i deeply miss writing
but uni keeps me too busy
and my mind is a mess.
:)

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@moonylovesblog
i deeply miss writing
but uni keeps me too busy
and my mind is a mess.
:)

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You belong with me. 💚💛💜❤️🩵🖤
Letter on my site :)
call me super glue cause holy shit do i get attached
life's a beach
pairing: patrick zweig x reader request: @diorrfairy: i can't stop thinking about patrick x reader who's an introvert, kinda shy but with a fiery temper just like him. and she knows it's better not to get involved with guys like him but she can't help it. and he's constantly teasing her trying to get on her nerves like … summary: a chain smoking tennis player disrupts your day on the beach and uproots your entire summer vacation. word count: 6.5k warnings: enemies to lovers (kinda… the reader folds like a paper airplane pretty quickly), smoking, no use of y/n, low speed police (pool security guard) chase, mentions of smoking, brief mention of alcohol, so much exposition, vague descriptions of sports, some kissing, patrick and reader are spoiled rich kids author’s note: this fic definitely got away from me, but i hope that you all enjoy it! also, i apologize in advance for any characterization issues, since i’ve only seen the movie once. with that being said, i’m still taking requests if you want to send me anything!
SORRY | series masterpost
Art Donaldson x Reader
Art and [Y/N] met through Patrick when they were seventeen. These are moments in all those shared years in their lives where Art had to say sorry.
+ indicates smut/adult content
SPONTANEOUS.+
SHITHEAD.+

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reunion
Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader
Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.
Notes: Not beta-read because when is it ever.
Length: 4.5K
Warnings: Slow burn; unrequited love; angst; yearning; divorced Art Donaldson; oral sex (female receiving); vaginal sex; safe sex
Summary: It wasn't that Art Donaldson was the one that got away. It was more like Art Donaldson was the one that never really knew you existed.
"Did you hear Art Donaldson is supposed to be here?"
The question is whispered behind you and makes your hand freeze in its signing. You're half-bent over the table at reception, fingers tight around a pen as your mind is jogged.
No way was he turning up, that's what Anne had said.
Tashi will be there, she's the head of the goddamn reunion committee, the ink is still wet on their divorce—that's what Anne had said. Hell, she'd sworn it.
So what the hell is he doing here?
─── WILDFIRE ❤️🔥 ART DONALDSON
╰┈➤ CHAPTER 1 | THE PLEASURE IS ALL MINE
──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──
SERIES MASTERLIST | ART DONALDSON MASTERLIST
summary: art meets patrick's sister for the first time.
pairing: art donaldson x zweig!reader
warnings: swearing.
word count: 1,465
notes: i have so many ideas for this series but if you do have any suggestions throughout of you just want to chat about it, pease feel free to send me an ask, my inbox is always open.
──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──
SHITHEAD.
Art Donaldson x Reader.
warnings: a lot of them. 18+, slapping, begging, major angst, brat!Art, an argument with make up sex. Art is really manipulative because… he is a bit and we all know it. [Y/N] is very ill-tempered too. it’s dirty.
can be a part ii to SPONTANEOUS, or read as a standalone. this is my favorite piece of writing i have published on this account.
The bed was empty beside [Y/N]. She stared at Art’s empty side of the bed. The soft green sheets and mix-matched pillowcases went unoccupied. Not because he wasn’t home, but because [Y/N] hated Art so he had to sleep downstairs on the couch.
It wasn’t that she really hated Art. She did hate him right now. Not in a funny way. Their drive home had been silent. Poor Art didn’t know how to facilitate conversation that wouldn’t worsen the situation. His sorrowful eyes, but honest eyes kept glancing from the road to where [Y/N] sat in the passenger seat. The real showdown had started between them something awful when the door to their house slammed shut.
See, Art cried when he got mad. Or sad. Or profoundly excited. Their wedding photos were two-thirds Art crying and trying not to show that he was crying.
