J Is For Jack Off | Art Donaldson

2010s SCENE EMO PATRICK HEADCANONS.

cw: +18. mdni. graphic sexual language and imagery. fingering (receiving). impact play (spanking, thigh/cunt slapping). degradation & dumbification kink. praising mixed with humiliation. oral sex (receiving). overstimulation. spit, drool, and messy bodily fluids. use of rings/jewelry during sex. consent-based rough play and bratty dominance. clothing/underwear kink. power imbalance dynamics (soft dom x naive virgin sub).

pairing: scene emo patrick zweig x sunshine!virgin afab girlfriend.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @talsorchard, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste

★ ── Patrick paints his nails black religiously. He always messes one up before it dries, curses, wipes it with a corner of his hoodie, and starts again. He lowkey loves when you help him, especially when you sit on his lap to do it.

★ ── His sex playlist is chaotic. It bounces between 2006 Myspace-core bangers and weird remixes. You’ll be getting fingered to “Bring Me To Life” one second and suddenly hear a slowed-down Nightcore cover of something cursed. He won’t even blink.

★ ── He degrades and praises in the same breath. Patrick’s the king of mixed signals: “You’re such a stupid little slut, aren’t you? Gonna cry if I stop touching you? That’s my good girl.” He needs you whimpering and begging, but the moment you seem too unsure, he’ll slow down and stroke your hair. “That’s right, sweetheart. I got you.”

★ ── He wants to take you to Warped Tour (in spirit). He knows it’s dead. But if he ever gets the money, he wants to road trip with you to every dive bar pop-punk show he can find, wearing matching eyeliner and making out behind merch tables.

★ ── He does his eyeliner better than any girl you know. Patrick wears it thick and smudged, a perfect grungy wing that makes his eyes look darker than sin. He always applies it with one leg on the sink to be closer to the mirror and his tongue sticking out slightly. He teases you about watching him, then offers to do yours—and he's shockingly gentle with the pencil when he leans in, thumb under your chin, voice low: “Stay still, baby.”

★ ── Patrick lives to make you cry during sex. Not out of pain—out of pleasure. He’ll talk you through it, whispering filth while his fingers keep curling just right. “That’s it, sunshine. Let it drip down those pretty cheeks. You look so good when you cry for me.” He uses your tears as lube sometimes, just to be a menace.

★ ── His room looks like a haunted MySpace profile. Posters of MCR, The Used, and old Warped Tour lineups. Black bedsheets covered in band patches. LED lights set permanently to blood red. But there’s a framed photo of you on his nightstand. Soft lighting, your cheeks pink, and a sticky note on the frame: “My girl. Hands off.”

★ ── Patrick’s wardrobe is 90% black—but it’s never just black. He layers textures like it’s a religion. Distressed mesh over ripped tank tops, black-on-black graphic tees, low-rise studded belts, and skinny jeans tight enough to kill circulation. His hoodies are oversized and always worn off one shoulder, revealing scribbled Sharpie lyrics on his collarbones (“i’m not okay and that’s hot”). He lives in platform Converse and chains that jingle when he walks. Sometimes he adds arm warmers with little skulls or bats, just because they match his nail polish.

★ ── His favorite thing is getting you dumb and messy. He wants you drooling on yourself, mascara running, babbling his name between broken moans. He’ll pull your panties to the side, rub slow, hard circles, and mock you in that low, teasing voice: “God, look at you. Can’t even speak, can you? Just a dumb little thing with a sweet little hole.”

★ ── His jewelry is cursed and heavy. He layers necklaces like armor: razor blade pendants, lock and key charms, Hello Kitty chokers with spikes, half-tarnished chain links and broken locket pieces. Some of them he got from thrift stores. Some he definitely shoplifted. He wears six rings—most of them skulls or hearts or something chipped. One of them has your initial on it. He won’t tell you where he got it.

★ ── He’s obsessed with ruining cute underwear. Especially pastel sets. Especially the ones with bows or ruffles. He’ll pull them down with his teeth, bite the waistband, and then tuck them in his back pocket. “Too innocent to be wearing shit like this, angel. You know I’m gonna stain ‘em.”

