Pinned
baby art :((( baby art so pathetic crying with his face buried in your stomach after an argument :((( he insists on lifting your shirt up because he wants to feel how warm you are, wants to smell how good and sweet you always smell :((( it’s not really his fault that he started feeling a little dizzy when you cooed at him, when you started running your hands through his curls and telling him it’s all okay, how much you love him. the kissing was just meant to be an apology, and he wasn’t going lower every one! you’re just seeing things, feeling things. maybe, just maybe, you weren’t seeing things when he started mouthing at your warm cunt through your shorts, his eyes still a little wet, whines leaving his mouth.
he still pissed you off though.
he pissed you off enough to make you say no when he asked to make it up to you, he pissed you off enough to leave you watching him, petting his hair while he tried to memorize the feeling of damp cotton in his mouth. he was going at it like he’d start to taste you at some point, burying his nose against you to try and quell the ache in his boxers. he just kept at it — his hips rocking into your bed and his hands kneading the skin of your thighs, the dull swipe of his tongue through layers of fabric leaving you less than impressed, him more than desperate.
he cums just like that, begging for you to let him taste you, his spit pooling on the fabric and his chin — what’s worse is that he has the audacity to ask if you came too.
he’s trying, for you. he’s trying to stop picking all the fights he does, he’s trying to leave your brother alone, he’s trying stay out of trouble. you don’t like when he gets all… how he gets. you like when he’s sweet and soft, all wrapped up in your sheets, telling you about what he wants to be when he grows up, if he grows up. none of that matters, really. you’d stand in the same place for years if it meant standing with him. he knows he’s holding you back from whatever you can be, but you don’t want to be anything if you can’t be with him.
hi i want to finger dilf!art is that acceptable
like just a little bit just a little tiny bit. like put a thumb in it while blowing him. maybe like two fingers while blowing him. maybe it all sort of becomes about the fingers and if you can make him cum without even touching his dick (you can). and he’s so embarrassed that he liked it so much but he also wants to beg you to do it again and again and again until he can’t think. and he feels like he’s gonna cry and he’s holding your wrist so you don’t pull them out yet. okay thank you okay bye
Reblogged
Anonymous asked:
art who’s easily embarrassed in bed so you have to encourage him to say things directly…. you’re close to what? where do you want me to touch you? what do you want me to do to you? how does it feel? say it. say you’re about to fucking come. come on, blondie, you’re being such a nasty boy, doing such nasty things, and you can’t even say them out loud :(((
talking HIM through it. absolutely, i’ve always thought this too. he needs guidance in every aspect of his life, especially in bed, he’s viciously codependent ok he doesn’t want to do certain things unless you’re there to help him out
so when he’s thrusting into you, arms shaking and chest heaving, you have to hold his face up and tell him exactly what to say.
“are you close, art?”
“you need to say it then.”
“say it clearly, i can’t hear you, baby..”
“god, you’re a complete mess.. you’re drooling.. feels so good, doesn’t it? tell me how it feels being so deep inside me..”
“oh? it’s too much? youre gonna finish just like this? hah.. not until you tell me exactly how filthy you are..”
“ah, ah, ah.. i told you no, didn’t i? slow those hips, thaaat’s it, nice and slow.. now talk to me or ill force you to pull out.”
“you’re a dirty boy” and “so fucked-out that you can hardly speak” and “speak up a little, blondie, i have no idea what you’re saying” and “awh, artie.. seriously? i said no. now apologize for dumping your load in me without permission..”
he definitely only manages to moan and slur out incoherent phrases as his eyes cross and his lashes flutter. hips stuttering and arousal throbbing.. yea
(18+) milf!tashi and dilf!art sharing younger reader.
they worship your body with their hands and their lips and their teeth like you’re their first taste of sustenance. tash kisses up the nape of your neck while she pushes art’s head down to urge him to start licking at your warmth. she laughs into your skin when you jolt and reach back to grab her forearm, feeling art’s wet mouth engulf you completely as he hollows his cheeks around your sensitive parts. the blonde moans into your flesh and holds your thighs steady as he flicks his tongue, and tashi moves around to your front to ease you down into the cold sheets. she smirks and strokes your face.
