Curate, connect, and discover
đđ Art Donaldson x fem!reader
cw: smut, cheating, tiny small very little mention of aftercare, rushed, minors dni!
an: have yet to watch challengers so bear w me until i do watch it..seeing it thursday..this is kind of bad since i donât really have experience writing smut but mike faist is so back and also so fine. i had to!! also kind of rushed
Art consumed every inch of your mind. how could he not? he was perfect. everything about him was. the way every glance made you nervous, and every hit he made with his racket captivated you. consumed.
but it was wrong. so wrong. he was married to Tashi Duncan. you felt jealous whenever you saw them together at dinner parties or whenever he would call her after your practice sessions with him ended. yet you often felt guilty for the feelings you had for him.
but the moment he began taking off your top, guilt and jealousy faded, completely washing over you.
he was a rough kisserâ which you didnât mind. your kiss was nasty, rough, and oddly sweet. his tongue was in your mouth and you swear you can hear a moan coming from him.
he stopped to take his white polo off, and you helped.
he wasted no time getting the rest of your clothes off after that.
Art pulls his shorts off before turning around to face you,
âdonât have any condoms,â
âpill.â you respond. he nods, spitting into his hand and using it to stroke his dick.
âfuck.â he grunts out. youâre on the edge of the bed, on your knees and looking up at him.
âturn around,â he orders. you nod.
youâre grabbed by the hips and moved back towards him. he has his hands on your ass as he runs the tip of his dick over your slit a few times.
âArt, please.â you whisper. he begins fucking into you slowly. moans fill the room, and itâs not only you.
you turn around and heâs a messâyou can tell. heâs moaning curses out, and when you look back at him he canât help himself. your tight cunt and pretty face is all he needs to cum, he thinks.
ââm gonna cum,â he says almost frantically.
âArt, baby, hold it. Fâme?â you say in between quick breaths.
heâs looking at you now, and he nods.
âArt,â
he nods again.
âNot gonna cum,â he whispers.
âNo, no, no. Here,â you say pulling yourself off of him. a small breathless whimpers comes out from him.
grabbing his arm, you coax him to the bed. once heâs sitting you climb into his lap, sinking onto his cock.
âholy fuck, mâgonna cum. i canât.â he says shaking his head, you havenât even started.
his face is red, and he has his arms wrapped around you. he shakes his head again.
âfuck..fuck..fuck. can i cum? please, please..â he burrows his head into the crook of your neck.
your fingers intertwine with his hair, pulling it slightly. itâs all too much for the poor boy, and heâs jerks once before you feel him finish inside you.
he takes a few deep breathes.
youâre not done yet, you keep fucking him. teary eyed he throws his head back. you wrap your hands around his neck. he kisses you. heâs moaning the sluttiest moans in your mouth youâve ever heard. the pace picks up and soon youâre coming all over his cock. you lift yourself off while the cum drips out of you, landing all over his thighs.
he rubs a hand in his hair and leans back onto the bed.
âshower?â you ask quietly.
Art sits up and nods.
âyeah, thatâd be nice.â he smiles.
Hi! Would u mind doing NSFW J for art? Congratulationssss :)
of course i donât mind!!! thank you so much for sending in a request lovely lovely anon (ËśË áľ ËËś)
warnings: explicit sexual content, masturbation (male), edging, pillow humping, praise kink (self-praise), voyeuristic habits, whimpering, slightly messy cleanup, soft post-nut feelings, lonely undertones, emotionally charged self-touch, ambiguous sexuality
tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna
Artâs dorm bed creaks like itâs remembering something every time he moves. Too narrow, too warm, too full of his own goddamn thoughts. He keeps the overhead light off even when the sun starts going downâlets the room stay honey-dim, just amber lamplight slanting in from the hallway under the door. Itâs not about shame. Not really. He just needs quiet. Control. A kind of ritual.
His jeans are already halfway down his thighs when he shuffles under the covers, his skin still hot from the cheap dorm shower. Hair damp at the temples, T-shirt clinging to his back, everything about him soft and flushed from the heat. He moves slow. Always slow. This isnât a raceânever is. Art likes to feel it. Draw it out. Drag himself toward the edge and back again until heâs panting into his pillow, hips twitching, legs stiff and useless from holding tension too long.
Tonight, heâs hard before he even touches himself.
Thereâs a folded towel under the top pillow alreadyâhe keeps one ready like itâs part of the process. His cock slips between the two stacked pillows, one on top of the other, and he shudders the second his hips dip forward. His thighs tense. His hands grip the mattress tight on either side of his hips, knuckles pale. He rocks forward gently, just enough to feel friction. Itâs hot. Just warm enough. The cotton cover a little scratchy against the head of his cock, but he likes it. Likes that it feels like something. Likes the resistance.
âFffuckâŚâ he breathes into the mattress, voice shaky. His lips are pressed to the sheets, parted, drooling a little. âShit, thatâs⌠fuck, thatâs goodââ
It starts slow, like it always does. A grind, a little rut, just testing. His cock drags along the inside seam of the pillowcase, catching on the soft patch of fabric near the tag. He breathes in through his nose, moans out through his mouth. Quiet at first. Then breathier. Higher. Little whines pushing up into the dark as his hips start to stutter.
âHnnn, fuckfuckfuck, mmnghââ
He doesnât even need porn, not always. But sometimesâwhen he really needs itâhe drags out the old laptop, the one with the weird fan whirring in the corner. Balances it on the floor, tilted up just enough to see two men fucking slow, messy, close. Intimate. He watches with his cheek squished into the pillow, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slack. His hips keep moving. Thrusting soft and rhythmic like heâs syncing up with the guys onscreen. When one of them moans, Art moans with him. Like heâs there.
But most nights, itâs just his voice he listens to.
âGood boy,â he whispers. A breathless mantra. âGood boy, good boy, goodâfuckâgood boy, yeahâŚâ
His voice lifts when he says it, like heâs outside himself, trying to believe it. Trying to be it. High and hushed and wrecked, the kind of sound you only make when youâre alone. He says it more when his cock starts to twitch, when his thighs start to cramp and his breath catches at the top of his chest.
