#art x reader

Absolutely and entirely. He says up and down that he’s known from the moment he’s met you. Granted, all high school boys eventually get some sort of crush on childhood friends. He claimed this was different. This was the kind of crush that kept he up at night, tossing and turning after spending too long thinking about you. The kind of crush that had his palms sweaty and rushing to Patrick for help with every little thing.

Art was in love with you. Of course you weren’t naive and stupid to ignore the signs, besides, it wasn’t like he was good at hiding it.

You’d known for years, since sophomore summer, to be exact. Long before college made everything inconvenient, and dorms split you across campus between buildings easily complicated. He never said it, not out loud, but you saw it. Saw it in the way his eyes would linger, his ears bright red. It got a bit more obvious when he’d remember your favorite lemonade brand, what time you had practice and how he’d look at you like he was memorizing every aspect of you.

You gave him openings.

Tons of subtle ones. Asked him and Patrick to walk you home if trainings went too long. Purposefully knock knees together if he’d sit just within stretch’s reach. By the time orientation happened you tried to nudge him a bit more. A shared walk back from class. A late-night text here and there knowing he’d always respond. Offered him food from the same fork and ignored the way he’d get all nervous about something as simple as an indirect kiss.

But he never took them.

And now you were both here— in college. Time sure does fly by fast when you’re not busy preplanning for your incredibly slow moving friend to finally overcome the childish fears of rejection.

And Stanford was some fucking college. And oh, how you were so excited.

The excitement of moving out of your parent’s house only to party with people already in their late twenties who were better suited at holding their liquor down. That dreaded time where all friendships entirely separate and slowly flicker away between thousands of miles over states. The one time in life where you can socially make as many mistakes as possible without really worrying because this is college, and because your brain is fully developed, you’re still seen as a kid to anyone over the age of thirty.

The first mistake you made prior to college is applying to Stanford, you didn’t even really expect to be accepted. Sure, you were a stuck up throughout high-school, had a near perfect GPA, high SAT scores, took some gymnastic classes and quite literally worked yourself to sleep trying to be as perfect as possible. But no one actually expects to get into prestigious school, let alone a full ride from volleyball.

You always were incredibly competitive, so turns out that worked for you. Good thing too, you weren’t even sure your parents could afford the tuition if it weren’t for the scholarship. Thank God for sports.

You hadn’t seen Art seen move-in. You texted twice, twice this week. You two were just in opposite sides of social groups, and unfortunately for you his social group was down to a measly five. It’s like Stanford swallowed you whole, chewed a few times and spat you out on opposite sides of the campus. It’s been months now— months of not being able to actually spend time or sit in the cafeteria together for lunch without schedules conflicting. Frankly, it was depressing.

He’d send you short, little texts about semi-interesting things, like how this one girl in his PWR class smelled just like you, or how he’d passed by a vending machine and bought a pack of bubble gum specifically with you in mind. You’d text him photos of parties he didn’t want to go to and send him messages about how you were planning on watching him practice but never showed up.

Honestly, you weren’t really sure he missed you. Sometimes you’d catch yourself thinking about if he kept your half used cherry lipgloss you forgot in his car or if he finally found the other half of your orientation sheet you accidentally ripped. And sometimes you found yourself thinking about him a lot, especially late at night. Not the thoughts that always led to your vibrator over your panties and your legs twitching underneath your blanket, but the happy thoughts, mainly memories.

Not to mention the whole masturbating to your best friend behind his back was kinda bordering against all the rules to your code of loyalty; No penetrative sex. No genital simulation. No sexual intercourse of any kind. No strings attached. And absolutely no fun with two of the hottest guys you know.

You also happened to break one of those useless rules with Patrick, so you weren’t very keen to keeping up with rules. You also hadn’t really spoken much with Patrick after the whole going pro thing, so things really weren’t going your way.

It’s Thursday. The day that fell within complicated schedules just long enough for Art to be able to have lunch with you and for you to not worry about getting terrible stomach cramps during practice from stuffing your face with all things ‘healthy’. Patrick was meant to visit, coincidentally during your sculpture class so that gives him and Art about an hour of time to do whatever they do when you’re not around.

As usual, he was already there sitting at your designated table before you, leaning back against the chair as he picked at a spinach salad that looked a bit too bland. The cafeteria’s half full, busy with the buzz of student chatter and the dull clatter of utensils against trays. He didn’t look up from his tray, kicking your chair by the foot to push it back for you. “Took you long enough, I’m practically done.”

You plopped yourself down on the hard seat, glancing down at his sad looking salad before pushing away your tray of tomato soup and whatever bullshit protein sandwich your roommate made to keep your coach off your back. “Consider it pay back for being the first person to see Patrick.” You cracked open your water bottle, taking a slow sip as you toyed at the insides of your sandwich.

He looked up from his food back at you, and you pretended you didn’t notice, staring a burning hole at a darkened leaf of lettuce sticking out from the side of the bread crust. You crossed your arms, turning your attention back to him as his fingers gripped at the edges of his tray. “It’s only an hour, ‘sides we’re going to your dorm anyways.”

Oh, right. Your dorm. As in your shared dorm that you haven’t bothered cleaning all week after being in and out consecutively for four days. The dorm that’s currently covered in dirty laundry because your roommate so happens to have a knack for keeping all her clothes piling up in that grey hamper until the end of the month. The same one that some random hookup of your roommate complained about being too ‘bright’, looking like a physical reincarnation of the sky in furniture form. That dorm.

“Not the same.” You corrected, scooping a spoonful of lukewarm soup, letting it settle against your tongue as you looked up at him. He didn’t respond right away, just looked down at his fork like he was trying to find the right words.

