vi!

19yrs, writing blog

[starlinehoney]

intro!!

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im vi!! Im pretty sure this will be a challengers writing blog, but that could change in the future. There will be NSFW content portrayed so pls pls pls mdni and read at your own risk! You are responsible for the media you consume, I will tag everything very liberally.

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Requests: open

Limits: I write smut! There aren’t many things I won’t write but no p3do0philia or like poop. Also no monster or animal stuff, it’s just not my thing.

Rules:

-please be respectful of my writing, ik it might not be the best but the whole reason I made this blog is for practice.

-do not be hateful in any way. racism, homophobia, sexism, or anything of that sort will not be tolerated and you will be blocked.

-don’t take it too serious 😭 this is just for fun.

-I might not respond to a request if it doesn’t spark motivation!! I’m sorry it won’t be good if I’m forcing myself to write it 😭

-more to be added later!

[jordiemeow]

COMPRESS / REPRESS.

DECEMBER 24TH ❆ ADVENT CALENDAR

synopsis: in which patrick gets very turned on by the fact his best friend has a thing for his girlfriend while lingerie shopping. surprise surprise.

tags: 18+ mdni, patrick x girlfriend!reader, art x reader insinuated, kind of mild degradation, fingering, creampie, patrick talking about art as dirty talk, mentions of artrick

wordcount: 3.3k words

notes: ok so this is not at all on my original advent list but it was floating around in my head and it was the only thing i've felt inspired to finish. merry christmas n i'll try to catch up on posts after tmrw :P also will probably write a part 2 to this if anyone cares bc it was supposed to have patrick letting reader fuck art in the lingerie he picked out but i don't have time to edit that rn

HAD IT BEEN anyone else dragging Art through a mall to buy Christmas presents for their girlfriend, he would’ve told them to get fucked.

And yet, here he stands, trailing behind Patrick as he strides ahead of him, all long limbs and misplaced confidence. The store they’re in is absolutely fucking ridiculous. The stench of perfume is making him dizzy, and he’s staring very hard at a display of silk robes he absolutely does not want to be processing. Everything is red—red fabric, red signage, red lighting—and he’s half convinced the display exists to make him feel guilty for reasons he can’t even articulate properly.

Patrick, meanwhile, looks like he’s having the time of his life.

“This place rules,” Patrick says as they halt in front of the display, spinning on his heel to flash Art a cheeky grin. “Don’t look like such a fucking prude, Donaldson,” he continues when he’s levelled with a flat look. His hands come up to cup his own chest, giving a mocking squeeze. “Capitalism with tits. How fun is that?”

Art grimaces. “Can you not say that?”

Patrick laughs shamelessly, loud and bright, slinging an arm around Art’s shoulder to steer him further into the racks of bras and panties before Art can escape. “Relax, man. It’s a store, not a strip club.”

“This is worse,” he mutters, ducking his head. “There’s teenage girls in here, man. It’s weird.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Patrick dismisses with an eye roll.

They stop in front of a wall of neatly arranged lingerie sets. Patrick squints, tilting his head like he’s actually thoughtful now. It’s a little weird to see him put thought into anything, even if it’s a lingerie set for his own amusement. Art’s never seen him actually put effort into buying a gift for a girlfriend before.

He refuses to acknowledge the way his stomach twists with jealousy. Or arousal.

“So,” Patrick says. “Red or black?”

Art stiffens beside him, eyebrows pulling tight together. He tears his eyes away from the wall, shooting his friend a look as he shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “Why are you asking me?”

Patrick blinks. “Because you’re here?”

“That’s not a reason, asshole.”

A slow grin blooms on the brunette’s face, the kind that makes Art’s heart sink. “C’mon. You’re good with opinions,” Patrick insists. “You love opinions.”

Art exhales through his nose. “Not about my—about your—about this.”

Patrick’s grin only widens wickedly. “Wow. You didn’t even say her name. That’s impressive repression.”

“Don’t,” Art says around a clenched jaw.

Patrick holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just buying my girlfriend a Christmas present, man. Jesus.”

“I know that,” Art snaps, then immediately softens his tone. “I know. It’s just—“ He gestures vaguely at the gaudy display. Every time he looks at a bra, all he can picture is the way your tits would look spilling out of the lace cups. Jesus, this is a disaster. “I shouldn’t be involved in this.”

“Why not?” Patrick tilts his head innocently.

“Because it’s… personal, Pat.”

All he gets in return is an unconvinced hum. Patrick reaches out and plucks a black lace set from the rack, holding it up between them. Art’s eyes flick to it on instinct and then away just as fast, ears burning an adorable shade of red. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a thong so small.

Patrick notices, of course. “Oh, this is great,” he laughs. “Is Artie embarrassed by a pair of panties, hm?”

“No,” he protests immediately, ducking his head when a few shoppers glance in their direction. “Don’t be a dick.”

Patrick ignores him, much to his chagrin. He considers the fabric, turning it slightly. “You think this is too much?”

Art groans, lifting his eyes to stare at the ceiling. “I think you should buy whatever she likes.”

“That’s such a non-answer.”

“Because I’m not answering.”

Patrick lowers the lace and looks at his friend properly now. There’s something sharp behind his eyes—amusement, yes, but also awareness. He’s always been good at reading the space between things. Between people, more accurately.

“I know you’ve got a thing for her. You don’t have to be weird about it,” he says, far too casually.

Art’s heart drops straight into his fucking shoes. “I—“ He tries, then stops to suck air into his lungs. He forces himself to breathe before continuing. “That’s not—“

Patrick cuts him off with a half-assed shrug. “It’s fine.”

“Fine..?” Art echoes lamely.

“Yeah. Fine,” he repeats, easy. “I’m not mad.”

“You should be. I mean, hypothetically, if I did. Which I don’t.”

Patrick snorts. “Why? Because ‘hypothetically,’ you’re plotting on how to steal her from me in the middle of a Victoria’s secret?”

Art winces. “Obviously not. But—“

“Look, man, you’ve always had good taste.” Patrick grins—so unapologetic it’s almost disarming. “It tracks.”