âYouâre doing so good, Artie. So good, fffâfuck, such a good boy, keep going, donât stop, donât stopââ
Sometimes he teases himself. Stroking slow, stopping before the edge, pulling back to pant into the sheets until the tight coil in his gut eases again. Then he starts over. Heâll do it four, even five times before he lets himself tip over. He doesnât care how long it takes. Time disappears when heâs like this. He can spend an hour grinding between pillows, thighs slick with sweat, pillowcase dark with precum. He gets wet when heâs worked upâsoaked head, sticky shaft, every movement a slick glide that makes his toes curl.
When he gets close, his body tenses like a wire drawn taut. Breath quick and high and fluttering. His hips lose rhythm. He ruts up once, twice, three times hard into the pillows, groaning like heâs splitting apart. The last stroke always knocks something looseâhis voice goes thin and pitchy, whispering a broken, âGânna come, gonnaâgonna fuckinââfuuuckââ just as he spills.
His orgasm hits with a full-body jerk, thighs clamping tight, heels digging into the mattress. He whines, loud, into the pillow. Something between a gasp and a sob. All air and relief. The kind of sound no oneâs ever supposed to hear.
He goes still after. Just for a minute. Face mashed into the towel, arms loose, cock still twitching between his thighs. His breath puffs out slow and uneven. He doesnât move, not yet. Lets it all cool around him. He sleeps best after coming like that. Real sleep. Deep and quiet. Sometimes he doesnât even bother getting upâjust slides the pillows away, rolls onto his side, and sighs. A soft, dreamy sound. His face pressed to the mattress, fingers curled loosely under his chin like a kid.
When he does clean up, itâs gentle. Quiet. He pads to the sink with the towel bundled against his bare stomach, rinses it out under warm water, never cold. Folds it again like heâs making a hospital corner. He wipes himself down with a wet washcloth, tip still sensitive, hips twitching if heâs too quick. He doesnât rush. Even now. Still a little dazed, cheeks pink, lips wet from mouthing into the sheets.
He never talks after. Doesnât need to. Just hums under his breath as he sinks back into the bed. Bare chest, boxer briefs pulled back on. Sheets cool now. Arms tucked around a pillow. He sleeps like heâs been heldâsoft and small and vulnerable. Face buried, breath even, lashes dark against his cheek.
No dreams. Just calm.
Art Donaldson doesnât fuck himself to forget. He does it to feel good. To feel loved, even if itâs just his voice saying it.
Even if no one hears him whisper, âgood boyâ into the dark.
referring to your alphabet challenge, can you please write nsfw o for patrick zweig? thank u angel
i like the way u think anon đââď¸đââď¸ of course i can
pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader / vulva-bodied!reader
warnings: explicit sexual content, morning sex, cunnilingus, excessive oral fixation (receiving), beard soaked in slick, hair pulling, sleep/groggy sex (fully consensual), post-orgasm intimacy, sensory detail overload, language
tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @idyllicdaydreams, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist
Mornings with Patrick Zweig arenât quiet, but theyâre soft. Golden. His version of peace doesnât come in silenceâit comes in warmth. In his arm draped heavy around your waist. In the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, his breath a slow rhythm warming the back of your neck. He sleeps shirtless, always has, skin sun-warmed and smooth except for the scatter of hair across his chest. And when he wakes, itâs never all at once.
He stirs like heâs reluctant to leave the dream. Groggy. Gravel-voiced. His thigh slides between yours, and his palm finds your stomach, pulling you in closer with a low, sleepy groan like gravityâs trying to keep you pressed together. He doesnât speak for a while. Just breathes you in, his nose buried behind your ear, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder.
And thenâeventuallyâthereâs that question, mumbled like a secret between lovers. âCan I do somethinâ, baby? Please?â
He doesnât wait for full sentencesâhe doesnât need them. The nod of your head, the soft arch of your back, the slow parting of your thighs in sleepy consent is all the answer he needs. And Patrick moves like heâs done this a hundred times before. Because he has. And still? It never loses its magic for him.
He turns you onto your back like youâre precious cargo. Reverent. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, lashes thick, that mussed mess of dark curls sticking in every direction. His beardâs grown in more latelyâhe doesnât always shave on off-daysâand itâs scratchy-soft against your inner thighs by the time he gets there, mouth trailing slow, open kisses down your body like every inch of youâs worth his full attention.
And you are. To him, you always are.
Your fingers find his hair like itâs second nature, threading through the sleep-warmed curls, and when you tugâjust a little, testing, grounding yourselfâhe groans low and deep, his mouth still pressed to the soft skin of your stomach.
Then he laughs. Quiet, warm, wrecked. âChrist.â Itâs whispered more to himself than to you, a gravel-rich hum before he noses between your thighs. âThis pussyâs made for me.â
It doesnât sound like a line. Itâs not smug. Itâs reverent. Like heâs reminding himself. And then? No more words. Patrick doesnât waste time talking once heâs down thereâheâd rather use his mouth for something far more important.
He kisses the crease of your thigh first. Then the other. His hands are steady on your hips, palms big and grounding as he pushes your legs further apart. Itâs instinct nowâhow he adjusts his body, spreads your thighs, settles in like this is his natural habitat. Like he was born for this. For you.
And then his tongue is on you. Hot. Wet. Precise.
He licks you like heâs been thinking about it since he fell asleep the night before, dragging his tongue through your folds with slow, lazy strokesâup, then down, then up again, finishing with a soft suck at your clit that makes your hips jerk. His beardâs already wet. Already slick with your taste, his spit mixing with your slick in a mess he doesnât even try to control. Heâs patient, but heâs ravenous. Every moan you make feeds him. And every time your thighs twitch around his head, his grip tightens.
Heâs not performing. Thereâs no flourish in his technique. Heâs just⌠eating. Committed. Focused. Every movement of his mouth is deliberate. Every circle of his tongue against your clit is measured with expert pressure. He licks into you slow, groaning when you clench, like heâs memorizing the way you taste, the way you feel, the way you come undone. He keeps his mouth open enough to breathe but sealed around you enough to hum low and filthy into your cunt, sending vibrations right through you.
And when you yank hard on his curlsâfingers tangled, knuckles whiteâhe groans loud. That sound rips through him and into you, and he doesnât pull away. He laughs again, right into your pussy, breathless and feral, like heâs high off the way you taste.