“Isn’t it?” He asked softly, nudging the fork on his tray back and forth as he peeked up at you. You shook your head once, wiping your perfectly dry hands on your napkin out of habit. He tilted his head at you, the same puppy dog way he’s always done whenever he’s trying to figure out what you’re thinking without asking.

You exhaled through your nose, giving him a small shrug as you took another long swig of your water. So, maybe it wasn’t totally different. The boys had seen you in worse— post tournament sweat exhaustion, vomit pure bay breeze after a long night at Patrick’s, or that one time you drunkenly ate cold pasta out of a tomato sauce stained Tupperware container with a spatula because you couldn’t find a fork in time. Still, something about now felt harder. You weren’t officially tethered to them by synchronized schedules or street blocks. No shared weekends, no automatic proximity, no nights together. Now it was by choice, by effort, and that effort meant exposure.

You stirred your soup, watching the spoon swirl around against the broth. A large part of you, the part that was still trying to prove to your parents from all the bullshit they’ve feed you the last six months that you belonged here. This version of your life, needed intention, like you hadn’t just spent the week rotating between practices and collapsing face-first into your sheets without bothering to clear the desk clutter. It seemed stupid, but it mattered.

“We can bring you some snacks to make up for it.” That got your attention. You hummed softly, tugging at the ends of your shorts as you scooted up towards the edge of your seat.

“Okay.” You agreed quietly, bag strap already tight in your hand before slinging it over your shoulder, the strap weighing heavy against your collarbone. You hesitated for a moment, grabbing your tray with slow movements to avoid spilling the rest of your disappointing cup of soup. He watched you gather your things, sitting up a bit as he half scrambled to get your attention before you turned your back on him.

“Do you— do you think your roommate will be there?” Art asked softly, voice catching at the end of his question like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. You paused, tray balanced in your free hand, as you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion. The question was odd, almost off character. He’d never asked that before. He’d never even cared enough to ask, not when he’d come over a handful of times to invite you to practice or to borrow resistance bands.

“What?”

Art shifts in his seat, seeming all too suddenly aware of his posture. “I just— she kind of… I don’t want to y’know— bother her or anything.”

“This wasn’t an issue before.” You said flatly, to which he just gives you a quick nod like it was the thought of coming unannounced now, with Patrick, that made him think of boundaries.

He licked his lips, leaning up against the palm of his hands as he looked up at you through his eyelashes. “Right. Yeah. I just didn’t want to… you know. Intrude.”

You squinted at him, opening your mouth as you struggled to find the words. ‘Intrude?’ This coming from the man that was invited to her birthday party and witnessed first hand some of the lowest points of your highschool summers. “I think you’ll be alright.”

Art gives you a small shaky smile, eyes flicking to the untouched sandwich still on your tray. “Just trying to be respectful.” He explained, but there was a little shift in his voice, like he was asking if his concerns were the right thing to do.

You gave him a semi-concerned look, a small laugh slipping from your lips to mask the concern bubbling through your skin. You didn’t respond, granted you weren’t entirely sure how to respond to him. Just walked away, shoes tapping against the tile, as you pushed your way out of the cafeteria.

Clay dust and charcoal rubbings clung stubbornly to your lower forearms as class finished. Your fingers were stiff from planning, redoing and sculpting for an hour straight, wrists ached from carving repeatedly. You were already running the math in your head. You were halfway to your dorm, calculating how long it’ll take to shove the laundry into your roommate’s closet, and how long it’d take you to clean up.

The sun’s low enough to cast long shadows across the quad, but warm enough to soothe the tension in your shoulders. You were keenly aware of the sweat drying against your back and the tightness of your skin from where the clay dried. By the time you had gotten to your dorm, your roommate wasn’t there, her laundry was about two pair of pants higher but at least she managed to turn on the diffuser before leaving you to suffer.

Laundry was shoved into the closet. Sketchbooks and notebooks tucked between a stack of textbooks that lay neatly under your desk. Bedsheets smoothed out, tucked in between the bed frame and pillows fluffed once over.

Half way through your desperate attempt at cleaning, you freeze. The realization hits like a wake up call— not the quick kind of thought, but the slow burning kind, creeping warmth into your chest. You’re cleaning for a friend. Not for your roommate. Not for your yourself, or for Patrick, or for some random you’ll never see again who spends the entirety of their visit complaining about your patterned quilt. You were cleaning for Art.

The thought makes you pause mid-motion, dirty laced bra in one hand as you stood by the foot of your bed. You scoffed to yourself, tossing the bra onto the messy throw blanket slipped off the edge of the bed. You peeled off your clay-streaked shirt, kicked your socks toward the closet, and stepped into the bathroom with the kind of urgency that felt performative, like if you moved fast enough, you could outrun the fact that you were cleaning for him.

The water hit your shoulders hard, steam rising fast, fogging the mirror before you even reached for the shampoo. You scrubbed the clay off your skin, rubbing the lathered washcloth against your body until the skin reddened raw. You used that fancy new body wash your roommate bought you for your birthday, not specifically cause Art was coming over, but it did help. You soaked yourself in the hot water until your vision blurred under the heat, stepping up once you felt clean enough to be presented to anyone.

You wrapped yourself in your fuzzy pink towel, padded back into the room with damp hair and a new layer of fresh cherry almond lotion. You glanced at the small alarm clock resting at the corner of your desk that blinked a red 3:47. Just enough time to get dressed and pretend like you weren’t waiting on your friends’ arrival.

