any more thoughts on puppy art.. please. only if u want to though haha !! (please?)
ohh u guys love your darling little lapdog huh?
LAPDOG ART DONALDSON! fem!reader
▸ a drooler. nosing his head between your legs n he's already salivating. he's so cute like that. face smushed between your thighs, panting as spit pools in his mouth, nose twitching like a cute little bunny at the scent of your arousal. taking the trim of your panties between his teeth, dragging it down inch by inch. quivering because he just wants to rip them off but the last time he did that he tore your nice lacy lingerie and u didnt touch him for a week. when he eats you out he laps at your cunt like an eager puppy. comes away absolutely glistening. dripping, even. your juices n his saliva smearing his cheeks, his nose, dribbling down his chin.
▸ bigggg on humping. obviously. when you're too busy to give him attention he'll just shuffle over onto your lap and just start rubbing up against you. he's ridden out the best orgasms that way; creaming in his already-sodden boxers as slick gets all over ur thigh. he likes to do it when you're working or when you're on a call (you always punish him best that way). oftentimes you'll wake up at night to slick sheets—finding him grindin up against you, moaning and whimpering. a sleepy, boneless mess on your knee. he'll already have gotten himself off thrice before he tries to wakes you, just to be safe (you might take it away from him, after all).
▸ teething.... grown ass man teething... gnawing on your shoulder to stop himself from crying out when you let him fuck you.. nibbling your bottom lip red n raw when you kiss.. slobbering all over your mouth. during sex if you tease him he'll start to chew anxiously at the end of ur bra strap, the hem of your shorts, your panties if you keep him waiting too long. sometimes randomly takes your hand by the wrist and takes a fake chomp out of it (affectionate).
▸ not beyond jus being your lil stress relief toy. coming back home and he's been so good for you. he won his match. he's cooked dinner. but you don't have time for any of that. "oh, baby, don't give me that look. cock out, now." and he makes a little mewling noise and immediately his shorts are a crumpled puddle on the floor—raging boner popping out, all swollen n red n leaking bc hes been waiting for you for hours.
▸ sighing, telling him to sit and so he does. legs spreading wide on the couch, blinking up at u in earnest neediness. and when you sink onto his cock he makes this insane, visceral whining noise—back arcing off the seat.
▸ cockwarmer? more like cuntwarmer. you tell him don't move and don't cum. an impossible ask. he's pawing at your back, whimpering when your only response is to lean back heavier, sinking your full weight down on his poor, poor cock. n it feels soso good but he only lasts two minutes on a good day! let alone when you're switching the tv on and settling back into him like he's part of the couch. occasionally your hips jump, walls pulsing tight, choking his sensitive dick. you're grinding down into his lap and he's twitching inside of u and hot tears are prickling his eyes—fingers digging into your thighs, trembling.
▸ time ticking on.. the coil of heat in his gut winding tighter n tighter.. art's cheeks are flushed and hes wetting the back of your shirt with his silent tears. he persists, though, because he's good. he's gonna be a good boy for you. and it works! for a time, when you seem like you've almost forgotten your pussy is strangling his cock and you're only rolling your hips occasionally, sending warm thrums of pleasure through him. lulling him into a false sense of security.
▸ until all of a sudden you decide to be mean and for whatever reason you lift your hips before slamming them back down again, and his sharp gasp and slurred mewls perfectly cue the geyser that erupts from his slit.
▸ not even letting him cum inside you.. sliding off his spurting cock thats blowing cum like a volcano. hot, sticky strings arcing in the air and splattering all over the carpet, the couch cushions. his eyes glazing over, all glassy n sparkly as he crumples back in the couch, blubbering tearful apologies as his cock leaks like a faucet, staining the poor, new pillows.
▸ adores aftercare. or just your comfort in general. please rest your hand against his cheek and let him sigh and melt and nuzzle into the palm of your hand like you're taking the weight of the world off his shoulders. tug gently on his hair. scratch his scalp. let him curl up on your lap and pat him and coo sweet nothings in his ear. simple things, like "sweet baby, did so good today." or "tired puppy. took mommy so well."
▸ "fuck— m'sorry. m'sorry, m'sorry—" "hey, shh, darling. aw, don't cry. mommy's got you. how bout you curl up on momma's lap, kay?" "..mkay."
superstitious seventeen
aka cate upgrades her routine with one filthy good-luck charm
tw: girlcock, g!p cate, hockey player!cate, pregame rituals, superstitions, semi-public sex, good-luck charm, oral sex, blowjob, vaginal sex, dickriding, creampie, established relationship, etc.
3k+ words
author's note: for this lovely anon,🫀anon, 🏒anon, and the wonderful @iridescent-bloom for fueling my creative fire...and for anyone else who goes a little crazy over the idea of hockey player!cate! please enjoy hehe<3
also very inspired by @arejayhyun's art which was inspired by @yameoto's bot so special thanks to them both for the brain worms!<3
The rink always smelled like adrenaline pretending to be citrus. Cate loved it—the cold bite of freon air, the rubbery scuff of mats under skates, the sweet ghost of stale orange slices and bitter energy drink that clung to everything no matter how often the trainers bleached the benches. It was her church and her boxing ring, the place she knew exactly who she was even when the rest of the world felt like a trick mirror.
Her jersey hung from the peg above her stall. Her stick leaned close enough to touch her knee, the tape on the knob neat: twelve wraps clockwise, always clockwise, cut clean with the same boxcutter she’d been using since freshman year. Left sock first. Laces double-crossed. She tucked the mouthguard into her cheek while she rolled her shoulders, listening to the locker room hum—the rip of someone’s tape, a laugh ricocheting too loud and a coach barking it down to a simmer, the low whoosh of the dryer in the next room.
Division rivals tonight. The kind of game that made the cold feel like champagne bubbles under her skin.
Her phone buzzed once on the shelf above her stall. She didn’t check it—part of the ritual, no screens before warmups—but the second buzz was harder to ignore. She risked a glance, a small sin.
You in your temple?
Cate’s mouth went dry, then sweet all at once. She didn’t text back. She never did when it was you. It had started as superstition and calcified into a form of worship. If you wanted in, you found a way in.
Cate pulled on her compression shorts and pads, then stilled. The buzzing quieted into the white noise of the room. A door opened somewhere to her right and a draft swept under her stall like a question. She didn’t turn. She could feel the gravity shift the way the team always did when you crossed a threshold—like someone had tilted the world five degrees and every metal surface remembered it was magnetic.
“—holy shit,” someone down the line breathed.
Cate bit back a smile.
You didn’t belong in any one place. You were slippery in the way smoke is. But you looked obscene and perfectly right in a hockey locker room—boots planted, socks rolled, jacket thrown over the shoulder of the jersey you were wearing. Cate’s jersey. Seventeen draped over you like a claim.
“Hey, superstar,” you said, casual as if you hadn’t just shifted the temperature of the whole building. Your voice was smoke and asphalt and something that sounded like trouble.
Cate turned slowly, like that would somehow tame her wild pulse. “You’re…not supposed to be back here,” she said—ritual protest only, because you both knew resistance didn’t stand a chance against you.
“Yeah?” You canted your head, smiling with your eyes and the corner of your mouth in that way that always made Cate feel like she’d been singled out by a very indulgent god. “I’m a donor.” You didn’t specify donor of what. You never did.
A couple of teammates muttered greetings. You didn’t pay them any mind, which was rude in theory but very you in practice: you could be calm and lethal with focus in the same breath. Your attention slid to Cate and stayed there like it had been magnetized in your bones at birth.
“I brought you some luck,” you said.