★ ── He makes friendship bracelets with words like “SLUT” and “CRYBABY.” Yes, he actually wears them. Yes, he gives them to people. No, you’re not allowed to take yours off. He once made you one that said “CUMDOLL” in alternating pastel beads. Then he kissed your cheek and told you never to lose it. He says it’s “like a collar, but cute.”

★ ── He gets off on being watched. Not by strangers—by you. He’ll jerk himself off while you’re recovering from your own orgasm, licking his fingers clean and spitting in his hand. “You like that view, princess? Want it inside you again? Then beg for it. Say please.”

SMALL TOWN PASTOR! ART WHO…

pastor art! x single mom! reader.

WHO… obviously grew up sheltered by religion. he was basically raised in a pew and he’s pretty sure his fingers have molded to fit the shape of his bibles spine.

WHO… everyone comes to with their problems. not only because he’s the preacher of the only church in town, but, also because he’s such a warm and inviting soul.

WHO… wouldn’t think twice before spending his last five dollars on someone who needed it, no matter how big or small the reason. money doesn’t matter to the lord, why should it matter to him?

WHO… caught wind of the new family in town and, as the town preacher it was his job to make himself a familiar figure to his neighbors.

WHO… first introduced himself to you at your doorstep, a batch of warm cookies in hand and an even warmer smile on his face.

WHO… invited you to church on sunday, made a promise that everyone was friendly and would accept you and your son with open arms.

WHO… gets to know you a little better after service when the two of you are cleaning up the potluck. he learns everything from what you do for work, where you’re originally from, to your son’s father being a deadbeat.

WHO… looks for you during sunday service among the pews. every time he spots you, glowing from the sunlight, your son sitting well behaved on your lap. it’s almost like that first breath he took after his baptism all over again.

WHO… finds himself spending more time with you away from church. he’ll come to your house to help fix an appliance, or maybe just to hang out.

WHO… definitely catches feelings, you’re just so sweet and, arts been alone for a long time. he’s always so focused on spreading the good word that he never thinks about what he wants.

WHO… comes to the conclusion that what he wants is you. he couldn’t care less that you have a son out of wedlock, or that you aren’t as religious as him or others in town.

WHO… asks you on a date after service, and is only about two seconds away from yelling out a hallelujah and jumping for joy when you inevitably say yes.

I LOVEEEEE THE NEW THEMEEEEE !!!!!!!!!

stop i’m blushing 🫣🫣 ily cheyanne !

this song is so carmy. every single lyric pertains to every single aspect of his life. grieving mikey, the stress of being a chef, being mean to those he loves……..oh i’m devastated (and SO writing some angst!)

LITTLE LAMB — vampire!tashi x sacrificialvirgin!reader

they dressed you in white silk and lilies and left you for her. the throne room of the vampire queen is no place for tender hearts, but you don’t turn away when she descends from her crimson seat. tashi duncan has made a thousand sacrifices bleed, but she kneels for you. and it’s not death you find in her mouth — it’s something worse.

warnings: vampire content, blood drinking, erotic tension, ritualistic undertones, explicit sensual content, oral (f receiving), ritualistic sex, power imbalance, minor religious imagery, blood kink, possessive behavior, obsession, fem!reader, dark romance, mild dubcon overtones via hypnotic vampiric influence

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @itachisank, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

notes: hey loves — dipping my toes into something a little darker, a little sharper-edged than my usual. i’ve been wanting to explore more gothic, eerie, sensual horror for a while now, and this felt like the perfect place to start. if you’re into this kind of slow, decadent menace and want to see more, please let me know!

They dress you in white. Silk, soft as breath, clings to your skin like prayer. You don’t remember who they are—only the hands, faceless and careful, that smoothed the fabric over your limbs, that combed through your hair with perfumed oil until it lay sleek against your back. The lilies come after. Cold, damp stems tucked behind your ears, down your spine, cradled in the crooks of your arms. You sit on your knees at the center of the marble floor, head bowed low. No one tells you to, but you know better than to look up.

The air is thick with old candle wax, something sharper beneath it—sweet, metallic. Blood, maybe. You don’t want to name it, but your mouth waters. Above you, the silence breathes. The hall isn’t empty; you feel her. That strange heat that isn’t heat, that slow, bone-deep awareness of being watched. Your thighs tense. You’re not afraid, not exactly. You are something smaller, more raw. You are waiting to be devoured.