Art hadn’t cried tonight yet. That pissed [Y/N] off. She was furious and he seemed to feel absolutely zero discernible feelings about that.
They argued all the time. It rarely lasted all too long.
It was different this time. When [Y/N] started to say something cruel or shout or weep, Art got a little smaller, but he alarmingly stood his ground. He averted his gaze and said “I respectfully disagree,” or “What the fuck do you know about how I feel?” in a dangerously level tone.
Fighting with Art about this wasn’t fun. He was too cool about. He knew he was right. [Y/N] wanted to yell and scream because Art was so relaxed and condescending in his tone. When the man who had spent his teenage years getting referred at competition after competition as literally Ice tonelessly said: “Jesus Christ, aren’t you bored yet? What, going to over-explain the same information to me again, or…?” Finally, that had made [Y/N] drag herself to bed and yank the door closed violently enough that she felt the metallic vibration run all the way up to her shoulder.
And she was still laying there, staring at Art’s side of the bed.
At the Zweig’s party that night, there were a few hot topics in the Donaldsons’ sphere:
1) Lots of congratulations from people that had known them grow up, but hadn’t seen them since the wedding or prior.
This was mostly very kind. It dragged that smirk up Art’s face and caused his fingers to dig tighter into [Y/N]’s waist. That look of pride and tenderness on his face was more than welcome.
2) Lots of questions about Patrick. His lack of attendance was felt.
Both Donaldsons dodged these question as much as they could. Art kept an eye on [Y/N]’s liquor consumption. He knew how embarrassed she would be if she said something she regretted in front of Patrick’s family. Patrick had hurt them both, but Art’s heart went out to [Y/N]. Her world had been built around Patrick’s from a young age. Art was trying to engineer his own world higher around her so she wouldn’t be able to see the old place and people that had burned her over the walls.
3) “You’re married. When are we going to be seeing a little Donaldson running around?”
With Art keeping an eye on [Y/N]’s drinking, she hadn’t really been keeping an eye on him. She just assumed he would keep his shit together. Art drinking in public was never really a concern. He wasn’t a big drinker anyway. At this point, his career mattered more and he was approaching his mid-twenties which made him feel surely less young than he had once. He wasn’t a casual beer guy either. It was Patrick who liked beer and Art who would have a moledo or something sometimes. Art did like white girl drinks, though. Tequila and fruity stuff. He had been able to shoot shot after shot of vodka like a pro in college at a season-end celebration.
Art was a tight-lipped man, but he was a giggly drunk who he got pretty comfortable talking out of his ass from behind a glass with an umbrella in it. Art was rarely comfortable with anything, so a drink or two at a party was welcome to him.
Another important point of context is that the largest point of tension between Art and [Y/N] was starting a family. They desperately wanted a child together, but they disagree on when. [Y/N] felt like she was fresh out of college, so she figured they had plenty of time. Art felt that he was fresh out of college, so he figured they may as well get to it.
Their arguments about this were once semi-regular. In the last four months or so, Art timidly bowed out and hoped [Y/N] would tell him when she was ready (sooner rather than later). He got tired of the low-tier shouting matches. Instead, he would pick fights about things that were decidedly lower stakes when he was bored.
Art had let [Y/N] field comments about family planning throughout the night. Unfortunately, when Art was polishing off a second drink, he ran his mouth a little bit.
Knowing he was the designated driver that night, Art did go easy. Art was also, like, five pounds. While he could hold his liquor with grace, he always got giggly. He watched with heavy eyelids as [Y/N] walked away to collect another drink following the dinner portion of the evening. The paper placecards with their shared last name emblazoned on them rested comfortably in Art’s inner jacket pocket to be kept as a memory.
Some guy who sold boat insurance and liked to rub elbows with talent was talking Art’s ear off. Art couldn’t remember his name, but [Y/N] would know it.
This was the precise moment that got Art in trouble.