Cate swallowed. She knew what that meant. Though, she hadn’t realized she knew it until last time—when you had pressed her into the kitchen island an hour before puck drop and taken her apart with slow, mean patience. When Cate had skated like she’d been given a second spine and they’d annihilated their rivals so hard their coach didn’t even pretend to be furious in the post-game. It had been sex, yes, because with you everything was. But it had also felt like chalk on a doorframe, like something old and clever that said: this house is protected, this house is claimed.
“I have to—” Cate started, throat tight.
Your brows arched. “Left sock first. You did. Tape’s done. You’ve already chewed your lucky gum, mint, not cinnamon. C’mon,” you said, like this was yours to command. “We’ve got ten.”
“Ten minutes!” one of the assistants called from the hall, like the gods had a sense of humor.
Your grin sharpened. “Less,” you corrected under your breath, and crooked two fingers.
The equipment closet you’d ducked into wasn’t big. Shelves stacked with pucks in mesh bags, boxes of laces, rainbow towers of stick tape, spray bottles lined up like obedient soldiers, a rolling bin full of practice jerseys that someone had half-heartedly folded. It smelled like rubber and wood shavings and whatever industrial detergent the laundry room worshiped. The light hummed a white noise halo overhead. The door clicked shut, and the tiny slice of the world became just you two.
Your back hit the door. You didn’t kiss Cate first. You tugged, brisk and efficient, at the waistband of Cate’s compression shorts, thumb slipping under elastic, knuckles scraping a V across hipbone. Cate’s breath stuttered. Her cock, already interested the second you had texted, went from half-hard to intent so fast she swayed.
“Baby—” Cate’s voice came out hoarse. “We—”
“I’m your luck,” you said, and sank to your knees.
For a beat Cate lost her name, then it rushed back with the heat in her blood. Your grip mapped her thighs—rough, certain, sacrilegious in all the right ways—the heel of your palm pressing down like you wanted to pin Cate’s twitching cock under your thumb just to watch it fight. Your fingers slid back under the waistband, tugging the shorts down, and Cate’s cock sprang up against the cold air, flushed and aching, before your mouth swallowed the shock, sealing over her in one hungry pull. The seventeen on your back made a bright, possessive bracket as you worked. You looked up. Cate had never met anyone whose gaze could close around your throat and squeeze in fondness.
Your mouth was heat and velvet and a little cruel. You liked to set a pace and then break it, liked the way Cate’s hips jerked when you swallowed down and hollowed your cheeks to drag up slow. Your fingers dug into the hinge of Cate’s thighs, urging them wider, greedy for leverage. The mouthguard bit at Cate’s molars. She let it drop with a wet clack into her palm and then put her fist between her teeth instead.
“Fuck,” Cate muttered when you pulled off with a pop. “Fuck, baby, please—”
“That’s right.” Your smile was lazy and wrecked. You stroked your tongue along the vein at the underside like you were tasting victory already. “Be quiet for me, superstar.”
Cate nodded, helpless. She felt ridiculous and enormous and perfectly, perfectly tuned to the woman on her knees. The hum of the light, the faint music of blades ringing two rooms over, the smell of detergent and rubber all dimmed under the wet slide of your mouth and the low, content sound you made when Cate’s head fell back.
“Baby,” Cate warned, ragged. “Gonna—”
You pulled back, breath a little ragged yourself, lips shiny. “Not yet.” You leaned back a little and kissed the tip, obscene and affectionate. “That goes in me.” You stood in one clean motion and tugged the jersey up just enough to flash the sharp cut of your hips and the waistband of your track pants. Then you hooked your thumbs, peeling them down along with your panties, and kicked off your boots in two swift knocks against the rubber mat—bare, unabashed, seventeen still draped over you like a dare. You never did anything halfway.
Cate’s hands went to your hips on instinct.
“Uh-uh,” you said, catching Cate’s hips instead and walking her backward, step by unsteady step, mouth grazing her jaw like punctuation. Cate’s calves bumped the bench and she dropped onto it with a soft, helpless sound. You crowded in, the jersey falling back into place as you climbed over Cate’s lap—owning the space, forcing Cate to rely entirely on the unholy mercy of the woman with her number against her skin, before you took what you came for.
You took Cate in your fist and guided, tip pressing slick against the slicker heat of you. You teased yourself with it, rubbed up and down until Cate’s eyes fluttered and her mouth fell open, until the little gasps falling from her mouth were the only percussion in the room.
“Look at me,” you said, soft as a blade.
Cate did. She always did.
You sank down in one slow, gasping slide that punched all the air out of both of you. Cate swore, head knocking the shelf, vision blurring white around the edges. You breathed a sound that wasn’t a word, just Cate’s name broken by pleasure. The hand you didn’t have wrapped around Cate’s base braced on Cate’s shoulder, fingers digging into the strap of her pads.
“Fuck me steady,” you said, breath hitching, the rhythm of the syllables syncing for a second with the hum of the light, with Cate’s pulse in her ears. “I want to feel you the whole game.”
Cate bucked by instinct and then tamped it down, held herself there—buried, deep and hot and perfect—and only then set a pace that felt like worship. Long strokes with the control of a surgeon and the hunger of a sinner. The shelf rattled behind her, a roll of white tape fell and bounced against her shoulder. You didn’t notice. You rode like you had an audience only you could see, the number seventeen flashing when the jersey lifted with each rise and fall, knees planted wide, thighs burning under Cate’s palms where they clamped down to hold.
“You’re so good,” you said, like it was a truth of the world. “My lucky thing. My big game changer.” You rocked down harder. Cate groaned, helpless. “You gonna give me a hat trick, baby?”
Cate would have promised you the moon if you had asked. She managed: “As many as you—oh, God—tell me how you want it.”
You bit your lower lip, eyes going glassy with pleasure before the sharpness knifed back in. “I want you to fill me like you mean it. I want to sit in your jersey and heckle their goalie with your cum between my legs.” A huff of laughter, wrecked and dangerous. “And then I want you to see me in the front row and know exactly what I’m keeping warm for you.”
Cate’s eyes stung. It wasn’t the lights. It was the way you could thread I love you into threats and superstition and obscene promises and make it sound like fate. Cate’s thighs trembled. She bore down on the rhythm again, steadier, deeper, the kind of stroke that made your jaw falter and a sound rip out of you that Cate would be thinking about long after her ears stopped ringing from the crowd.
“Quiet,” you breathed, and reached up to shove two fingers into Cate’s mouth. Cate moaned around them. You leaned in and kissed her cheek, almost tender, offset by the ruthless way you snapped your hips down to meet Cate’s next stroke.
The world narrowed to friction and heat, to the ridiculous slide-and-catch of fabric and pads and skin, to a rhythm that Cate knew in her body as well as any play she’d drilled a hundred times. Your nails bit into the meat of Cate’s shoulder beneath the pads, a bite that grounded her. Sweat trickled down behind Cate’s ear. You licked it clean, then laughed against her skin when Cate shivered.
“Yeah,” you breathed, eyes going soft and wild in tandem. “That’s my girl. Give it to me. Give it to me deep.”
Cate’s body took the command like a puck to the mesh. She slammed in deep and stilled, groan low and helpless as heat unspooled and broke. The orgasm hit like a clean check, rattling her bones and lighting her vision from the inside. You were already there, hips grinding down to milk it, head tilting back, mouth open on a soundless cry. Cate felt the squeeze, the clutch, the greed of it, the way your body took everything without flinching. It was incandescent and obscene, sacred the way sacrilege is when you do it with your whole heart.
