Boneless. Barely blinking. Your hands relax in his shirt, breath slow against his neck, and when you nuzzle closer, he tilts his head, letting you burrow. Then the kisses start- quiet and light, scattered across his jaw, below his ear, the curve of his throat. Sleepy little thank yous. Not for effect. Just instinct. He smiles softly and curls his hand around your head. “You’re really sweet when you’re like this, baby.”

You hum in response, kissing his pulse once more. You don’t move. You don’t need to.

Then, quieter than anything: “Love you.”

It just slips out- muzzy and honest.

He stills. Just a beat.

Then sighs into your hair, arms holding you closer.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Love you too.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[moonsuggests]

Josh O'Connor when the role doesn't include kissing men

[geminimoonxs]

yall wrote so much fluff about art for father’s day that now my brain won’t even work right, i feel like i need to birth his children immediately 😭

[jordiemeow]

could you please elaborate more on young!dad art 🥹

felt fitting to finally answer this today. incredibly late + not formatted i apologise just lazy thoughts. ask was based off the au in this bot :)

literally went above and beyond during your pregnancy despite your insistence that you'd understand if he wasn't ready for a kid. he was there for it all: 2am trips to walmart for cravings, skipping practice for doctors appointments, holding your bump up until his arms ached to provide you with some relief. failed a class that happened to take place every time he sat down with you to make sure you took your prenatals and when you reprimanded him just smiled and said "i can retake a class. can't ever retake this."

he started picking up shifts at the campus rec centre and tutoring on the side, trying to save money. told you it was "just for extra gas and groceries," but you found a file on his laptop labelled baby fund.

it wasn't easy at the start. hormones flaring, miscommunication, the tension of a too-big future looming over two too-young people. but he never left angry, not once. sat outside your dorm once after one fight until you opened the door at 3am just so he could apologize properly.

started calling you mama as soon as you told him you were pregnant.

he was always that guy at your ultrasound appointments. taking blurry pictures to have 'different angles' and asking the tech "wait, is that her nose? oh my god, look at that. she has your nose." as if it's not just a black and white sonogram.

was obsessed with your bump. spent a lot of nights whispering stories his grandma told him as a kid against your skin. it's a different variation every time but you don't have the heart to point it out.

he loves doing skin-to-skin. lies shirtless on the couch after a long day, hair still damp from his post-practice shower, cradling lily and making you recite every cute thing she did while he was gone. he refuses to miss any of it

takes lily to class with him if he has to. girls on campus swoon at him walking around with her in a chest carrier but he's too busy cooing at her or texting you updates throughout the day to notice.

would keep a baby monitor courtside if he could. settles for typing a rushed "Evrythng ok???" in between sets

he leaves little sticky notes around the apartment that say "eat something!!!" "you're doing great mama" "we got this :)" with doodles of lopsided flowers and hearts that look like they were drawn left-handed.

co-ordinates his outfits with lily whenever he can. whether her headband matches his shirt or he has her in custom-made mini stanford merchandise (courtesy of patrick), there's always something matching.

refers exclusively to himself in third person after she's born. occasionally extends to a playful daddy in the bedroom that neither of you can take seriously and just results in fits of laughter.

definitely cries during her first steps. sniffles out a very tearful "look at you go, little legend!" and then denies it later

literally has a tape recorder that he plays when the both of you are tired to keep lily occupied. mostly consists of voice memos talking to lily about his day while he’s walking to class or waiting for the bus. "hi bug. i miss you. daddy had a pop quiz. it sucked. love you." and lily babbles back as if they're having a conversation.

calls you "his girls" and brings you up every chance he gets. most of his post-match interviews end in him gushing over the picture of you both he carries with him everywhere.

[musingsofheaven]

MORE THAN ENOUGH.

girl dad!art donaldson

fluff. sfw. fatherhood. emotional vulnerability. gentle ⠀ ⠀ parenting. domestic moments. ♡

Dad!Art Donaldson who… nods and hugs Tashi quickly when she said she’s pregnant, and Art immediately kiss her forehead after he wrapped his arms around her. Tashi swears she heard him sniffing and tear up after she said the news.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… stares at the ultrasound picture like it’s some trophy he won at the Open. (It is probably one of his biggest achievements now.) He doesn’t say anything the whole car ride home, just holds the printout with both hands like it might fall apart.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… is nervous as hell even though he tries to act he’s not in front of his wife. He immediately reads three books on pregnancy and childbirth in two weeks. When Tashi makes fun of him, he just shrugs. “I like being prepared.” (He’s scared shitless.)

Dad!Art Donaldson who… goes to every appointment. He’s always present, making sure that Tashi won’t feel that she’s alone in this journey. Sits quietly in the waiting room. Reads the brochures she doesn’t look at. Nods through every conversation about options, bur quickly look at Tashi because it’s still up to her and he’s just there to mostly support her.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… doesn’t talk to her belly in front of other people, but alone? He’ll whisper “Hey, it’s Dad” like he’s afraid the baby won’t recognize his voice unless he starts now.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… doesn’t cry when Lily is born. Not really. He just stands there. He looks awkward. Quiet. Staring. Completely undone. He was in the processing state when he heard her cry. Someone hands her to him and he holds her like she’s not real. Like he has no idea how he got this lucky.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… loses full matches because he’s so sleep-deprived from taking care of Lily because he insists that Tashi should rest especially when she’s in postpartum stage. He forgets his own warmup but remembers which pacifier is her favorite.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… carries her on his hip like second nature. He likes holding her. Even though he have tennis bag on one shoulder, toddler hanging off the other, keys in his teeth, somehow balancing juice and a diaper bag without saying a word.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… lowers his voice even more when she’s upset - not louder, never that. He just sighs. Smile. Speak at her without anything changing. Just soft. He kneels. He waits. He says “Are you mad or scared, sweetheart?” and lets her point before she finds the words.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… ends up on the floor playing tea party with one knee up and a tiara around his neck. He let Lily dress him up, put things on his head or face while sipping invisible tea with absolute seriousness. He’s not pretending. He’s in it.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… plays “where’s your nose?” like a coach running drills. He’s smiling all the time when Lily get it right. “Where’s your elbow? Your foot? Your brave face? Show me your brave face.”