“open up for me, honey,” she murmurs, in a tone that’s softer than you’ve ever heard from her before. you’re not sure why tonight is different, but it is. they can’t seem to keep themselves away from you.
and it’s easy to comply when she’s all you see; warm brown eyes and pretty bobbed hair. it also certainly helps that art’s drooling and suckling at you like you’re made of caramelized sugar. it melts you from the inside-out.
she waits until your head is laid flat on the bedding, and then she’s adjusting the purple strap that bobs above your nose. her gentle touch moves to angle the rubbery length down towards your parted lips. her own do the same when she watches the way you start to lap at the tip.
you do it like a pro because you’ve done this before—you’ve let them play with your body until your brain is clotted with breath-stealing pleasure and heavy amounts of praise. they both give it to you so willingly; always. they’re good at it.
she rocks her hips and lovingly forces you to take the inches down your tight throat. art humps the mattress underneath him to the same rhythm and begins to slide two fingers into your entrance, curling them repeatedly to dig into that special spot and tear whimpers from your chest. the woman above you only pauses her grinding pelvis to wipe away the tears of exertion that cling to your lashes. you see a flash of metal, her wedding band, and then you suddenly become aware of the fact that you can also feel art’s.. coated in your abundant slick and rubbing your walls as he fingers you relentlessly.
“that’s it.. you take us so well..” she croons.
and you do, coming with a muffled cry around the silicone and filling art’s mouth with your gratitude.
they like you best like that, anyways.
eva i posted this fic a while ago... would it be safe to assume that our brainchild from today is its prequel
ava i would say this is absolutely the prequel to our brainchild…. even if i didn’t think it was you’ve done the heavy lifting you reserve the right to make these decisions. take a front seat to raising our baby per se…
mine and @tacobacoyeet’s brain child… maybe more to come bot wise… fiancé!patrick…… husband…. patrick…
Reblogged
jitters and the vibe | patrick zweig x reader
a/n: inspiration struck while i was driving, so a short and sweet little thing i typed over the course of 30 minutes between stoplights for the queen, @tashism! i hope this is okay! also, title will be changing lol
warnings: alcohol mention, hastily written, not proofread!
The first time Patrick Zweig says the word "fiancée," he says it into your neck.
Softly. Like a question. Like he’s still learning the shape of it.
You're sitting on the floor of your apartment, surrounded by swatches of linen napkins and Tashi's ruthlessly detailed planning binder. Your knees are tucked to your chest, your face flushed from wine that’s long gone warm—abandoned, forgotten, like everything that isn’t him.
Reblogged
rose-colored glasses (or the lack thereof)
In retrospect, his mother buying the garden should have been a point of concern. At the time you and Patrick had chalked it up to some sort of pre-emptive mid-life crisis. Not a brash or wild purchase like you'd expect, but large and lavish enough that it felt logical to group into the category anyway. And frankly, both of you were too enamored with this new space in the Zweig's summer home to really question the randomness of it's appearance.
It would have been a waste of time to worry about it then too. The academy took Patrick for most of the year, but his summers were always yours. Split between time at your homes in the city and wandering the acres of the summer house. There was no time to question the garden, not in the excitement of spending time with Patrick. The garden became a new adventure, a point of excitement in it's own right.
You two would wake up and bring your breakfast out there. Eating by the bushes, and later requesting to have all your other meals outside too. You'd walk around and play childish games you had yet to out grow. Sometimes read a book or just talk. It felt like the garden was a never ending entity, always with something new bud to capture your interest.
You never touched the flowers, rather enjoying the thought of you peacefully coexisting alongside each other and partially afraid of what Mrs. Zweig would say if she saw. Not that Patrick cared about any possible reaction his mother would have or the natural peace of the garden. He took to plucking any bud within arm reach.
Snagging flowers as you walked by a bush, plucking off bundles at a time. Begging to be picked, he'd smirk, pushing the flowers into your hands. Haphazardly made bouquets, if you could even call it that. It'd fluster you, endearing in it's own way, as long as it wasn't the roses.
They were the prettiest of the bunch, both in look and smell. A unexpectedly warm scent with a hint of sweetness reminiscent of the heady earthiness of cloves or myrrh. It'd wash over you anytime you were close to the large bush, drawing your gaze to the pastel blooms.
You'd run your fingers over the edge of the flower, pressing down against the the thin silky petals, as Patrick grabbed at the stem to pull them off. HIs brows would furrow the minute his fingers pressed against a thorn, but it stopped nothing. Only tightening his grip to properly pull the flower from the bush.
When he'd hand you the bud, you'd see the little prickles pushed into his thumb. Still grinning carelessly, as he insisted you take the flowers, you'd instead try picking out the thorn. He'd tell you not to worry and you'd scoff until you'd coax the small barb from where it was nestled in his skin. Wrap a band-aid around it for good measure, and watch it come loose in the span of couple hours.
It happen over and over again, him plucking the flower and you removing the thorns. An inevitable part of your time in the garden. Leaving you with more roses than any one person could need and having seen too many thorns pricked with his blood.
It's what you remember most about that summer. More than the garden or the sun, it was defined by that rose bush. Looking back, you and Patrick had settled into the roles you'd always play for the other that year.
Not that you realized it then (another gift of hindsight).