Then itâs all tongue again. No teasing. Just commitment.
Patrick stays quiet except for the soundsâsloppy licks, wet groans, the occasional soft inhale when he pulls just far enough back to breathe, only to bury himself deeper again. His mouth never strays. He doesnât look away. His hazel eyes are locked on you, glassy and adoring, blinking slow as he keeps going and going until youâre trembling around him, thighs over his shoulders, your slick dripping down his beard and onto the sheets beneath him.
He doesnât let up when you cum. Not even close.
He drinks you in. Laps at your orgasm like heâs pulling it out of you with every pass of his tongue. He flattens his mouth and swirls his tongue around your clit, groaning with satisfaction when you gasp, your back arching off the bed. Itâs so much. Itâs everything. And he holds you through itâmouth locked to your core, hands tight on your hips as your body jerks, your thighs clamping around his head in frantic aftershocks.
He doesnât come up until you physically tug him, breathless and overstimulated, your fingers tugging at his curls as a signal that you need to breathe.
When he finally surfaces, he looks ruined. Hair wild. Beard soaked. Lips swollen. Eyes glassy with pure fucking devotion. He drags his mouth up your stomach, kissing a path back to your lips, and when he kisses youâsloppy, hot, deepâyou taste yourself all over his mouth. His tongue slides against yours and he hums like heâs giving you a gift.
âYou taste so fucking good,â he murmurs against your lips, kissing you again, more tender this time. âCould do that every day. Every goddamn day.â
And you notice it thenâhis boxers are soaked through. Thereâs a dark patch right over his cock, and he hasnât touched himself once. He came just from eating you out. Just from your pleasure. From being buried between your thighs, surrounded by your sounds, your heat, your slick.
He doesnât mention it. Just grins against your neck and then, without a word, he gets up.
Patrickâs already halfway to the kitchen before you sit up, dazed, watching him tug on a pair of sweatpants, not bothering with a shirt. His backâs broad, muscles shifting as he grinds the coffee beans, slices fruit, cracks eggs into a pan. You can still feel the aftershocks of your orgasm in your legs while he sets your coffee down on the nightstand with his usual crooked smile.
âYou need somethinâ sweet after that,â he says, brushing a kiss to your hair, the scent of you still lingering on his lips. âDidnât wanna interrupt your morning. Just figured Iâd help you start it right.â
Youâre still too wrecked to answer. And he loves that.
Because for Patrick, oral isnât just foreplay. Itâs a ritual. A privilege. And you? Youâre the only person he wants to worship like that, every goddamn day.
congrats on 100 elowyn!!!!! you so deserve it, gonna request M from nsfw alphabet and would I be possible do this artrick? if not just patrick is fineđââď¸
tysm mel đĽšđ iâll whip up some artrick for ya
tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @idyllicdaydreams, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @sohighitscool
Art makes sex feel like the warm weight of a promise.
He doesnât come at you like heâs trying to conquer anythingâhe approaches like heâs been handed a gift, and heâs terrified of holding it wrong. Heâs soft, but not because heâs unsure; itâs because he cares that much.
What turns him on isnât power, isnât control, isnât anything youâd expectâitâs praise. Honest, needy praise. The moment you gasp out a, âFuck, feels so good, Art,â his whole demeanor shifts, and suddenly heâs hungry in a way that makes your knees weak. He needs to know heâs doing it right, doing it better, making you feel so good that you canât even remember how to speak. Tell him heâs perfect and heâll suck a bruise into your thigh, low and trembling and worshipful, like heâs trying to prove he deserves it.
He gives head like itâs his religion, face buried between your legs, licking and moaning like heâs starved, every sound you make pulling him deeper into the rhythm of it, and when you tangle your fingers in his hair and sob his name, he groans, hips grinding against the mattress because getting you off does more for him than anything else possibly could.
He can be rough when you want itâcan pin your hands and fuck you slow and deep with his teeth gritted and his praises pouring outâbut even then, itâs all in service of you. You tell him heâs the best youâve ever had and heâll fall apart in your hands. You tell him you need him and heâll shake.
And after, heâll be nothing but warmthâgentle, whisper-quiet, kissing your forehead and wrapping you in his arms, asking if youâre okay even though heâs already gotten you a towel and a bottle of water and is halfway through tucking you in. âYou sure I didnât overdo it?â heâll ask with that little furrow between his brows, even though your legs are still trembling and your voice is wrecked from screaming his name. All he needs is to hear you say it again. That he did good. That heâs enough. That heâs yours.
⸝
Patrickâs turn-ons are chaos dressed in charm. He flirts with tension the way most people flirt with eye contact, fingers always testing the limits, grin just crooked enough to get away with it. He gets off on being too muchâtoo fast, too close, too smug, too hot, too fucking good at making you react. Bratty as hell, all lip and swagger, Patrick will push you until you snap because what really makes him throb is watching you lose your patience and take whatâs yours.
His body is made to be fucked. He knows it, he flaunts it, he dares you to admit it. Slap his ass, spit on his mouth, call him a whoreâheâll moan into it with a bite to his grin, pupils blown wide, head tilted like heâs about to laugh and cry all at once. âYou gonna call me names, baby?â heâll pant, sucking your fingers into his mouth like candy, drooling around your knuckles with that filthy, reverent look in his eyes.
He loves being used, degraded, pinned down and told heâs nothing but a hole to fuck, but he wants it from someone who sees him. Who gets him. Thatâs where the angel glows throughâheâs the devil who blushes when you call him beautiful mid-thrust, the brat who melts when you pull him in and tell him heâs yours.
He switches when it hits right, when the mood turnsâone second heâs mouthing off, the next heâs flipping you over, fucking you deep with slow, brutal thrusts and hissing in your ear, âYou gonna be good for me now?ââand whether heâs topping or bottoming, he wants it dirty. Wants it wet, messy, obscene. His mouth stays busyâon you, around you, in youâand when he finally comes, itâs loud, full-body, shameless.