Dad!Art Donaldson who… baby proofs the corners of the coffee table but not the edges of his racquet bag because he thought it’s safe. One day finds her trying to climb into it, whispering, “Me play tennis too.” He has to sit down because he almost had a heard attack from that.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… reads the same book eight nights in a row (it’s her favorite) and voices all the animals differently each time. She starts correcting him. “No Daddy, the bear was sleepy voice!” and he laughs so softly it hurts.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… carries her to the car after she falls asleep in his lap. Lily’s whole body flopped across his chest, drooling on his shoulder. He can’t help to smile when he looks down at her like she’s the first good thing that ever happened to him.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… once had his whole life planned around courts and rankings and medals (which still is, but it ranked below from his priorities now) but now, the best part of his day is hearing her yell “DAAAADYYYYY” when he walks through the door.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… lets Lily crawl into his bed in the middle of the night, no questions asked. He’ll cuddle her when Lily hugs her. He doesn’t complain even when she kicks in her sleep or drools on his shirt. Who adjusts her stuffed animal without waking her, and place it between them while he sleeps half-on his side just so she has enough room to sprawl.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… never tells her no when she asks to paint his nails, and doesn’t bother to wipe it off before a press conference. He smiles when reporters ask. Says it’s lucky. People smile and loves the way he’s sharing this moment to them.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… eats the weird breakfast she makes for Father’s Day without blinking. Telling she’s the chef of the house even it’s runny eggs, burnt toast, lukewarm juice and speaks again after he finish it, saying it’s the best meal he’s had all year. And means it.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… still buys Tashi flowers on Mother’s Day and put the classic “from Lily,” no matter how things are between them.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… reads every bedtime story like it’s strategy review. With his steady voice, but somehow she falls asleep faster when it’s him. Like it brings her comfort. She doesn’t even care what book it is. It’s the way he smells like soap and laundry. The way his voice never gets loud. It’s gentle in a way he’s cooing her. The way he always pauses before turning the last page.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… lets her press stickers on his face during phone calls or when him and Tashi is watching the reply of his match. Who ends up with a glitter Hello Kitty on his cheekbone and doesn’t notice until she points it out. He keeps it on anyway before he laughs with Lily.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… speaks gently, even when she’s screaming. Just nods at her, listening to what she’s screaming about. Who squats down to her level when she’s upset, says “I need you to breathe with me,” and holds out his pinky until she wraps hers around it. He brings Lily’s hand in front of him and kiss her knuckles and thank her for talking to her even she’s upset. He never yells. Never raises a hand. But when he says “That wasn’t kind. Try again,” she listens.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… doesn’t make her say sorry first. Don’t let the heat between him and his daughter for too long. Who apologizes when he’s wrong. Who teaches her that strength looks like accountability.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… is not always perfect, but is always gentle. That’s that he’s proud of. He’s always steady. Always learning how to love her better than he was loved himself.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… tears up, genuinely, shamelessly when she tells him, “You’re the best at hugs.” He hums ⠀ and kiss her forehead when he tucks her in and whispers, “Happy to be your dad,” just loud enough that she might hear it in her dreams.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… watches his daughter sleep under those green projected stars and thinks, If this is all I am now, it’s enough.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[sugarfaist]

mutual tagged me in this little game, you just search up each word on pinterest and it’s how pinterest sees you !!

here’s mine :

tagged by : @roryheartz

tagging : @whoislynnie @sweetestfaiszts @faiztheap and whoever else is up for doing it!!

[faistbaby]

i feel like im officially apart of something now tagged by @sugarfaist tagging: @ambrcia , @fawnique , @geminimoonxs + whoever else wants to!!

[geminimoonxs]

this is too cute !!! 😭💖

tagged by my lovely moot @sweetestfaiszts

⭐ tagging: @hyperloverofhyperfixations @sleepyrps @1sab4lla

[geminimoonxs]

GOOD GIRLS GO TO HEAVEN. BAD GIRLS GO BACKSTAGE.

an au where art and patrick are bonded by music and an unfortunate habit of falling for the exact same type of girl.

💌 note: hi angels! hope you like this. it's not proofread and english is not my first language so i apologize in advance if writing sucks. not sure if i'll write pt.2 but i do have more ideias for this plot...... cw: +18. mdni. threesome. praise/degradation. drunk sex. unprotected sex. petnames. cumplay (if you squint). idk. shit gets nasty.

art was the kind of kid who wouldn't stay still. he was well-behaved, sure, but he had that kind of curiosity that turned into restlessness. he'd throw himself into every extracurricular thing he could get his hands on. by twelve, he could already hold his own on both drums and guitar.

his grandmother rarely said no when those blue eyes lit up asking for something. she put up with the noise, let him practice, let his friends come over to play and sat on the couch when their little band wanted to “perform” for her. even back then, patrick was already the frontman, the one whose energy moved everything and held the act together.

so yeah, it started as a joke. now the band wasn’t exactly serious either. it was just a hobby, a distraction named velvet. 

they'd play gigs in pubs and at a few events around town. nothing big. mostly indie-rock covers: stuff from the killers, the strokes, and a lot of arctic monkeys. it made them some cash, but it was more about the thrill of being on stage and the joy of sharing something that kept them close. it was also for the girls, especially if you’d ask patrick.

when you met him on campus for the first time, he was hanging a poster for their upcoming show.

