Haha I Get Tashi Sweat And You Dont

PUT ME IN COACH

GIMME

life is the most beautiful it's ever been

you can't look at tashi whenever the two of you are intimate; she's just too pretty (nsfw)

like right now, as she lay on her stomach, hands gripping the fat of your thighs as her mouth went to work on your eager pussy. you can feel her everywhere at once and it drives you insane. the grip she has on your thighs has you hissing in pleasurable pain every time you try to get away from the overwhelming feeling and it tightens, pulling you impossibly closer to her mouth. the feeling of her hair in your hands as you grasp onto anything to keep you tethered to solid ground, silky strands slipping through the gaps between your fingers and framing her devastatingly beautiful face. and of course the feeling of her mouth on you, tongue licking up any trace of arousal before she's gently sucking your swollen clit into her mouth.

you know, without a doubt, that she looks beautiful right now, between your thighs, as she steadily guides you to another mind-numbing orgasm. you also know she's looking at you, waiting for your eyes to meet hers so that she can finally push you over the edge you've been teetering on forever now. yet you can't do it, you can't open your eyes and look down because you know the sight alone will leave you breathless, and this'll all be over way sooner than you'd like.

you still feel her pull away from you though, hand leaving your thigh to intertwine with your free hand that had the bedsheets beneath you in a death grip. she coos at you softly, sweetly urging you to open your eyes and you can't find it in you to disobey her so you do just that, finally willing yourself to look down at the girl perched between your spread thighs.

and when your eyes meet hers, you swear you can see them light up, a small smile stretching across her glossed lips at your compliance. the sight of her alone has you clenching around nothing, the knot in your stomach pulling more and more taut as you watched the way the bottom half of her face glistened with traces of you. the way the loose tresses of hair stuck to her cheeks, baby hairs matted to her forehead from sweat and the way her dark eyes stared at you half-lidded as if the holy grail was right between your legs. "keep your eyes on me, okay?" she says, and you nod without hesitation, yet when you see her head lowering once again, you have to stop yourself from throwing your head back onto the pillow beneath you.

she's licking a slow path up the expanse of your cunt, eyes unmoving from yours and so intense it makes you shudder with a punched outmoan. when her mouth finally meets your clit once again, eyes crinkled in amusement at your blissed out face, you feel the floodgates finally burst, white spots in your vision as your hand tightens its grip on her hair, just to feel her moan against your pussy. your hips buck wildly into her face, drawing out your orgasm for as long as you can and she takes everything you give her, not stopping until she feels your grip in her hair loosen and hears the way your head finally plops down on the pillow. you're beyond fucked out, breathless and drifting on cloud nine, and don't have to look at her to know she's sporting a smug smile.

'oh but she's mean and manipulative' SHUT UP. LOOK AT HER. THAT'S MY DAUGHTER

i can't stop thinking about tashi duncan. like that's my angel right there

Take It Like a Champ!

or art and reader are loser virgins

an: hey look its talia trying smut out. and it even got the art donaldson seal of approval (see first photo). specialest of thanks to @artstennisracket, @cha11engers, @jordiemeow, @diyasgarden and the BIGGEST special thank you to @newrochellechallenger2019 i love you all. this was the poll thing so wooooo hope you enjoy.

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Trying to watch movies with Art is always a thing. First, he’ll take at least seven bathroom breaks. Every time. Without fail. It’s kind of impressive, but a part of you doubts that he even needs them beyond that weird calm that just comes from sitting in a cold, tiled room for a few minutes. By the time his fingertips have gone pruney from the amount of times they’ve been run under the faucet, he’s digging under his bed for snacks, looking almost canine with the way he scratches at nothing but carpet, legs sticking out behind him. You’ve brought them, too, knowing the routine, but he absolutely insists on pitching in with a three month old bag of unsalted popcorn. But hey, it’s the thought that counts. But you’re finally here, and his hyperactive body just won’t sit still. It wouldn’t bother you if he wasn’t absolutely insistent on holding you between his open legs, back to chest, chin to shoulder, and watching you watching whatever chick flick it is you’d brought (he thinks that’s Mark Ruffalo?). Unfortunately for you, he is that insistent, and so is whatever has been poking at your back for the past 34 minutes and 52 seconds, based on the time left on the movie (‘Wait, you’ve never seen 13 going on 30?).

“Art, if you keep pressing your bony fucking knees into me, we’re gonna have a problem.”

He swallows around nothing, close enough you can hear the saliva in his throat push over itself in a wave and glide down his throat. He nods, spreads his legs a bit wider allowing you more room. Huh. Must be his keys. 