Because when the guy whose name Art was sure started with an R said: “So! You’re married. When are we going to be seeing a little Donaldson running around?”
Art said:
“Any day now, I hope. Tomorrow. I’m good to go. [Y/N] thinks now’s not a great time for her.”
He had said it with a smirk and a stupid little laugh. It was basically locker room talk. Big deal. He would’ve said it to Patrick with [Y/N] present in the room. This guy wasn’t Patrick and he was technically speaking behind her back.
Art had forgotten how close they were standing to the bar. He had forgotten that the frequency of his pitchy tenor was known to carry. He had forgotten that he was well known to be an instigator of fights even though he never actually threw the first punch. He had forgotten that he hadn’t been whispering. He had forgotten that this guy… Richy? Ronnie? was pretty much a stranger who had no business knowing their business.
Now, Art was sleeping on the couch and his side of the bed was empty.
Jackass.
[Y/N] stared still at the empty bed and didn’t know how to articulate her upset to an Art who had seemingly yet to feel ashamed.
She had a headache and was tired. But sleep wasn’t going to come easy and all she had to look forward to was a hangover.
Art didn’t really snore, but he was a heavy breather when he slept. The lack of his white noise made the A/C blowing and the stairs creaking too loud. Maybe all of this was on [Y/N] for making Art uncomfortable, she dared to think.
Then she reminded herself that it was Art’s fault for talking too much and for drinking when he knew he was supposed to drive home.
[Y/N] rolled over to face away from Art’s spot. All she could think about is how his hands always sleepily pawed at her to pull her back when she got too far away from him before he fell asleep.
“So, what’d you do?” Patrick asked.
“She hates me.” Art replied. It was almost a question.
“I asked what you did, not what she feels. She already told us what she feels and it’s that she hates you.” Patrick stated. When Patrick had stopped through town for a match, he had come by for dinner with, well, his best friends. This had been right after they’d gotten engaged.
Art sniffled. He didn’t want to cry in front of Patrick. Art would sooner cry in front of his own father. Both men would have laughed in his face, but it would have stung more from Patrick. “We got into a fight yesterday. A big one. Like, the first, uh, big one. She’s worried about the f—“
“The future? Please,” Patrick said bitterly. He frowned and his jaw tightened, but he combatted it by tossing Art a smile before the other man noticed the tension. “Stupid. You’re gonna marry her. You’ll play tennis. She’ll do her… columns? Articles. I don’t get what it is that she does—“
“She writes for—“
“Sure, yeah. You’re gonna have two kids so you can each pick a favorite one. And she’s gonna be a pain in your ass forever. Don’t be a pussy.”
Art sniffled again and stared at the floor. “I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I didn’t think I did,” Art said meekly. “I don’t get it. She gets so mad sometimes. At me.” Patrick stared at him blankly. Art had to know that he was usually at least a little bit the problem.
“Did she do the thing where she calls you a—“
“Shithead bastard?”
“Shithead bastard.” Both boys said at the same time. Art dragged his hands through his hair and looked up at Patrick. Both of them quirked a smirk at the other.
“See,” Patrick started. “You’ll be fine. Fuckin’ go after her.”
“And say what!”
“Uh… ‘I’m sorry?’ You do that kinda shit. She’ll like that.”
It was impossible to know how long [Y/N] laid there. The clock was on Art’s side and she would get spitting mad if she rolled back over.
She could just go downstairs and tell Art to come back to bed. He was probably sleeping just fine.
“Hey, hon, you don’t hate me, right?” Art’s voice whispered in the darkness.
[Y/N] was fairly certain she had imagined it. She had not heard his sweaty feet on the stairs or his fingers against the doorknob. Quickly, [Y/N] whipped over to face the door behind her.
There was Art. His sweatpants sat low on his hips and his shirt was long gone. Clothing didn’t often survive the night on Art’s back.