Art’s gaze drops to the floor, jaw tight. “Right. I get it. I have no discretion whatsoever. You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

“Don’t I? Kind of my brand,” Patrick dismisses. He turns back to the wall, grabs a red set this time. He holds it up next to the black one to display them side by side. “Okay. Help me out. Which one says ‘I’m about to get laid?’”

Art lets out a helpless, humourless laugh. “Jesus Christ.”

His gaze flicks between the two sets. Neither of them leave much to the imagination, but the black set has a much more sheer bodice. The kind that leaves your nipples poking through the fabric. On the other hand, the red is a more solid colour bra and panty. He has to resist the urge to adjust himself, pretending like he's not stirring in his jeans at the thought of you in either set.

“Red,” he finally says, defeated. “Red’s… more her.”

Patrick’s eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”

Art realises what he’s insinuated a second too late. Before he has the chance to scramble and elaborate, Patrick beams. “Perfect. Red it is.” And yet he hands both sets to a passing sales associate. “We’ll take these.”

“Both?” Art blinks.

“It’s Christmas.” Patrick claps him over the shoulder in a patronising gesture. “You did great.”

“Fuck off,” Art mutters under his breath. 

He watches Patrick saunter up to the counter to pay, confident and infuriating and completely sure of his place in the world. Art hates him a little right now. He exhales heavily, forcing himself to trail after him.

He should’ve stayed home.

—

Patrick barely celebrates the holidays. Or so he told you last year, back when you were hooking up and it seemed like a valid enough excuse to not bother sending you a text to wish you a Merry Christmas. Thus, it should be suspicious that he, of all people, suggested you watch a Hallmark movie.

You reason that he just wants to make fun of it. You’re sprawled on his bed, half-watching some shitty holiday romance you’ve both been roasting for twenty minutes, when Patrick disappears into his closet with suspicious enthusiasm.

“Okay,” he says, voice echoing slightly. “Close your eyes.”

Immediately, you’re suspicious, gaze snapping up to where his head is poking out of the open door to make sure you’re following instructions. “Patrick, if this is another stupid prank—“

“Eyes,” he warns, laughing. “Jesus, you’re so uncooperative.”

You’re expecting something stupid, but you close them anyway, smiling despite yourself. You hear rustling, followed by the unmistakable crinkle of a gift bag.

“Alright,” he says, clearing his throat. “Open.”

You do—and immediately your breath catches in your throat. He’s standing there with a small red bag held out in front of him, grin sharp and pleased (and maybe a little unhinged. You’re right to still be suspicious.) The tissue paper poking out of the top is a deep red.

“I don’t like when you smile at me like that,” you accuse when he hands you the bag. “Makes you look like you’re up to something.”

“That’s because I am,” Patrick says easily, lopsided smirk bearing down on you as he nods at the bag. “Go on. Don’t be a pussy. It’s just a present.”

You roll your eyes, deciding not to dignify that with a response. You lift the paper out to peer inside, and your stomach swoops at the sight. Lingerie. Red. It looks soft, delicate in a way that feels intentional. Thoughtful, even, not just some skimpy set to get you out of at the first opportunity he gets. It’s pretty.

“Oh,” you say intelligently.

Patrick watches your face closely, eyes bright like he knows something you don’t. It’s unsettling in a way that makes your thighs clench together. “Too much?”

“No,” you deny quickly. “No, it’s—wow. It’s really… wow.”

He grins, pleased. “Good.”

You pull it out a little more, examining it, heat creeping up your neck to burn your eyes. “This is not what I expected. Though if you were to get me any present, lingerie seems fitting.”

That’s probably a jab, but Patrick sinks down next to you, undeterred. “Yeah, well, I wanted to get you something you wouldn’t buy yourself. You always avoid those stores at the mall.”

You grimace. He’s not wrong. You’re not above flaunting a nice set of lingerie, but the process of buying them is so awkward, and you’re too afraid of running into someone you know and awkwardly fumbling over why you’re buying a thong.

You glance at him. “You put thought into this?”

“I resent how shocked you sound.”

You huff a laugh under your breath, looking back down at the lace. “I just—when did you even have time? I thought you were swamped with training.”

Patrick’s grin turns slow and dangerous. “Oh,” he says. “Funny story.”

You squint. “Patrick.”

“Art helped me pick it out,” he continues casually. “We went after training one day.”

Your head snaps up. “You took Art lingerie shopping?” You demand. “For me?”

The thought of Art, always so sweet and afraid to look you in the eyes, picking out lingerie for you makes your heart stutter in your chest. You want to hit Patrick for putting him through such a thing. You can just picture it. A pretty pink blush on his cheeks as he’s surrounded by mannequins drowned in silk, listening to Patrick speak obnoxiously loud about tight-fitting underwear and bras that are easy to take off.

You groan, covering your face in mortification. “Why would you do that to him?” You peek at him through your fingers.

Your boyfriend shrugs. “Because it’s funny.” And then, more lightly: “And because he’s totally got a thing for you.”

Your stomach drops. “Patrick—“

“What?” He says, just as innocently as when he’d brought it up to Art a few days prior. “I’m not mad.”

“That’s not—“ You stop, exhaling as your hands fall back into your lap. “That’s weird. You can’t say that.”

“I can,” he replies. “I just did.”

You stare at him, searching his stupidly handsome face for jealousy, tension—something. But Patrick just looks amused. Confident. Annoyingly secure.

“I got you two. But he picked the red,” Patrick adds, nodding at the set now laying beside you. “Didn’t even hesitate.”

Your face burns, eyes darting down to the fabric. “He did not.” Now, it makes sense why it’s not something obscenely skimpy. You have no doubt whatever else Patrick picked out will wreck your self esteem.

“Said it was ‘more you,’” Patrick hums.

You groan, dropping back onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. “I’m never looking at him again. You need to find a new friend. Preferably one you haven’t picked out underwear for me with.”

Patrick leans over you, hands braced on either side of your head as he stares down at you with that shit-eating grin of his. “Relax. It’s kind of flattering.”

“For you, maybe.”