“hey,” he said, pointing at the poster with one hand when you came closer to check it out. “you should come this friday. the guys play some really good music. i’m the vocalist, but my opinion still counts, right?” he grinned.

that was enough to convince you. well, the fact that he was tall and had strong arms didn’t hurt either. plus, it wasn’t like you had much to do on friday anyway. so naturally, you picked a mini skirt, your favorite pair of boots, and a friend to drag along.

the place had a decent crowd, but it wasn’t packed. the two of you ended up getting a good spot, front and center, right where patrick could set his eyes on you again. 

his vocals were cutting through the room — low and raspy, keeping up with the tune of “the adults are talking”. he was charismatic like a real star, making eyes at the crowd, taking up space on stage, and pulling the other guys into his orbit.

“you forgot to mention they were all hot,” your friend julia said, laughing into your ear.

“i only knew patrick before tonight.”

but she was right. they were all pretty cute. the drummer sat a little hidden off to the left, but you could still make out his angelic features under the red lights. 

he was looking at you. probably amused by your white crop top that read ”say no to drugs and yes to drummers”.

you weren’t sure if the set was done or if they were just taking a break, but the band stepped off stage for a bit. not long after, you spotted patrick at the bar with his friends, nodding for you to come over.

“nice shirt,” patrick said with a grin. “since you’re clearly into drummers, this is art.”

the guy behind him smiled, just a little, like he was as surprised by the intro as you were. 

“it’s just a shirt. you don’t need to get jealous,” you teased, raising an eyebrow at the brunette. “but your friend did kill it on stage.”

“band rule: we don’t get jealous over groupies.” he winked, watching you a little too closely, like he wanted to see if you’d flinch.

god, he was annoying. the kind of guy who flirted by stressing you out. and he knew he looked damn good doing it.

you shot him a look. “what if i’m just here for the music?”

“then both art and i end the night crying,” he joked, and wandered off to go hassle someone else.

art was still standing there, awkward but not moving away. there was a heat crawling up the back of his neck, stupid and fast. his fingers twitched at his side like they were searching for something to hold onto: a drink, a cigarette, anything.

“you were really good up there,” you said, quieter this time.

“uh, thanks. i saw you during the set. kind of hard to miss.”

you tilted your head. “because of the shirt?”

he hesitated, then looked right at you this time. “no. not just that.”

behind you, julia’s laugh rang out sharp and warm, unmistakably hers. you turned and saw her leaning into the bassist, the two of them locked in some kind of back-and-forth that looked suspiciously like flirting.

long story short? by the time the pub started clearing out, they invited you both to tag along to a friend’s place. no one questioned it. it just sort of happened, like gravity pulling the night forward.

the weed came out somewhere between opening beers and stealing the couch cushions. patrick lit up with one hand and passed it around like he owned the air.

everyone was talking over each other, laughing while recalling band stories or demanding for more alcohol to be poured. still, your attention was focused. 

pat was sitting on the floor, across from you and art to your right. they exchanged subtle looks like they could communicate in silence but you had decoded the tension by now. 

both clearly wanted you, but it didn’t feel like they were competing… just waiting. 

“so, how often does this happen?” you asked. 

“what exactly?” art asked, voice too innocent to be real.

“you two going after the same girl.”

“depends,” the brunette drawled smoothly, voice roughened just enough, “are you asking because you want us to fight over you or you want to know if we share?”

“oh, i wouldn’t want you guys to fight. i’m not a homewrecker.” you laughed, secretly still studying their faces. “just want to know if i should be flattered or if you do have a record of falling for the same type of women.” 

art took a sip from his beer, then stared at the bottle like he knew patrick was going to say something embarrassing. 

“there was this one girl, tashi. my ex. art ran into her bed to make her feel better when we broke up. but i forgave him.”

well, there it was. a reason for art’s ears and cheeks to get even redder. he tried to explain himself but patrick didn’t even listen, just kept going.

“and there was alice, in highschool. but she was the one who asked to kiss both of us. said it was her birthday gift, so naturally we couldn’t say no.” 

“well, so you do share.”

“upon request, yes... i also help arthur out when he’s too shy to make a move, which happens often” 

“real charitable, patrick… why don’t you shut the fuck up?” art muttered, but it didn’t have much bite. 

you sipped your drink, watching them bounce off each other like this was just how it always was. it was kind of cute, honestly. the way they talked over each other, the way art tried to hide how much he actually cared what came out of patrick’s mouth. something about it clicked in a way you weren’t expecting.

“so,” you said, grinning, “how long have you two been dating?”

the blonde one choked on his beer. the other one snorted. two complete opposites, fire and ice. 

“we’re not —” art started, cheeks going red again.

“yeah, he hasn’t had the balls to make a move on me yet.” pat joked, reaching his hand to playfully mess with art’s hair. “he thinks i’m out of his league.” 

something flickered in the space between their laughs. something in the way art didn’t quite look at him, and the way patrick didn’t stop grinning, like the edge of the truth was brushing up against both of them.

you didn’t know it, but band nights did get wild sometimes: late sets, green rooms with no real locks, adrenaline running high. nights where patrick would be deep into some random girl moaning on an old couch and art would be just steps away, pressed against her even more random friend in the shadows, trying not to pay attention. doing his best not to stare at the way patrick’s hips moved and how his hands wrapped perfectly around soft curves. trying not to get fixated on the sounds he made, rough and breathless. 

he never talked about those nights. not really. but he remembered them too clearly.

julia called your name from across the room. her voice cut through the haze, laced with whatever new discovery she’d made.

“come here. the guys made pizza!”

you excused yourself with a smile and headed her way, weaving past the tangle of bodies and bottles. patrick watched you go, then turned to art with a very familiar expression, a grin that always meant trouble.

“you gonna shoot your shot or just sit there looking like a kicked puppy?”

art blinked. “what?”