Together you stayed tangled for a second that felt stretched thin. Cate’s breath sawed. Your lashes fluttered, a flush spread over your chest, peeking from the collar of the jersey.
Above the door, someone banged something heavy against the wall. “Warmups in two!” The assistant’s voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.
You exhaled a laughing curse and leaned forward, forehead pressing to Cate’s temple. “You’re so good,” you murmured, and then—because you’re you, because you can’t help but be a menace even when you’re tender—you rolled your hips very lightly, reminding Cate where your bodies were still joined, reminding Cate that her luck was warm and full and not going anywhere.
“Don’t.” Cate’s voice cracked into a laugh. “Please. I have to skate.”
“Mm.” You slid carefully off, the flare of your nostrils and the little jerk of your thighs saying you felt every millimeter. When you were free you stayed braced for a second, head tipped down, hand on the shelf behind Cate, like gravity had just gotten funny. Then you straightened with an obscene little roll of hips, as if sealing something. “Good girl.”
Cate swore she could feel that praise in her ribs.
With almost comical care, you bent over and tugged Cate’s compression shorts up, patting her cock through the fabric like a benediction. “Stay sharp for me,” you murmured. You effortlessly scooped the discarded panties off the floor and tucked them neatly into Cate’s waistband like a love note. “Souvenir,” you said, smug.
From the pocket of your jacket you fished a clean pair. You hauled them up and then, with a wicked little hitch of your hips, snugged the fabric tight, like you wanted the pressure. The jersey fell back over everything, turning filthy into something almost demure. You flashed Cate a grin that said you knew exactly what you were carrying out there.
“I’m gonna sit front row,” you said, as if Cate had any doubt. “Every time you come by the bench you’re going to remember exactly what you did in here.”
Cate was a professional at controlling her face. She still felt heat climb up her neck like a blush she couldn’t swallow. “You’re cruel.”
“I’m effective.” You reached out and straightened Cate’s shoulder pads, a ridiculous gesture of domesticity dressed in filth. You thumbed a smear of something off the edge of Cate’s jaw and then licked your thumb clean, just to be insufferable. “Mouthguard.”
Cate blinked. “What—”
You picked it up off the shelf where it had ended up, popping it against Cate’s lip like you were feeding her a strawberry. Cate took it, meek, ridiculous. Your smile went soft and vicious at once.
“Skate for me,” you said. “Score for me. And if someone tries to fight you, remember I’m wearing your number and I will climb the glass and ruin a man’s life.”
Cate choked out a laugh that wasn’t entirely joking. “Yes, ma’am.”
Footsteps thudded past the door. Someone shouted something near the tunnel, the rink sound swelled—organ warming up, PA system crackle, the metallic cheer of blades on ice. You cracked the door an inch, peered, then slipped out into the hall with a backward glance that felt like a promise and a threat wrapped tightly with a bow.
Cate stood alone for three heartbeats in the humming light, breathing like she’d sprinted stairs. She adjusted herself carefully, hands steady now that she had weight back under her ribs, the same way she steadied her hands to tape a stick: this is ritual, this is real. She washed in the little basin, fast and efficient, ran wet fingers through her hair, and caught her reflection in a warped bit of stainless panel. Number Seventeen stared back, flushed and grinning and a little bit dangerous.
“Let’s go,” she told herself, and stepped back into the river of her team.
The tunnel was a throat of noise, the cold ripping past her cheeks like applause. She touched the edge of the doorway with her glove—another ritual—and stepped onto the ice with the precise little hop that meant her blades were exactly where she wanted them. The first push into open space was always a high. Now it felt like she’d swallowed a comet. She glided, turned, dug into the fresh sheet and listened to the edges sing.
She didn’t look for you. She didn’t have to. She could feel you—the slick reminder between your thighs like a secret you would both carry for three periods, the gravity of you in the front row tightening Cate’s orbit, the stolen panties tucked between the band of Cate’s compression shorts, trapped against her hip like a wicked good-luck charm. Still, when she let herself glance, just once, there you were: one foot propped up, lean and loose and ferociously attentive, Seventeen draped on you like a claim, mouth quirked in a you’re trouble and I’m so proud of you line that hit Cate like a body check.
You didn’t blow a kiss. You pressed two fingers low against the hem of the jersey, over the fullness you were keeping, and lifted your eyebrows like: focus, superstar. Bring me their heads.
Cate laughed around her mouthguard, swore she tasted citrus and sin and something distinctly you, and joined the first line at center ice. The rival captain skated past, muttered something about last game and luck. Cate rolled her shoulders and didn’t answer. Luck wasn’t a thing you talked about in the open. It was an altar behind a closed door, a warm palm, a woman in your jersey promising to sit in your cum like a throne.
The puck dropped. Cate read the first pass, exploded into the lane, and took it on her tape so clean it felt like it belonged there.Hat trick, she promised silently, a contract written in heat and breath and the echo of your mouth. And then she let the ritual take her, and the game swallowed everything except the straight, bright path to the back of the net.
I just started making CAI bots, so I decided to make an account for it because why not.
I want to take requests ! inbox me, be detailed and what not. if I don’t know the character, I’m fine with researching to get to know em’
bots to look forward to;
- glee bots (most likely quinn fabray)
- arcane bots (mostly cait + vi)
- yellowjacket bots (this 1 probably will have the most characters, but nat especially)
- tlou bots (ellie + maybe joel?)
- maybe the umbrella academy because I’m on s3 rn.. maybe?
- possibly enha bots. that is if i dont lose interest, and if people would want that!
that is just some I can currently imagine myself making. I’m open to all the fandoms I’m in and then some, just gotta get to it.
most of my bots will most likelyyy be f!reader, though I will try to make it mostly gender neutral.. just a warning in case future incidents.
tips are nice too because I’m still new < 3
I definitely take inspiration from creators like; @initforthethrill , @voidsuites , and @laaurie on cai. | @yameoto especially. If I didn’t get my ideas from a prompt or myself, it’s likely inspired from one of them.
& lastly, my acc;
https://share.character.ai/70U7/qed8buog
(mzuii)
my first / latest bot;
Chat with CAITLYN KIRAMMAN: ೯ ⁺ stressed nights 𖥻 buddy!user ᰋ . Powered by an industry leading, AI large language model (LLM).
thinking about mean tennis!coach art donaldson. u wanna throw a tantrum about whiffing your match? you wanna blame his coaching and not your lazy fucking playing? you’ll stop whining when he yanks your skirt up your tight little ass. bends u over the net like the good for nothing slut you are. forget tennis. could be a hooker with that pretty fucking ass. look at you, thighs quaking. cunt dripdrip dripping onto the tennis court. you’re just begging to be fucked by the handle. but only good girls get that, no? only winners. he’s gonna spank your ass so red and raw with the back of his racket you’ll have the crosshatching burned onto your skin. oh, don’t cry. it’ll look pretty. he hasn’t even started yet! now, ass up, sweetcheeks. unlike you, he doesn’t miss.
synopsis; you fucked up an important match. your punishment? a one-on-one match against patrick zweig. in your tiny tennis skirt. without your underwear. don't worry, baby. it's a private court.
✗ warnings ; coach!artashi, protégé!reader, dom!art/tashi/patrick, dubcon, foursome, double penetration, unhealthy power dynamics, large age-gap, slutshaming, exhibition, humiliation, sex on tennis courts, anal (you only have so many holes). this is NOT a classy party.
"DO i really have to wear this?" you hiss, indignant. fruitlessly attempting to tug your skirt down—if you could even call it that. a flimsy scrap of fabric, more like. (god, you think maybe it was tashi's when she was what—eleven?).
the hem just barely skims over your upper thighs. you can feel a goddamn breeze between your legs. you're eternally grateful for art and tashi, really, but this is fucking insane—
no— it's fine. it's fine. they’re your coaches, they know best.