“For both of us,” he says. “I mean, look at you. You’re hot. And I know you’re into it.” Your mouth opens to protest, but he beats you to it. “Don’t lie. You’re a little freak.”

He ducks his head, planting a kiss right by your ear just so he can breathe into it. “Turns you on knowing he’s got a thing for you.”

“I told you, that’s weird.”

“So? You are weird,” he reasons, giving your lobe a playful bite. “It’s okay. I’m into it too.”

“You are?” You reply sceptically, head lolling to the side to catch his eye.

“Mmm. I get to fuck what he can’t have. Why wouldn’t I be into it?” He says, kissing his way down your jaw, low words murmured against your skin in between presses of his lips. “Poor Artie, pining for my girlfriend. I bet he thinks of you all the time.”

Patrick’s hand snakes down, cupping you roughly over your pyjama pants. You don’t have time to stifle a gasp of surprise.

“You think?” You reply weakly.

He smiles to himself, tongue flicking out to taste your neck as he works his way down. All it takes is a few choice words and he’s got you. Hook, line and sinker.

“Uh huh,” he confirms, fingers rubbing lazily over your throbbing heat. You’ve never resented a pair of shorts more for getting in the way. “He’s got plenty to imagine, right? Like that time in Boston when we won the semis. Bet he was going crazy in the room next door listening to you cry on my cock.”

Your face flushes, and you squirm weakly against his hand. “The walls weren’t that thin.”

Patrick kisses his teeth in disagreement. “Afraid they were, babe. He could hardly look at me the next day. I wonder why. Do you think he touched himself? Got off to the sound of my girlfriend being fucked like a slut?”

“P-Patrick—” You whine. It’s hard to tell whether you’re protesting about the fact he’s talking about his best friend masturbating over you or because he still hasn’t touched you properly.

“Bet he did,” he muses, teeth grazing against your neck. Finally, he has mercy—mostly because this little fantasy is already turning him on too much. His fingers push your shorts to the side, sliding between your folds. You’re embarrassingly wet for someone who’s pretending to be upset about this line of discussion. “Pictured himself in my position. How’d we do it? Doggy? I’m sure he heard the headboard rattle.”

Two thick fingers sink into you without warning, and your back arches up off the mattress with a moan. Patrick’s an expert at taking you apart, regardless of whether he’s feeling patient. Judging by the erection pressed against the inside of your thigh, he’s probably not.

“And the other day,” he continues, fingers pumping into your tight cunt lazily. “You should have seen him picking that out. Redder than a tomato. I know he was picturing you in it.”

“Art’s not a pervert, Patrick. He’s not like you, having some fantasy in the middle of a Victoria’s Secret—” His fingers curl, and you break off into a breathy whine. 

“Art’s the biggest fucking pervert I’ve ever met,” he laughs, kissing his way back up your neck until his face hovers above you. He watches the way your face twists with pleasure, jaw going slack and eyes hazy. “He’s just better at hiding it.”

“Can you just stop talking?” You plead breathlessly. “Just fuck me already.”

“Aww. Poor thing. Are you that turned on thinking about it?” He teases, fingers withdrawing—though he gives your pussy a playful slap for good measure just to watch you jerk. 

“It’s not a… displeasing line of thought,” you admit reluctantly with the hopes that it’ll hurry along his teasing. It seems to work as he sits back on his heels, pushing his pyjama pants down to his knees. Your mouth dries at the sight of him—always so intimidating being presented with his cock like this. You wonder what Art’s looks like. Is he as big? As girthy? Does he have as much hair as Patrick does curling around the base, or does he manscape? Is it—

Fuck, you’re awful for even thinking about it. Patrick’s an awful influence on you.

His eyes twinkle down at you, mischievous and knowing, as his large hands hook under your thighs and drag you closer to him. “No? And here I thought you said it was weird,” he teases, hitching your legs around his waist.

“I stand by that. It’s kind of insane that you’re about to rearrange my guts and we’re talking about— haah.” Your words cut off to suck in a sharp breath as the blunt head of his cock presses into you in an agonisingly slow glide. Patrick watches himself disappear into you, smirk faltering as he groans at the tight warmth of you squeezing him.

“What’s a little dirty talk between partners?” He says, his own voice a little breathy.

That’s the most unreasonable excuse you’ve ever heard, but Patrick’s already fucking into you in earnest. The bed creaks underneath you, your heels pressing against his back as his cock splits you open. 

“He’s not as big as me, you know,” he says, and you’d roll your eyes at the brag if you hadn’t been fantasising about what Art’s dick looked like a minute ago. “But I’ve heard he’s pretty good with it. Picks up a lot of girls with that pretty face. Nice body, too, I guess, if I was a girl—”

“Are we talking about you wanting to fuck Art now?”

“God, no.” He laughs, a bit stilted, and you want to press on that further. But Patrick’s fingers slide through your folds, gathering the creamy slick at your entrance that gushes around his length to wet them. Then he drags them back up, rubbing at your clit. “But you’d— shit, just like that, baby— you’d fuck him, right? If we weren’t together?”

“He’s— nghhh, fuck— pretty,” you gasp out in affirmation. “I guess I would.”

I guess is an understatement. Patrick laughs, a rough sound broken up by grunts of effort. His balls slap against your cunt with each snap of his hips, bottoming out with each thrust and leaving you breathless. You can feel the ridges of his cock dragging along your walls every time he moves.

“Yeah? How would you do it?”

You try to think about it. Distancely, your brain is able to conjure up an image of you perched atop him, his head tipped back in ecstasy as you bounce on his cock. Or him nestled between your thighs, mouthing at your pussy like a drowned man finding air.

“Ride him, I think,” you manage in between moans.

“You want him to be your good boy?” Patrick smirks down at you, and a particularly hard thrust has you crying out. “Tired of getting fucked like a slut? Want a little action on top?”

“Please,” you manage to grit out. You don’t have much ground to stand on considering you’re clawing at his back while he ploughs into you, but you try anyway. “As if I’m not on top of you all the time.”

“But we both know who’s calling the shots,” he shoots back. 