“don’t act confused. you’ve been staring at her like she’s the second coming of christ all night.”

“fuck off.”

“no, seriously. it’s cute.” patrick leaned in a little, voice dropping low, amused. “you’re in love already, huh?”

art shook his head quickly, but the tips of his ears betrayed him, flushed deep red. “she’s clearly more into you,” he mumbled. “you’re the one making her laugh.”

“because i’m funny,” patrick said, deadpan. “that’s not the same as her wanting my dick.”

“it usually is.” 

“god, you’re hopeless.” 

you came back a few moments later, hands empty. “they’ve managed to make premade pizza go wrong. it’s cold, ugly and disgusting.”

“hideous,” patrick agreed immediately. “but not as disgusting as you ditching me.”

“i was gone for two minutes.”

“longest two minutes of my life.”

you rolled your eyes, but still let him pull you into his lap when you went to sit back down. and that’s when he took another hit from the blunt, held it, then leaned forward, tapping his fingers gently against your jaw until you turned toward him. no warning, no question. he brought his mouth close and exhaled the smoke straight past your lips. 

the kiss you shared wasn’t rushed or desperate. it was very intentional, with one of patrick’s hands holding on to your waist like he’d never be done exploring your mouth. 

art didn’t hang around for long. he’d moved to the other side of the room, engaged in shallow conversations and looked away fast when you glanced his way. he was busy trying not to wonder what your mouth would taste like if he had been the one to offer the smoke.

“you want him too, don’t you?” pat asked in a low voice as he ran his nose down your neck softly, just to bite into it. his voice didn’t carry any judgment or jealousy, just pure unfiltered curiosity. 

“he’s cute.”

“oh, i know.” he admitted with a small laugh. “if i get you what you want, will you be able to take it? or are you just being greedy?”

he was toying with your mind, letting the possibility sit there within reach. he was clearly in charge of your body too, hand moving to your thigh, slightly parting your legs so the miniskirt would look even more obscene. no one else was paying attention to the two of you.

just art. his blue eyes wandering shamelessly from your black lace panties peeking out, to patrick’s smirk.

“i’ve never done this before.” you said, honestly. 

“we’ll go easy on you,” patrick said, his fingers lazy where they traced a slow line up your thigh. “he’s a good boy and i don’t bite too hard either.”

he stood then, giving your hand a small tug and guiding you down the hallway. the bedroom he pushed you into was messy, something you could tell even with the lights off. pat lit a single lamp on the nightstand, the low light casting warm reflections over your skin as he got you to lie down on the mattress.

you didn’t have much time to think. his hands were on your hips again, one knee between your legs, mouth already on yours, moving slow and confident, coaxing. he kissed like someone who knew how to get what he wanted, but didn’t mind taking his time getting there.

“you’re too beautiful,” he murmured against your skin. “let me see you.”

the crop top was gone quickly, revealing your breasts sitting perfectly in a black bra. his mouth watered at the sight, but he didn’t rush – just leaned down to kiss your lips again, deliciously slow. one of his hands traveled up your skirt, fingers lightly tracing where your panties had gone damp.

your head tipped back on instinct, eyes closing as you felt his digits push the fabric to the side and finally touch you how you needed it with his thumb pressuring small circles on your clit.  

you were so lost in the moment that you didn’t even notice patrick clumsily balancing his phone with the wrong hand, thumb fumbling the screen as he typed. the text to art was simple: 

| “sos. need a condom.” 

he knew it would work. would lure him in. and it did. art did anything for him.

less than five minutes later there was a knock on the door. 

you startled at first: legs snapping closed, eyes locking on patrick’s in quiet panic.

“it’s just art,” he said calmly, placing a sweet kiss to your jaw. “gonna let him in, ok? we’re going to take good care of you.” 

you nodded, head already consumed by the fantasy of being the center of their attention. dripping at the thought. 

he opened the door just a crack. art stood there holding the foil square like it burned his hand.

“thanks,” patrick said. and then he opened the door wider.

“pat — ” art barely got the word out before being interrupted.

“come on, man. don’t be shy.” the brunette said with a smile. “we both want you here. doubles the fun.”

art stumbled into the room before he could stop himself, face lit up crimson. he looked everywhere except you, until his eyes inevitably dropped and there you were, lying across the bed, hair splayed, skirt rumpled up, those soaked black panties still on display.

patrick stepped close behind him, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “don’t make her  beg, hm? show her how much you want her.”

their dynamic was amusing to watch. it felt like art obeyed out of habit, knowing it was safe to walk into whatever patrick picked for him. 

he crawled up to your body, eyes fixated on your lips. “can i?” he asked, waiting for your confirmation before leaning in. 

art kissed you like he’d been holding back for hours. flammable, trembling, hands shaky as they palmed your waist and chest.

you couldn't hold back a moan as you felt patrick get back in the bed, his face finding your neck, hand traveling to your back and unclasping the bra with practice. it soon joined your top on the floor. 

“god, you’re gorgeous.” art breathed. there was nothing casual about his tone, he sounded devoted. 

he touched you carefully, peppering kisses all over before latching to your nipple and staying there. the feeling of his lips and the sinful way patrick looked down to watch him sent something straight to your core. 

one of your hands fell on art’s curls, tugging gently, while the other palmed pat’s bulge through his jeans. the brunette wasted no time stripping your skirt and settling between your legs.

he didn’t take your panties off, not yet. his mouth met the fabric first, tongue pressing in, soaking it even more, making it cling tight to your skin.

“patrick, please…” you moaned, feeling his hands pressing harshly on your tights, keeping you open. 