Aftercareâs minimal but honest. He wonât do the whole ritual but heâll hold you, curled against your chest, biting back a sleepy smile while pretending heâs not touched. âYouâre obsessed with me,â heâll mumble, already half-asleep with your fingers in his hair, and when you kiss his forehead he doesnât flinchâjust sighs like heâs never been safer in his life.
itâs one of those sultry afternoons where everything feels gross and itchy, and you end up tangled with tashi, your bestfriend since childhood, all teeth, sweat, and filthy fucking tension. nothing sweet about itâjust spit, slick, and the kind of grind that makes you see stars.
pairing: tashi duncan x fem!reader | tashi duncan x vulva-bodied!reader
content warnings: tribadism (f/f grinding), clothed & partially-clothed dry humping, mutual degradation kink, frantic sex, messy/wet/cumplay undertones, hair pulling, nipple play, rough kissing. MDNI
It was one of those heat-choked afternoons that felt like time had given up and just started melting â thick air, sweat-sticky skin, and every single second dragging its balls through molasses. The fan did jack shit but push warm air around like a lazy drunk blowing breath in your face. Everything felt gross and slow and itchy. The TV was on in the corner, spitting out those trashy early-2000s music videos like background radiation â half-naked pop stars grinding on sand or leather couches, and every now and then, one of you would hum along without even realizing it, like the heat had cooked your brains just enough to make you forget you had control over your own fucking mouth.
Tashi was sprawled out like a bored brat in a porno scene, half on her stomach, flipping through some beat-up Cosmo that probably still smelled like her older sisterâs weed stash and old perfume. Her legs kicked aimlessly in the air, watermelon gum popping every couple of minutes like a goddamn metronome of irritation. That sound was enough to make you twitch â snap, snap, snap â loud in the stifling quiet. You were slouched somewhere in the disaster zone of pillows and tangled sheets that had once been a bed, sweat plastering your tank top to your back, your sleep shorts clinging to your ass like a second skin. Hair stuck to your neck. Every breath felt like licking the inside of a fucking sauna.
Tashi groaned like a dying animal, flinging the magazine away like it had tried to assault her. âFuck me, Iâm gonna drop dead from boredom.â
You didnât even look up from your phone. âYou say that every ten minutes.â
âBecause itâs true every ten minutes, dumbass.â Another snap of gum, and then a pillow flying straight into your lap. âSeriously, what the fuck are we even doing?â
You barely shrugged. âExisting.â
She made this dramatic gagging noise like youâd just told her to meditate. âJesus. Youâre so fucking boring sometimes, babe, I swear to God.â
âEat shit,â you muttered, glancing up just in time to see that feral glint in her eye â the one that always meant trouble was two seconds away and smiling like the devil.
Her toes jabbed you. Sharp. Annoying. On purpose.
You flinched, swatting at her leg. âThe fuck? Cut it out.â
She grinned like a little demon and did it again â harder.
âTashi, Iâm not playing.â
âOh, yeah?â she chirped, all fake-innocent sass. âWhatâre you gonna do, cry about it?â
You grabbed a pillow and launched it straight into her smug face, grinning like a jackal. The sound it made was perfect â a soft thwump followed by her surprised bark of laughter. She caught it, lunged, and suddenly you were both in it â flailing and grabbing and cackling like feral children on a sugar high, the sheets twisting around your legs as you wrestled like you were six again, except you werenât. Not even close.
Your hand got in her hair. Her elbow jammed into your ribs. She shrieked with laughter as she pinched your side and you squealed like sheâd stabbed you. It wasnât cute. It was messy, breathless, chaotic. Your tank tops had ridden up, shorts twisting tight between your thighs. Every movement left you more tangled, more flushed, more wound up with that tense, vibrating heat that had fuck-all to do with the weather.
Then suddenly she had your wrist, twisted and pinned, her body hovering above yours with this wicked glint in her eye. Her thighs locked around your waist, warm, damp, and snug, her skin slick with sweat where it pressed against yours. She was breathing hard, but grinning â eyes alight with something mean and teasing and way too fucking aware.
âSay it,â she panted, cocking her head, smirk wide and full of teeth. âSay âuncleâ.â
âIn your fucking dreams,â you spat, writhing beneath her.
She leaned down, her face inches from yours, breath hot and sweet with gum. âYouâre so full of shit.â
And then she rocked her hips â just a little. Just enough to make your breath catch. Enough to feel it.
The shift was instant â one slow grind of her cunt against your stomach and the mood flipped like a switchblade. That smug little roll of her hips wasnât playful anymore. It was calculated. Slow. Wet. Her pussy already leaking through those paper-thin shorts, leaving a warm smear across your skin that made your whole body twitch. She felt it too â the way your stomach clenched, the way your breath hitched like someone had yanked the air out of your lungs. Her mouth curled like a knife.
âHey,â she breathed, all low and dirty, like a secret sheâd been waiting to unwrap. âYou fucking like that.â
You shouldâve told her to fuck off. You shouldâve shoved her away. But you didnât. Couldnât. Not when her cunt was grinding down like that â slow and heavy, soaked enough to make your stomach shine where she dragged over you. The shorts didnât hide shit. Just spread the mess.
You bucked up without meaning to, chasing it, and her laugh was this hot, breathless little sound that hit straight in your gut.
âOh, baby,â she cooed, teeth flashing. âYouâre practically begging already.â
âBite me,â you hissed, but your voice was shaking. Soft. Pathetic.
She leaned in, her lips brushing yours â not kissing, just hovering, teasing. âYeah? Want me to? Want me to fucking mark you up like a little bitch in heat?â
You didnât get a chance to answer. Her mouth crashed into yours, all spit and teeth and desperation. No build-up. No hesitation. She kissed like she wanted to break something â her lips hot and wet, her tongue shoving past your teeth like she owned the place. The gum was still in her mouth, mashed between you, sweet and sticky and obscene. You tasted it. Felt it smear across your lips.
âNnghhhâŚâ you groaned into her mouth, and she swallowed the sound like it was dessert.
Her hips never stopped. That sloppy, filthy grind got rougher, wetter, her clit grinding hard against your abdomen. Every move dragged more slick from her cunt, the wet spot on her shorts blooming bigger by the second, smearing a mess across your stomach. Your own hips started moving, rutting up, instinctive and shameless, trying to match the rhythm, to chase that sweet, aching drag of friction.