You steal a glance before you can stop yourself. Just a flicker upward. Just your eyes. Her throne isn’t gilded or crowned in skulls, like you imagined. It’s just stone—damp with condensation, worn down at the edges like a thing that’s been used. She sits there like the world ends beneath her. Legs parted, one arm draped along the armrest, chin tilted just slightly down. Watching you. No expression. Just the kind of quiet that drips down the back of your neck and makes your skin burn.

You don’t expect her to move. Not yet. You’ve heard how she lingers—makes them wait until they’re shaking, until their mouths are red with bitten silence. But tonight, she rises. No sound, not even the whisper of silk. She moves like fog, like something with no weight, only hunger. Her dress trails behind her, the color of dried garnet, heavy and wet-looking where it meets the floor. You stare at the hem, at the way it pulls like something being dragged. Something dead. You forget how to breathe.

When she stops before you, your whole body tenses. Every muscle pulled taut, every nerve lit up like you’re bracing for a blow. She doesn’t touch you, not yet. Just stands there, close enough that you can smell her. Sandalwood and old wine and something else—feral, like skin left too long in the dark. Her fingers lift. Two, then three, knuckles brushing your jaw. You flinch. She doesn’t stop. Just tilts your chin up like she’s reading you.

Her voice, when it comes, is a hush, shaped like smoke. “You looked at me.”

It isn’t a question.

You try to nod, but your body won’t obey. Her hand holds you still, thumb pressing soft but firm into your chin, keeping you open. Vulnerable. Her eyes—god, her eyes—they don’t look human. Not monstrous, either. Just old. Like they’ve seen too many things. Eaten too many people. “Tell me why,” she murmurs.

“I—I… wanted to,” you whisper. Your voice breaks. It sounds like a lie. But it isn’t.

Her mouth curves. Not a smile. Nothing that gentle. More like amusement dragged slow across a blade. “Good,” she says, and that one word lands in your stomach like prayer. Like punishment. “That makes you mine.”

She kneels. You weren’t expecting that. You thought she’d tower over you forever, that she’d hurt you from above like a god. But she lowers herself, slow, precise, until your knees are nearly touching. The candles stutter behind her. Her fingers trail down your throat, light as a threat. You shiver. “Do you know what happens next?” she asks.

You shake your head.

She leans in. Her lips hover above yours, not kissing—just close enough to taste your breath. “You don’t beg yet,” she murmurs. “You learn. You listen. And when I say you’re ready, you bleed.”

The kiss is slow. Too slow. Like she’s tasting you with every pass of her tongue, learning your shape, cataloging every place you tremble. Her hand doesn’t move. It stays at your throat, a constant reminder. You’re not allowed to move. You’re not allowed to speak. You are allowed to feel, and you do. Fuck, you do. Every part of you screams for more.

She pulls back, just an inch, and you chase her without meaning to. “Hungry,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. “That’s adorable.”

Her hands move then—over your collarbones, down the line of your sternum, parting the silk like it’s nothing. You gasp. You’re bare beneath. Of course you are. You were dressed for offering. She parts the fabric until your chest is exposed, and her eyes drag across you like weight. Not heat. Not cold. Just pressure. Just intent.

She kisses your throat next. Lower. Then bites. Not with teeth—yet. Just lips and tongue and a mouth that knows what it’s doing. You arch for her. Pathetic. Willing. She laughs, breathless and cruel, right against your pulse. “Say thank you.”

You do. Quiet, cracked. It makes her eyes flash.

And then—finally—she bites.

It’s sharp. Immediate. Not like the stories say. Not some dull, thudding pull. Her teeth sink in like needles, like confession, and your whole body jerks. But she holds you. Arms locked around your shoulders, mouth sealed to your throat, drinking like you’re the only thing left alive. You feel your pulse stutter. You feel your hips rock forward, involuntary. Your body’s confused—pain or pleasure or both, and does it matter? Not to her. Not to you.

When she pulls back, your blood stains her mouth. She doesn’t wipe it. She wears it. “Good little thing,” she whispers, licking her lips. “You’re going to kneel for me forever.”

And the terrifying part?

You want to.