You threw on a clean white tanktop, awkwardly shimming into a pair of pink flared pants you stole from your sister’s closet, despite how difficult it was with the dampness of the lotion sticking to your skin. You sat on the edge of your bed again, fingers roughly massaging the muscles of your arms as you leaned down onto your elbows. You stretched out with a content sigh, turning to the side to busy yourself with your iPod. Seven songs into your Fergie album and you’d gotten a faint knock on your door, at first you thought you were imagining things, but then there it was again. Two short, impatient knocks. You pause mid-scroll, thumb hovering over the click wheel of your iPod, the screen still lit with the last track you played in the studio.

You sit up slowly, arms still sore, lotion still tacky against your skin. The pink flare pants cling a little too much at the ass, but you don’t adjust them. You just stand, cross the room, and open the door. Art’s there, but Patrick’s not with him, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, hair slightly windblown like he walked fast but didn’t want to look like he did. In one hand he’s holding a large crumpled brown paper bag, and the other was pointing down into the bag to answer a question that hadn’t even formed in your head yet.

“I got some churros from the dining hall, some drinks, a box of cheez-its, and… some ice cream,” You raised your eyebrows in slight surprise at his preparation, stepping aside to let him inside and for a split second you were sure you could’ve heard him exhale in relief. “They didn’t have any of those chocolate bars you like, so I just grabbed strawberry.”

He walks in, slow and careful, like he’s trying not to disturb anything. You closed the door behind him, watching as he hesitantly set the bag down on your desk, plopping himself down on the edge of your bed. He doesn’t touch anything else. Just rests his hands on his knees and looks up at you like he’s waiting for something. Permission, maybe? Or just a reason to lounge on your bed like he normally would, but had some reason to not.

“Art?” You spoke softly, watching as he looked around your section of your shared dorm, eyes flicking over to the discarded bra you forgot to tuck under your bed that laid perfectly cup side up on your blanket. He quickly looked up at you with a shaky hum, the tips of his ears burning a deep red as his fingers dug into the comfy fabric of his pants. “Where’s Patrick?”

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, his eyes glued onto you as you made your way to your bed like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be and was afraid of moving in fear you’d find out. His lips parted, a small gasp leaving his lips as he gave you an awkward shrug. “He— he said he might come later.”

You blinked slowly, sitting beside him as you crossed your legs in a lazy criss-cross. “‘Might’?”

Art nodded, eyes darting toward your desk, then the floor, anywhere but the bra still sitting on your blanket like it had its own gravitational pull. “Yeah. He got held up. Something about a smoothie or— he didn’t say.”

“A smoothie held him up?”

He let out what sounded like a laugh, but came out more like a heave of air. His jaw shifts like he’s testing the words as they sit against his tongue before actually speaking them, his teeth chewing quietly at his bottom lip. You lean back slightly, the cotton of your tanktop stretching across your collarbone as you eyed the faint blush growing at the sliver of skin peeking out from his hoodie.

“Well, look, I got that iced tea you like, and some schnapps.” You watched as he abruptly scooted over, snatching the paper bag from the desk and placing it between the two of you. Quickly, he starts spilling the contents of the bag onto your bed. The iced tea comes first, bottle sweating in his hand as he gently lays it down on the blanket.

Then the small schnapps— bright pink, labeled with watermelon, and slightly sticky around the cap. That lands with less grace, slipping against the bed and hitting the side of his knee. Everything else spills out in a rush. Two long churros wrapped in napkin, cinnamon crumbing against the bed, a smushed box of lightly salted cheez-its and two separate pint sized ice cream containers; strawberry and cookie dough.

You watch it all unfold, arms still crossed, one leg tucked under the other. The pints roll towards your blanket, teasingly forcing his eyes back onto the pink see through bra there. You finally catch his eye, quickly darting the bra towards the closet doors, watching it land just at the foot. Art’s face is already pink at the cheeks, blooming across his ears like heat rising too fast. He tries to act normal, like he hadn’t just stared directly at your bra, but he’s failing. Badly.

You don’t say anything yet. You just watch him squirm, a slow grin slipping at your lips at the sudden realization. Your favorite ice cream? Favorite drink? He’s not exactly slick. Now you had to do the same things you’d always done. Throw him a bone.

“Did you break the code?” He very quickly looks up from where his fingers fiddled with the schnapps bottle cap, furrowing his eyebrows as he physically jerked back like the question was insulting enough. His fingers are twitchy, his posture too stiff, and the silence between you is starting to feel like a dare.

“No? I… what no, why would you ask that?” Art’s voice cracks halfway, a smidge too fast and a pinch too defensive. You raised your eyebrows at his tone, giving him a quick glance that had him pushing the ice cream within your reach.

“It’s fine if you did, you don’t have to feel guilty or anything. I’ve broken it before.” You reassured with a slight nod, opening the pint of ice cream as you stood up in search for a plastic spoon. Art’s mouth clamps shut at your confession, watching you in silence as he quickly props himself onto the palm of his hand.

“What? What’re you talking about? When did you break the code?” The tone of his voice makes you pause for a moment, it wasn’t one of relief or reassurance, but genuine confusion. You glanced over your shoulder at him, taking in the sight of his furrowed brows and stunned look.

You pressed your lips together, turning your attention back to the task at hand. Finding a spoon. You shuffle through the small plastic baggie of utensils you were smart enough to snag from the dining hall that you kept hidden under an old teddy bear. You could feel the burn of his eyes as you avoided his question, taking out two silver spoons before sitting back down on the mattress. “Wait, so you didn’t break it? I thought you felt guilty and came here for some sort of inter—”

“When did you break the code?” He repeated insistently, eyes searching yours as you pried open the top of the ice cream pint. The seal gave with a soft crack, the semi-melted dessert threatened to spill from the sides, but you didn’t look away from him.