“Art, seriously, can you-”

And then you’re met face to face with a bright red Art with quite the obvious issue. 

“Uhmm…” you both say at the same time, staring at each other, eyes wide, breathing heavy. 

“Shit, sorry. I am so fucking sorry, I can’t control it-”

“No, no, it’s- it’s fine! I mean, it’s like, nice? No, it’s flattering, or-”

You both stop rambling at the same time, meeting each other’s eyes and giggling like idiots. Bashful around each other for the first time in the months since you’d started seeing each other. Seeing each other? Sounds too adult. Regardless of a label on things, it’s been months of innocent kisses and this stupid movie night routine, and absolutely nothing beyond a bit of hands under shirts and slipping tongues. There was one time he caught you changing after a shower, down to just some ugly cotton panties you’d never choose to wear if you knew he’d see them and a bra, and he got so embarrassed he left the rest of the day.

“Do you… want me to do something about it?” 

He looks down, and if the fact he’s breathing like he just ran a marathon is telling you anything, it’s that he wants you to.

“No, uh… ‘s fine.”

Oh.

“So… um…”, you both say simultaneously, lips pulling into Cheshire Cat grins. ‘You first!’, ‘Jinx!’ It’s cute, in a way, to be so in sync, but it’s really not getting you anywhere.

“Art… I’m not trying to pressure you or anything, but are you sure you don’t want some… assistance with that? For one, I feel like that’s gotta hurt, but also I wouldn’t offer unless I wanted to.”

He seems to go brain dead for a moment, staring at you with his jaw hanging open, and he doesn’t even notice when you place three fingers under his chin to pop it into place. You can practically see your words slowly bouncing around the inside of his skull, not unlike the DVD screensaver. All at once, he comes back to consciousness, haphazardly tugging at his shirt to pull it over his head. 

“Yeah, fuck, please-”

The sudden transition from entirely reluctant to stripping like his clothes are burning off his skin is a bit jarring, but you aren’t going to even pretend to be upset about it. Especially not when he finally gets his sweats off (‘Ha… sorry, these are… strings are really tight’) along with his boxers and he’s staring at you like you’ve got the solution to all his problems in your potentially capable hands… or mouth. 

He leans up on his elbows, loose and uncoordinated in his movements like a poorly handled marionette, to press a brief kiss to your lips. He settles back down, staring at himself like he’s never seen his own body before, then meets your equally shocked gaze. 

“Um… good luck?”

You roll your eyes, don’t even justify the comment with a ‘thank you’, and start searching your wrist for a hair tie. That’s a thing girls mention when they talk about giving head, as you can recall from drunken conversations with your much more adventurous friends.

“Why are you scratching your wrist so hard?”

You look down. Not one in sight. Awesome.

“Shush. Just let me… do it.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but closes it soon after, shrugging briefly as he lays back. Look down, look up, his eyes are screwed shut so tight his eyelids have wrinkled.

“Why do you look so scared? I’m not gonna, like, bite it or anything. I mean, unless you want me to-”

“I do not.”

You huff, suck in a deep breath. Here goes nothing. You lean down, tentatively poking your tongue out from between your lips to take his weeping tip in. You press a light kiss to his thigh first, smooth skinned and just as red as the rest of his body from some combination of heat and anticipation. 

“Eugh.”

He pops his right eye open, leaving him perpetually winking, his face running even redder. God, this man cannot hide anything he’s feeling to save his life, and especially not right now. 

“Is it bad?”

“No, you just… it’s like pool water.”

“It’s like what?”

He shuts up fairly quickly when you pick up where you left off, thank god, dipping his head back. Right back to the clamped shut eyes, which hopefully isn’t an indication of anything hurting. Hopefully. 

It’s an odd feeling for sure, being close enough to legitimately taste him, and he smells kinda sweaty in a way that’s somehow still appealing? You’ll never quite understand how everything he does manages to have this innate beauty to it, and that includes the gross, human being stuff, too. He’s fucking whiney, too. You’re not entirely sure that he isn’t in agony at this point, considering the way he’s writhing around. Whimpering. Pathetic. Cute. When he grabs at your hair, though, just a bit too tightly to be pleasant, you get the idea you’re doing a good job. Bonus points for removing the need to tie your hair back. You can feel your throat starting to burn a bit from the lack of oxygen, sucking in a sharp breath through your nose, though it still feels inadequate with everything else. Art couldn’t care less, that or he’s genuinely too unaware of his surroundings to notice the incredibly obvious gagging on your end, caught up in babbling up at the ceiling about how good it feels, hands covering his closed eyes. 