“Fuck, I hate you,” you whimper, the approach of your orgasm silencing any other argument. “Right there, Pat, m’gonna cum—”

“Then show, baby, don’t tell.”

Patrick fucks you through it when it crashes over you, his name spilling off your tongue in a cry of pleasure. Your cunt flutters around his throbbing cock, squeezing him as your back bows in pleasure. Shame lingers in the back of your brain about the fact you’re getting off on something so disgusting, but the feeling of his length grinding so deep you swear the head presses against your cervix drowns it out.

Then, with a grunt, he bottoms out one final time. “Fuck, that’s it, ah—” 

You feel the heat of him spilling into you, pulse after pulse, and despite everything said in the last ten minutes, it still manages to leave you feeling claimed. At the end of the day, you’re still his girlfriend, regardless of whatever the fuck you just talked about.

He doesn’t bother pulling out—not yet, at least—and braces his hands by your head again, ducking his head to give you a kiss. You breathe heavily into his warm mouth as his tongue dips into yours.

“Hope you like the lingerie,” he murmurs against your lips. 

You laugh weakly, because how is that relevant right now?

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

advent taglist: @lexiiscorect @gracelynnx @m4lodr4ma @blondewhoresworld @deltamel @tiffysdeath @wlwroan @pittsick @i-t0ld-ya @scariffs @gelotime @elsieblogs @challengers4ev — join here <3

[starlinehoney]

cw: lesbians, misandry, everything good in the world, my baby tashi FINALLY. In all seriousness fem!r, cunnilingus, fingering, dacryphilia, crying, drool, light and not explicitly defined d/s dynamic.

note: first work in a WHILE so sorry if I'm rusty, hope you enjoy!

NSFW under the cut!

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Tashi enjoys when you cry.

It sounds sick, but it reminds her of her place. Of yours, too. You aren’t a competitor. She doesn’t have to win dating or kissing or sex. It’s just you.

She finds it hard to be vulnerable like you. She feels slightly guilty for being "apathetic", but she really just… doesn’t understand how you do it. How or why you would be so open with the world. There are some things you share, and some things you keep. Everybody seems to know it except you.

She likes the power of it, too. Of course she does. She likes that she stays composed as she watches your mask of stability crumble into tears of any kind—sadness, happiness, pleasure, anger— she wants it all.

She'd never say it, though. This is one of the things you don't share.

However, when you're cooped up in her dorm on a warm early fall evening, your panties forgotten somewhere in her twin xl, her hands leaving feather-light touches in places that make you shudder, she doesn't do much to hide it.

Her knees rest under your thighs as she faces you, watching your expression with the precision of shrink. It feels like it's been hours of this, just barely circling your clit, nudging at your opening, dragging nails over your hips, but time does drag in times like these.

You're huffing, letting out pathetic little noises, wriggling slightly as she pulls away once again. As always, she tuts at you. "quit whining." She murmurs as she leans down to press a few licks to your increasingly sensitive cunt.

Sighs and groans of relief leave your mouth at the real stimulation. Something tangible to aide the growing ache between your legs and the relentless tingling heat all over your body. This relief is short-lived, before you even have time for a meek 'thank you', she pulls away to kiss at the crook where your thigh meets your hip.

After the whining comes the begging. The desperate, incoherent pleas for an orgasm. You're so unbelievably pathetic and predictable. She rolls her eyes and shoves her left ring and middle in your mouth. She pretends she doesn't like when you beg.

Her free hand hooks under your right knee and pushes it toward your chest. She leans down and continues the agonizingly slow assault on your clit. Light swirls of her sharp tongue causing you to feel all hot and hazy. There's drool dripping down her wrist and your chin, the sheets are wet beneath you from the sporadic oozing from your fluttering entrance, it's all sticky and messy and it's too much yet not enough and you just wanna cum.

There it is.

You feel the heat in your face before the wetness in the corners of your eyes. As soon as they begin to well up, she suddenly begins lapping at your cunt like a woman starved, and her hand that was holding your leg up is now buried into your sticky center.

It overwhelms the senses, the waterworks start to drip from your eyes, your breath hitches, and your orgasm hits you with aggressive shudders and a loud sob. She continues until you're shoving her face away with little hiccups and whines.

She wipes your tears slowly as if she didn't orchestrate them herself. "So sensitive." She says in a tone that doesn't suggest any particular feeling, just a certain level of condescension and perhaps care. An observation.

She places a slow kiss to your lips, tears pooling at the connection, and as she walks off to her bathroom you can swear you see her lick her lips.

[starlinehoney]

guys I literally haven't written in months but inspiration has hit me for a tashi blurb... expect lesbians soon.

[starlinehoney]

cw: age gap, tinder hookup, porn with little plot, car sex, no aftercare, asshole man, creep aura, one mention of alcohol, manhandling, sort of dubcon?, not proofread.

note: it’s been so long!! I’ve had no motivation to write for a very long time so just ignore if this is bad pls 🥀

NSFW below the cut

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹ ⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Spending the night the way you spend most nights now, you’re swiping through tinder and drinking Pink Whitney from the bottle.

It’s been a while since your breakup, but it still hurts. Every time you open up to someone, they turn out to be some sort of man-baby. It’s sick— you feel cursed.

So you up the age range on your tinder some years, and you actually find yourself enjoying the attention. These men who don’t quite know how to use the slang of today, but try anyway. They aren’t old, just.. older. Older, experienced men. That’s exactly what you need.

You stumble across a profile that piques your interest— Patrick Zweig. The first picture on his profile is of his bare abs, a dark happy trail leading you to the bottom of the picture. His bio is straightforward— 34, tennis player, 8 1/2 inches.

You shouldn’t, right? This is the exact behavior you were avoiding.

Yet your thumb swipes right before you even think about it, and now you’re wondering if you should block him before he tries to message you, or just let it play out.

‘hey, gorgeous. looking for a good time?’

Gross. So, so gross. But.. so entertaining.

‘maybe. I’ve never been with someone older before.’

It’s not a complete lie— you haven’t fucked any of the old guys from tinder. You’ve let them fawn over you and tell you you’re beautiful and send you photos and the second they ask to meet up, you ghost them.

