#challengers fandom

“I’m not even doing anything,” you said sweetly, hands braced on his shoulders, your mouth grazing the shell of his ear. “You’re the one all worked up, baby.” You could feel the tension, the hardness of his cock under through the layer of clothing.

“Don’t call me that,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut. “Not when you’re doin’ this. Not when I’m this close already—fuck—you’re evil.”

You ground down harder, your clothed pussy dragging over the ridge of his cock through his jeans. You felt how thick he was, how wet the fabric had gotten with both your arousal, how close to breaking he really was. “But you like it,” you whispered, the slightest of mocking in your tone.

Art shivered beneath you, his hands twitched on your thighs like he wanted to move them; grab you, flip you, pin you, but didn’t dare. You’d set the pace, you’d told him not to touch. And he, sweet thing that he was, was still trying so hard to be good for you.

“You’re a menace,” he said through his teeth. You rolled your hips again, slower this time, your clit catching just right on the curve of his zipper. It made your lashes flutter, your mouth drop open with a curse. “Oh,” you moaned softly, letting the sound break loose and land right in his ear. “You feel so big, even like this. Poor thing. Can’t even help it, can you?”

Art whimpered; full-body, actual whimper.

And it lit you on fire. “Oh my God,” you whispered, grinning. “Did you just make that sound for me?”

“Stop teasing,” he said, voice strangled. “You want me to stop?” You froze your hips entirely, smug. “You sure about that?” His hands tightened on your thighs. “Don’t you fucking dare stop.” You tsked, your breath hot against his flushed cheek. “Now, now. That doesn’t sound like asking nicely.”

Art’s eyes snapped open, wide and pleading, pupils blown dark with lust. “Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t stop. I’ll be good, I swear. Just… fuck, please keep going.” Your lips brushed his, just the ghost of a kiss. “Good boy.”

He whimpered again. And you started moving—slow, torturously, dragging circles of your hips against his, your slick of your pussy soaking through the lace and smearing onto the denim of his jeans with every grind. Your clit rubbed against his zipper, stimulating every nerve.

“Does it hurt, baby?” you murmured, watching his face twist in pleasure. “Being this hard, and you still can’t come?”

“It’s torture,” he said, voice cracked. “You’re fuckin’ torturing me.”

“I thought you liked that.” You replied with amusement on the edge of your voice. “I do.” His hands shook where they gripped you. “I fucking love it.”

You rocked harder, more purposefully now, grinding down like you meant to make him come just like this; hands off, clothes on, utterly helpless beneath you. And oh, he was helpless. His mouth hung open, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded and glassy with lust, his hips twitching like they wanted to meet yours but couldn’t quite find the rhythm. Like he wanted to thrust, wanted to fuck; but didn’t know how when you weren’t letting him do anything.

You grabbed his chin and forced him to look at you.

“Feel that?” you said, rolling your hips with extra pressure on the downstroke. “That’s my pussy rubbing all over your cock. You’re not even inside me and I’m still fucking you through your jeans.”

“God!” Art gasped, eyes rolling back. “You gonna come like this?” you taunted, voice syrupy sweet. “Like a needy little virgin with his first girlfriend grinding on his lap?”

That broke him. He groaned so loud it echoed, his hips bucking once before he slammed them back down into the couch, visibly trying to hold back. His fingers dug bruises into your thighs, but still... still—he didn’t break your rules. “Oh my god,” you breathed. “You are gonna come, aren’t you? Just from this?”

“Please let me,” he begged, voice hoarse. “Please, I’ll do anything... fuck, it hurts, I need it! Please let me come in my jeans, I need to, I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it.” You leaned in close, nose brushing his, lips barely grazing. “Do it.”

His body snapped like a rubber band; one harsh, shaking grind up into you and he was gone: moaning deep, ragged, hips twitching as he came hard in his pants, completely undone beneath you. You felt the heat spread through the denim, the throb of his cock trapped against his boxers and your soaked panties, the way he panted like he couldn’t get enough air.

“Jesus,” he breathed, eyes wide, chest heaving. “That was…” You smirked. “Hot?” He laughed, ragged and dazed, cheeks pink and eyes still half-lidded. “I was gonna say humiliating, but yeah. That too.” You rolled your hips one last time, teasing. He groaned, sensitive now, squirming beneath you. “Look at you,” you whispered. “Came in your jeans like a teenage boy... just for me.”