Tashi broke the kiss with a laugh, gasping against your lips. âLook at you. Fucking humping me like a dog. You that needy, huh?â
You grabbed her ass and yanked her down harder. âAaahhh!ââ she gasped â this high, surprised little sound that made your head spin.
âYouâve got some fucking nerve,â you spat, fingers digging into the curve of her ass hard enough to bruise. âYouâre dripping all over me and Iâm needy?â
She laughed again, mean and breathless, her hips slamming down harder. âFuck, yeah, you are. You feel that? Feel how wet I am for you? Could drown you in it.â
You bit her. Right on the shoulder. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make her flinch and groan â âNnghhhââ loud and hot, her whole body jerking.
âJesus fuck,â she gasped, clenching her thighs tighter around your waist. âDo that again and Iâll cum on your stomach right now.â
âOh, yeah?â you growled, flipping her off-balance, grabbing her hips and grinding her against you even harder. âYouâd fucking like that, wouldnât you? Getting off like a desperate slut while Iâm stuck here covered in your mess.â
âAhhâfuckââ she moaned, no words â just a sound, raw and ruined, as she ground down like her life depended on it.
âTake your top off,â you snapped, already tugging at the hem of hers, dragging it up past her tits. She didnât argue â just peeled it off, tits bouncing free, her bra shoved down useless under them. You reached up, grabbed a handful, thumbing over her nipple until it hardened like a bullet.
âFuck, thatâs it,â she whimpered, her head falling back, hips grinding faster, more frantic now. âTouch me â fuck â Iâm so close already â this is so fucking goodââ
You pinched her nipple hard.
She choked on a moan, her whole body trembling.
âYouâre such a fucking wreck,â you muttered, licking up the sweat between her tits, your teeth scraping the swell of one. âLittle cunt-hungry bitch just needed something to grind on, huh?â
She nodded, wild-eyed, hair stuck to her face, her whole body flushed and dripping. âYeah,â she panted. âYeah â fuck, I needed it so bad â Iâm so fucking close â please â just a little moreââ
You grabbed her shorts, yanked them halfway down her thighs, not even bothering to take them off. Her pussy was soaked â the crotch dark, slick, practically painted in cum. You pushed your own down just enough, then grabbed her by the hips and slammed her cunt down on yours.
The sound it made was obscene â wet, smacking, like slapping raw meat. Both of you moaned at the contact â âAhhhââ âNnghhhââ â bare, slick heat against bare, slick heat, the friction perfect and raw and fucking criminal.
âHoly fuck,â she gasped, fingers digging into your shoulders. âOh my god, oh my fucking godââ
âYou like that?â you hissed, rocking up hard into her, the wet drag of clit on clit making your head spin. âFucking take it. Rub that dirty cunt on mine. Want you to make a mess on me.â
She lost it. Grinding hard, fast, desperate now. Hips slamming down in messy, sloppy circles. Her moans were loud and high and completely unhinged. You were both soaked â thighs slick, the whole bed probably stained with the mess of it.
âGod â fuck â Iâm cumming â Iâm gonna fuckingââ she shrieked, her body locking up.
You grabbed her ass and slammed her down one last time â and that was it. She came with a strangled, breathless cry, legs shaking, her cunt grinding hard against yours like she couldnât stop even if she wanted to. Her whole body twitching, riding it out, milking every fucking second of it.
You werenât far behind. The second her clit dragged over yours just right, you were gone â hips jerking, mouth open in a silent moan â âAaahhhââ â the orgasm ripping through you hard and fast and fucking mean. Your thighs clenched, your back arched, and you came with a strangled, gasping growl, grinding your cunt up into hers like you could melt together.
The room spun. You werenât even sure if you were breathing.
When it finally eased, you collapsed into the sweat-soaked sheets, limbs tangled, your cunt still twitching, still leaking, still pressed up against hers in a hot, messy smear.
Tashi was giggling â this breathless, fucked-out laugh that shook her whole body.
âHoly shit,â she panted, resting her forehead on your chest. âWeâre fucking disgusting.â
You grinned, chest heaving, sweat dripping from your brow. âYeah. And you love it.â
She didnât deny it. Didnât need to.
Everyone talks about homeless Patrick Zweig this. Hobosexual Patrick that. We get it. We all love seeing him messy. He sleeps in his car, and fucks girls to crash in their hotels. But what about you?
What if youâre the one without a place to sleep? What if youâre the one sleeping in your car?
Yeah. You.
What if youâre the one with a toothbrush in your old and nasty bag and a phone charger that only works if you bend it sideways? Youâre the one in the parking lot of a 24-hour gym, while your phone is balancing on your thigh, your legs curled tight under you. The car smells like fast food and laundry. Youâve opened your socials especially, you have been refreshing Tinder all night⌠for no particular reason, no plan. Just bored. Just wet. Just trying to find a bed.
Then it buzzes.
âYouâve got a Match. Start chatting now!â
ThenâŚ
Match.
Patrick, 32.
Bio: Tennis & tits. Not always in that order. (My serve isnât the only thing thatâs hard to return.) Above average serve. Above average dick. Forehands, backhands, and you on your hands.
You blink. Then your eyebrow raised. Then laugh out loud.
His pics are⌠something else. Shirtless. Holding a racket, flexing his arm. That one mirror selfie with a towel slung so low it should be illegal. Looks like a typical fuck boy who looks for hookups often.
You type:
Is your bio real or just bait?
He replies fast.
Come find out. 9 pm.
And he sent his pin location to the conversation as if heâs not even scared or has any survival instinct in his body if youâre a killer or not. But youâre already changing your top in the front seat like itâs instinct.
Because honestly?
Youâd use the last drop of your gas for air-conditioning, a mattress, and maybeâŚmaybe⌠a cock if it comes free with room service.
Why not? You want somewhere to lie down where your legs donât touch the steering wheel. And is Patrick Zweig going to rail you just to get it?
Fine.
He totally can. While you fall asleep face-down in his hotel pillows.
By 8:55, youâre walking through the doors of the hotel like you can afford the rooms. Patrickâs in the corner of the bar, sprawled on the stool like itâs own his place. Heâs got a drink in hand, half a smirk, and legs spread just wide enough to make your thighs twitch.
âDidnât think youâd show,â he says as you slide into the seat beside him.