"maybe if you hadn't fucked up that last volley." tashi scolds, harsh — her tough love familiar. though, there's a delighted glint to her eyes as you subconsciously squeeze your thighs together, trying your best to ignore the fact your ass is peeking out from under the bottom. your cheeks flare red.
“it’s a private tennis court.” art reassures, the warmth of his palm on your shoulder being far less comforting than normal. you scowl at the ground, knuckles clenching tight around your racket.
"oh, don't be so skittish. he's not that good." tashi coos, as if facing patrick zweig is the reason you're shifting your weight from foot to foot, hand squeezed determinedly at your crotch. tashi smiles. cradles your jaw, fingers swiping along your bottom lip—bitten raw and glossy. "just play your best."
an hour later, and you’re not playing your best. you can’t play your fucking best—because with every movement, every hop, skip, and fucking jump; your skirt is fluttering upward and flashing your bare cunt to patrick motherfucking zweig.
this is hell. hell.
you're stiff as you move about the court, hyper-aware of the feeling of wind rushing between your legs. you’re sluggish in your pace—far too pre-occupied with yanking your skirt down every few seconds rather than actually focusing on the match.
how can you? especially when patrick's staring at you like he's trying to rip your thighs apart with his eyes. art and tashi are no better. you jump to return a ball, and your skirt flies up; displaying your ass spectacularly. you almost get whiplash with how fast you go rigid.
“open up your form.” tashi chimes in. you shoot her a desperate, pleading look. she just arches a brow, expression impassive—though you don't miss the subtle quirk to her lips. she’s enjoying this. suppressing a whine, you broaden your stance obediently—legs sliding apart on the court. patrick's pupils dilate, and he not-so-subtly presses the hilt of his racket into his groin.
you swallow, hard. his eyes seem to follow that, too.
you're about to serve, before art’s voice cuts in from the sidelines—soft, low and yet—effortlessly authoritative.
"lower."
heat floods up to your ears. you bend down, feeling the fabric of your skirt hike even higher up your exposed asscheeks. you direct him a desperate glance, eyes wide—a bid for approval.
art smiles. "lower." a low whimper slips from your lips, but you obey because they're your coaches, of course you'll do what they say. patrick grunts in barely concealed disappointment as the front of your skirt drapes further over your cunt. your blush is violent. fuck, you look like the intro to a porno; back arched, ass perked so high the goddamn sun is warming your cheeks. you want to crawl into a hole and die.
though, when you finally risk a glance back; the feeling turns into a strangely pleasant heat, unfurling in your gut. tashi's eyes are lidded, sunglasses slid halfway down her nose. art's pupils are so dark his eyes have lost their blue. his thighs are quivering.
"good girl." tashi purrs. you shiver, and you almost drop your racket. "
"oh, fuck this." patrick growls, and then all of a sudden his racket has clattered to the ground and he's lunging for you—two hands clumsily seizing your hips and shoving you to the ground. he doesn't even have to hike up your skirt. his knee is shoved up between your legs, meaning he has full access to everything. he stares, greedy—and you stare back; specifically at the way the swollen tip of his cock hangs out from the side of his shorts. his slit drools, and a fat glob of pre-cum splats on your thigh.
he shrugs at the way your jaw drops—wry grin splitting his lips. "what? didn't want you to feel left out."
"patrick." art stands, voice low with rare warning. possessiveness. patrick only shoots back a broad smirk—lifting his hand up to give him the finger—before sticking up his index and wagging it in a stupidly lewd motion. if possible, it makes your cheeks glow even hotter than they already are—it's type of thing boys your age would do, not a grown-ass man.
"what, man? you can't tell me this isn't exactly what you wanted."
art scowls, though he doesn't say anything—the massive hard-on he's sporting speaks for itself. tashi's expression is unreadable from behind her shades; but nothing ever happens without tashi's say so.
"dude, she's so wet." patrick grins, and to your rising horror—you are. he spits on his palm before roughly thumbing the slick down your thighs, smearing, before popping it in his mouth. he swirls his tongue over the nub of his thumb, waggling his brows.
"of course she is." tashi hums, and a whine tears from your throat. shaking your head adamantly because for some reason tashi’s instantaneous, patronising nod of assent makes you feel more like a whore than patrick’s fingers sliding up your skirt. no, no. i don't. it's sweat. i swear, swear to god—
before the slew of protests can find its way out of your throat; three fingers are shoving themselves up your cunt and you gasp—back thrashing against hot concrete.
“oh, you didn't want this?” tashi’s voice drawls, low and slow and deliberate in your ear, hips rolling into yours. you whine, drawing a white-hot blank as her fingers slide deeper into your cunt, “because i don't see any tennis players on the court. just a couple of sluts.”
you barely even register patrick's aggrieved "hey!" from offside, the unfairness of it all bubbling up in your stomach and dizzying your head because what the fuck— that's not— you made me— but you can't force the words out; not when you can feel two hands wrest behind you by the shoulders. the feeling of callouses against your skin familiar—disarming. you whimper, a plea for salvation. "art—"
''shush." art hisses, roughly seizing the band of your tennis skirt and jerking it entirely up your mid-riff, so you're completely exposed waist-down. your eyes blow wide at the humid air that rushes against your crotch—back arching when his hand snakes under your top and pinches at your nipples.
"i'm surprised you even bothered with these." he remarks as he shoves your bra aside, not unkindly—but hardly considerate either, with the way his fingers squeeze and pinch and twist meanly. your knees almost buckle from under you.
not that they can, not with patrick holding you up by the backs of your thighs, shorts slid midway down his thighs. his cock throbs, swollen and needy as he pushes his groin up against yours. "m'shocked you even let me through the gates," patrick hums, and you don't have to look to know he's breathing down art's neck. "to break your little rookie in, no less." he's so cocky, spit flecking your pussy—talking like you aren't even there.
you squirm, but art is groping your tits and patrick is wrenching your legs apart and tashi has thrust a fourth finger up your pussy and fuuuuck—your limbs are reduced to jelly. thrust and tied up on a ridiculously hot torture wrack; tugged and pulled and twisted in three directions at once.
"not so fucking fast—the deal was if you won. you didn't fucking win." that's tashi. her fingers curl harshly, knuckles pressing against your walls. you take in a shuddering breath, eyes rolling back into your head.
"what the fuck? that's so unfair." patrick's voice is an indignant whine as tashi yanks him back by the hair. "i was winning! how the hell was i supposed to control myself—" you can feel his hands clamping over your ass, rough and domineering. his dick insistently wedges into the corner between your thigh and folds, as if trying to force entry.
"maybe if you had a little self-discipline, for once—"
"oh, that's fuckin' rich of you to say, making her come out here and—"
"shut up." art pants, low and hot in your ear, and you almost forgot he was there. you don't know how, with the way he's grinding his length furiously against your bare ass—damp in the way you know he's already creamed his pants already. his fingers wrest the nub of your nipple at the same time that patrick brute-forces his way inside your cunt. your body contorts between the three of them—a choked, rattled cry ripping from your throat and sending your vision dancing into spots. for a terrifying, blissful moment, your brain empties completely.