“so spoiled. bet you’re loving all of this.” he hissed, finally dragging the lace down your legs. “dying be our little plaything, aren’t you?”

you didn’t reply, cause art’s lips met yours again. you kept moaning into his mouth, letting him ground you while pat’s tongue worked. it felt slick and warm, alternating from bullying your clit to teasing your entrance. 

patrick lapped at your folds like a starving man and when his fingers got in the mix it didn’t take long before you were arching your back in response. 

“you wanna come for him, princess?” art asked, surprising you with confidence that you had no idea where it came from. 

he never felt this worked up before. he wanted to reach for patrick’s hair and keep him in place, so your moans would keep flooding the room. he wanted to taste you off of patrick’s lips until both of them gasped for air.

but he wouldn’t dare be the one to start it. so he just watched as your legs trembled, as you clenched around pat’s fingers. 

patrick looked up with a lust filled gaze, chin glistening as he offered art his digits, coated in you. “there you go.” he murmured in satisfaction as art’s lips parted without hesitation, soft and eager around his fingers.

it wasn’t as good as getting the kiss art was fantasizing about, but you tasted so sweet that it still made his head spin. 

“now, it’s not fair that we have her sitting here so pretty and we’re both still fully clothed is it?” pat asked, clearly having fun to be the one commanding the whole thing, giving it rhythm. “give her something to look at.” 

he came closer and slid art’s red flannel off his back, letting the blonde get rid of the worn out grey t-shirt that was underneath it too. 

you were positively surprised by the view. art had a slim frame, but his arms and abs were defined, like sculpted marble. his pale skin was painted in a few brown spots that spread along his shoulders and back, like a constellation. 

he was still fidgeting his fingers, looking at patrick for guidance before you took his hand and placed it at the hem of pat’s shirt yourself. you helped art lift the fabric, kissing every inch of skin that was revealed on the way. 

you barely noticed the shirt hit the mattress — your eyes were already caught on something much more interesting. right above you, patrick reached a hand to the base of art’s neck and rested his forehead against his. they were inches away from each other’s lips. 

you saw it happen, the moment patrick pulled closer and art gave in. it was all tongue, an urge suppressed for too long before this night creeped up on them. you could feel art’s cock twitching in his pants as you tried to open his zipper.

“you two look so cute, aching for each other like that.” you laughed, not even close to poking fun at them… just honored to be in the middle of it.

patrick smirked, tugging your hair lightly until you straightened up between them. he pulled both you and art in, everything blurring into the messiest kiss you ever experienced, not sure anymore where one person ended and the other one began. 

“can’t wait, i need you.” art whimpered, tugging his pants and boxers down himself. at that point you couldn’t even be sure if he was talking to you or his best friend. 

patrick lifted your face slightly, stealing all of your attention to his brown eyes. “you said you could handle both of us, so now you’re gonna be good, ok?” his tone was calm, almost condescending. “if something feels too much, you tell me. if you change your mind at any point we stop, no questions asked.”

you nodded, heart pounding, legs already shaking. you felt oddly safe in their arms, like maybe you’d already memorized their bodies and their voices in another life.

“come here. bend over,” patrick instructed, easing you down until your ass was in the air and your face rested in his lap. “wanna watch art have his way with you first. let him get you ready for me.”

you couldn’t think. not with the sight of art’s flushed tip leaking as he stroked himself coming closer to you. he placed one hand on your hip, calloused fingers from the drumsticks grabbing with no restraint left. the other hand lined his cock with your entrance, until he pushed in, painfully slow. 

“f-fuck — ” he gasped. “you’re so wet. it feels too good.” 

patrick glanced down over the scene with a smug satisfaction burning in his eyes, looking proud of himself for setting everything up. maybe later art would finally admit he was a mastermind, after all. 

his own pants dropped just enough to free his length, which bobbed dangerously close to your face. you kissed down his happy trail, breath hot, one hand wrapping around the base just before your lips met his tip.

it was big enough for you to choke on it, small tears forming on the corner of your eyes. but he didn’t force it. didn’t guide. his hand simply stroked your hair back, gently, like he wanted to watch you try.

“you can do better than that.” he rasped, pulling out long enough for you to catch your breath. “has art fucked you stupid yet?” 

he didn’t wait for an answer, just eased you back down with a curl of his fingers, coaching you into a steadier rhythm as you moaned around him.

truth was, it was nearly impossible to focus with art pounding into you and his short nails digging into your hips like he was holding on for dear life. 

the way patrick spoke and the view of his thick cock sliding into your mouth did something to art too, you could tell by the beautiful noises leaving his lips. 

“shit, i’m gonna come, i need to cum.” he exhaled, equal parts despair from the overwhelming sensations and embarrassment for not lasting as long as he’d like to. 

“it’s ok.” pat cooed, gently dragging him down for another kiss. “fuck her through it. let me feel how you shake from it.” 

art didn’t stand a chance. not with you clenching around him like that. not with patrick whispering filth that close to his mouth.

he came inside you. didn’t mean to, but the moment his body broke, his hips snapped forward, burying himself deep with a low, wrecked groan. it was like his whole body forgot how to let go.

you blinked, dazed, face still in patrick’s lap, lips wet from his cock. art collapsed forward, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, chest heaving.

patrick looked down, unfazed. almost proud again.

“you came inside her?” he asked, barely laughing, like he already knew.

art nodded, cheeks flushed and eyes still unfocused.

“you on the pill?” patrick asked you, hand brushing hair from your cheek.

“yeah,” you whispered, legs still trembling.