âDidnât think youâd be hot and real,â you tease him, chuckling.
He orders for you. Something expensive. Not that you care because he looks like heâs someone who will pay just to fuck someone. He doesnât ask what you like, just says, âSheâll take whatever will get her tongue loose and sloppy.â
Your pussy clenches like itâs trained when he said that.
You just smirked at him before you sipped slowly at the drink that slid in front of you. He watches the whole time⌠mouth, throat, legs. He doesnât even pretend that heâs not looking. He just leans in and murmurs, âYou keep looking at my mouth like you want it somewhere.â
You shrug, tipsy already because he ordered something strong for you. âMaybe Iâm just bored.â
Patrick laughs like thatâs the right answer like itâs his favorite thing youâve said all night. He knocks back the rest of his drink, throws a few bills on the bar without even looking at the total, and then lowers his face close to your ear.
âCome upstairs,â he says, low like he only wants you to hear it. It doesnât feel pushy. Not needy and not begging for it. Itâs just a simple, filthy suggestion, like youâve already said yes with your body (the way you already squirming and shivering by just his hot breath touching your skin) and heâs letting your mouth part.
You donât answer. Just stand, grab your things (basically just a small purse with 10 dollars in it, your phone, and lipstick), and follow him through the lobby like youâre supposed to.
The elevator ride is quiet, and loaded. You feel his eyes on your legs, your ass, your reflection in the walls of the elevator. He doesnât touch you. Doesnât even move. Just watches you from the corner of the mirrored wall with too charming smirk that translates to something he knows exactly how this going to end. He looks like the kind of guy who jerks off to cheap porn. But you kind of respect it. Because youâre⌠well⌠youâre here to fuck him just to feel a soft mattress again, right?
Room 804.
He swipes the key card, nudges the door open with one foot, and steps back to let you in first. What a gentleman.
You walk into a king bed, with blackout curtains, and floor-to-ceiling windows and itâs clean in an expensive way. Air-conditioned hums, all white linen, and slick carpet, too perfect to fuck in. Which means heâs going to.
Patrick drops the key card on the desk, then turns and looks at you like heâs deciding where to start. Or maybe trying to break the ice.
âYou want another drink?â he asks. His voice is deep now, raspier than it was at the bar. You donât know if itâs the whiskey or you.
You nod. He pours. You take it. Neither of you sit.
He watches you drink. Doesnât blink, doesnât move, not really he just leans back against the dresser with one hip, one brow lifted like heâs sizing you up, or deciding what position heâs going to do to you.
âYou always come back to hotel rooms with strangers?â he asks, voice low, dragging with that lazy accent. Dry. But feels like a tease, not an insult.
You swallow. âOnly the hot ones.â
That gets a smirk out of him. Oh, that cocky smile. He tips his glass back, watching you over the rim. Youâre close now. Too close. One step between his knees and your back would hit the wall.
âIâm not gonna lie,â he murmurs, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. âI donât actually care what your answer was.â
Then he reaches for your waist.
Itâs not gentle. He drags you in like you just did something bad and he's angry about it and he spins you fast, presses your front body against the edge of the dresser before you can make a sound. Your glass nearly topples, your palms slap the wood, and you exhale so hard itâs almost a gasp.
âYou donât seem like the type to waste time,â he says, breath skating your ear.
And you donât answer, you don't need to because your brainâs already gone mushy.
His fingers are at your waistband a second later, moving fast now, impatient, like heâs had enough of the games and already knows youâll take whatever he gives. Well, he's not wrong in that field. Not really. He drags your jeans down so roughly the button nearly pops, muttering something like fuck under his breath while he strips them past your thighs, past your knees, like heâs got a plane to catch and all he wants is to be inside you first.
âYou wore this for me?â he scoffs, looking down at your underwear, thatâs barely there, probably slightly damp already. âOr you always like this?â
It shouldnât turn you on. It shouldnât. But your whole body pulses with heat at the way he says it. Mocking. Mean. Like he knows something about you that you wonât admit out loud. Like heâs reading the part of you that gets off on being disposable. Or being just a hook-up. No feelings. Just casual things.
He grabs your chin in one hand, rough and possessive, tilting your face up until youâre looking at him. His pupils are blown, jaw flexing like heâs trying to hold something in. But heâs not gentle. You are not a glass. You are not special. Not when you just meet on Tinder and you donât even have a proper conversation besides him telling you to find out if he has a big dick.
Never pretended to be nice just to get something.
âYouâre lucky Iâm letting you in my room,â he mutters, eyes scanning your face like heâs daring you to object. âYou walk in here soaked through your jeans, looking like youâll beg for it.â
You gasp. His hand is between your legs now. Just pressing, not even moving. Holding you there like he wants to feel the twitch of every heartbeat through your cunt. Just cupping it whole in his big hand.
ââŚand you think Iâm gonna play nice?â
You canât speak. You can even barely breathe.
And when he finally moves behind you, grabbing your hips, walking you, and pushing you more inside like he owns you already? Your legs go weak on instinct. All wobbly. Knees not working.
And thatâs the moment it hits you: youâre not here because heâs hot. Youâre here because he doesnât care why you are here. He doesnât even have to dine or wine you.
You raise an eyebrow but donât move right away. Just stand there with your drink already in half and your lip curled like youâre weighing whether this man is worth using your gas for.
Then, slowly, you start walking⌠left the glass on a flat surface and walk past him, into the dim room, tossing your purse to the floor and crawling onto the mattress like you own it. You stretch out on your back instead of your knees, legs crossed at the ankle, one arm behind your head like youâre posing for a photo shoot he wasnât invited to.
âBit dramatic, donât you think?â you murmur, glancing toward him with a smile. Taunting him. âYou always bark orders before your dickâs even out?â
He hums. âYou always talk this much before opening your legs?â
âI just like to check if the bait you put in the app is legit.â Your fingers drag slowly down your front, teasing the waistband of your panties. âTennis pro and⌠âAbove average dickâ was it?â You even use your hands to quote the above-average dick from his bio just to piss his shit off.
That makes him pause.
Then he starts walking.