Really, she couldn’t help but wonder how long it had taken Art to work through coming upstairs so quietly. “Mm?” [Y/N] groaned in question.
Art rocked his right shoulder into the doorway to lean. His arms were crossed and his eyes straight ahead on her from what [Y/N] could tell in the glow of the hallway’s thermostat. “Please just tell me you don’t hate me and I’ll let you go back to sleep. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
With a sigh, [Y/N] sat up and rolled her cracking shoulders back. “I don’t hate you, Art.” Her heart melted a little bit. [Y/N] knew it was immature, but her special attack in arguments since childhood was to bandy around the word hate a lot. Not that she had said it to Art tonight, but she had no doubt said it before. More than once. More times than she could count, maybe.
She was surprised Art had never asked this before. That surprise hurt in an a way that was too complex to describe. “I could never hate you.” [Y/N] continued, voice hushed only because it was dark out.
Art’s posture relaxed slightly. “You promise you don’t?” Said Art’s evermore crippling lack of self-confidence.
“I promise.” [Y/N] replied calmly.
“Okay. Thank you.” Art said in a small voice.
“I love you, baby. I don’t hate you. You shouldn’t have to ask that. I’m sorry I made you feel like you even have to ask that.”
Art frowned sharply. “No, I’m the one that should be sorry. You told me nicely not to talk about—“
“Don’t play that. You have to know you don’t feel like you did anything wrong, so you don’t have to invent a situation where you’re some horrible person.”
Art was silent.
[Y/N] continued. “I’m pissed because you told Randy,” RANDY. His name was RANDY. That’s it. “Our business. My business, really. He’s an asshole. It’s fine. Well, not now, but eventually. But you kinda martyred yourself on it. You don’t have to do that and I don’t hate you. You know I don’t… Right?”
“I’m sorry.” Art said quickly. He was gifted at making every single minor problem his own fault. He knew he was a little bit of an awful person for that, but he would die before admitting it. Art would hide behind his martyring habit as long as his cross could hold him, though. [Y/N] hadn’t noticed before this moment, but she could see the shining of his eyes in the digital blue-green glow. Tears. This time, less than obvious waterworks. Aw.
“I’m sorry. I’m still pissed at you for running your mouth, but I’m sorry too.”
Art nodded, said nothing else and reached for the doorknob.
Here is a frustrating thing about Art.
He said he was going to leave for downstairs once [Y/N] said she didn’t hate him. He started to make good on that vow. If he says something, he’s going to do it, even though he doesn’t have to do it.
“Come on,” [Y/N] called louder than she’d been whispering. “Come here, pretty baby.”
Pretty Baby by Blondie had been their wedding song. She had been calling him that for almost as long as she had known him. Saying it, or hearing the song always made that stunning, small crooked smile stretch up beyond his sad puppy eyes all the way to his ears.
Art’s kryptonite was pretty baby. They both knew it.
He turned to look at her with a slight blush on his cheeks, almost visible in the dark. Art shifted one of his feet childishly over the other in apprehension.. “Don’t make me say it again. I don’t like to ask twice.” [Y/N] reminded him.
After a hasty nod, Art was in bed before he [Y/N] blinked. The blonde sat bolt upright beside [Y/N] with his eyes wide. Hesitant, but coyly so. He knew this pattern. The agony and shame from her brutality would only last so long. Housepets loved to cause trouble for treat.
Not to say that Art liked to start fights so he could play some low-status lapdog that got to feel his wife’s fingers comb through his hair the way he liked as a reward for an apology. The man bit his cheek to avoid a devious smirk. A part of him did like to do that sometimes, though.
He always got away with it. He was such a nice boy.
[Y/N] rolled her eyes and leaned back into the threadbare pillows. With a finger, she beckoned Art nearer. Hesitation eliminated, Art flopped slowly down beside [Y/N]; she on her back, he on his side, facing her. Delicately, Art’s fingers dragged down [Y/N]’s arm to curl in her fingers.