For some reason, you don’t wanna do that now.

‘oh really? well I’ve been with plenty of younger girls, haven’t had any complaints yet.’

You let out a soft breath through your nose. He’s pretty blunt, huh? You’re about to type a message back when another bubble pops on screen.

‘meet up?’

There is no way you’re meeting up with a random from tinder before even getting a photo of his face. No way.

…Maybe there is a way, because you’re now sitting in this random guys car in some dodgy parking lot.

You’re quiet. You don’t really know what to say— you both know what you’re here for, and it’s definitely not talking. You look over to him and he’s already looking at you with this.. wolfish grin. Like you’re prey.

“You seem nervous.” He mutters with that smirk. He turns off the car and leans over the center console to kiss you. You’d think he’d ease into it, but he’s just.. all in from the start. Hot and heavy.

He wastes no time groping at you in various places— it shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. His hands roaming wherever they please— his thick arms much too strong for you to stop even if you tried.

Yeah— that definitely shouldn’t be why your breathing is so heavy.

He pulls back only a few centimeters to comment on your reactions, almost taunting you and your youthful sensitivity.

You don’t really know when it started, you know was sudden, he started ushering you to the back seat. Manhandling you into a position that was very, very uncomfortable and peeling your bottoms down just enough to see your glistening, fluttering hole.

Somehow, with all your clothes still on, you feel very exposed.

He leans over you, caging you in under him, pressing his chest to your back and pressing his mouth to your ear. He smells like cigarettes and boy. “You got a condom, pretty?”

You fumble for your purse in the front seat, but he pushes your head into the dingy, cigarette-scented cloth and reaches for it himself, digging through until he finds what he’s looking for. He rips it open, fumbles with his pants, and rolls it on in the span of 30 seconds.

This is what you get for wanting experienced men.

He presses against you and groans, pushing in with no breaks. Just one slow, deep thrust. The stretch burns and you whine as you struggle to adjust. He shushes you with a hand against the back of your head and shallow thrusts into you.

He starts slow and soft, which is nice, but it doesn’t take long for him to drop the niceties and start slamming into you— well.. as best he can with limited room. The sounds of skin against skin, hot breath against your neck, body heat surrounding you and filling the car. It’s a lot— too much, really. But for some reason, the salty fingers in your mouth and harsh thrusts with no regard for your pleasure are doing it for you. Unfortunately.

You’re moaning and whining and wriggling under him as he licks below your ear and huffs “m’close baby… y’gonna cum?” He breathes into your ear. Hot, humid against your skin.

You nod and let out something that was supposed to be a simple “yes” but ends up being a bit more like a garbled “yah—ah”. It gets the message across.

His spongy tip bullies that spot inside you that makes your brain feel like pudding, and your eyes almost roll into your head. With a high pitched mewl and some whining that is very much incoherent, he feels you clamp down against him and he immediately begins to spurt warm release into the condom.

He works himself through his orgasm, pats your ass, and pulls out, pulling your bottoms back up. He presses a half-hearted kiss to your dewy temple and silently reaches up to open the car door. He climbs into the front and just.. waits for you to climb out.

What the fuck?

You don’t know what you were expecting but it definitely wasn’t this. Not even a bye? You offer an awkward and much regretted “thanks” before crawling out and shutting the door, making your way back into your own car as he pulls out of the parking lot, leaving you alone and full of shame.

You sit there in silence for probably 15 minutes, processing whatever the fuck just happened. Your phone pings and you sigh, checking the notification. Tinder.

‘same time next week?’

[jesuistrestriste]

fourth of july, 2006; art donaldson + patrick zweig.

“that dude is going to blow his hand off,” patrick snickers, a flash of his straight, shiny, surprisingly-not-cig-stained teeth being bared in the process. his eyes drift from the group of other teens setting off the fireworks back to the figure sat next to him in the grass. their two sets of palms press deeper into the greenery, imprints of the strands surely to be left behind—like temporary tattoos to commemorate one of the hottest summer nights they’ve had in years. pat’s shirt sticks sweatily to his back.

art lolls his head and looks up to the sky, shaking his head.

“if i hadn’t convinced you to leave the explosives to the other idiots, you’d be the guy with no hand,” he smirks, but his gaze stays raised to watch as loud eruptions of blue, yellow, green, and pink sparks fill the horizon. it’s hard to smell anything but the burning of the gunpowder, but patrick still picks up on lingering whiffs of art’s cologne. cool and aquatic, but mixing with the natural warmth of his skin.

the brunette would recognize it in a crowd full of other people though, blindfolded even. they’ve spent far too much time around one another to not be able to do so. pat doesn’t feel the need to be embarrassed about that fact.

it’s a rather juvenile scent, too. he knows that art got it in a pretty-looking glass bottle for his last birthday, and now has committed to wearing it every chance he gets. he’s seen art do the whole spritzing routine before: one spray on each side of his chest over whatever shirt he has on, and then he’ll spray it once into his hand to pat it over his neck and sometimes his jaw. patrick tried to tell him that it wasn’t meant to be an aftershave, he’d read the bottle, so it would probably just dry his skin out and give him acne or something, but art didn’t seem to care all that much. the blonde had retorted at the time with some stupid quip. it’s funny to pat how dumb art can sometimes be when he’s literally going to stanford in a few months.

and he’s still yet to get a single pimple from the stuff. lucky bastard.

he chooses not to yield a response to art’s playful dig about the fireworks. a soft chuckle is enough of one for the both of them.

the sound of whistling and crackling fills the air as the next set of colorful rockets is launched up. they fly until they can’t anymore, like their wings have been cut by some cosmic force, and then they burst into something beautiful. there’s something about the entire scene that makes patrick’s chest hurt. maybe it’s because he wishes someone could just launch him where he’s supposed to go.. maybe it’s because he’s worried he might eventually find himself falling back down to earth, only to realize that he’s a dud—emitting no sparks, no light, and pulling no “ooh”s and “aah”s from onlookers..