âNo pressure,â you add lightly, nails scraping the lace. âIâm sure itâs hard to live up to all that⌠size.â
Heâs at the edge of the bed now, shirtless, belt undone, looking at you like you just took his trophy away from a tennis match. His cock is already thick behind the zipper, straining. He palms himself once. Not for pleasure⌠just to show you. Proving a point, maybe. But it ends up being shown to you when he pulls his pants down.
âTell you what,â he stated, grabbing your ankles and yanking you flat to the bed, dragging your body toward him, your calves getting out of the bed frame. âWhy donât you keep talking shit⌠while I stuff you so deep you forget how words work.â
You laugh, head tipped back, knees falling apart as he shoves your panties down. âWow,â you say breathlessly, âthatâs⌠motivationalâ
And then he leans in, hand fisted around the base of his cock, and smacks it against your cunt. Once, twice, wet and heavy. And heâs lining it up.
Your hips twitch with every hit, cunt slick and practically clapping back at him. The squelch is obscene. Youâre hot from the chest up, grinning like a girl with nothing to lose. Honestly? You donât have anything to lose at this point. Gain, maybe. A bed, thatâs it.
âYou always find pussy this easy between matches?â you ask, eyes half-lidded, baiting him. âOr just desperate ones whoâll take you raw off an app?â
He snorts but doesnât answer. Just tilts his head, lazily, like heâs deciding whether to answer or fuck you for that. You see the way his grip tightens around himself, cock jumping against your folds.
âIâll take that as a yes,â you whisper, just enough to mock him.
He leans in suddenly, bracing one hand beside your head. The other fists your hair back until your neck arches sharp.
âYou talk a lot for someone this wet,â he mutters, and slides in without warning, deep and thick, and you are thanking yourself because you got so wet easily and it doesnât hurt much anymore. Your body⌠or cunt, rather, is not used to his size.
You choke. Actually choke. Hands scrabble against his stomach, nails dragging down as your back bows off the mattress. He doesnât stop, doesnât ease in. He just bottoms out like he owns the goddamn part heâs sliding between your legs.
âF-fuck,â you whimper.
Heâs not even fully inside before he starts rocking slowly, maybe heâs nice enough to see that you want him to let you settle with his size first. It is just enough motion to feel every inch split you, drag you wide, make you clench and seize around him like a fist.
âShouldâve led with your pussy instead of your mouth,â he growls in your ear. âWouldâve skipped the drink.â
Then he flips you.
He grabs you by the hips and turns you over like you weigh nothing, like youâre just another girl (technically you are) in his bed who talked too much before taking cock. Your cheek hits the mattress, breath punched from your lungs as his palm splays across your back, holding you down. But he started caressing your back while his other hand remained on your hips as if he didnât want you to move at all.
âAss up,â he mutters. âDonât make me say it again.â
So bossy. So annoying. But youâre already moving, legs shaky as you scramble to your knees, arching without thinking, without pride. On all fours. He drags the length of his cock through your slick again at a mocking, slow pace like heâs checking to see if youâre still wet after the way he talked to you. Spoiler? You are. Worse. Sloppier.
âJesus,â he huffs. âYouâre soaking. What, the drink made you this needy?â
You want to snap something back. You really do. But the second you open your mouth, heâs pushing in so deep it feels like it hits the back of your throat. Your fingers claw at the sheets, a choked gasp catching in your throat as he bottoms out.
And then he just stays there. Settling inside you.
Deep. Full. Letting you feel it. Letting your pussy flutter and grip around him while he doesnât move, doesnât say a word, just leans over, like heâs waiting for you to admit how desperate you already are.
He doesnât thrust. Not yet. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, cock twitching like heâs enjoying the way your cunt tightens in waves around him. Youâre breathing through your mouth, face crushed against the sheets, knees barely holding like your whole bodyâs trying to compute what the hell just happened.
His fingers drag up your spine, light and lazy before he fists your hair and pulls you back enough to whisper it.
âSay it.â
Say what? You think. Your jaw clenches. You wonât. You wonât. You are not that desperate, right?
But the weight of him has you trembling. He has your thighs quaking like youâre trying to hold back something dangerous. And when he finally rolls his hips, just once, slow, like heâs testing you, it knocks the wind out of your lungs.
âSay it,â he breathes again, mouth in your ear now. âSay you needed this.â
You whimper. Hips jolted back against him without permission. You hate him. You hate him.
You love how it feels.
He laughs under his breath like he already knows. Like youâve already told him without a word. His other hand slides to your throat, not tight, just enough pressure to make your whole body hum. To feel something.
Then he pulls out halfway. What an asshole. He lets you feel the drag, the loss before slamming back in with one deep, punishing thrust that makes your mouth fall open in a helpless, broken moan.
âJesus,â he groans, voice ragged now. âYouâre fucking made for it, arenât you?â
Youâre not⌠youâre not. It just happens you are using your body to your benefit to get something you want. Bed. Soft pillows. Nice room. Nice sleep.
His hands grip your hips like he owns them. Like youâre not just some girl he picked up after two drinks and suggestive âcome with me upstairsâ bullshit. He holds you there, steady like heâs making sure you feel every inch of him, the weight, the stretch, the pain of being filled without warning. No rocking, no thrusting, just the full, filled, unrelenting pressure of his cock deep inside you while your body tries to adjust around it.
You breathe hard against the mattress, hips twitching under his grip. He doesnât let you move. Not really.
âYouâre not saying anything,â he mutters, low and cocky, hovering over your back. Chest almost touching your back. âWhat, cat got your tongue? Thought you had a lot to say about my profile.â
You grit your teeth. âIâm just⌠getting used to being split in half, thanks.â
He laughs. Like thereâs something funny. Fuck there isnât. He probably thinks youâre pathetic. âYeah?â Then he pulls out slowly, dragging against everything inside you, and slams back in with a snap that knocks the air from your lungs.
âLet me help you get used to it.â
Now he moves. Rough and fast, no rhythm at first, sloppy like a virgin, and the sound of skin and breath and the slick, filthy wet of it all. He rocks you forward on each thrust, forcing your knees wider, his hands digging in harder, using your hips like handlebars. Like a grip for leverage, not care. You swear he gets deeper every time or he hits the spot with each thrust.
Your fingers claw the sheets. Your thighs shake.