Not long after that, his plush mouth climbed down from her neck. Then shoulders and collarbones. Then bicep. Elbow. Forearm and wrist. Down her hand to her silver-studded ring finger. Each kiss with accompanied with an honest and dutiful I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He was sorry. Genuinely. Sorry for the upset he brought his wife, but not the cause. Art’s beautiful duel-colored eyes glanced up at [Y/N]’s blown pupils through her own fingers.
“I didn’t mean to talk about you like that… I just… I love you so much that I want more of you. That’s all, honey,” Art laid his head on [Y/N]’s upper chest and his mouth moved against the front of her throat. “I’m just a little stupid, huh…”
Under his lips, Art could feel the rumble of a laugh rip through [Y/N]’s throat. Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair to hold him in place. “Do-don’t talk about yourself like that,” she mumbled and gave his hair a lovely tug with both hands. He whimpered. [Y/N] wanted to bottle that sound. Art would always remember what she said next and how she said it: “Only I get to talk about you like that… St-stupid.”
This was the version of [Y/N] he was going to remember when he thought of her every day for the rest of his life. That sentence, the way her hair hung from where he had pushed it away from her neck. The sting of the cold metal from her wedding ring on the back of his neck and the stone of her engagement ring pressing into where he reached his palm to place his hand over hers. There was just the wrong amount of clothes between them. Her eyes ringed smoky from the makeup smudges and the exhaustion.
“Say it again.” Art whispered, swinging a knee over [Y/N]’s thighs so he could stare down at her. His forehead pressed softly against [Y/N]’s.
[Y/N]’s mouth fell open slightly with a breathy exhalation. Holy shit. “What, pretty baby, you want me to tell you how stupid you are? You like that?” [Y/N] almost whispered into Art’s still lips. He was too shocked to kiss her back, but too turned on to pull away. Art whimpered louder than before. [Y/N] felt him nod.
So she didn’t hold back. “You think I need to punish you after you behaved like that today or something? You need to atone for what a moron you were, shithead?” [Y/N] kept her tone light enough to just about tease as her nose trailed along the side of his. Her objective was to belittle. Her nails slid down Art’s muscular, sturdy back.
They both knew Art was a masochist on his worst days. Did he get off on being degraded sometimes? Sure. But this series of events was ridiculously new and exciting for [Y/N]. And shockingly obviously for Art too.
His hips pressed into her pathetically. “What? Did you need help with something?” She asked innocently when she felt Art’s hard-on against her thigh. [Y/N] kissed him distractingly warmly for how she was treating him. Art’s head spun and he couldn’t seem to make sense of anything anymore. He had backed himself into the best kind of corner.
Across Art’s hips and side went [Y/N]’s left hand, to the front of his sweatpants. Humiliatingly, Art blinked tears out of his eyes and screwed them shut. His mouth opened and closed, but no intelligent sound came out. [Y/N] planted a kiss at the corner of his parted lips. His strong arms boxed [Y/N] protectively in from above, but she had him locked into place, really. “Baby, if you want something, you know you have to ask for it.”
“Nnh,” Art tried, eyes stuck shut. His attention was mostly spent hold himself up over his wife. His insanely gorgeous wife. [Y/N]’s other hand grabbed his jaw tenderly. He still didn’t look at her. Art was gathering his courage. “Yo-you already told me I couldn’t have what I wanted.”
With a sharp inhale, [Y/N] grip went from gentle to nonexistent. At the lack of contact, Art’s damp eyes crept open one at a time to see if his brattiness had overstepped the situation. His frightened eyes caught [Y/N]’s. She popped the side of his face sharply with an open palm. Art blinked and tipped his head to the side like a dog.
That was big trouble, huh?
“Fuck,” he said. Both of them panted in sync. “I’m sorry.” He meant it.
[Y/N] pulled Art’s face to hers and kissed him hard. “I love… you.” She said.