“You’re evil,” he said, eyes dark. “You know that, right?” You kissed him then, slow, filthy, claiming. He melted under you like he always did, hands finally lifting to rest on your hips. Not controlling and not demanding but just there.

“You know I’m not done with you, right?” you murmured against his mouth. He smiled against your lips, dazed and breathless.

★ … “ART, ARE YOU even listening to me?”

art jolts a bit in his seat at the use of his name, nearly dropping the scuffed blue flip phone between his fingers right on top of his sandwich. it’s a juggling act to both keep it from falling and hide the screen from patrick, but art manages just fine and quickly shuts his phone with a click.

“sorry,” art sighs. his eyes dart briefly to the device now beside his nalgene bottle as he bites into his turkey sandwich, though he doesn’t make a move to grab it again– not so soon, at least. “… i’m just waiting to hear back from someone.”

patrick’s eyebrow raises at the explanation, easily catching art’s fleeting attention. “who, your mom?” he asks around a mouthful of cafeteria pizza in his mouth, his lack of manners showing as he chases the bite with a monster. “we don’t have friends, last time i checked. i’d know if someone was trying to get ahold of you.”

“i have friends that aren’t you, patrick.” art rolls his eyes, subtly shifting his phone to beneath the table so he can check his messages. 

“really? because you’ve come over every day this week. you can only use band practice as an excuse so many times, man.”

art 🥁💥 (12:35 pm) am i good 2 come over later? you 🌷💋💓 (12:36 pm) r u stupid you 🌷💋💓 (12:36 pm) i told u not 2 text me while we’re @ school you 🌷💋💓 (12:37 pm) busy anyway. party 2nite. pregaming @ tashi’s

sighing to himself, art sets his phone on the bench beside him and continues eating his sandwich. “the practice’s more for you,” he counters, “since you’re the one who can’t nail the solo in ‘teen spirit.’ you’re dragging us down.”

patrick goes red at the dig and chokes down the rest of his pizza before flicking one of his fries at the blond across from him. “me?” he gasps once he’s cleared his throat, more focused on his breathing than art texting beneath the table. “you’re the one who’s completely off-tempo. no one could follow along to your shitty excuse for drumming.”

“right. my shitty drumming and your shitty guitar solo. we’re made for each other.”

art 🥁💥 (12:40 pm) sorry art 🥁💥 (12:40 pm) when can we meet? you 🌷💋💓 (12:40 pm) stop txting me art 🥁💥 (12:41 pm) BABE art 🥁💥 (12:41 pm) when can we meet??? art 🥁💥 (12:41 pm) need 2 c you b4 the plastics steal u 4 the summer

“maybe today’s the day, though,” art continues once he sets his phone back down, eyeing the screen closely while picking at his sandwich. he picks apart the white bread from the rest of the fillings and just eats the turkey. “if you can get your head out of your ass, that is.” dodging another fry from patrick’s tray, art flicks it back while patrick’s arms fold over his chest. “what?”

“i can’t practice today.” art’s face drops almost immediately, but patrick’s already waving off the inevitable barrage of complaints. “my parents are having people over, and my dad’ll kill me if i so much as look at my guitar.”

“dude,” art groans, “seriously?”

“i wouldn’t be saying it if i wasn’t, asshole. i mean, you can come over if you want to, but no one will let you in if you’re not wearing a tie and dress shoes.” 

art rubs his face with another groan. “fuck.” and as if the day couldn’t get any worse… his phone vibrates on his lap.

you 🌷💋💓 (12:47 pm) bleachers in 10 you 🌷💋💓 (12:47 pm) if ur late i’ll block u you 🌷💋💓 (12:48 pm) again you 🌷💋💓 (12:48 pm) the only thing plastic about me is my dick btw you 🌷💋💓 (12:48 pm) but then again i don’t hear u complaining. so

jesus christ. the last time you were pissed enough to block him– two weeks after spring break– it’d taken him a trip to the mall and blowing most of his cash at victoria’s secret to get back in your good graces. he’d seen enough hot-pink lingerie to last a lifetime, but not enough of you in it. it just wasn’t fair.

art’s on his feet without a word to patrick, his half-eaten turkey sandwich forgotten along with his bewildered best friend. he could come up with a flimsy excuse for his exit later.

art 🥁💥 (12:50 pm) omw

★ … ART, FOR ONCE, is grateful for the years of forced tennis practices and drills when they get him across campus in six minutes; it’s not that important that he’s sweating buckets when he gets to the football field. he’s only hunched over for a few seconds, recovering quickly while briefly slipping off his snapback to let his hair air out.