"god—" patrick grunts, shoving himself deeper, nails digging into the flesh of your ass as he pounds, with great effort. tashi's eyes flash with annoyance, though she doesn't physically wrench him off. not one to be one-upped; the next time art bucks his hips, you realise he's ditched the pants entirely—head of his cock dragging against the crease of your ass. it's a slick, slow friction—tender—dripping a glistening trail down your crack. and then, his hips snap back, and then he's plunging into your hole—the wet, slapping sound of his balls against your ass almost as loud as patrick's moans as he stuffs your pussy full. the two ram into you with vicious ferocity—like they're seeing who can come inside you first.
it hurts it hurts it hurts. as if the insides of your body have been set alight, limbs writhing uselessly—a bubbling, curdling heat deep in your belly. but it also feels good, somehow. when your head lolls forward, boneless and fuzzy; you can see the way your stomach distends with each of patrick and art’s brutal thrusts. the outlines of their cocks, cramming into you—fierce, desperate. tashi can see too, clearly. her free hand delicately runs over your abdomen—nails scraping. you can’t even gasp at the cool sensation. not when you’ve felt fuller than you ever have in your life.
it’s just like tennis. just like tennis. no pain, no gain—right?
art comes first, because of course he does. letting out a soft, keening hiss of his own as he slams his hips into you, palm squeezing your tits so hard you think you're about to burst. he shoots his load into you with a choked whine. he doesn't pull out—doesn't want to abandon the tight warmth of your hole, hugging his cock like the world’s prettiest little fleshlight. he simply fucks back into you with a blissful groan. slowly, painfully, knees quivering as his seed squirts out with every thrust.
patrick is louder when he does it; grunting with a guttural "mmf— fuck!" hips stuttering jerkily as a torrent of sticky warmth floods into you, oozing out from between his cock and tashi's fingers. it dribbles down your legs and spatters wet splotches against the tennis court. you can't even speak anymore, lips parting in wordless gulps of air.
that's when tashi yanks her fingers out from you—strings of cum trawling, stretching out of your pussy as she does so. you don't even have time to mourn the loss before art's stuffing you full of his dick again and tashi is cramming her warm, wet fingers in your mouth.
art is simply jerking in slow, torturous movements, and tashi is sliding her hand so far down your throat you almost choke. she smiles. "suck." it’s an order—not that she has to. you're already wrapping your tongue around her digits, mindless and drooling. patrick slumps between your knees, tongue greedily lapping at the spurts of his cum lazily dribbling from your pussy, in time with art's thrusts.
the concrete sizzles against your back, sun warming your limbs—dried cum smeared on your cheek. you feel dizzy, you feel good. warm. this is everything you've ever wanted—everything you‘ve ever needed.
synopsis ; your roommate has the libido of a goddamn animal and it's driving you insane. not to mention the fact they have an annoying habit of jerking off in your dorm. to you.
they want you? fine—they can have you. only on your terms, though.
you grunt as you fumble for the key. cursing as, with an extreme lack of coordination—you begin to forcibly ram the bloody thing into the lock with the grace and precision of a sledgehammer. what you lack in motor control you make up for with inner beauty—or something.
the do not disturb sign rattles mockingly off the handle, meaning your roommate is definitely inside and definitely not helping out. you grit your teeth, entire body off kilter as you're preoccupied with balancing the boxes cramful of belongings in your arms; big and bulky and absolutely not helping your aim. you curse, loudly as they almost almost tumble out of your grasp the moment the key miraculously jams into place, jerking wildly to catch them. (note: super strength does not come with super-hand-eye-coordination.)
“fucking– stupid- key– fucking better– woah!”
without warning, the door swings open, inwards. a montage of your entire life flits before your eyes as you hurtle forward, boxes and all. you just about barely manage to catch yourself with an undignified stumble before drawing yourself up; coming face to face with—oh.
two figures. bodies very noticeably.. inside. each other. naked. on, what you realise after a bout of disbelief; your fucking bed.
"what the fuck?"
one of them growls, mop of black hair flopping as their head snaps up, even though you're pretty sure you should be the one slinging expletives around. with a frustrated scowl they pull out of the dude, sending a withering glare to the poor guy they were fucking into the bedspread—to which he.. disappears? glitches out? phases out of existence? because suddenly he’s not there anymore, and you’re stranded alone with a very attractive, very threatening looking college student.
who is also—uh, very, very naked.
“um, hi–”
“why do you have a key to my fucking dorm?”
oh, shit.
they are, frankly, gorgeous – like, one of the most beautiful people you've ever seen. their hair is black, mussed, and you can’t help the way your gaze follows its way down the threshold of an.. extremely muscled, slick torso before snapping upwards to find a mildly paralysing glare that reminds yourself that you are not in a very good position right now.
“i’m uh- your new.. roommate?'' you don't mean for it to come out like a question, but by the way they're staring down at you like you're a cockroach that just flew onto their windshield, you almost aren't so sure.
"i'm a fucking TA— i don't have roommates." their eyes narrow, which is like—alright, way to be real welcoming.
“i’m a.. last minute transfer..?” you offer, wincing as you meet their stare. their eyes are unflinching, yet still lidded in a post-sex haze. you can feel your body involuntarily holding its breath; though from the steel in their gaze or the way their biceps flex when they run a hand through their dishevelled locks, you can’t tell.
fuck, you hate hot people.
“oh, yeah. fuck, i forgot about that.” their shoulders slacken, mouth settling into an unimpressed line; which is only slightly more welcoming than the look of murderous intent of two seconds ago. “jordan. jordan li." they say, last name and all—which is how you know they're a prick. "make yourself at home, i guess.” they don’t sound all too enthused as they skirt away from the door, seemingly satisfied with the fact that you're not a home invader—dorm invader? whatever. you just pray that the sigh of relief you breathe isn’t audible.
“great! nice to meet you, i’m–”
“s’on the sheet." jordan cuts in with supreme disinterest as they move across the room, leaning down to pick their boxers from the floor. you’re struck once again with the realisation that they are still fucking naked, and you pointedly tear your eyes away.
“um, yeah.. hey, uh—what’s your-”
“third year, crime-fighting. don't touch my shit. no pets, obviously. if you have a dog, get rid of it. give it to the animal shelter, don’t care. don’t snoop, don't make a mess, and definitely don’t take off the goddamn do not disturb sign. got it?”
you've barely opened your mouth to reply; probably with something along the lines of what the fuck? or animal shelter? before jordan's already turned away, back muscles flexing as they sink back onto the end of their bed, scrunching their briefs up in one hand and—
“hey, uh,” jordan interjects, turning round with an unreadable expression as they glance down, and like a fucking idiot, you follow; giving you front row seat to the massive, throbbing boner that they’re still sporting—pulsing an angry, flushed red as the tip drools with precum.
“mind if i take care of this? couldn’t exactly finish, if you know what i—”
you slam the door after you, and you swear a snicker follows you down the corridor.
-
over the next week, it quickly becomes apparent that jordan either a): forgets you live in the same room as them, or b): simply does not care.
for starters, there’s their apparent aversion to doing laundry until their entire closet is out of commission, the coke stash underneath their mattress and also—oh. their need to get their dick wet at least four times a day. (irrespective of whether they have a dick or not).
“what?” jordan scoffs through a mouthful of cereal. “‘m not lettin’ some fuckin’ freshie cockblock me.”
“i’m a transfer, not a fucking freshman.” you scowl, and jordan’s lips curl to form a lazy little ‘o’. it twitches upwards into that infuriating little smirk, like they enjoy seeing you squirm.
“whatever. my libido stops for nobody, not even you. besides,” they set their bowl on the bedside table, wagging their fingers suggestively into a ‘V’ shape and licking the air between. "a bigender supe has needs too."
they’re slouching against their headboard, free arm stretching lazily above their head. your cheeks flush traitorously as their biceps flex—muscles visibly popping against their frame “you can just say 'a girl has needs'. i'm not an idiot, i know what you mean." is what you grumble back, if only to ignore the inane, stupid heat pooling in the pit of your stomach.