or maybe it’s just because he’s yet to fully process the fact that this might be the last summer he ever has art completely to himself.

a few nights before the fourth, patrick had laid awake in bed, tossing and turning with a pit of something hard and heavy in his stomach. for the longest time, he couldn’t pin-point what was bothering him so much. he went outside and smoked a small section of a joint, drank some of the tea his mom usually has before bedtime, and even tried taking a walk around his huge neighborhood. nothing; not a wink of sleep. and then it hit him like a rusty old car hits an unsuspecting deer: a few months from then and it would be the Junior Open, a month or so from then and art would be in college. patrick would be alone. sure, he’d made the choice to attempt to go pro, he still had faith in himself, but he knew it would be hard not to miss his doubles partner.

he had to listen to one of art’s dumb voicemails on his blackberry in order to finally doze off. he then had dreams that night that he internally vowed to never tell anyone about. brushes of skin against skin, a hand on another’s lower back, a careful and nervous kiss, an embrace that he’d been waiting on for years. his shower the next morning was long and hot, something he had decided was meant to be a punishment for his body and mind betraying him.

he didn’t want to feel that way about—.. but how could he not..?

patrick swallows thickly. he feels the pit again in his gut, rolling around mercilessly. he fists the grass under his touch and hears several strands snap loose in the pause between glittery explosions.

“hey,” he turns his head back to look to the mop of loose, golden curls, his breathing catching when he sees the way the colors dance on his features, “you still excited for school?”

art doesn’t hear him.

for some reason, that makes pat’s chest hurt.

“hey—“ he nudges his side with his elbow, which does manage to catch the blonde’s attention, “earth to art donaldson, are you excited for school or what?”

art smiles now. he nods, shrugging afterwards.

“i mean, yeah.. i’m excited. parties, and stanford tennis, and dorm stuff. yeah. i think it’ll be cool,” he hums, “why, are you gonna miss me?”

patrick laughs, but only because art does.

art laughs, but only because if he doesn’t then he’ll get weird and quiet.

“no way, i’m gonna be swimming in chicks on the road—“ pat’s voice falters amidst the attempt at a denial, shaking around its edges, “gonna be too busy winning matches to even think about you.”

art pushes his shoulder, snorting. they both come down slow from the high of their facades and then art speaks up again.

“you can’t stay away, zweig.”

it’s another playful remark, but it stings patrick more than he’s expecting it to because it’s true. he looks down to the ground between his bent knees, digging his thumbs into the dirt.

he can’t come up with a clever joke quick enough to snuff out the words that spill out next.

“yeah,” he whispers, barely audible with the clamor of other people around them, “maybe not.”

art’s brow furrows at that, and he pauses. patrick can feel his eyes stuck to the side of his face, but he doesn’t dare to stare back—too worried about what else he might say as soon as he sees the look on his friend’s face.

“we’ll text and stuff, obviously. you know that. and—and you said you’ll visit when you’re not too busy, right? we’re—we’ll be fine.”

oh, art.. always the voice of reason when patrick doesn’t want to hear it.

“yeah.”

the single syllable cracks in pat’s throat. he has to suppress the need to cringe at how painfully pathetic it sounds. he’s only broken down in front of art once, and he doesn’t intend to again. especially not now.

a wave of silence falls over the two boys again. they look everywhere but at each other, taking in the suffocating heat of the evening and the pops of the mini, novelty fireworks being set off in the street nearby. a dog barks. a kid squeals with excitement. patrick turns his head so that the back of his hair is all that would be visible to art if he looked to him, sniffling and then coughing to cover it up. if art decided to ask about it, he could play it off as allergies, as cliche as that is. art wouldn’t press him about it, but he would know it’s a lie.

pat wonders if art will get a girlfriend at stanford. he can picture them holding hands while walking around campus, art’s cellphone full of unread messages from his best buddy that’s already been long-forgotten. he shakes the thought away. too much. too soon. he wonders if he and art’ll win the tournament coming up. he wonders if they’ll hold each other close when the winning shot is made on the court. he wonders if they’ll push their beds together in the hotel room like they always do when they travel for tennis events. he wonders if art has ever had dreams about him the way patrick has. he wonders if art has ever wanted to play with his hair. he wonders if it’s too late to look back to art in this very moment and tell him that he—

the sound of a familiar hum hits pat’s ears, derailing his thoughts, and causes him to finally pivot and return his focus to the other beside him.

“god, this is actually hurting my ears,” art winces, standing up promptly and brushing off his shorts, “do you wanna go smoke?”

patrick chews his lip. he wonders if art can see the tears in his eyes, the ache in his chest just desperate to embarrass him by clawing its way out and spilling down his ruddy cheeks. he blinks quickly, and in that split moment he notices that art’s eyes are as glossy as his own. wet lashes, flushed face.

they never could do anything without the other following.

he begins to rise from the ground, reflexively grabbing onto the hand that art offers for support, pulling himself up with a soft grunt.

“yeah, man.. let’s go smoke.”

[starlinehoney]

wait baby can you explain protege!patrick? like does he live with ready or what au is this?

So basically how I’ve always thought of it is like he’s always there? Like he doesn’t live with them but he spends all his summers at their house, he’ll spend a week there for her dad to help him with with a skill, he comes to every family event. He’s the son her dad never had, if that makes sense.

[starlinehoney]

protege!patrick au

I tried not to include many pictures for reader so anyone can imagine themselves as this role, the only picture that is intended to be of her is the top right and it’s just the vibe idk!

—reader in this au is the picture of an unsupervised rich kid. she’s not a party girl, she doesn’t go out all the time, but alcohol and drugs are no stranger. believes in astrology and throws shit at Patrick when he makes fun of her for it. seems so popular, but has like two friends (including Patrick). sort of bitchy in a way she doesn’t realize, but funny in a way a lot of people enjoy. loves a boat day, a filthy martini, and the color green.

—patrick in this au is utterly spoiled. cocky in a way that no young man should ever be. big drinker, loves a drunk cigarette even more than a sober one. mean, but in a subtle way that makes reader feel crazy at times. when he’s not being subtle, he’s being sneaky. but most of the time it’s just making her feel dumb or mocking her genuine interests just to provoke her. her dad likes him more and he knows it, takes advantage of it. loves Montclair blacks, being perpetually barefoot, and cds.