“babe?” art calls out, straightening up while scanning the area. they’ve probably got at least fifteen minutes before the lunch period ends, and art’s looking to make the most of whatever you’ve got planned for the both of you. “babe–”

“do you ever shut up?” you snip, snatching him by his thermal’s sleeve and yanking him beneath the bleacher steps. “babe, baaaaabe, where are you? give me a break.”

“hey– easy.” art raises his hands in surrender, looking down at you and the annoyance written all over your face. “all i got was a text to be here in ten minutes, and i was here in seven.”

“eight. it’s 12:58.”

… it is 12:58. art just nods, knowing better than to push against your word when you’re worked-up (or in any mood, really). “right.”

you nod, glaring up at him for another moment before rolling your eyes. “you’re lucky i put up with you,” you sigh, and despite the feigned irritation, you kiss him. “if it were anyone else, i would’ve just left.”

art laughs, and his nose bumps yours clumsily at the movement. “i was early.”

“not early enough.”

“right, i’ll add it to the list; anything not done instantly is late.”

“that’s not what i’m saying–”

“– i know.” art kisses you again as his hands rest on your waist, squeezing gently while the two of you move further beneath the bleachers. “i’m kidding. i’ll be faster next time.” and while you eye him pointedly, art can still see the wariness you try to hide behind your sharp choice of words and perpetual scowl. “you still haven’t said if you’re going to let me come around this summer.”

your footsteps pause in your shared migration towards the back of the bleachers, though art’s quick to steady you so you don’t fall. “i didn’t realize you were serious about that,” you admit, though you quickly recover and pull away to put distance between you both.

“why wouldn’t i be?” 

“because… it’s summer. there’s no sneaking around and getting caught when we’re not constantly in front of everyone at school.”

art frowns. “i know,” he says, voice tentative as he tries to pick up on whatever he’s somehow missing, “that’s the whole point of it, right? just you and me– no one else coming in and spreading rumors or whatever. doesn’t that sound nice?”

and while you don’t respond right away, art can see the wheels turning in your head as he holds your hands. it does sound nice; three months of privacy and time away from school to just be boyfriend and girlfriend without the added labels and stress. yes, there might be some explaining to your friends and patrick to keep them from getting too nosy… but what was a little white lie here and there if it bought you the day together? 

“... it would be nice,” you reply finally, “especially if we don’t have to keep meeting under here. i scuffed my jimmy choos the last time we were out here.”

“did you?” art hums, unable to hide his amusement as he pulls you back in towards him. even when things between you both were serious, it always did come back to your beloved shoes (or your purses, or your jewelry, or literally anything else that came from your expensive closet). “then you probably want me to grab this giant spider that’s in your hair, then.”

any signs of a smile on your face immediately dissipate, your brows furrowing as art’s fingers gently smooth over your hair. “art. get it out.”

“but he’s so cute–”

“get it out!!!”

★ …

art 🥁💥 (9:45 pm) u still mad?

d

you 🌷💋💓 (9:48 pm) i am never forgiving u 4 this you 🌷💋💓 (9:48 pm) u lie 2 me again & i’ll have the football team throw u in the dumpsters you 🌷💋💓 (9:49 pm) swirlies 4 months you 🌷💋💓 (9:48 pm) no one will want 2 b ur friend you 🌷💋💓 (9:49 pm) except that patrick guy you 🌷💋💓 (9:49 pm) loser

“just checking,” tashi replies, looking to the rest of your friends as they down their own cups of booze or touch-up makeup in her downstairs bathroom. “you’ve been in too good of a mood recently to be hooking up with one of them. you always complain about them after.”

you scowl at tashi. “i do not,” you protest, glancing between her and your phone as art continues to type. “but even if i did, i wouldn’t be wrong. it’s a miracle any of them are graduating.”