Your throat throbs where she’s marked you. Not a wound, not exactly—more like a brand. Deep and slow and wet, where your pulse used to sit quiet. Now it hammers. Everything feels… louder. The ache of your knees on the marble, the shiver where silk parts from skin, the hot, damp echo of her breath when she speaks again. “Do you feel it?” she murmurs, her hands splayed across your ribcage like she might crack you open. “The change?”

You nod. Barely. Your head is swimming, your body too full—of pain, of heat, of something ancient she’s poured into your veins. You feel dizzy. Hungry, but not for food. Tired, but not for sleep. It’s like she’s taken your name with your blood, and all that’s left is this. This trembling thing. This mouth that belongs to her now. You breathe her scent in like it’s air.

“Lie back,” she says, and her tone is lazy, indulgent. Like she’s giving you a gift.

The marble burns beneath you as you obey. The lilies crush beneath your shoulder blades, wet petals sticking to your skin. Your limbs don’t feel like yours anymore. She spreads them without asking, with the casual precision of someone arranging altar offerings. Your knees fall open. Your arms stretch wide. A crucifixion of posture, if not nails. She straddles your hips like a throne, her dress puddling around your thighs like liquid shadow.

“I want to see you undone,” she murmurs, brushing a thumb along your lower lip. “Piece by piece. Thought by thought. Until all that’s left is the worship.”

You try to speak, but your mouth won’t shape the words. She doesn’t mind. She hums under her breath—something tuneless, low, like a lullaby sung to corpses—and drags her nails down your chest. Light enough to tickle, just enough to sting. She pinches, scrapes, pauses at the pulse between your ribs. Watches the twitch. Watches your eyes.

“Look at you,” she whispers, amused. “Already trembling. They always do.”

You don’t know who they are. You don’t ask. You don’t want to know.

Her fingers drift lower. Not soft anymore. More clinical now, more practiced. She touches you like she’s learning you, but not gently. No tenderness. Just cold precision, like a priestess gutting the sacred lamb before the altar. Your breath stutters. You can’t stop the way your hips jerk, the way you writhe beneath her even as your thighs shake from the effort of staying open for her.

“Still,” she says sharply, and you still. The word presses into you like a command spoken directly to your marrow.

Then, her mouth again—on your breast this time, kissing, biting, sucking until she leaves bruises that bloom like violets across skin. Your fingers claw helplessly at the silk pooled around your sides, and she laughs against you. “Good little thing,” she croons. “So soft. So eager to be hollowed out.”

Her hand slips lower. You gasp. It’s too much—too close, too soon, too everything. She doesn’t care. She touches you like she owns you, like she’s not seeking pleasure but control. Every movement exact, every press of her fingers meant to unravel. You try not to fall apart. You try to last. But your body is already betraying you, rising into her touch like it’s answering a prayer.

And then—she stops. Just like that.

Your whimper is immediate. Shameful. You don’t even try to hide it.

“Not yet,” she says, cool and calm and cruel. “You don’t come until I say. If you do, I stop. If you beg too soon, I stop. If you bite your lip again without permission, I stop.”

You nod frantically, mouth dry, eyes wide.

She leans down, lips against your ear. “That’s right. Be good. Be mine.”

The pace changes. Slower now. More drawn-out, more decadent. She moves like she has centuries to waste, dragging her tongue along your neck again, licking the wound until it weeps fresh. She licks it clean. You feel every drop re-enter your skin, feel your blood inside her, returning. The room spins. You’re not sure if you moan or cry. It doesn’t matter. She takes all sound the same.

You’re so close you’re shaking. She hasn’t even fucked you yet. Not really. Just fingers, just mouth, just the weight of her body and the absolute knowing that she could end you and you’d thank her for it. She pinches your throat gently between thumb and forefinger, pressing in until your vision dances. Your hands fly up—instinct—but don’t push. Just hover. Seeking.

“Shh,” she soothes, her breath warm against your cheek. “Let me. You’ll come when I allow it. You’ll fall apart when I decide you’re ready to break.”

She presses harder. You choke.

Not pain. Not panic. Just silence. Stillness. Like prayer.

And then—release. Her fingers thrust deep, curling exactly right, finding the sweet, ruined space of you that makes your back arch and your voice snap loose. You don’t mean to cry out. You don’t mean to come. But you do. It floods you like heat, like guilt, like god.