“The weekend before he left.” You scooped a bit of strawberry from the edge, softened just enough to curl perfectly into the spoon and not taste of freezer burn. Art slowly followed in your influence, popping upon the cookie dough pint and scooping a spoonful into his mouth. You could faintly see it in his eyes, you weren’t sure if it was annoyance or irritation but you knew him well enough to catch onto that subtle shift.

He swallowed hard, jaw clenching tightly as he stared at you, bracing himself for something. “What was it?”

You stayed silent, spooning out another bite of ice cream as you glanced at the snacks in between you. Did a part of you knew you should’ve absolutely kept it to yourself knowing he hadn’t broken the code? Yes, yes, you did. But that look on his face had you wanting to push further. Maybe it would’ve given him the courage to say something.

“It wasn’t like we actually fucked, he just y’know… ate me out.” He hummed lowly at you, acting as if he didn’t care when his shoulders stiffened, his eyes flickering down to your pants at the thought. He barely nodded, like he was forcing himself to come to terms before actually understanding the severity of it.

You watched him closely, glancing at the way his fingers curled tightly around the condensation wet container. The way his knee shifted just slightly away from yours. You knew he wasn’t angry, and you couldn’t tell if he was judging, but something in him had folded inward. As if he was annoyed at the thought of not being there when it happened.

In an attempt to diffuse the situation from the elephant in the room, you grabbed at the schnapps to twist the top off and take a small sip. He sat there, eyes following you in silence like he needed to take a moment to process what he found out while the rest of him recalibrated. “Was it good?”

“Oh God, I’m not answering that.” You replied firmly, setting the bottle on the desk with a quiet thud just for him to pick it up to take a swig himself. You watched as he leaned back against the wall beside your bed, two blinks away from sulking as he reached out to chew at one of the churros.

Silence followed. An uncomfortable, awkward silence as the two of you ate and acted like the quietness wasn’t getting to the both of you. You’d glance up to check in on him, he’d peek away from his ice cream situation in hopes of meeting your eyes. Then, another moment of absolute silence followed before he stubbornly spoke up.

“It’s not fair y’know.” He stabbed a cookie dough chunk with the tip of his spoon, looking up at you as you willingly took his bait. You tilted your head in mock confusion, placing your plastic spoon back into the melted ice cream.

“What’s not?”

“Why’d you go to him first?” You let out a laugh of disbelief at his question, it wasn’t like you really planned out letting Patrick stick his tongue up your vagina. You struggled to find your words, well the right words that wouldn’t send Art into another fit of sulking.

“It wasn’t really some thought-out plan.”

“I know, I know. ‘M just saying, I think I could’ve done better.” Your hand hovered by the spoon, eyes widening at his ridiculously bold statement. Sure, certain things written in that incredibly childish pact the three of you swore on at eighteen had fine lines— extremely thin ones even. Lines that bent perfectly for that loneliness, long holidays and the weight of being foolish and close for too long. But this was different.

There’s no way this conversation is actually happening.

“It’s not a competition, Art.” He practically deflated at your words, lips tightened into the smallest of pouts as he kept his gaze glued to the uneaten churro in his other hand. You waited patiently, letting him take the moment to try to collect whatever thoughts were running in his head.

His jaw clenched and unclenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek as angrily chomped a bite of his churro, shoving the rest into his ice cream. You kept your gaze on him for just a second longer, helping yourself to another spoon of melted strawberry goodness. You thought for a moment, considering his reaction, the annoyance on his face, weighing the pros and cons of it all. “Art?”

His eyes snapped up so fast it was almost comical, eyes wide, already glossy with anticipation from one word. Like he’d been waiting for you to say something that would get driving that tight feeling in his chest. “Yeah?” He breathed out softly, like the sound of you saying his name was the only thing keeping him glued to the present. The tension in his shoulders didn’t drop, but something in his face shifted— puppy-eyed, hopeful, a little too eager.

“What are you— why are you here if it wasn’t because of that? Is Patrick really coming?” You turned your attention up to him as he clumsily set down the ice cream on his lap, fingers grasping at the neck of the schnapps bottle. You extended your foot, nudging the bottle closer to him as you took another mouthful of ice cream.

Art blinked slowly, like the question had knocked something loose in him. His hand paused mid-reach, churro half-submerged in the melting ice cream, as he looked up at you to see your reaction. He gave you a slow shake of his head, nervously fidgeting with the cap of the bottle. “No,” he mumbled under his breath. “He’s not.”

You let out a soft sigh, not because he had attempted to lie or came with gifts like that’d soften the blow of it, but because he felt the need to lie in the first place. You watched as he washed down the taste of cookie dough with the tart cheap taste of watermelon. You shifted back against the mattress, sitting up on your knees before pushing your pint onto your desk. “Why’d you lie?”

He stared down at the bottle in his hand like it had betrayed him, the last bite of churro mashed into the melting ice cream, pink schnapps still clinging to the back of his throat. His bottom lip quivered, jaw clenching then softening, as he struggled between bracing himself or completely breaking apart. “‘M sorry. I thought… I thought you’d be more okay with me showing up if it meant Patrick was coming too.”

The silence that followed his words weren’t tense, or awkward or cold. Just the long silence that makes you hold your breath in fear of hearing your own heartbeat. The kind that settles in when something absolutely terrible is about to happen, and the dread of your own thoughts linger as you figure out what to do with it.

Art was still sitting there all polite and tense, shaky bottle in one hand. His eyes flicked toward you once, then dropped to the blanket near his knee. It looked like he desperately wanted to speak but didn’t trust his voice to come out right.