“agreed…” tashi steps closer to you, her shoulder brushing against yours as she not-so-subtly glances down at your screen.

art 🥁💥 (8:50 pm) i got it. no spiders next time art 🥁💥 (8:50 pm) b safe 2nite ok? art 🥁💥 (8:50 pm) i can pick u up l8r if u need me 2

“who’s art?”

“no one.” you glare at tashi with all the feigned vitriol you can muster, slamming your phone shut in your palm and sliding it into your purse. “don’t read my texts.”

“does he go to school with us?” she asks instead, clearly amused by your sudden defensiveness, “i don’t think i know anyone called art. is it short for something?”

“it’s really none of your business.”

“it is when you’re smiling for once.” and when you don’t push back against her, tashi only smiles further. “whoever he is, keep him around. you’re less insufferable like this.”

“shut up, tashi.” still, you let tashi hug you before she heads down the hall to begin rounding up everyone so you can leave for the party down the road. you’re right on her heels, but not before sending art a few more texts and finally slipping your phone away for good.

art 🥁💥 (8:50 pm) babe? you 🌷💋💓 (8:53 pm) i’ll let u know. promise you 🌷💋💓 (8:54 pm) <333

wallows supremacy model supremacy calling after me supremacy she’s an actress supremacy dylan minnette supremacy braeden lemasters supremacy cole preston supremacy… real ones love the remote ep i won’t tolerate its erasure… love that i’m rambling HOPE U ENJOYED. yeah. anyways this album in summer 2024 changed my life and so did seeing them on tour that year and now #theboysarecomingback we’re so uppppp

The sun hardly did a thing to cut through the crisp air and you swear it hasn’t been this cold out since the ‘90s when you were a kid. Yet you navigated the crowded sidewalks on the street today with half your ass hanging out in the dark wash shorts you’re donning and your pumps with no socks in sight. Beauty and glamour over practicality, you guess. The wind that kicks up soon afterward nearly topples you over and whips your hair around like a scene from a cheesy musical. Your arms were already heavy with a half a dozen glossy boutique bags, each fattened with either a purse and wristlet, lace lingerie number, or high end perfume and jewelry. You had been repeating how you needed more things to fill up your closet until Art finally told you that you could go and buy it with his money. Such a good boyfriend. Stepping into a local quiet café to escape the noise, you pulled Art’s credit card out of your wallet. You ordered an iced coffee, checked your watch, and thought about texting Art but ultimately decided against it since you’d be back within the hour anyway.

Back at their apartment, the hours dragged by at a morphine pace for Art, especially with him half listening to the droning on of the TV after tiring himself out. He had tried to distract himself—he trained for the day, jacked himself off lazily while sniffing maniacally into the crotch area of your panties with his sweatpants slung low (and was disappointed when he came dry)—but it didn’t matter what he did as his mind got drawn back to simply missing you and he whined like the clingy lapdog he is when you didn’t even bother calling him or shooting a text message. You’d been out all day and nothing? Come on.

Art finally decides to do something else and abandons the couch. His feet carry him directly to the heavy door of your walk-in closet. He swings it open and the cool air inside carries the thick scent of your laundry detergent, smelling exactly like powdery floral bar soap. He hones in on the gold mine of your underwear drawer. His hand hovers. He hesitates for a split second, but he shrugs that brief blip off and slides the drawer open with a quiet scrape of wood. That nagging little thought whispering in his brain is now front and center and he wants to satiate it. He doesn’t even know if this will work out. Will your panties actually fit his dick or will it have to sit uncomfortably against his leg?

He thumbs through them like a deck while his eyes scan the color and fabric coded rows, looking for the perfect fit with his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth. His finger stops on gray boyshorts, an elastic pair that looks like it has some give. His heart is like a drumbeat in a rainforest against his ribs as he pulls them out of the drawer carefully and steps into them, pulling the waistband up. The fit is incredibly snug, holding his cock firmly against his skin. It isn't entirely comfortable, but the slight restriction only heightens the buzz of the boundary he just crossed.