She stops. Freezes.

Your breath catches.

“I said,” she hisses, “not yet.”

Terror. Ecstasy. Regret. You stammer something—apology, plea, you’re not sure. She leans over you, eyes black with something older than rage. “You disobeyed,” she says, almost sad.

And then—teeth. Her second bite is vicious. Not elegant. Not seductive. It’s punishment. It hurts. You scream, throat raw, and she holds you down while she drinks. Messy. Fast. Your blood spatters across your chest, across her mouth, across your thighs.

She drinks until you’re dizzy. Until your fingers go numb. Until you are barely a body.

Only then does she rise.

“You’ll do better tomorrow,” she says simply, and turns her back.

You remain on the floor, ruined and silent and slick with blood and shame.

And beneath it all, something deeper blooms.

Devotion.

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

THREE’S A CROWD, art and tashi invite you to a hotel dinner that’s not really about dinner. the table’s set, lights dimmed, but their eyes stay on you. tashi’s sharp, in control; art’s quieter, unraveling. conversation slips from polite to personal fast—resentments, desires, everything unspoken laid bare. the meal stays cold. their fixation on you doesn’t. lines blur. therapist, obsession, maybe something worse. by the end, they’re not asking for help—they’re asking what you want.

everything you write is dessert i love it i love it

this is such a unique compliment awh!! i love it and i love YOU anon 💌💌💌

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 fine🙂‍↕️

tysm mel 🥹💝 i’ll whip up some artrick for ya

ARTRICK | NSFW ALPHABET | M = MOTIVATION (what turns them on, gets them going)

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @idyllicdaydreams, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @sohighitscool

ART DONALDSON

Art makes sex feel like the warm weight of a promise.

He doesn’t come at you like he’s trying to conquer anything—he approaches like he’s been handed a gift, and he’s terrified of holding it wrong. He’s soft, but not because he’s unsure; it’s because he cares that much.

What turns him on isn’t power, isn’t control, isn’t anything you’d expect—it’s praise. Honest, needy praise. The moment you gasp out a, “Fuck, feels so good, Art,” his whole demeanor shifts, and suddenly he’s hungry in a way that makes your knees weak. He needs to know he’s doing it right, doing it better, making you feel so good that you can’t even remember how to speak. Tell him he’s perfect and he’ll suck a bruise into your thigh, low and trembling and worshipful, like he’s trying to prove he deserves it.

He gives head like it’s his religion, face buried between your legs, licking and moaning like he’s 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 it—can pin your hands and fuck you slow and deep with his teeth gritted and his praises pouring out—but even then, it’s all in service of you. You tell him he’s the best you’ve ever had and he’ll fall apart in your hands. You tell him you need him and he’ll shake.

And after, he’ll be nothing but warmth—gentle, whisper-quiet, kissing your forehead and wrapping you in his arms, asking if you’re okay even though he’s already gotten you a towel and a bottle of water and is halfway through tucking you in. “You sure I didn’t overdo it?” he’ll 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 he’s enough. That he’s yours.

⸻

PATRICK ZWEIG

Patrick’s 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 much—too 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 what’s 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 whore—he’ll moan into it with a bite to his grin, pupils blown wide, head tilted like he’s about to laugh and cry all at once. “You gonna call me names, baby?” he’ll 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 he’s nothing but a hole to fuck, but he wants it from someone who sees him. Who gets him. That’s where the angel glows through—he’s the devil who blushes when you call him beautiful mid-thrust, the brat who melts when you pull him in and tell him he’s yours.

He switches when it hits right, when the mood turns—one second he’s mouthing off, the next he’s flipping you over, fucking you deep with slow, brutal thrusts and hissing in your ear, “You gonna be good for me now?”—and whether he’s topping or bottoming, he wants it dirty. Wants it wet, messy, obscene. His mouth stays busy—on you, around you, in you—and when he finally comes, it’s loud, full-body, shameless.