“Wait, shit, hold on-”

You register the feeling of something hot shooting down your throat before the words, pulling yourself off of him with a wet pop and a hacking cough. You glare at him through teary eyes, obviously provoked by his carelessness, pushing air out of your lungs and into the crook of your elbow. When you look down at the skin, little flecks of white appear mixed in with your spit. Gross.

“W-hat the fuck, Art?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just thought- I don’t know, I thought you’d take it like a champ!”

This absolute moron. When you’ve caught your breath again, you crawl up the length of his body to press a kiss to his pretty, pouting lips and god please don’t let there be cum on your mouth. With the enthusiasm he returns it with, hands pressed flat on your back, softly humming from the back of his throat, you’re guessing there’s not. Or he likes that there is. Neither would shock you. You sit back on your heels, wipe your lips, they’re clean, and seem all too proud of yourself for having given what was probably just subpar head. 

“So… come here often?”

He frowns, looking genuinely concerned for far longer than was comfortable. 

“Babe, that was the first time we’ve ever-”

“Jesus Christ, let’s just go to bed.”

chewing on him like a ravenous wolf

Casual dominance but with dilf!patrick???

the same as art in the sense he wouldn't bat an eye if you went out in a short skirt. he takes pleasure it in it, actually, a hand on your backside to give everyone a peek of your panties. when you send him an affronted look, he just gives an unrepentant smirk. whoops! probably the wind. he DOES like to choose your clothes. prob like the sluttiest thing possible when you're meeting his parents (a huge fuck you to them).

definitely into the whole "bimbo girlfriend thing." makes you make eye contact with him when you're talking... or fucking. "ah-ah-ah, eyes on me." and never lets you get away without verbally asking him for something. "c'mon, use your words if you want something. my baby has good manners."

knows how indecisive you are and calling the shots just comes naturally to him. doesn't even bat an eye when the waiters give you a concerned look after he gives your order for you. just knows you inside out at this point. or if he's grabbing himself something from the kitchen, he doesn't bother asking if you want one, he just grabs two by default (because he knows you'll say no and end up asking for a sip of his water or stealing his chips)

doesn't matter where you are, he's always touchy. a hand on your thigh when he's driving, or around you while you're walking. if he has a pretty thing on his arm, why not show you off? always whispering filthy things to you when you're out and about just to watch you avert your eyes when your cheeks heat up. you never scold him, though—you both know you love it.

also loves manhandling you. guiding you when you're walking, or big hands on your hips to move you out of his way in the kitchen or throw you over his shoulder to carry you off to bed. if you aren't walking side by side, he's always keeping an eye on you. never more than an arm's length away. follows the sidewalk rule religiously.

comes off as a little controlling sometimes, too. patronising as fuck when he wants to be. he bought you a drink? you have to finish it, otherwise you're ungrateful. going out with your friends? either he's coming with you, or you don't go at all. he just loves you too much!! if you’re gonna be ogled, he has to be present for it. he’s just looking out for his pretty girl <3

always zips up your dress for you or helps you put your jewellery on. he doesn't even need to ask; as soon as he sees you getting ready, he's behind you to lend you a helping hand (and probably a playful pinch to the ass for his troubles)

anyways shoutout to oomfs in diya's the queen's gambit watchparty for thirsting over patrick w me for this <3

Thinking about how tashi means good fortune in tibetan today. I wonder if that was intentional, or just a fun little horribly untrue coincidence

you already know

fancy

A Night Over

an: enjoy this cute picture of mike because i literally finished this like 2 hours ago and spent so long worrying about making it aesthetic i stopped caring

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He brushes past you as soon as you open the door, barely even a wide enough space to squeeze a body through. You huff, turn around just in time to get knocked into by his overstuffed messenger bag. It’s the same one you recognize from kindergarten cubbies and middle school lockers. 

“Well, hello to you too, Connor.”

You’ve done this all before. You recognize the sound of his body against the couch cushions before you see it, back turned to him to pull some blankets from the coat closet by the front door. You can feel his eyes, though, the way you always can. Intense in everything, even just in observing you move through your home. The home he’s been to more times than he can count on both his hands. He can’t help but to be fascinated by you, though, no matter how many times he’s been around you, bombarding his senses until the only thing his brain has a concept of is his existence relative to yours. 

He keeps a bag packed for nights like these, nights that are more frequent than they should be, and have just been growing more persistent. There’s a tone to his father’s voice he knows too well. Not necessarily anger, but a growing displeasure at everyone and everything around him, including the son that ruins his Facebook family photos and general public image of being a perfect, upper-middle class suburban family. He wouldn’t mind being in a miserable family if everyone agreed on the best way of doing it, but they still clash in that sense. So disjointed they can’t even find the same ways to hate each other, hate themselves.