âFucking made for it,â he growls again, more to himself this time, like he canât believe how tight you are, how wet, how much youâre already falling apart for him.
You feel it in your teeth when he slams in again. Feel it in the base of your skull, where your foreheadâs mashed to the sheets, in the pathetic little gasps you keep swallowing against the mattress. Heâs panting harder now, muttering filth under his breath, swearing, low and ragged, things like âfuckinâ tight,â and âso wet for a stranger,â like itâs a compliment and a threat rolled into one.
He doesnât stop moving. Donât pause to let you catch your breath. Just tightens his grip around your hips, bruising, and pulls you back to meet every thrust like he wants to hollow you out.
âShould see yourself,â he grits. âFucking dripping. Like your cunt knew I was coming.â
You let out a cracked little moan. The kind you canât swallow. The kind that sounds like yes even if you donât say it. One hand fists the sheets. The otherâs somewhere under you, numb, forgotten. Your whole bodyâs gone slack, pliant, just flesh he can fuck into whatever shape he wants.
Then he slows.
Not soft. He stays deep, grinding it in like he wants you to feel every inch, every twitch, every fucking vein. You choke. Your thighs shake.
âBet you say this to all the girls,â you manage to whisper, voice hoarse, cheek smeared with drool and heat. Just to get back to his words earlier. âAny city. Any hotel.â
He huffs a breath right over your ear, dragging his cock out just enough to make you clench down, desperate.
âNah,â he murmurs, hips pulling back.
Then he drives it back in, all at once, deep, and just how you like it. âJust the ones who take cock like you do.â
You cry out, unfiltered. And he laughs, heâs even pleased, and breathless, still buried in the base like heâs never pulling out again.
Youâre half-gone already, mouth slack, eyes wet, fingers curled into the sheets like youâre trying to claw your way out of your own body. Heâs still there, deep, solid, anchored, driving into you like he knows your pussy better than you do like heâs trying to teach it something it wonât forget.
And it listens. It flutters. It chokes on him.
âJesus,â he pants.
You want to talk back. You want to laugh, or moan, or say something smart and cruel, but your brain is slowing down or maybe you are just cockdrunk, all heat and pressure and stretch. The slap of skin fills the room, louder now, rougher, wetter. Clap, clap, clap. Heâs close. You can feel it, his rhythm faltering, hips stuttering, breath catching like his bodyâs trying to warn you.
And then you hear it.
That groan.
That deep, helpless, fucked-out sound that says heâs about to come and thereâs not a damn thing he can do about it.
Your forehead pressed to the mattress, thighs trembling like youâre about to snap in half.
âYou gonna pull out?â you pant, blinking tears off your lashes as he rails into you.
He doesnât answer.
Donât slow down.
Just grunts under his breath and grabs your hips tighter, dragging you back into each thrust like your body belongs to him now, like the question was rhetorical. Like the answerâs already happening.
You know it. Feel it.
The stutter in his rhythm. The tense, desperate twitch of his cock inside you. The soft, breathless noise he makes when he presses all the way in and stays there.
ThenâŚ
Spilling. Flooding. His cum forces its way deeper as your body clenches around him.
You freeze. Your mouth opens. âPatrick,â
âF-fuck sorry,â he breathes, forehead resting against your spine, totally unbothered. Too calm. You can hear the smug in it. Hear the fucking smirk. You can tell heâs not really sorry.
âPatrick.â
He shifts his weight, presses deeper, somehow still half-hard, and exhales like he just did something inconvenient, like dropping a towel on the floor.
âFelt too good. Couldnât help it.â
Bullshit. He didnât even try.
You start to push back against him, thrusting your ass to him, but he pins you there and drags a palm down your spine like itâs no big deal. This is just what happens now.
âYouâll be fine,â he adds, quieter. Still inside you. Still leaking.
âDonât act like you didnât like it,â he adds, cock heavy and wet against your ass, half-hard and twitching like he could go again if you even looked at him the right way.
You hum, cheek pressed to his pillow, lashes sticky and stuck together. âIt was⌠good,â you murmur, voice a little shy, a little too quiet. You fiddle with the comforter between your fingers, then, almost too fast to clock, you add, âYouâll, um. Cover Plan B, right?â
He doesnât answer right away. Just lets out a breath through his nose, like heâs smiling but trying not to give you the satisfaction.
He snorts, rolls onto his back, and throws one arm behind his head like heâs getting comfortable. Not leaving. Not tossing your clothes. Not panicking about what youâre gonna do next.
You roll over too, slower, adjusting your leg like itâs not leaking from the cum he just spilled inside of you, like gravity isnât already doing its humiliating thing. âItâs late,â you murmur. Yawn a little, all fake innocence. âDidnât even realize it was almost three.â
Patrick doesnât say anything at first. Just stares up at the ceiling like heâs waiting for you to say what you actually mean. But you wonât. Not out loud. You just stretch, and mumble, âKinda dangerous out. You know. Sketchy.â
Still, he doesnât bite. Just blinks at the ceiling. So you sigh, dramatic and helpless, like the thought hadnât occurred to you until now.
âWould it be so dumb to drive somewhere now, huh? Like⌠might as well just crash and go in the morning or whateverâŚâ
Patrick turns his head. Raises a brow, heâs just holding himself not laughing. âAre you asking if you can stay?â
You blink back at him. Too shy to ask if you can crash. âWhat? No. Iâm just saying itâs late.â
He huffs. Then throws the comforter over both of you and mutters, âJesus. Just go to sleep.â
This isnât what he does. He doesnât do this. In normal times like this? Itâs clothes back on before the sweat dries, some fake ass words like âYou get home safe, okay?â while heâs already unlocking the front door, not looking back. Or he leaves, whateverâs easier. He doesnât let them stay. Doesnât let them sink into his sheets like they belong there.
But he hasnât moved. And youâre still here. All warm skin and soft whining and sticky thighs and little sighs like you won something. Like you planned this.
He clears his throat. Stares at the ceiling. âAnd, no cuddling or whatever,â he says, like itâs an important reminder that he needs to say it before it happens.
You donât answer. Just shift a little closer, calf brushing his under the comforter. He doesnât move. Doesnât pull away.
No cuddling. No promises. No ride home.
Guess the app works.