[starlinehoney]

protege!patrick who steals your clothes from the bathroom while you shower so he gets to watch you walk out in a towel.. no shame either he just watches you from the door frame of his the guest room.

[starlinehoney]

I will be grateful for your support and thank you very much🇵🇸🍉

But a simple donation from you saves the body from death🙏🏻🍉🤍🥺💰🇵🇸

Can you donate for me and my family?🙏🏻🍉

https://gofund.me/abf54bf1

link

[starlinehoney]

cw: pervert!patrick, slight fauxcest, lack of backstory </3, gooner wars?, video without consent, dubcon, dry humping, cum in panties.

note: kinda ass but I wanted to introduce the concept before I lost motivation to write again. I’m working on a longer, more detailed version of this au but I’m in a phase where I hate everything I write! So enjoy this little blurb. Also I’ve never seen anyone do this but I don’t claim ownership of this idea! I’m sure it’s been done before somewhere.

NSFW below the cut

*+★+*+★+*+★+*+★+*+★+*+★+*+★+*+★+*

Patrick was what some would call a family friend.

The son your father never had. His little prodigy. Spending his summers at your home, half training, half doing whatever the fuck he wants, while his parents were off on whatever business trip or holiday they wanted to blow their seemingly endless funds on.

He was completely and utterly disgusting. Cocky and mean in a way that nobody really got but him.

And you were his favorite target.

He’d give you a forced hug after he was done training, all sweaty and smelling like boy. Steal your underwear and leave them in his laundry just to fuck with you. Leave out his dirty magazines on the guest bed for you to see when you walked by. Obnoxiously moaned when he jerked off in the shower just a wall away from your bed.

He loved to make you uncomfortable. It was his livelihood. It didn’t help that he found you exceptionally attractive— you were forbidden fruit. Dangling just out of reach from his greedy lips, his hands bound at his sides. He wanted to ruin you. Rip into you and let the juice flow down his chin.

He was almost always hard around you, and made no effort to hide it. Often adjusting himself while speaking to you just to make you mad. He enjoyed when your cheeks got all red. He wonders if they get the same shade when you cum.

It isn’t fun for you. At least.. you don’t want to admit it is. So maybe you wanna get a little revenge. It’s only fair, right? It’s not like you’re actually into him. You just wanna work him up.

A few photos of you in a new lacy pair of panties accidentally end up in his messages.

You run to the guest room, begging him not to open that text. You swear up and down it’s an accident and it was for someone else. “Patrick, please” with glossy big eyes and a pouty lip. Playing innocent.

But Patrick isnt fucking stupid. He has your face in pillow within minutes. Your skirt flipped up with your ass against his hips. “You think you’re too good for this?” He mutters mockingly, his chest pressed against your back. The feeling of his clothed crotch against your own is making you second guess yourself. Maybe you do like it.

He yanks the seam of your panties upward and you whine at the slight sting. He laughs a little when he hears your pathetic squeak. “Cmon, you wanted me to see ‘em so bad.. just testing ‘em out..”

Something about it was sick, and you liked it. Something about him rubbing himself against you so shamelessly like he wasn’t in your family photos. Like your father didn’t call him son. Something about trying to run away from it and him yanking your hips right back up. It made you want to cry, and it made you unexpectedly wet.

He pulls down your panties and pulls out his dick. Stroking himself until he cums on the moist gusset of your panties. He’s decided since you wanted to play dumb, this is all you get. Maybe he’d be nice if you were polite next time.

He pulls them back up and shoves you off his bed. “Shut the door on your way out.” He calls after you as he readjusts his boxers.

He sends you a video of the interaction and you can hear him laugh from the other room when you tell him to delete it.

[elusive-phantom]

[starlinehoney]

cw: slight m!sub, dubcon, somnophilia, fem!r, perv!r, lack of shame, gross themes, dark themes, dry humping, fem!masturbation, kinktober!!

NSFW below the cut!!

*.★.*.★.*.★.*.★.*.★.*.★.*.★.*

Art gets wet dreams

He’s had them since he was younger, and he was told they would go away with age, but he still wakes up flushed and out of breath with soggy boxers in his early twenties.

He’s really embarrassed about it, and the only person who knows is Patrick. Mainly because they share rooms so often. Patrick heard arts little whines in his sleep and deduced on his own what was happening. Art probably never would’ve told him— it might be his deepest, darkest secret.

But how long can you hide something that’s out of your control? He started dating, and girlfriends started wanting to sleep over. Sometimes he just wouldn’t sleep while they were there, but most of the time it was just bullshit excuses, and his girlfriends never really liked that. He couldn’t ever keep one for too long.

But you, god, he really liked you. You’d been dating for months now, and he could tell you were getting tired of excuses. Every date night, you’d ask to stay over, have him come over, anything. You started to worry that he was hiding something terrible.

But eventually, he gives in, as always. He figures he’ll just fake sleep so that you can stay over— he can tell you really want to. He can’t actually tell if it’s just innocent or if you’re trying to get him to fuck you, but either way, he just wants you to be happy.

So you go over to his apartment. You have fun, eat dinner, make out a little. It’s a great night. Then you go to bed, snuggling in to his many blankets and pillows, cuddled up with his face buried in your neck. He’d never admit it for fear of sounding like a weirdo, but he loves your scent. It relaxes him like nothing else. All his worries about his stupid secret are forgotten— he accidentally falls asleep.

He should’ve known better than to relax so much— he was already a little riled up from your makeout session earlier, and he hasn’t had time alone to jerk off in a week. You wouldn’t have even woken up if he wasn’t snuggled so close, but the soft rocking of his hips against you stirs you awake. You’re groggy and disoriented as you squint into the dark. “Art..?” You mutter into the cool air of his bedroom. No response.