You didn’t press him for more information, didn’t force him to bring himself to openly connect those puzzle pieces. You weren’t upset— not even close, honestly you were a bit amused. At how obvious he’s being. At how much effort he’d put into this whole thing.

Now you knew.

Not just suspected. Not just guessed. Fully knew.

All those years of guessing and waiting and push meets pull. And he’d tried to hide it behind iced tea and schnapps and ice cream and a half-hearted mention of Patrick. I mean, did he expect you to just go with the lame excuse of a smoothie?

Now the question wasn’t whether he liked you. It was what you were going to do about it.

You shifted slightly, sitting back against your pillows, letting your legs stretch out across the mattress. He didn’t move. Just sat there, blinking slowly, like he was waiting for you to say something that would either save the situation. You watched the way his fingers curled into the blanket. The way his shoulders hunched just slightly, like he was bracing for impact. The way his ears were still red.

And you smiled. Just a little. Because maybe it was fun to let him wallow in his thoughts and listen back at the sound of his voice bouncing against the walls.

You cleared your throat, wiping your condensation damp hands on your pants before smacking the cheez-it box off the bed. You scooted closer to him, peeking the bottle from him before setting it down at your desk. With a heavy sigh, you plopped yourself back onto your bed, feet awkwardly propped up against a yellow fluffy pillow.

“Well?”

Art blinked, caught off guard by your challenging tone. “Well, what?” He repeated, a note of confusion in his voice as he tried to read between the lines of your words.

You tilted your head at him, biting back the smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth as you rested your hands on your lap, mirroring his posture. “Aren't you going to showcase your talents, Mr. I-can-do-it-better?” You asked, words dripping with a low teasing edge.

Art's eyes widened in surprise at your bold statement, another rush of dark red spread from the tip of his ears to the sides of his cheeks. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement as his gaze dropped briefly to the waistband of your pants.

“What, right now?” Art questioned, but despite his obvious hesitation there was a hint of excitement in his voice, a glimmer of eagerness. He bit his lower lip, torn between crawling the space between you two to break the distance and keeping the distance to avoid making a fool of himself.

“Wasn’t that your plan?” You shifted your position slightly, the sheets rustling softly as you leaned towards him.

Art's eyes flicked down to your lips, lingering for a moment before trailing back up to meet your gaze. He swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling more rapidly with each passing second. When he spoke again, his voice was a bit stronger, a hint of determination creeping in.

“You want me to just... jump you right here?” His words held a note of disbelief, eyes searching yours as if he hadn’t thought this far. Despite his worries, he pulled himself closer to you, discarding the bottle of alcohol and ice cream with the rest of the snacks at your desk. His hands shakily reached out, running his palms along the stitched floral patterns of your blanket before stopping just by your thigh.

“Do you want me to jump you instead?” You joked, watching the not so subtle ways he’d peek up through his eyelashes to study your face and glancing back at the way his fingertips brushed against the cotton pink fabric of your pants. He licked his lips, swallowing the dry lump in his throat as he inched his hand up your thigh.

“Can I kiss you?” He mumbled softly, fingers itching along the base of your thigh. You looked at him— really looked— at the way his eyes flicked nervously between yours, like he was already halfway in love with the idea of you saying yes. His fingers gently curled around the fabric, lightly tugging there for another glance of your attention.

You nodded, barely, just enough of a movement to see the way he perked up. He leaned in slow and hesitant, like he was afraid you’d push him away if he moved too fast. His breath was slightly cool, uneven, and then his lips met yours in a soft kiss. It had a hint of need to it, and not just because of that shaky sigh he let out.

The taste of cookie dough and watermelon schnapps lingered against his tongue, the wet muscle languidly sliding against yours. Your hands instinctively moved up to rest against his shoulders, one hand moving up to cup the back of his head. His hand brushed along your thigh, tentative and clutching, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you yet but couldn’t fully stop himself.

It wasn’t dramatic, or rough or entirely passionate. It was just soft.

And real.

And when he pulled back, barely an inch, eyes still closed like he was trying to savor the moment, you smiled against his lips. “One more.” He murmured heavily, lips already mashing all desperately against yours.

This time, there was no gentleness, no tender tongue against tongue. It was a sloppy, messy mesh of lips and tongues. His fingers tightened around your thigh, holding you in place as he shamelessly whined into your mouth. Your hand slipped in between his hair, fingers lightly grasping at golden blond locks as you moved your feet away from the pillow. His kisses turned rough, his breathing growing ragged as he lost himself in the taste and feel of your mouth. It wasn’t until you grabbed at a handful of hair, tugging hard enough for it to stung that he finally pulled away with a whiny huff of air.

Lips slick and red from the kiss, glistening in the soft lighting of your dorm he let out a small sigh. He rubbed his lips together, his tongue darting out to lick away the lingering traces of slick combined tongues, before swallowing hard. The audible click of his throat breaking the charged silence between you. You reached up with a gentle hand, wiping at the corners of your mouth, your other hand slipping from his hair to rest against his thigh. As you did, you felt Art subtly shift back, putting a bit of distance between your bodies.

Following the slight movement, your gaze drifted downwards, catching sight of the strain tenting the fabric of his pants. Your swollen lips curled up into a small grin as you let out a little laugh at the sight, causing him to glance back down to where your hand rested. A muscle in his jaw twitching as he finally noted the strained erection, legs pressing firmly together. He licked his lips again, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes as he leaned closer to you.

“Can I... taste you now?” Art pleaded softly, his voice a whiny, desperate shake. His hands slid up your thighs, resting firmly at your hips.