Can I get another kiss..?
He crawled back inside the bedsheets, pulling back his messy long brown hair with one hand and grabbing her neck with the other, moving her close to him. Looking at her lips and then into her lazy eyes and back to her lips, smiling.
She could feel his warm breath in her. His closeness. His care. The fire in him...the fire they set ablaze last night..
He kissed her. First, he felt her lips, then slowly exploring her warm mouth..cuddling her tongue with his. Gently.
The thought of last night crossed her mind while they were kissing.
'Is this the same man who slept with me last night?'
Who pins down her, grabs her hair, bites her lips...her limbs still ache, and her thighs blueish. Her lips have stains, and her scalp still hurts.
Still....
She loves him. Adores him. Longs for him. For sure! In all that pain, she could feel his love. His love for her. His need for her. She could see that in his eyes and hear them in his voice.
Each time he whispers in her ears when they mate, it feels like the only sound that can keep her alive. The kisses that he showers all over her, it feels like the only sensation she has. All that pain feels like the only reason she could live.
Yes. She is in love with him. Madly. He is the Lord to her. The Sun she yearns to follow. The light to her darkness. Yet..
Yet it's time to part with him.. even if she doesn't wish to. Tears brimmed her soft hazel eyes when he left the room, shutting the doors behind. That's it. Not even a loving glance.. it hurts to wait for his return as he comes and leaves in his leisure.
Her train of emotions and thoughts was distracted by her phone call.
It's just another one, or 'the Giver' as her mistress calls, looking for pleasure.
'Do I even have the right to even love someone..? By myself at least..?' Tears ran down her pale cheeks as she longed for him again..
Like the lily that waits for her moon to bloom again..

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*being obsessed with fictional blonde psychopaths is a crime*
me:
Important information for writers who aren’t British but like to try to sound British in their British-y fanfiction
“You need tea” - you are having, or just had, a medical emergency. This tea will have like 3 sugars and milk in no matter how you normally take your tea.
When I gave birth they kept bringing me cups of very sweet tea until I drank one
Even when covered in blood and being stitched up
“Do you want some tea?” I’ve something to say and I’m nervous about it
“Do you want some tea?”
I’ve something to say and I’m
nervous about it
Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.
Everybody shut up I'm sinking into a daydream universe where I'm loved and nothing is wrong

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"I currently have a crush and I'm 100% I'm asexual because I have no desire to do it with someone else. The thing about aromanticism for me and why I'm not so sure about it is because well- i have a crush but I guess the lines kinda blur for me. I crave physical affection. I hug, hold hands, etc with my friends but with my crush it's kinda weird? I get the butterflies, or at least I think so? See that's where the lines start to blur for me. This crush in particular is distinctively different than my other crushes. I've had short crushes before that were definitely aesthetic attraction and long term crushes with butterflies and all. This crush, I don't get butterflies, instead I'm comfortable with them and i think that's something that happens when you're comfortable enough with them? I don't really see myself dating anyone yet I crave to date someone. I crave the knowledge that people like me in a romantic way and i crave to date yet I can't seem to see myself dating anyone in particular. I can't call myself an aromantic because i have a crush in which i don't know if it's romantic or not but at the same time aromanticism is a whole spectrum and it really depends on what you view romantic attraction as. Romance is subjective, it depends on the person. If you're comfortable with the aromantic label then go ahead, there's no harm in changing your mind later on in life. It just means you're starting to figure yourself out."
-Tsuko
another thing i feel the need to share is this.
i’m in a situationship with a guy that i’m getting to know, but it’s hard. a thing is keeping me up at night: kissing him makes me cringe.
How do I explain it? Maybe I don’t feel confortable enough around him, or I just don’t like that kind of affection.
I’m starting to think that I’m aro. I’m not sure and I don’t know how to clear my mind. My friends are not helping.
If someone can help me understand, I’ll be forever thankful.