“good,” he said simply, and without waiting, he pulled you up. his hands gripped your hips and dragged you into his lap, cock still hard and slick with your spit, pressing up between your thighs. he didn’t bother lining himself up with his hand, he used your body instead, rocking your weight until your entrance caught on his tip. “then it’s my turn.”

he pushed up. slow at first, stretching you wider with the thickness of him, groaning into your neck when he bottomed out. his grip stayed firm, holding you steady while he filled the space art had just left.

you could still feel art’s cum inside you, warm and dripping, all of it being fucked back into you.

patrick growled against your skin. “you were made for this, weren’t you?”

you whimpered, hands flying to his chest, trying to brace yourself but he was already going quicker, deeper, letting his frustration pour into every thrust. 

behind you, art was still breathing hard, but not gone. his eyes followed every move, hand sliding over his own cock, still half hard, slowly stroking. his other hand found your spine, tracing it down gently, grounding you.

patrick was muttering filth against your throat, fucking up into you harder. “god, you’re so fucked out already. such a mess.”

“pat…” you moaned, voice weak.

“that’s it. take it,” he growled, eyes locked on yours.

art’s voice broke through, quiet and calm, a sharp contrast.

“you’re doing so good,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder, then your jaw. “just a bit more, ok? he’s almost there”

he kept stroking himself slowly, the rhythm in perfect counterpoint to patrick’s roughness. he kissed your lips between words, sweet and soft.

your skin was burning. you felt yourself tightening again, caught in the middle of them. 

“come for me, please. i need to see your face.” art said, touching your clit gently. your body gave into his command. 

patrick groaned beneath you and slammed in one final time, cock pulsing as he came. his hips stuttered, teeth pressed to your neck as he spilled into you.

“fuck, you’re perfect.” pat hissed as art kissed your temple. “we should keep you around.” 

💌 taglist: @jamespotteraliveversion

[musingsofheaven]

just here to drop this

[andyrambles-deactivated20250617]

i wanna get fucked by Dodge in his vintage ass car. that is all.

[artstennisracket]

congrats on 500 followers mel 🩷🫶🏼 you’re so talented and sweet.

may I request SFW alphabet “Q” with Art?

hi mini!!!! thank you so so so much :(💗. of course you can! you can have anything you want :) this is a little short i’m sorry but I hope u enjoyyyyy

sfw alphabet: q for quiet time

pairing: art donaldson x fem!reader

cw: none! just fluffy

Quiet time with Art was your favorite. Whether it was a lazy sunday or coming home to him after a long day of classes. Lazy sunday’s always consisted of exactly that. Waking up late in bed together still cuddled together, a little sore from the activities of last night. Art playing with your hair, rubbing his fingertips slowly up and down your exposed back.

You’d ask what he wants for breakfast. Feeling the vibrations from lying on his chest as he always mumbled back the same answer, “You.” You’d sit up laughing softly and tell him you’ll make omelettes for breakfast.

The nights you’d come home late from class were also quiet. You had a 6pm class that ended at 8pm every night for your masters. He knew you’d be tired by the time you get home, just wanting to relax and turn your brain off. Those nights Art would make sure to have dinner ready and plated for you. Warm hugs followed by a great meal. Sometimes you guys would just order takeout and watch a movie on the couch. Your head in his lap, while his fingers idly wander the soft expanse of your exposed skin. The only sound coming from the TV.

Those were the best times. The silence was never awkward. It felt like a warm, soft blanket laid over the atmosphere that you two could just bask in. Your own little world.

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

want to be tagged when I post? click here!

[geminimoonxs]

GOOD GIRLS GO TO HEAVEN. BAD GIRLS GO BACKSTAGE.

an au where art and patrick are bonded by music and an unfortunate habit of falling for the exact same type of girl

currently working on this concept. may drop something on friday. not sure if i want it to be a oneshot or have a few short chapters?? anyways, expect a threesome!

[geminimoonxs]

hi angels!

so… a small life update: I didn’t get the time to write or read much lately because I got a promotion on my job. I’m happy about it but it means a lot more work too and I can’t just tell my manager that the tasks are getting in the way of my daily time to fantasize about mike faist so yeah, kind of a bummer.

[jordiemeow]

Thinking about being Dilf!Art's free use girlfriend🤤🤤

no bc this is sooo. yeah to me like him just coming home after getting his ass chewed out at practice n you're just so willing to let him do whatever agrhedffjkdsjf

warnings: 18+ smut (p in v), dom!art, f!receiving oral/fingering, free use mentions/mild degradation but not much dialogue

When Art is tense, there's only one thing that really calms him down: sex.

Any form of it, really—whether it's just heavy petting that ends with his boxers warm and damp, a blowjob, or him having you bent right over the kitchen counter in the middle of cooking dinner. At first, he used to whine and groan about it until you relented, but over time you've realised it's just not worth it. It's why you don't even bother wearing panties at home any more; he'll always find an excuse to get them off.

"Hi, baby," you coo as the door clicks shut behind him. You catch a glimpse of his tense shoulders through the open door, his bag dumped alongside a racket that looks like it's seen better days. Frayed strings, the head of the racket crumpled in on itself. You can practically hear the way it must have rang out against the court.

Rough day. Your thighs give an anticipatory clench.

He mutters a cursory greeting under his breath, shoes kicked off before he pads across the living room to join you. Not on the sofa, though—on his knees, palms resting on your own to part them.

In one breath he's kissing up one thigh, then the other, a little rougher each time. It feels like he's getting some frustration out, as if he can work the tension right out of his arms while he holds you open. To fill the hole where his sour mood used to be with just the taste of your sweet cunt.

Impatient fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, shimmying them down your thighs until they fall to the floor. He has the grace to help your ankles out of them, at least.

Art’s breath fans out over you in soft, warm bursts before he's even made contact. "So fuckin' pretty, babe. Waiting around like this just for me." You'd laugh about the first words he's said to you since 6am this morning being about how beautiful your pussy is if your breathing hadn't quickened in excitement.