He misses you like crazy. He’s been reminiscing about times when you rode his dick and left him a nonsensical sexually overstimulated mess. Each roll and bounce of your hips had him making these desperate noises, beyond the point of being able to moan properly. Even though you didn't make fun of him when you realized he was jerking off with your panties, he wonders if you'd laugh now. The bulge he’s got while clad in your gray boyshorts panties has his lower belly starting to warm up as he palms himself while thinking of you. He even spritzed more of your perfume on a worn shirt of yours prior to slipping it on and desperately nosing around in your hamper again to sniff right into the crotch of your panties right before climbing into your shared bed. He’s so disgusting like that. It turns him on more imagining you strolling around the streets of the metropolis that is Boston and going shopping for more panties just so he has fresh options to choose from next time. You hum an unknown tune off key as you shut the front door, lock the bottom and top lock, hang up your denim jacket on the deep brown coat rack, and slip off your pumps. You slide them over next to the credenza. It’s a typical circular but not necessarily nebulous routine nowadays. You’d go on a shopping spree with yours and Art’s card and return home after pampering yourself.

You drop your shopping bags onto the living room couch with pep in your step still. You briefly consider wandering barefoot in the kitchen for a drink, but beeline for the bedroom instead, fully intending to drag your boyfriend out to watch you try on everything you just bought.

He’s in too deep even to hear the front door unlock, let alone notice you pushing open the bedroom door. “…Art?” You speak up as both of your eyebrows rise at the sight of him being evidently lost in his own pleasurable world. The ache in your soles is almost forgotten and your grip on your clutch purse nearly loosens. His hand stills and a violent flinch wracks through his body hard as his nerves were set ablaze for a whole different reason now. Embarrassment flashes across his features, then washes entirely through his body. His brain races for a sorry excuse as he realizes the inextricably mire situation he’s in while you blink at him. He doesn’t know if you were judging him, laughing inside, or disgusted. Maybe amused? Maybe all four at once. What he did know is your silence bothered him. His hands fidget—one still half covering his big problem, the other nervously picking at a loose thread on your panties. The fabric clings to his boner like a second skin.

“Babe…” he starts, voice smaller than usual, hardly frantic. “I could take them off.” But he doesn’t move. He had been sitting here palming his dick while wearing your underwear like a lonely puppy with separation anxiety. And yeah, okay, that sounded pathetic, even to himself right about now. So he tries for something else when you hadn’t yet responded. His heart thumps so hard it feels like it wants to break through his chest with the adrenaline kick he’d gotten. “I just missed you so much. Please don’t think I’m weird,” he begs, reluctantly peeling your graphic oversized shirt off of himself and tossing it on the bed beside him. He stands up and makes his way over to you without missing a beat. “Please. I promise I won’t do it again.” His eyes flicker between yours and then across your countenance, desperately searching for a sign of understanding.

“You’re so stupid,” you lightheartedly state with amusement laced throughout those three words. “What are you getting so worked up about? You look like you’re seconds away from crying.”

A shaky puff left his lips, something of a breath of relief. “Do you even really want to take them off?” You ask as you busied yourself with setting down your purse. The question was so simple. He knows his answer already. He craves your approval, but he was touch starved. The latter trumps the former by miles right now. He just stares at you. At the way your lashes frame those warm eyes, how your lips part slightly like you were about to say something gentle or maybe kiss him senseless. “I don’t wanna take ‘em off,” he whispers.

He gets closer and leans his face toward yours. “Just wanna touch you,” his lips press softly against yours, hushing the murmur that leaves his mouth. Every press of his lips is soft. For a second, he bites down and tugs on your bottom lip, then goes right back in for another. His hand slides up against the prickly stubble of your happy trail growth, then he cupped your boob over your crop top. You’re not even wearing anything underneath, he thinks to himself, and a smile curls up on his lips in between kisses, fading a smidgen as he pulled back.

His gaze is steady and those eyes of his are hungry staring back at you. It's anything but a soft weight against your skin when his hands slide down your thighs and he lowers himself down onto his knees before you. On the way down, he quickly kisses the side of your neck and then your navel. You let out an undignified whine as he burrows his nose right into your crotch, inhaling deeply, exhaling out a breathless sound.