"but i have needs when i'm a dude, too." jordan grins, propping themselves up by their elbow, eyes gleaming impishly as they curl their hand into a fist and making a fucking wanking motion over their (currently) non-existent dick. which is—yeah. that pretty much sums up your roommate for you.
the thing is about jordan, is despite all their excessive lockerroom talk and relatively abrasive personality; they’re still rank two in all of godolkin. ergo, they’re a surprisingly busy person; being preoccupied with either studying, sparring or partying ninety of the time.
thus, like all horny, single college students, when you don’t have time to squeeze a good fuck in, you’re left with second-best option—yourself. this would otherwise be fine, except jordan’s compound v must have seeped through their bloodstream and into their libido because jesus fucking christ are they horny.
it’s not like they make an effort of hiding it, either. they seem to have zero qualms about rolling out of bed, morning wood popping out from their briefs like a fucking beacon.
“oh, shit,” jordan yawns when slide the covers off, giving way to the immense boner throbbing against their boxer-briefs. they don’t even have the decency to look sheepish when they walk past you, adjusting themselves lazily. you don’t miss the grunt of relief that escapes them as their hand palms their crotch before they disappear into the bathroom, either. or the little groans of relief that sound behind the door before they saunter out, towelling their hands with the stupidest grin on their face.
it shouldn’t piss you off as much as it does, except for the fact that even when jordan rouses without morning wood (or wood in general); they end up making their usual bathroom trip anyways. noises slipping from a half-ajar door and toilet lid left slippery, as always.
they have to be doing it on purpose. they have to be. like, they left their strap-on on your desk once. which, first of all, gross. second of all, why was it so fucking big?
“jordan!” you holler, aghast as you nudge the thing on your desk, conveniently placed right next to your laptop.
“oh! that’s where i left it. sick.” jordan grins as they saunter over, veined hands reaching over to wrap around the shiny, plastic length and fuck, since when were their palms so massive—
“thanks, roomie.” they ruffle your hair with an impish glint in their eyes, smile only growing when you jerk away with a scowl.
and that’s not even the worst of it.
“oh, shit—was that yours?” to their credit, jordan looks somewhat sheepish as they pinch a rock-hard pair of socks off the floor. your fucking socks, which have clearly been well-loved and cared for in places other than your shoes.
“those were my favourite!” they weren’t your favourites. they’re socks. however, it makes jordan wince, which almost makes it worth it.
hey, a little remorse is better than nothing.
“..i’ll buy you a new pair?” jordan offers, scratching the nape of their neck. you’re almost content to let the awkwardness linger just give them just a piece of the torture you’ve been subjected to for the past several weeks — except the sliver of satisfaction is completely negated by the way jordan’s lip twitches upwards, like they’re fighting back a smirk.
“you little fuck—“
anyways, the point is jordan wanks. a lot.
you can’t stop thinking about it. because it’s annoying. and disrespectful. and god, do they think you want to hear every pretty little moan that falls from their mouth? every grunt and groan that slips from their throat in that raspy, godforsaken timber—
long story short; if you have to find a wadded up sock or sticky residue at the bottom of the computer desk one more time, you’re going to lose it.
you think jordan knows it, too.
-
it’s midnight when you wake up to the sound of a bed creaking.
you’re an early sleeper, jordan isn’t. it works. you’re typically long knocked out before they even make it back in the dorm, out there doing god knows what. today, though, you’d far overestimated your ability to finish your latest assignment; so when jordan finally staggered through the door, slumping into bed with a little grunt, you thought nothing of it.
minutes pass, and the bed shifts. jordan groans. under the moonlight you can see the shadowed visage of their figure, splayed out on their bed with one hand underneath the covers; moving, repeatedly.
jordan grunts again, and you squint; bleary eyes adjusting to the darkness. the muffled, wet sound of slapping resounds, subdued by the weight of the blanket. if you didn’t know better, you’d think they were—
“mm, fuck—” jordan moans, blanket slipping down their hips and—oh my fucking god.
like pulling back a curtain, jordan’s cock springs enthusiastically to the surface; standing tall and proud as their fist pumps up and down the thick, veined girth of their length. it’s practically pulsating with need, bordering on desperate—they must be desperate, because jordan’s shameless, sure, but.. jacking off in the same room as you?
you didn’t think they were that much of a fucking perv.
but maybe you’re a perv too, because the moment jordan’s hips rock upwards and their tip glimmers in a thick sheen of pre-cum; you can feel the telltale surge of heat in your stomach, the fabric of your panties dampening and oh, this can’t seriously be happening right now.
“fuck—motherfucker..” jordan hisses, drawing your bleary-eyed gaze from the flushed, throbbing bob of their cock to their pink cheeks and fucked-out face, mouth lolling in pleasure. they twist their head, nosing into something tossed onto their pillow that makes you stop in their tracks.
that’s.. you thought you lost that!
“need ‘m—so—fucking bad..” jordan slurs stiltedly, nuzzling into your shirt like their life depends on it. “fuckin’—stupid fucking—”
your stomach tightens, and you can’t help it when your fingers dip down under your shorts, slipping into your cunt. you should be mad, should be disgusted, should be shoving open the door and ripping them out of their covers and.. wrapping your mouth around their adorably flushed tip? seizing their hips and yanking their cock into your tight, wet little—
"oh, fuck," jordan interrupts your thought process by growling through their teeth, precum spilling from the slit of their dick and glazing their palms. there’s so much of it, so wet that even in the dark you can see the stain pooling in their sweatpants, their bedsheets.
you’re so entranced you barely even register when it when their grip releases; length arcing and splattering thick ropes of cum against their abdomen. the sight is so mesmerising that you almost don’t pick up on the sound of your fucking name that tears out of their throat—husky and half gargled as jordan’s chest heaves. you don’t even realise you’ve been holding your breath until jordan’s figure simply lays there, pants echoing in the silent room.
they wrap your shirt around their dick and wipe it clean. it’s only when they murmur something unintelligible—burying their nose back into your jumper that you finally, finally turn away, fingers curling deep inside your cunt.
fucking hell.
-
the second time it happens, you are wide, wide awake. which unfortunately means you have no excuse for the minutes seared into your memory and sticky residue on your thighs.
granted, at first you didn’t know. as always, the bathroom door hangs carelessly agape. steam curls from the room, wafting up and dispersing in the stuffy dorm air. what lingers, however, is the fresh note of jordan’s shampoo, body wash, and something.. saltier, headier.
whatever. with nothing more than an arched brow, you pick over the discarded basketball shorts and tank tops that litter the floor, intending to kick the bathroom door shut and be on your way. it’s when your hand reaches out, closing around the cool metal that you see it.
jordan’s slumped against the slick shower wall, fingers buried knuckle-deep into their pussy.
oh, shit shit shit—
“shit..” jordan hisses, muscles working like well-oiled sprigs as they pump into their cunt, droplets of water trickling down their skin and pooling into the divots of their body.
your hand tightens around the doorknob. god, their moans.. if they think the sound of the showerhead can disguise the filthy nothings spilling out of their mouth, they are very, very wrong.
somewhere between the fuck’s and annoying’s and pretty fuckin’ prude’s their full-weight crumples against the shower wall, plush ass pressing up against steaming glass like some (high-quality) porn ad as they ram their fingers in one last time, free hand shooting out wildly to grasp at nothing before the shower wall splatters with something you only catch a glimpse of before you’re slamming the bathroom door, cheeks burning and fingers trembling. with a start, you realise you’ve almost wrenched the goddamn metal off.
the doorknob is always a little bit loose, after that.