“A little Impatient, aren't you?” Despite your tease, you could feel a thrill of excitement at his whimper, a fluttering throb persistent in between your legs.

Art had the grace to look slightly sheepish, a faint blush coloring his cheeks again. “Sorry.” He murmured, but there was no real remorse in his tone, only a shy underlay of need. His fingers tightened on your hips, kneading the soft flesh as he hesitantly leaned his head against your thigh.

You combed your fingers through his hair, watching as he rubbed his cheek against the fabric of your pants like some desperate puppy wanting another pet. “Go ‘head and take my pants off.”

Art's eyes flicked up to meet yours, a relieved smile slipping on his lips as he quickly peeled himself from your leg. He eagerly hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants and tugged, peeling them clumsily down your legs.

You lifted your legs to help fasten the process, watching as he fixated at the task of removing your pants. You kicked the bunched up fabric that clung to your ankles, letting the pants pool off by your feet. He paused for a moment, taking in the sight of your exposed legs before hesitantly running his hands up your thighs. With a reverent sigh, he gently nudged your legs apart, placing himself directly between your spread legs.

He eagerly leaned down, his lips brushing against the inside of your thigh as you carefully laid back down on the bed. He pressed a wet, open mouthed kiss to your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the fruity lotion you applied. You could feel the slight nip of his teeth as kissed your legs, trailing his lips higher and higher until his mouth reached the elastic band of your pink panties.

Art shifted his kisses, mouthing at the waist of your panties before slowly drawing his kisses southwards. His eyes flicked up to yours one last time, waiting for your quick nod of approval, before he dipped his head and pressed his mouth to your covered mound. His lips moved over your clothed sex, nose pressed comfortably against the dampness soaking the cotton.

Your fingers curled into his hair, letting out a heavy sigh as you felt the warmth of his tongue running up to taste the fabric where it dipped down between your slick folds. His tongue continued its sloppy circles, tracing the outline of your lips, kissing and sucking at any inch of the fabric he could reach. He hooked his fingers tenderly into the waistband of your panties, carefully tugging them to the side to expose the sight of your glistening pussy. He let out a strained breath of air, hands digging into the plush of your thighs as he slowly dragged his tongue against your slit.

A whiny, appreciative moan escaped his lips at the taste of you, rumbling against your folds as he breathed in your scent. He licked slowly, tongue circling almost impatiently around your clit. You gasped out as he practically latched at the throbbing nub, kissing and sucking around it as he buried his nose against the slick of your pussy. The obscene sounds of his slurping and suckling filled the room, mingling with the slight creaks of the bed frame as you writhed under him.

His tongue continued to move messily between your folds, his hand splayed at the top of your mound, thumb rubbing tight circles along your clit. Lost in the overwhelming sense of you, Art starts to half hump against the bed, trying to ease the strain in his pants.

Your breathing grew ragged as the pressure slowly built inside you, your fingers tangling in Art's hair, holding him in place as he lathered your weeping cunt with attention. Art just doubled his efforts at the tug of your hand, sucking your clit between his lips and flicking his thumb over it.

Your gasps grew louder and more urgent, your back arching off the bed as your legs jerked under his touch. “Ah fuck, wait I’m gonna cum.” You could feel the knot in your gut tightened like a hot wire, your toes curling up to the point it almost hurt.

“Mm-mm, tastes so good.” He babbled against your folds, stubbornly burying his mouth against your wetness. He quickly thrust his tongue into your entrance, rotating the tip of his tongue in quick circles just as you felt the taut wire of your orgasm snapping.

With a panted gasp, your orgasm rushed over you, your quivering cunt clamping down around his invading muscle as the white heat ran through your body. Your juices gushed out, flooding his face and mouth as he lapped up every drop of your essence. Moaning against your wet mound, his hips jerked down against the mattress before hesitantly peeling his mouth away from you. His face glistened with your juices, a blissed out look on his face as you took a second to gather yourself.

You let out a heavy huff of air, your eyes snapping to his figure as he stumbled up into a crouched seated position. Glancing down, you noticed the prominent bulge straining against his sweatpants, the thin fabric faintly damp. “Poor baby.”

You carefully sat up after him, moving your way closer to him before cupping the side of his face with a faint coo. He instantly leaned into your touch, slick lips pressing against the palm of your hand as you trailed your fingers down towards the strained tent. Your trailed your fingers along the length of his clothed cock, watching as he gasped and jerked back against the pillow behind him. You quickly eased him down onto his back, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his head as you moved to straddle his lap.

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his pants and tugged them downwards. His hard erection cock pressed tight against his briefs, sucking in a tiny gasp at the warmth of your hand around his shaft. Leaning in close, you pressed your lips to his neck, tugging down the scrunched up fabric to give yourself more access to nibble at.

You slowly rolled your hips down against his, scooting up just enough to feel the clinging rub of his clothed erection as it slipped between your folds. At first, your movements were slow and sensual, grinding your bare cunt against the bulge in his briefs until the wet patch spread. His breath hitched in his throat as you rolled your hips, a needy whimper escaping his lips.

“Oh god, oh fuck,” he gasped out, his hands gripping your hips tightly as you gradually picked up the pace. His briefs were damp, the fabric clinging to his skin as you rutted against him, feeling the subtle throb of his cock between you. “Please, please I can't...” he whimpered with another broken gasp, his voice pitching higher as his hips snapped up to meet the movement of yours. You could tell he was close, embarrassingly so, his breathing growing ragged and shallow as you continued to grind against him.