He unbuttons your jeans and helps you pull them down. He gives you little time to step out of them; the moment your lace panties come into view, he spreads your meaty thighs and flattens his tongue right against your clothed slit. His jaw flexes as he hungrily sucks the sopping arousal clinging to the fabric, his saliva only dampening it further. His hand slides up to the waistband, tugging the scrap of cloth down your legs. His throat bobs and his pupils dilate as you’re fully exposed to him now, your fat clit already erect just for him.

‘Course he’s seen it more times than he could count, but he can never get tired of the view. His cock is dribbling with pre-cum as your heat throbs with a rapid, erratic heartbeat of its own the moment his tongue latches onto your coveted pearl. A heavy groan sounds from deep within his chest. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, only to fix back on your face as you buck your pussy against his mouth, needing to see the moment you’d cum. Your hand slides into his hair, your fingers threading through his locks to grip them tight as a moan filtered through your lips. “You nasty fucking weirdo,” you huff out, feeling him humping against your leg closest to him as he lifts your opposite thigh so you could rest your foot upon his shoulder.

There’s a playful scrunch of his nose in protest to being called that but he never really minds when you get a little mean. Having his mouth completely occupied with your pussy right now makes it a major win in his book. The lewd sounds of him devouring you accompanied by a low vibrating thrum in his throat like a muffled “mhm” while he rolls his tongue and sucking on your clit makes a plea of his name leave your lips. Pulling away from your button with a soft smack of his lips, Art captures it again with harsher suction for a moment then letting up on the pressure when he heard you softly hiss. His hand that was supporting your thigh gripped onto it a little more as he slid his other hand to liberate his cock from the confines of the underwear.

It practically springs free—thick pink head with a string of arousal oozing from it, girthy with a slight left curve and a thick vein roped along the side of it. His knuckles flex as he wraps his hand around it and began pumping his cock while his tongue finally dips briefly inside of your weeping entrance just to tease. A second later sliding back up and curving his tongue in while bobbing his head and sucking. A moan broken off into a gasp leaves you, an involuntary shudder wracks through you when you cum relatively quicker than usual. It’s only been a couple of minutes, but the attention on your clit was too much and you rolling your hips down on his face assisted.

You jolt and your pussy clenches and unclenches rhythmically as he continues flicking his tongue while your cum dribbles down his chin and neck. He attempts to stroke his dick at the same pace as his tongue works, but his tongue was much quicker than his fist, and he was trying to focus on you more. The pressure intensifies tenfold right as your toenails bite into his shoulder when your toes curl; you still tremble but keep your hips down even though your nub is sensitive and pulsating like crazy. Your perspiring stomach tenses in a stutter in time with your breath, culminating in you finally tug his head away slightly by the hair. You look down at him and your eyes flicker down to his lips first, then down his chin and neck, and finally meet his eyes. He looks so effortlessly absorbed in doing this and blissed out with a pleasure drunken grin, pushing aside all his thoughts just to be buried between his sweet unforgettable girl’s plush thighs. His hand still worked at getting himself off. He leans his head forward and his tongue delves inside your hole unperturbed with how your walls were still somewhat convulsing.

His tongue makes these deep strokes inside with slow curls that make you grind your hips down hard enough to damn near break his nose, still trying to greedily chase that feeling. You are just as shameless as him. He pulls back even when you try to keep humping and he licked his lips. He huffed out a breath of amusement when you actually bumped the tip of his nose and a soft smile crept onto his features making smile lines appear onto his face. “A little help?” He asks to get your attention, setting your thigh down and carefully standing up. His knees ache, forcing a small grunt from him when the sting caught up to him, but he doesn’t even bother looking at the reddening skin. He simply rubs the shoulder where your foot just rested and doesn’t hesitate to pull you into a kiss. You could taste your slickness coat your tongue from his. It was honestly hot. A hand squeezes his throat and he exhaled through his nose as his hand gripped his cock and he’d begun pumping it again. Your thumb scored up from the base of his sensitive neck, rubbing just below his Adam’s apple while teeth and tongue clashed messily. It’s utter perversion how even during a kiss, the two of you can’t keep your eyes off of each other. Your lust filled half-lidded eyes and blown out and black pupils are watching him.