Aftercare’s minimal but honest. He won’t do the whole ritual but he’ll hold you, curled against your chest, biting back a sleepy smile while pretending he’s not touched. “You’re obsessed with me,” he’ll mumble, already half-asleep with your fingers in his hair, and when you kiss his forehead he doesn’t flinch—just sighs like he’s never been safer in his life.

thank u for the tag, mika ♡

coffee or tea || early bird or night owl || sandalwood or lemongrass || spring or fall || silver or gold || pop or alternative || freckles or dimples || snakes or spiders || mountains or fields || thunder or lightning || norse mythology or greek mythology || green or red || flute or guitar || ruby or diamond || butterflies or honeybees || cake or cookies || typewritten or handwritten || secret garden or secret library || rooftop or balcony || spicy or mild || concert or theater || london or paris || van gogh or monet || petrichor or sea salt || denim or leather || chatter or music || forest or desert || dragons or unicorns || masquerade ball or yuletide party || violence or heartbreak || hugs or kisses || bergamot or lilac

npt ୨ৎ: @talsorchard, @artstennisracket, @voidsuites, @newrochellechallenger2019, @ghostgirl-22, @jesuistrestriste, @lovefaist, @zionna, @bambiangels

thank you for the tag @donaka-screaming mwah!!!!

coffee or tea || early bird or night owl || sandalwood or lemongrass || spring or fall || silver or gold || pop or alternative || freckles or dimples || snakes or spiders || mountains or fields || thunder or lightning || norse mythology or greek mythology || green or red || flute or guitar || ruby or diamond || butterflies or honeybees || cake or cookies || typewritten or handwritten || secret garden or secret library || rooftop or balcony || spicy or mild || concert or theater || london or paris || van gogh or monet || petrichor or sea salt || denim or leather || chatter or music || forest or desert || dragons or unicorns || masquerade ball or yuletide party || violence or heartbreak || hugs or kisses || bergamot or lilac

npt: @kingkat12 @vadersangel @222col @tinas111 @titsout4jackles @generalb @sallux @carmillavalentine

DILF!HUSBAND!ART DONALDSON — quickie at a family birthday party

the house roars with noise—sugar-wired kids shrieking, adults exchanging strained pleasantries, the chaos of domestic bliss. but upstairs, behind a locked door, your husband isn’t content with playing the polite party host. no—he’s starving for you. and he takes his time devouring.

pairing: dilf!husband!art donaldson x fem!reader

warnings: semi-public sex, p in v penetration, unprotected sex, hand over mouth during sex, fingering, fully clothed sex, creampie, aftercare

notes: i legit just cooked this up for y’all, so sorry if there’s any grammatical errors! i also apologize for the length, it’s a little bit shorter than my usual works. i’ll make up for it my lovelies 😇

It starts the way all sins should—quietly.

The living room’s overstuffed with bodies and chatter, frosting-smudged faces screeching joy into plastic forks and paper plates. The kind of midday suburban hellscape where no one knows whose kid belongs to whom and every dad thinks he’s the next grill-master prophet. You’ve been balancing on the arm of a couch for what feels like a decade, one thigh going numb, lemonade in your hand turning piss-warm, your polite smile clinging to your face like static. A toddler drags their syrupy fingers down your calf. You flinch, too tired to correct them. Too wired, too watched.

And across the room, Art’s gaze is burning holes through your goddamn soul.

He stands framed in the doorway to the patio, lips barely moving as he humors some dad explaining lawn care or stocks or something equally soul-killing. But he’s not listening. Not really. His eyes keep snagging on you, pulling like thread through fabric—slow, deliberate, tightening with each glance. His gaze isn’t casual. It’s heavy. Possessive. It curls around your ribcage, slides under your skin, presses right where you want him most.

Your sundress was a calculated move. Pale yellow. Thin. The kind of cotton that clings after a breeze and rides up with each step. Innocent in the way lingerie dreams of being. You wore it for him. You always do. And from the way his jaw ticks every time you shift in your seat, he knows it.

The moment your eyes meet, his lip twitches. The kind of smile that promises sin. You shift your thighs, not for show, but because you fucking need to—because under all this conversation and chaos and birthday cake air, you’re slick and throbbing like you’re in college again. All because of that fucking look.

He doesn’t ask when you slip away from the crowd. He doesn’t follow immediately either. He waits. He lets you lead. And when the stairs creak under your feet, your heartbeat is so goddamn loud it might as well be broadcast over the baby monitor someone left running on the kitchen counter.