You rocked your hips once, giving his cock a slow squeeze through the fabric before he went oddly still. His cock pulsed and twitched against your hand as he panted out his orgasm. You could feel the warm, sticky essence of his release seeping through the fabric, the damp patch spreading rapidly as he shuddered and gasped beneath you. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you close as his legs spasmed under you, whimpering and mewling with each pulse of pleasure that ripped through him.

You leaned back slightly, a surprised look flashing across her face as you took in the sight of his drenched briefs and trembling form. “You came already?” You asked, tilting your head down at him as he shifted under you with an airy sigh. “That was quick,” you added, giving his softening bulge a little pat. “Poor baby, so sensitive and eager.” Your fingers traced the damp patch slowly, smiling sweetly at the his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

He blushed profusely, averting his gaze down to your fingers as his eyebrows furrowed together at the middle. “I... I'm sorry, I dunno what happened.” He stammered, squirming uncomfortably beneath you, tears of embarrassment pricked at the corners of his eyes as you rubbed his soiled briefs, the wet patch growing larger under your touch.

“Don’t cry, it’s okay,” you reassured with a gentle rub of his hip as your hand slid up along his hoodie. You patted the corners of his eyes with your index finger, dabbing the tears away before they spilled from his eyes. “Just means it felt good, right?” He quickly nodded his head in agreement, head lolling to the side as you pressed your palm against his jaw. Your fingers around the patch in his brief moved up to his lips, gently rubbing his bottom lip with the pads of your fingers.

On instinct, his mouth parted, pink fleshy muscle pushing between his teeth to lick at your fingertips. He sucked each finger greedily, his tongue swirling around the digits and lapping up the faint linger of himself. The damp fabric clung to his shaft as you carefully peeled his briefs down to expose his cock to the cool air.

He lifted his hips, allowing you to strip them off completely. His spent cock, still slick with his own release, lay against his stomach, angrily twitching as it began to harden under your gaze. His hands came up to wrap around your wrist, subtly guiding your fingers deeper into his mouth.

You watched as he quietly sucked on your fingers, his eyes locked onto yours. “You think you’re gonna last longer inside me?” His eyes fluttered close as if he was trying to picture the feeling of being sucked deep into the warmth of your cunt.

“Maybe?” He murmured around your fingers, letting out an annoyed muffle as you pulled your digits free from his mouth. You let out a little snicker at his question, giving his cheeks a gentle squish. You rubbed the pretty pink head of his cock along your slit, coating him in your arousal.

“I’ll be gentle, I promise.” His hands fumbled against your knees at your words, watching with bated breath as you positioned the swollen head at your entrance. He impatiently rocked his hips up against yours, forcing that small gap between the tip of his cock and your warmth. He choked on a low groan as you carefully sunk down on his length, his fingers digging into the flesh of your legs.

His head almost immediately fell back at the overwhelming sensation of your tight walls, an airy grunt slipping from his lips. You paused, allowing both him and yourself a moment to adjust as you sat fully on his hips, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. He could feel every inch of your walls, fluttering and squeezing around him, and it took every ounce of willpower not to cum again right then and there.

You could feel him twitching inside you, his cock throbbing erratically as he struggled to hold back his release. You rocked your hips down against his, keeping a firm grip on his waist for stability as he rutted up against you. You continued to impale yourself on his length with long movements, your walls clenched around him whenever he’d thrust up a bit too closely to your cervix.

Soft moans slipped from your lips as his hips pumped beneath you, your breathing growing ragged and shallow as you rode him with increasing urgency. “Fuck, you feel so good.” He whimpered, his fingers digging into the flesh of your waist as he tried desperately to hold back his impending climax. You could practically feel the struggle, the way his body tensed and shuddered as he fought to prolong the moment as long as possible.

Keeping a firm grip on his waist, you rocked your hips down against his, taking him to the hilt with each loud clap. You could feel him throbbing and pulsing inside your heat, his swollen cockhead kissing your cervix with every deep stroke. Your walls clenched and rippled around his shaft, gripping him as you worked to milk the release from him.

“Oh, pleasepleaseplease.” He moaned out, his voice pitching higher as his climax approached. You leaned down, capturing his lips in a messy kiss to silence his whimpers with your mouth. Your tongues twisted and rolled against each other, his hand quickly falling the small of your back as you continued to bounce down on his cock.

Without much of a warning, his hips jerked to a stop, a panted moan muffled against your lips as he exploded within you. You could feel each jerk of his release, his cock twitching inside your fluttering cunt as his hot seed flooded against your walls. The warmth of his cum sent a throbbing heat through your body, your own climax crashed over you. Your body shook above him, breaking the kiss with labored breath, your juices gushing out around his still-spurting shaft.

You leaned against his chest, both of you panting and huffing against each other as you rode down from your highs. Before either of you could really have the chance to move, or for you to actually slip off his dick, the sound of an obnoxiously loud keychain jingled behind the old door. The door creaked open with an incredibly dramatic swing, your roommate stepped inside with a large white pizza box, sidestepping the door as it smacked against the door stopper.

“I just had the best margarita pizza.” Her slurred, cheerful voice cut through the temporary silence, entirely shattering the moment. Rolling your eyes, you sighed, pulling his softening cock from within you as he turned his head to face the wall though your roommate had already seen his beetred face.