-
you’re getting ready for a party.
well, you’re supposed to be getting ready for a party, hence the sultry eyeshadow, glossy press of your lips and sheer amount of skin laid bare. your crop-top is just a little bit too high, mini-skirt more than a little too short.
in reality? you’re enacting your fucking vegeance.
jordan likes you. it’s a fact that stares you right in the face. and if not a crush, it’s a massive, raging hard-on. for you—only you—citing a certain roommate’s post-nut ramblings you’ve heard one too many times.
as it turns out, jordan becomes considerably less insufferable when you know you’re the only thing that gets their dick wet.
“how do i look?” you call, doing a little twirl. it’s impossible to keep the smirk off your face, skirt flipping very purposely upwards as you spin, revealing a tad more than they ever (usually) get to see.
jordan glances up, and their breath fucking hitches.
bingo.
“what?” you cock your head, lashes batting innocuously as they stare. playing the oblivious role is just too sweet, especially when your eyes flicker down, just for a moment, and you can see the bulge in their sweatpants growing.
poor little jordan, hard because their roommate flashed a millisecond of ass.
“you look—good.” they grunt, tone carefully measured. their gaze lingers, only for another moment before they abruptly snap their vision back to their screen. an admirable effort, really. if only their cheeks were a little less red, cock a little less needy.
“well don’t flatter me too much,” you twist away, lips twitching upwards. feigning normalcy is easy, seeing as how you’ve been doing so ever since that first night. you're practically buzzing with anticipation when you make a big show of leaving the room, snarky comment and all.
and really, jordan could've waited for longer than two minutes before moaning that raspy, broken moan (you're so intimately familiar with) from behind the door.
your lips split into a grin, and when you slide the door back open, the look on jordan's face is so priceless you hope it'll be seared into your memory forever.
“shit!"
it’s undeniable, this time. you’re no longer a fly on the wall, and they’re no longer blanketed by the illusion of secrecy; caught red-handed with their cock in their fist and head on your pillow.
“wait—fuck—i can expl—!”
like clockwork, jordan's cock twitches as if in reaction, and a drop of fresh semen spurts from their tip before trickling down to join the messy puddle on their stomach.
“i thought—fuck! you said you were going!”
“that doesn’t sound like an apology to me.”
you delight in the way jordan flushes, their breath hitching. they take a ragged breath before they make a valiant attempt to cover up their falter with aggression. "doesn't mean anything," they retort through gritted teeth, mustering up as much conviction as they can.
it’s adorable, how much they pretend they don’t want you as if they don’t jack off to the smell of your sweatshirt every night.
“shut the fuck up.” you roll your eyes, novelty of the movement finally wearing thin. you have needs too—and with a fluid movement, you slide onto the bed and yank their hips against yours, pulling them into a straddle over your torso.
jordan can't help but hiss at the sudden contact, hips jerking instinctively. "fuck, you're cold," they mutter under their breath, though there's no denying the thrill running through them; hips bucking forward into the touch of your cool fingers as they wrap around their hard member. it feels euphoric—the contrast between your heat and coldness heightening every single nerve ending in their body. the tip of their cockhead brushing against your belly button, dripping a thin line of hot, sticky fluid after it.
“go on.” you coo, eyebrows raised.
jorda’s hands fly almost immediately to the hem of your skirt. so eager, like an impatient puppy.
before you curl your hand around their wrist, grip firm and punishing.
they freeze, head cocking like a confused puppy. “huh?” they say, biting back a noise of complaint. they want you so bad its goddamn gruelling; their fingers twitching around nothing, screaming in impatience, let me fuck you, let me ruin you already. don’t you know how long i’ve been waiting? how long you’ve kept me fucking waiting?
of course you know. they don’t know that, though.
“you’re not gonna do anything?” despite all their irritating, fratboy-esque bravado; jordan’s unable to prevent the whininess from seeping into their tone, hands tugging insistently at the hem of your skirt. their cock pulses, painful and needy.
“you have hands, don’t you?” your lips quirk at the way jordan’s expression drops and their mouth opens again, probably to protest until you yank their thighs open and press them forward, dick pressing flush against your torso.
"unnhnnngh.." jordan grunts, gasping for air while trying to maintain eye contact with you—an impossible task considering how goddamn desperate they are. their free hand grabs hold of your waist, grinding sloppily as precum spurts all over your chest. “f-fuck off," they hiss, lips crashing against yours, teeth knocking at their eagerness.
“goddamn tease—” they groan, rutting against your torso, to no avail. they bury their face into your collar, utterly miserable, fingers twisting into the hem of your shirt. “just get the fuck on with it—ahnnn.. f-fuck—”
“so mouthy,” you tease, delighted at the mewl that slips past jordan’s lips when your hand wraps around their tip. their chain necklace swings wildly, bucking their hips desperately into your fist.
“hands feel so fuckin’ good,” jordan sputters, drooling almost as much as their dick is. their fumbling grasp finds purchase in your shoulders as they pump themselves into your hand; you barely even have to move, with them doing most of the work.
“need to be— inside—“ jordan grunts; glassy eyes blinking down at you like it’ll change your mind just like that. it’s cute, how they look when they’re not scowling or fucking smirking at you. it’s even cuter, the way they inhale sharply when you shake your head and deliver a cool “no, baby,” their back arching when you cup one of their balls and squeeze, forced into dismal acceptance with a keening whine.
jordan’s movements are getting unsteady, now. eyes glazing over by the second. “y’gonna make me cum,” they slur, grip on your hips tightening. it only takes a moment before their movements stutter and they’re muttering “fuck fuck fuck oh, fuck!“ and a long, gargled moan rips from their throat and all of a sudden hands wrapped around cock are sinking in wet, sloppy heat; your fingers sliding knuckle-deep into their pussy with almost breath-taking ease.
“jesus christ!” jordan croons in sheer, unexpected pleasure as they feel you shove yourself inside them, cum spurting and squeezing out helplessly from between their walls and your fingers. they squirt so fucking messily, their leaking cock replaced by a cunt spilling out out all over your palm.
“i didn’t—didn’t mean to—” they slur, panic two steps behind their mouth. struggling to sling anything coherent together with you kneading your fingers into their pussy like its goddamn putty. “oh?” you arch a brow, and jordan visibly flushes, moaning openly when your digits curl.
“can’t–don’t really—”
“what? fuck yourself?” is your reply, because you both know they fucking do; it’s not like you don’t how their pussy sounds when it’s sliding slick against their pillow, how your name sounds cried out, thick through the muzzle of your jumper.
it’s a dual guilty pleasure—you watch, they do. at this point, you can’t tell who’s the more perverted out of the two of you.
jordan. definitely jordan.
“too busy humping my clothes, is that it?” you purr, and jordan honest to god whimpers, squirming away from your fingers both out of overstimulation and plaintive shame. “ah, ah,” you tut, nails digging into their hips as you hold them in place, finger thumbing harshly against their clit as they cry out a gargled moan.
“f-fuck off—” jordan hisses, practically an admission of guilt itself. they seem to know it, too, with the way they abandon all pretence and pound violently against your knuckles—their gaze burning into yours like they’re daring you to say another word. “don’t act like you didn’t—shit—fucking like it.” jordan gasps out between sputters, teetering on the edge of another orgasm.