His tongue presses flat against you, lapping up whatever mess it finds. You’ve been wet since you saw that battered racket upon his entry. He makes a low groan of satisfaction when you sigh softly at the feeling of his warm tongue. By the time the tip of his tongue flicks over your clit, you know his mood is already shifting. He always starts so desperate, licking messy and deep like he's trying to prove a point (if there's one thing that can absolve the feeling of self-loathing after a bad practice, it's making you feel good), but his hands slowly ease on your thighs as he settles into it. His mouth gets a little softer, a little more determined.

The tip flicks over your clit, coaxing it to swell. Just like that, he's relaxing into it.

You reach down and start to scratch at his scalp, fingernails dragging across it. It's just long enough to grip in your fist, and you pull on it to earn an approving hum. His shoulders relax, tension seeping out of him—you can feel it in the way he grips your legs, the way he runs his tongue around your clit with relish.

"Taste so good," he tells you, words breathed into your heat. "You always taste so good."

When he pauses to take a breath, his fingers push between his own lips to coat with a layer of saliva. He runs the two of them over your swollen bud, just enough to make you inhale sharply. If you weren't already worked up, that would have done the trick. His eyes flick up to catch your own, pools of blue studying the way your jaw slackens and your brows peak when his fingers slide into you.

You clench instinctively, and he tuts in warning, fingers crooking cruelly in a way that has you whimpering out apologies. Your eyes are too heavy to catch the way the corner of his mouth quirks up at that reaction. Bingo, you're in for it now.

The first few slow slides of his digits in and out of your tight cunt seem to be perfunctory. After that, he's really going at it. Fingers scissoring and thrusting, curling up against that spot that has your eyes rolling back and moans of his name spilling past your pretty lips. One hand still nestled in his cropped blonde hair while the other grips at the cushion next to you for dear life as he drinks in the way you fall apart around his fingers.

He's clearly enjoying himself at this point, chipping in with the occasional low "right there?" or "someone's desperate today." He can play your body like a fiddle at this point—a curve of his fingers here, a brush of his thumb there. He's even memorised the pitch of your whines to know when you're achingly close, walls fluttering around him as your peak nears.

He pulls away from you, fingers sliding free with a whine of complaint from you, and your hands reach to tangle in his hair to pull him back before he's even had the chance to stand. His knees are burning, but he ignores the pinch of the rug underneath as he pushes himself up.

His hands catch in your hair to yank your head back, forcing you to look right up at him where he's looming over you.

"Need me that bad?"

Your words feel stuck in your throat and he tsks softly at the way your mouth only falls open soundlessly, the grip in your hair preventing you from moving.

"Tongue-tied, huh? All that talk last night just to get you like this." He grins down at you, a flash of white teeth caught between his lips, still shining with your essence. "You know we could just go through the list until you find your voice back."

His hand releases your hair to reach between you. When you can think clearly again, you can't tell if you're grateful, or if you miss the painful prickle of your roots. But you're definitely thankful when his fingers are back between your legs—a reward, of sorts. You let out a low sigh when he brushes against your clit and he groans in acknowledgement, like he's just reminded himself of how wet you are.

"Oh, I think I know where the list should begin."

The pads of his fingers run in a slow circle over your clit, as if the only thing he's interested in the world is how much he can make you squirm. It seems like now, with some of that initial tension drained, he has no qualms with making you suffer. Your fingers dig into the couch instead of reaching for him again, nails digging into the fabric. You can only watch up through your lashes; it’s a lovely sight, his head tilted downwards to look at your body, eyes dark and a look of concentration on his face.

He looks down at you the same way he looks at his opponents' during matches; analysing the way your knees twitch towards each other. Like you're just another opponent to get the upper hand against.

Another hum, like he’s thinking, and then—

Hands on your hips, he turns you around until you’re facing away from him and shoved up onto the couch. You brace yourself on your knees, but he doesn't wait for you to find your footing before one hand is pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing you down with a hand between your shoulder blades—back arched beautifully, cheek pressed into the fabric, cunt dripping with anticipation

Art’s other hand pushes at the waistband of his shorts, boxers dipping down with him to pool at his ankles to free his aching cock. The couch dips under the weight of you both when his knees hit the cushion.

"Fuck. Just like that. I need—" He inhales sharply, hard length pressed against the back of one of your thighs. "I need to be inside you.”

He takes himself in hand and leans over you, free hand on the back of the chair.

"You need this too, right?" He murmurs, low and rough in your ear. His eyes are a little glassy, still hazy with a day's worth of frustration. "Been thinking about you all day."

You moan your affirmation into the cushion.

“Be a good girl and use your words for me.”

“Y-yeah. Need it. Need you.”

Good enough for him. When you finally feel him sink into you—slick, hard, thick—your legs almost buckle beneath you. All you can do is curse out a series of profanities that would make a sailor blush when you feel that familiar stretch as he bottoms out, his hips pressing flush against your ass.

“Say it one more time for me,” he instructs, hand sliding down your clothed spine until it finds your hip again.

You’re barely coherent enough to register that, but you manage a, “I need you, Art.” Breathy and weak, no more than a mewl.

He withdraws then, tip still pressed into you, before sinking in again. A punishing rhythm right from the get go, enough to have your couch rocking dangerously beneath you every time he snaps into you. Skin on skin, your moans reaching new octaves to harmonise with his grunts of effort as his cock drives into you.

Relentless, precise, deliberate.

And you’re content enough to just let him use you like this. An outlet for all that stress.

“You get off on this, huh?” He rasps in your ear. “Just sitting around waiting until I’ve had a bad day?”

You moan something that vaguely resembles a slurred “yes” into the cushion, senses clouding entirely by the brutal onslaught of pleasure when the hand on your hip slides down to rub at your clit.

“There’s my girl. Always so eager to be of use.”

The praise is condescending but it makes you clench around him nonetheless. You love when he gets like this—just a little bit mean, using the way your bodies collide together to relieve his tension.

Everything he moans into your ear blurs together after a while.

“So fucking tight. How’s a man supposed to be angry when he comes home to this?”