“Thank you, Natalie.” You rolled off of him, sitting up on your knees as you grabbed at your tossed panties. In an attempt to make it seem like she hadn’t just walked in on your best friend’s cock in you, she turned towards her bed, awkwardly setting the box down with a quick wave for the two of you to get dressed.

patrick walks in, full belly laughs and peels you from art’s sweat soaked form, gives your cheek a pinch when you stir and whine.

he doesn’t clean you up because he likes to leave you naked whenever he has the opportunity — which is more often than not. seriously, you two need close supervision.

he just carries you with him to that shitty little armchair in art’s dorm, the room still stinking of sex and the humid summer air clinging to your skin; art shines with perspiration where he’s face down on the bed.

pat makes do with the lack of room, hooking a bare leg over the backs of your thighs until you’re squeezed snugly against his torso, face smushed to his chest. you’re snoring, and it makes patrick smile, slumping down in his chair to rest his lips against your cheekbone.

you wake slowly, eyes sticky and crusted over with exhaustion. your face is almost nestled beneath patrick’s armpit where you’ve been writhing in slumber and you grumble at the scent of sweat, layered with cheap aftershave. his hard-on presses to the center of your stomach and you can feel everything— the curve it makes now it’s hard and weeping, the feel of the spongy head, the vein that runs through the middle.

“you smell, pat,” you grumble, reaching up blindly to snatch the cigarette from between his teeth and take a long pull from the stick.

“yeah, well you’re not so hot yourself, babe. the whole room reeks.” he reaches down to tug on a loose strand of hair at the crown of your head. “there’s cum in your hair.”

“not my fault.” you stretch upward like a cat, curling into patrick’s chest. “where’s art gone?”

“still sleeping, baby.” he lights another cigarette, sacrificing the first one to you - still resting between your lips - and the clicking of the lighter draws your head upward to gaze through heavy lashes at him.

“come to bed,” you murmur, kissing his knuckles. your free hand coasts a long line across his jaw and you dig your thumb beneath his ear, giggling when he scrunches his features and relents, and pushes you to stand with a swat to your naked backside.

art curls into you instinctively when you roll onto the mattress, your hand threading through the curls atop his head. you scrub sweeping circles across his bare back and he hums a pleased sound, smearing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. patrick splays himself over the pair of you, all long limbs that sit askew to cover as much of your naked frames as possible.

art squints through the yellow light that illuminates the room, bright and artificial on his sensitive eyes. your movements against him don’t halt, a slow, rhythmic, loving sweep of your hands that he’s come to look forward to in moments like this. his jaw tilts upward as he mouths at your neck like a starved man, like you haven’t just gone five rounds and collapsed from overstimulation.

“you two need supervision,” patrick snorts. you quirk a bemused brow. “i’m serious, look at what you’ve done to each other! you look like you’ve been mauled.”

“jealous, much?” art mumbles sleepily, the sound muffled through your skin. you’re laughing and it splits your expression in two, eyes crinkled with amusement as the strawberry blonde boy snipes at patrick.

“should’a come to college with us, pretty boy,” you giggle. “could’a had this twenty four seven.” you dip your head until your brow presses to art’s. “poor pat, with no one to stick his dick in. how will he ever cope?”

“you could help me out, sweets,” he deadpans, the nickname saccharine and sour on his tongue all at once. art watches you through heavy lids. you huff, biting playfully at art’s lip before you tilt your head to face patrick,

“okay,” you chirrup. art’s quick to sit up, separating from your warmth in favour of nuzzling against patrick. patrick tips his chin down, slanting his lips against the blonde boy’s.

meanwhile, you’re working his cock through his shorts, palming the muscle until it chubs up beneath your hand, drooling a wet patch through the fabric. patrick groans, hips rolling up into your touch when you hook your fingers beneath his waistband and tug his cock free.

he moans into art’s mouth and your mouth goes dry at the sight. you’ve always loved to watch them like this, the way they get lost in each other, the way they start fervently pushing into one another’s space until patrick inevitably makes the first move and sticks his tongue down art’s throat.

patrick turns to putty beneath art’s roaming touch, huge paws that squeeze and grope and push at every inch of skin they come into contact with, not stopping even as you press your face to the seam of patrick’s balls, inhaling the sweat-soaked musk that creeps up your nostrils.

art’s hand snakes downward, flicking over pert nipples and ridges of muscle before he’s flicking a thumb over the weeping slit of his cock. patrick’s back bows into an arch as you lave your tongue over his sack, humming into the sensitive skin, full and heavy and begging for release. his hips rock upward into you as you seal your lips over him, eyes heavy with lust as art comes down to meet your mouth over his mushroom head.

it’s filthy and messy, downright pornographic as art licks over patrick’s cock, tongue pressing flat against the corner of your mouth and letting his spit pool there. you’re moaning - unable to help yourself - pressing your face forward to slant your lips over art’s fully. it’s all spit and drool as you lick into art’s mouth, the heady taste of the brunette boy still on your tongue, and then patrick’s bracing a hand against each of your heads and easing his cock through the seam where your spit slick mouths mesh.

you gasp and your damp lashes flutter, heavy with tears, and art’s tugging you frantically by your waist, pressing your bare chest to his own as patrick throws his head back and groans, shallow thrusts deepening. his breath stutters out in short, sharp bursts, chest heaving when your face slides down, down, down, all the way to the base of him until your pretty plump lips are wrapped around his sack.

you suck it into your mouth just as art takes patrick down his throat, the head of his cock bulging through the hollow of art’s throat as spit stretches and bows from the corners of his lips and lands in globs across your face.

you’re too drunk on the pleasure to care, the vibrations of your little sounds shooting right through patrick until you feel his balls tighten; he groans, long and loud, pushing closer to the pair of you as his cock pulses rhythmically and he releases down art’s throat.

you push your way through until your mouth is on art’s again, tongue licking into his mouth to taste patrick, wanting to be marked, claimed by both of them. his lips part, nose pressing to your cheek, and then he’s lifting you into his lap, his cock an angry red and pressed to the seam of your thigh.

patrick groans. there’s no fucking way he’s hard again.