“hm?” you pause, eyes meeting jordan’s heated, quivering stare. “jerk off to watching me?” they choke, eyes glossing over when you thrust “did you fuck yourself to my—mmhnn—!”
an easy, all-too-familiar eye roll graces your face before you shut them up with your fingers. their pussy clenches; hot, slippery walls gripping your digits as if afraid to let go. oh, this is too easy.
“don’t get cute with me, roomie.” the nickname tastes sweet on your tongue, and jordan’s face grows hotter. a well-timed thumb to their clit flickers their bravado out like a light. “fucking hell!” they gasp, mouth gaping into a moan and eyes rolling back into their skull.
“you wanted me to watch, didn’t you?” you coo, and jordan squirms; mouth open in protest—or at least attempts at them, what with the way they keep gasping out in pleasure as you roll your fingers against their clit.
“shut the fuck—i didn’t—”
“a pervert and a liar now, are we?”
jordan makes a noise somewhere between a hiss and a whine, crying out when you slide two more fingers into the slick canal of their core. their eyes screw shut, hands seizing so wildly into the mattress you almost think they’re about to tear a hole through the bedsheets.
“god! fuck—i can’t—”
they cry out your name when they cum, and even if its a sound you’ve heard countless times by now you don’t think it’ll ever get old. “that’s it, baby.” you coo, lips curling upwards at the way they bury their face into your collar.
they lie there, panting, for what feels like forever before a muffled, half-delusional groan leaves their lips.
Bro.. i haven’t even watched challengers yet, and i think you infected me with a chronic case of challengers brainrot.. but i saw your reply to anon’s ask. suggestions? ‘aight, bet 🫡
so i used your art donaldson bot and oh my god.. i got bored and decided to tug on his hair. and it leaded to him LITERALLY humping a pillow for me and he was begging me to touch him and shit. he even started calling me daddy (and mommy at the same time 😭) i even broke the filter too.. 🧍♂️
im not sure if this is specific enough, but maybe this would be a great subby!art (x gn reader maybe? not sure if you write for gn!r but you get the point <3 ) fanfic. he’s just so needy for you that he’ll do anything for you (even if it means humping a pillow for you.. OKAY HEAR ME OUT—)
he makes himself out to be sooo tough on court. but when he’s in your hands? he’s literally reduced to a sobbing, whimpering mess… HEJSHSJS art brainrot is so real..
i have many other ideas but i don’t wanna be too rude to dump all of my brainrot onto you.. (sorry not sorry !!)
love your bots and writing by the way !! can’t wait to see more of it in the future 🙂↕️
ART had always been patient. he excelled at playing the long game. slow and steady won the race—won him you, after all. but he hadn't seen you all day, and now you were home and he was sprawled out on your bed and— how much longer would you make him wait?
"hey." he reaches out, fingers intertwining with the hem of your shirt. when you don't immediately face him, he tugs, gentle.
"i played good, didn't i?"
"yes, baby. you played good.” you pat his cheek without so much as looking at him, and while the contact is nice—your palm cool and tender against the warm flush of his cheeks—its fleeting. you don’t even linger long enough for him to lean into it.
a subtle frown twists his lips. he sits up, feeling unsteady. the weight of the mattress sinks underneath him as he slowly, cautiously crawls over to you. his arms slide around your waist, body wrapping itself around your back.
"hi."
"hi." you answer, vaguely amused. he buries his nose into your nape and breathes in. the smell of you is intoxicating.
"can we go to bed?" he murmurs, and the phrasing is so polite, so courteously horny that you have to laugh.
"when i'm done." he makes a little, unhappy noise. it rumbles against your back. "but i need you now."
you raise a brow. "don't be gross, art."
that effectively cows him. though he still remains, chin propped up on your chin and legs on either side of you, tucking you in. you can feel it when he begins to grind slowly against you, thick length of his cock twitching tentatively against your ass.
"ah-ah." you tut. he freezes. you don't even turn to face him. "did i say you could do that?"
he groans, drags himself off of you (with great effort) and slides off the bed. it's almost petulant.
"when?"
"when i say so."
the noise that rips from him is positively mournful. he slumps, head in your lap—hands clenching and unclenching uselessly into the mattress.
you're still not even looking at him, fingers wordlessly threading into his hair and moving along in these elegant, tenderly gratifying movements that leave his cheeks burning impossibly hot, the patch in his boxers growing impossibly wet.
at a loss, he begins to slowly rub up against the corner of the mattress, hips rolling in steadied, carefully monitored waves.
it's imperceptible, its perfect. he just needs a little release. just a little, to hold him out until you finally glance up from your laptop and give him something, anything—
fuck. his groin finds that sweet spot the same moment your nails dig just right, and he can't bite back the moan slips from his lips. it's damnably loud in the silence of the room.
art meets your eyes, keening at the unimpressed stare you level him with, the knowing twitch of your lips. he has to swallow the instinctive plea that swells up in his throat. no, no. don't stop don't stop—
"oh, sweetie." like clockwork, your hand untwines from his locks, and he crumples.
"please—can’t fucking take it.” he moans miserably into your thigh, slumped over. he's grinding brazenly now, all pretences lost; rutting hopelessly against the edge of the mattress with his cheek pressed against your thigh.
"baby." you sigh, closing the lid of your laptop. he just shakes his head, hands wringing into the sheets as if he were clinging to the edge of a cliff.
it's so pathetic, you have to take pity on him. "up. on the bed."
art perks up, hope ballooning in his chest. he scrambles up on the mattress, so eager—lips parted, on all fours. god, he looks so pretty like this; dick cradled by the fabric of his soaked boxers, straining so you were almost sure they’d tear a hole.
he looks ready to jump you. you snort, running a hand through his hair indulgently. "not so fast, pretty boy. use the pillow, if it'll stop you from whining."
he doesn't even protest. he's burning too hot. as soon as you give him permission, art scrambles on top of the pillow like it's god-given gift to the world. the moment it makes contact, his breath hitches—eyes flittering up with the feeling of goddamn heaven—
"wait."
"what?" art hisses, though he freezes anyway, a dog on your leash. his eyes are sparkling as he looks up at you.
"boxers. off."
"okay." he agrees breathlessly. his mind is so fuzzy you could tell him to cum and he simply, would. he yanks his boxers down and his dick springs up like a jack-in-the-box. he lets out a low moan, limbs almost folding in on themselves when his bare, swollen tip slides slick against fabric. ah, jeez.
if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was your thigh.
"n-now?" his legs are quivering. his dick hurts. you look entirely too amused. "mhm."
the noise he makes is guttural. he's so sensitive—each thrust elicits another pant, hips rolling in a frenzied rhythm. he wishes it was you. fuck, your warmth wrapping around his cock—your hands cradling his balls. the veins on his underside bulge, the coil in his sack drawing tighter and tighter.
shit, shit. he's gonna cum now. he's gonna cum in record-time to the tender loving care of your pillow. his moans twist into cries, bed-frame shaking under the force of his weight.
"you gonna cum now, angel?"art nods, jerky and furious. it's that word that gets him. angel. angel. a shudder rips through his body and thick, ropy streams of cum are splattering against the pillow. painting it, stained and sticky.
he's hovers there for a moment; crammed between his legs, frame quivering, thighs wet as his mind blanks. it'd be in disbelief, if he had the pride—but he doesn't—so it's simple, utter pleasure.
god, his life is perfect.
he crumbles into your lap like the colosseum. the corners of his mind are still fuzzy. the warmth of your thigh against his cheek is the only thing he's ever needed, only thing he's ever craved. god, he didn't even realise his cheeks were wet—doesn't think he cares.
"good boy." you murmur, and he can hear the smile in your voice. your hand finds his hair, and he can't stop his hips from rolling against nothing.