“Fuck, you were made for this. Perfect little slut for me.”

“Just you lay there and take it. That’s right. Atta girl.”

You think you reply, but all he can make out is senseless babble into the pillow your face is half-pressed into. He still has a hand between your shoulder blades to hold you in place while his fingers, coated in your slick, continue to circle mercilessly at your aching clit.

He can tell by the way your walls flutter around him that you're close, knuckles curled into a death-white grip on the back of the sofa. He doesn't have it in him to make you beg—not when his own orgasm is so close. His place slows down a little. Slow, deep, tip nudging that spot inside you that has your vision whiting out. The deliberate drag is enough to push you over the edge with a cry of his name.

Art groans in satisfaction. "Fuck. That's what I wanted. That's it."

He fucks you through the intense wave of pleasure, fingers finally stilling to grip your hips again. Another few sloppy thrusts and it's impossibly not to cum with how your cunt is gripping him just right.

His moan is guttural right by your ear. Inhumane, even, as he rocks into you to prolong his pleasure, spilling into you until your thighs are sticky. The pair of you stay there for a while. You still arched forward, panting into the pillow. Art massaging your hips, murmuring words you can't quite make out into the back of your shoulder. It's almost comedic the way his own shoulders have relaxed since he first sunk into you.

"Can you move? My knees are killing me," you manage eventually, tilting your head to catch a glimpse of him pressing a kiss to your shoulder over your shirt.

"Yeah, sorry."

It's the same way he says 'sorry' to the chair umpire when he smashes his racket against the ground—a quick apology, a flash of an almost-there smile. You know there's no remorse behind it at all. Not when he gets to see you so thoroughly wrecked and he's too blissed out to remember why he'd came home in such a mood in the first place.

He pulls out of you (and takes a moment to admire the way you look with your back arched and your cunt dripping with his release), and then helps ease you up.

"Wanna talk about it?" You ask, voice still wrecked as his arms circle around you and a kiss is planted to the top of your head.

"No need. I feel better."

You can feel him smiling against you as he gives your middle a light squeeze. All you can do is roll your eyes fondly and usher him off to fetch something for the mess between your thighs.

—

taglist: @gracelynnx @tacobacoyeet @blastzachilles @cha11engers @magicalmiserybore @newrochellechallenger2019 @coolgrl111 @artspats @peachyparkerr @stanart4clearskin @misswrldd @kaalxpsia @downtwngrl @pittsick @strfallz @dazedandconfusedlvr @turnerrst @m4lodr4ma @artdonaldsonmalewife @challengersism @artstennisracket @elsieblogs @imperishablereverie @lvve-talks @won-every-lottery @fairytrollslut @ellaynaonsaturn @xoxoeviee @voidsuites @cryinginanuncoolway @artaussi @shahabaqsa0310 @ashdaidiot — (join here)

[artstennisracket]

s (stamina) with dodge mason pleak

congratulations my sweet baby angel <3

merry berryyyyyyy my love, of course you can have stamina with the lone cowboy himself🙂‍↕️

nsfw alphabet: s for stamina

pairing: dodge mason x fem!reader

cw: nsfw (18+), squirting (throw another s in there why not)

Dodge has ridiculous stamina. At first you just assumed that the shy cowboy had limited sexual experiences. He was an outsider. No one in town really knew him.

Turns out all that moving around only added to his body count, his experience, and his stamina. And the fact that his mom worked such long shifts, he’d be home alone with his sister most days. But she’d never tell on him for having girls over.

Usually something would set him off. Like whenever you wore daisy dukes and cowgirl boots? Fuck yeah. Don’t even get him started on when you wear his cowboy hat. Today you didn’t even think anything of it when you threw on one of his flannels he had left at your house.

You would go for rounds at a time. There was no such thing as a quickie with Dodge. He loved making you fall apart, watching you fall apart for him. Between fucking you, fingering you, eating you out, and doing all those things all over, and over, and over again.

It got to the point where he’d overstimulate you on purpose because he loved watching you squirm, “Yeah c’mon you can take it. Just wanna fuck you one more time baby,” He moans as he assaults that spongy spot inside you over and over again. You were on top, riding him, flannel on but unbuttoned of course. But he always got impatient. Grabbing your hips and fucking up into you. This was also his favorite position by name (cowgirl duh) and because he knew he could get so much deeper. And because then you’d do that thing he likes.

You fell forward, hands resting on either side of his head. “Dodge I’m gonna—it’s gonna be mess,” you whine. Telling by the wet squelching coming from your pussy where his cock was pummeling into you, it was already too late.

“You know I don’t care,” He grunts out, maintaining his pace, “C’mon, make a mess for me.” He locks his eyes on yours, maintaining eye contact. You could see the effort on his face, with his eyebrows slightly furrowed. Yet somehow it still looked effortless. The way his biceps flexed and his abs rippled as he held you up while simultaneously assaulting your cervix.

You didn’t even get a chance to put a towel down beforehand but it wasn’t like you could stop.

“Ah—shit, Dodge, baby I’m gonna—fuck“

He was already pulling out halfway so you could squirt. That was his goal. He fucks you through it, letting you squirt all over his dick. At the end, he buries himself deep inside you to finish, filling you up, “So fucking hot—god,” He groans.

You sigh, collapsing onto his chest while he pulls out, “Now we’re gonna have to change the sheets again.”

“Since the sheets are already dirty, what if we just go again—“

“Dodge,” you start, sternly, “You’re fucking insatiable.”

taglist: @tacobacoyeet @newrochellechallenger2019 @jesuistrestriste @antxnxlla @cha11engers @imperishablereverie @jordiemeow @ghostgirl-22 @artaussi @nozhdyved

want to be tagged when I post? click here!

want to participate in my 500 follower celebration? click here!