You sit on the coffee table across from where he rests, hands clasped in your crossed thighs. There’s no need to talk about it anymore. The argument, the topic it took, isn’t the issue. It’s not what drives him out of his house at odd hours of the night to seek refuge in yours. It’s the feeling that if he stayed, there would be no escaping the idea that maybe, just maybe, his father is right. That he is ruining things. Sure, he’d internalized that feeling since birth, thinking and feeling it before his father could confirm he shared the same opinion, but it still hurt to know that he wasn’t his daddy’s little boy anymore. Now, he was the son that could’ve been better, should’ve been better with the resources provided to him. But he’s not normal in that sense, never has been. He wishes he could hit himself on the head hard enough to knock loose whatever is festering in his skull until it comes out his ears. Whatever neurochemical imbalance, whatever parasitic thought, whatever version of himself nestled its way in. 

You unclasp your hands, find your palms redder than they’d started, grabbing at his ankles to place them in your lap. 

“You can sleep in my bed, you know. Your back will thank you.”

You say absentmindedly, beginning the minutes long task of unlacing those scuffed, softened leather boots he always wears. They’d been a product of saved-up birthday money and weeks of not smoking, and he couldn’t help but to feel a little proud for having done something semi-responsible with himself. And now here they are, in your lap, sprinkling wet dirt onto your skin. It’s the same offer you’ve been extending his way for months, held in your palm like it’s fragile, like it means more than just a bed. He never takes it, curls your fingers back over it, nudges your hand back to your side. He means well. He means not to impose the way he does everywhere else. He knows how few places he’s truly welcome. He knows that the best one is wherever you happen to be. He won’t lose it, or he loses himself. But he can’t impose where he is invited. Welcome at all times. Your home is his home, because he doesn’t have one otherwise. Here he is wanted, and he just won’t let that be. 

You curl the undone laces around your fingers, watching the coils turn your skin just that little bit paler under the strained blood flow. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches, like he tends to do. You can feel his eyes follow the movement, whether it’s yours or the lace’s, you can’t quite make out. You look back up at him through weary eyes, the time of night clear in each fleck of color. It’s fairly late, but not late enough for you to look so worn. You’ve been tired for ages, and no amount of laying beneath woolen blankets has been able to rejuvenate you. Remarkably, there aren’t any real bags beneath your eyes. The one way you could cry out for the help you’d so desperately like without verbal confirmation of being anything less than mundane, and you can’t even supply yourself with it. How pathetic. He recognizes the look in your eyes, the plea for him to help himself so you can live vicariously through it. Feel better for having done something. He doesn’t give in though. 

So fine. He can have it his way. Boots are tucked beneath the couch, left to drip onto the wood beneath them. They can rot the whole house away for all you care. You squeeze yourself into that sliver of space he isn’t taking up, face to face so closely that it feels like this is the first time you’ve seen him at all. His left eye has a little spot of brown in it, stuck in amongst blue. A black sheep. He looks behind your head to the wall. It seems easier. He’s met with a framed photo of the two of you. No such thing as an easy way out. So, he does what he does best. Watches. Watches you move some humidity-frizzed hair from his face as if it won’t fall right back where it was, watches you attempt to get comfortable with the singular foot of room allotted to you, watches you pretend the proximity isn’t what makes your eyes look far away and yet so concentrated. He can’t point that part out, he’s sure he looks the same. He watches you sleep, too, for a while. Features softened, smushed, unfurrowed by stress. You look your age this way. You’ve shed years of forced maturation in a single shallow breath. He doesn’t feel it’s an invasion if it’s something beautiful to look at. Artistic, even. Biblical. He shivers, pretends it’s from the cold, the rain, the dampness of his clothes. You hadn’t actually put any of those blankets you’d grabbed to use. He doesn’t want to move. He can feel your heartbeat if he focuses enough like this, breath mixing with his own on your exhales. He thinks it’s almost kissing. It’s better. It’s nowhere near enough. He looks to the ceiling, then back at you. He smiles. Maybe someday he’ll say the obvious. Maybe someday he can impose. But for now feigned relative indifference will do. You know he cares more than he says. You will wake up rejuvenated.

i would let standford!patrick literally do whatever the fuck he wanted to me. he wants to treat me like shit? okay!! i need him in a way that sets feminism back a hundred years. his biceps during the scene in tashi’s dorm… i’m like a rabid dog!!