You rub your eyes and it clicks, you’re suddenly wide awake when you hear a small, broken whimper. One you’ve only heard a few times, when he let you go a little further than making out— dry humping like animals on his old couch. He whimpered like that right as he gripped your hips to slow you down, overwhelmed with the need to release and the pain of being so far away.

You frown slightly as you feel his hips pathetically hump against your leg. He’s not even really rubbing against you, just small, desperate movements that won’t actually get him anywhere.

An idea pops in your head, but you immediately shake it off. It’s unethical, he’s not awake. But the thought lingers in your mind. It’s not like you haven’t talked about it.. you’re a sexual person, you talk with him about likes and dislikes. It’s important— and maybe you like seeing him get so red.

He’s said many times that the thought of it makes him feel a hot pit in his stomach, a greedy black hole of devious desires. He feels guilty about it, you can tell. He’s one of those boys that was raised by an overly religious grandma, one that struggled to indulge in any desires that aren’t considered normal.

So maybe you just.. grab his hips, help him slow down and really feel each stroke. That’s how it starts anyway— then you adjust, so he’s fucking the soace just below your cunt, between your thighs. You fight off the slight guilt with a reassurance that you aren’t doing anything for yourself, you’re only helping him. That, and the dripping mess in your cotton underwear keeps your mind well occupied.

The heat in your core overwhelms you when you hear him stutter out your name in a pleasured whine. It’s pathetic and so arousing and just.. art. Needy even while unconscious.

Suddenly there’s no guilt, and you reach between your warm bodies to grip him over his thin, damp boxers. Each stroke of your hand causes his breath to quicken and his moans to increase in volume. The fact that he’s still asleep is a miracle.

Eventually, you hear a small grunt, followed by a whimper, and feel his boxers get warm with fresh cum. You stroke him a few seconds longer just to see him twitch, before rolling over to focus on yourself— no way you’re sleeping now.

Your breath is already quicker as you grope your squishy breasts, trapping your pert and sensitive nipples between your fingers with a sigh. Eventually you trail your hand down your abdomen, running along your sensitive hip bones for a moment before dipping below the waistband of your panties.

Even you’re shocked at how wet you are— it’s on your thighs and parts of your ass, a clear wet spot on the cloth that covers you. A sticky, slick mess. You run your fingers through the slimy liquid and bite your lip, reaching over and brushing your damp fingers over arts plush bottom lip, letting him taste you. You almost cum when he licks his lips and whines.

You’re sick for it, and you know that, but you’re ok with it. It makes your velvety cunt flutter around nothing and your other hand grip the sheets beside you. You let out a shaky, composing breath.

You put your hand back down your panties and begin to make small circles over your clit, sighing softly, but holding back any moans for fear of awakening art. You watch his peaceful face as you touch yourself, moving your fingers faster. You feel like a creep, maybe you are one— why is this making you so horny?

You stuff two fingers inside yourself, pumping them in and out and in and out until your walls tighten around your fingers in a spasm, your other hand clasped over your mouth as your eyes rolls back and you shudder with a groan. It didn’t take long wuth how worked up you were. Your back arches up and your legs try to shut and stay open all at once as the wave of pleasure washes over you. You pull your fingers out of yourself, dusting over your clit with a soft whine, before pulling them out of your underwear.

You sigh in relief and snuggle back in, cuddling up to art and playing with his hair.

He sleeps very well that night.

[starlinehoney]

Can we say that THIS is sub!innocent!virgin!Art seeing pussy for the first time???

You are so talented! 😘❤️

Thank you so much omg 😭 also YES he’s so cute snjdensjd I love art 🤭

[starlinehoney]

cw: Patrick and art are rlly gay, no x reader, slight mention of sexual themes.

Slight NSFW under the cut

。✯ ＼｜／。✯ ＼ ｜ ／✯ 。✯ ＼ ｜ ／✯ 。

Patrick and art have always shared everything.

At boarding school, they shared a room, they shared clothes, they shared secrets. And as they got older, they started to share fantasies, they started to share partners.

People always viewed Art as sweet and innocent, because he did act that way often. But below the surface, he was just as bad as Patrick. Maybe worse— at least Patrick was upfront about his intentions. Art would make you think he was this sweet lover, but not call you back the morning after.

Maybe he was only worse because Patrick taught him everything he knows. Maybe because Patrick taught art how to eat pussy on his girlfriend, maybe because he taught art how to hit the g spot by watching him fuck some girl from the bar, maybe because Patrick taught him to master the art of not calling back.

Of course, art wasn’t all bad. He was a lover— that part wasn’t a total lie— as much as he was a fuck boy. Patrick was too, deep down, but it was rare someone got to see that. Really, only art knew how caring he could be. How he would be a little mean, but remember your dreams and aspirations as if they were his own. He cares— it’s just hard to see.

In college, a pattern starts.

Patrick always hates the girls art dates because they remind him too much of himself. Sleazy and nonchalant, here for a good time not a long time. And art.. loves deeply. It doesn’t happen too often, but he loves too hard to be with someone like that. Someone like Patrick.

Art always hates the girls Patrick dates because they’ll never make him happy in the long run. They’re sweet and innocent, Patrick loves to teach, to corrupt. But once they’ve learned, it’s no fun. He just.. self destructs out of pure boredom.

And in this little game of dating eachother through strangers, they seem to find every reason why they could never work. They’re in love, they both know that by now, but what can they do about that? Have a great six months, crash and burn, and lose a lifelong friendship?

So they stick to intoxicated makeouts that are never discussed and glares at the other’s girl of the week.

When tashi comes along, it’s the first time they’ve liked the same girl since they were twelve. Because she’s not either of them— she’s something much more alluring. A shiny new toy for Patrick to play with, and someone to keep art on the tight leash he so desperately craves.

And so maybe the chase is only because they’re convinced they can’t have eachother. They never once consider that maybe she’s just what was missing from them.

[starlinehoney]

Patrick would lick the tears off your cheeks while you fuck send tweet

[starlinehoney]

(p link) https://fr.spankbang.com/7s30d/video/dollhole+sexe+avec+un+garc+on+vierge this is literally virgin!art

The way he keeps getting distracted and stops moving his hand 😞 oh I need him