You don’t even reach the guest room before you feel him behind you—close, not touching, but there. His presence is a temperature. A pressure. A fucking gravitational pull.

Inside the room, the air changes. No words. Just the click of the door lock behind you, and silence so sharp it hums. You don’t turn. You don’t need to.

You feel him behind you like a storm rolling in. Warmth licking at your spine before fingers even find your waist. When they do—Jesus—it’s reverent. Thumbs sliding up your sides like he’s reading Braille, like your body contains answers he’s been chasing all his life.

“That dress, baby,” he says, voice thick like honey left too long in the sun. “That fucking dress.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not when his mouth finds your shoulder, his lips parting against the skin like he’s trying to taste what the sun left behind.

“I wore it for you,” you finally whisper, like a confession through a prayer.

“I know.” A kiss, open-mouthed, heat and breath and barely there teeth. “You always do.”

It’s slow. Excruciatingly, deliberately slow. He peels you apart like fruit—one careful touch at a time. His hands slide down, grip your hips, pull you back against the heat of him, still clothed but unmistakable. Unignorable.

“You were sittin’ there lookin’ like a fuckin’ dream,” he growls into your neck. “Actin’ all sweet while your thighs were pressed so tight, I thought you might snap in half.”

You whimper. Soft. Needy. Embarrassing in the way only want can be. And he loves it. You feel it in the way his hands grip harder, the way his breath stutters against your skin.

Then: he turns you.

The look in his eyes is dangerous. Not cruel—never that—but devastating. Like you’re the only soft thing in a world made of stone, and he’s starving for every inch.

“You’re not gonna make a sound,” he says, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip. “You understand me?”

You nod. He doesn’t move.

“Say it.”

“I won’t make a sound.”

That smile again. That sinful, knowing curve of his lips as he leans in close, nose brushing yours. “Good girl.”

You don’t remember falling onto the bed. Only the feeling of the mattress dipping beneath you, your dress pushed up with reverent slowness, your thighs guided open like the petals of a flower coaxed by the sun. You’re still wearing everything. So is he. And that’s what makes it unbearable—the friction of cotton against heat, the crinkle of fabric caught between skin and need.

When he slides his hand between your thighs and finds you soaked, he groans. Low. A sound that hits you somewhere between your sternum and your soul.

“All this for me?”

You nod, lip caught between your teeth, hips twitching under his palm.

He doesn’t give you what you want. Not yet. He teases. He strokes. He circles and ghosts over you until your toes curl and your stomach aches, until you’re arching and gasping and begging with your eyes because your voice is a luxury you can’t afford.

“Shhh, baby,” he murmurs, and when you whine despite yourself, he covers your mouth with his hand—firm, warm, fingers splayed across your cheek like a lover and a captor. “You wanna get caught?”

You shake your head.

“Then be quiet.”

It’s not fast. It’s not rough. It’s devastatingly thorough. When he finally pulls himself out—all six, flushed, beautiful inches of him, and finally slides inside you, it’s like a stretch made of molten gold—slow, deep, purposeful. You choke on a moan against his hand, tears springing to your eyes from the sheer intensity of being so utterly filled.

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “So fucking perfect for me.”

The thrusts are measured. Each one a study in control. He fucks you like he’s trying to remember every inch, every twitch, every gasp you won’t let out loud. His praise is relentless—murmured against your skin, whispered like secrets meant only for the pulse point of your throat.

“You take me so well.”

“Fuck, look at you.”

“My girl. My sweet girl.”

You come undone with his hand over your mouth, your legs locked around his hips, your body shaking apart like the quietest little explosion. And he keeps going. Keeps moving. Holds you steady while he finishes inside you, moaning ragged into your neck, hips stuttering as he gives you everything.

When it’s over, the room is still. Sacred. The world doesn’t exist past these walls. Outside, laughter carries up from the yard, oblivious. You watch as his seed spills from your cunt, obscenely so, and meet his eyes.

He kisses your temple. Brushes your hair back. Helps you fix your dress. Cleans you up with a few tissues and his mouth.

No one suspects a thing.

But his fingers stay curled around yours even as you rejoin the party, and you both know what you did—what you tasted, what you claimed. He hands you an overly-frosted cupcake, seemingly a reward, and winks before walking off once more.

And that knowledge lingers like a brand, burned into your bones.