“Hah. Oh fuck…fuck,” he pants out shakily, completely losing track of the kiss while his toned abs glisten with the beginnings of sweat and his cum that spurted wildly up the lower half of his stomach and all over his hand. Your eyes flicker to his stomach going inward and out while he continued to stubbornly pump himself until even he decided it was too much. The last few squirts landed on his hand and he sighs. He was about to pull away from you to go and wipe his hands clean, but you gripping him by the wrist pins him, stopping him from taking another step. Art’s release was still oozing down in the ridges of his stomach, trickling down his defined v-line and dripping from his fingers.

“Ah-ah. Clean it right here.” A spark shines in his eyes as they widen a fraction. He thought you were joking at first. A chortle left his lips as an awkward smile appears, his eyes flickering up and down your face like he was hoping to find the answer through your expression.

“You serious?” He tries, his eyes flickering between yours.

“Deadly.”

His cock was softening a smidgen already, but he swears he felt it twitch to life. Art leans down toward his open palm and flattens his tongue against it, licking the skin clean while maintaining direct eye contact. He licks his lips as if it will lessen the saltiness that resting on his taste buds. “Good boy,” a low coo of approval leaves you. Art whimpers a little at being praised, then tugs you closer by the wrist and kisses you hard. His burly hands slipped down to your plump ass that always filled his hands out once he got you close. His nose knocks against yours a few times as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss impossibly further, all while stepping back toward the bed until he planted his socked feet in time to avoid slipping. You settle down on his lap the moment he sits, thighs bracketing his.

Your hands work at slipping off your top as one of his hands slides all the way down for him to bully two thick fingers into your pussy from behind. A shared gasp slips between the both of your lips and it nearly got lost in the kiss until he pulled his swollen lips back. You tweak your brown nipples as they harden, groping the fat of them while rubbing your thumb over the pebbled peaks. If this were lazy, sleepy sex, you might’ve been embarrassed by how obscenely wet your pussy was and responding to Art. But it’s hard to be when he’s looking you dead in the eye. It’s distracting, making this feeling linger like cigarette smoke and slow a little. And then the syrupy slurring of words starts, your brain being carnal-addled becoming just as evident. “Mmm s-shit, jus’ like that,” you slur. His fingers curled just right inside of your heat that ached and throbbed for him. Your arousal stuck in transparent strings to your trimmed curly bush that framed your pussy every time he dragged his fingers out enough, plunging them deeper than before.

His skilled wrist begins to ache in no time but he didn’t let up. Not even when the pads of his fingers began to prune mere minutes in and he could feel your walls sucking him in more. “Don’t cum yet,” he breathes out, like those fingers of his weren’t trying to best the speed of a rabbit in heat. The strong urge to whine out Why? hits you like a motherfucker because he seriously chooses now to attempt to deny you and flip the script? No way in hell. But the complaint dies on your lips just as he unexpectedly slips his fingers out.

He maintains eye contact while putting those same fingers in his mouth and slurps them clean. Your breath hitches and your walls clench around nothing. For a moment, you swear you see him smirk, but then he gently maneuvers your hands away from your bare breasts. He replaces your fingers with his mouth, his hands returning to your ass to spread one of your cheeks while you reach behind yourself, your hand gripping onto the base of his dick beneath you. Your bottom lip gets caught between your teeth again when you sink down, then you move your hand. Your face twists in pleasure when he bites and then sucks your nipple just right and thrusts his hips up at the same time. Another snap of his pelvis makes your lips part to let out another pretty sound just for him.

He steadily works his hips in a pace he mentally set—not too fast, no, you didn’t like that and he wanted to savor this—angling each thrust to knock sort of sideways as that always churned a moan or expression too precious for him to handle. Your walls are practically sucking him in; you couldn’t help but instinctively bounce your hips to fuck him back just to gain a bit of your standing back. He lets a nipple out of his mouth with a string of spit briefly connecting him to your skin still. Your tits bouncing in his face over and over was hypnotizing alone, but he snaps out of it when you firmly cup his jaw and pull him into a kiss.

The desperate fevered movement of your lips string a guttural moan from his chest, his tongue tangling with yours as his hands slide down to grip your hips to help you ride him at the right pace. "F-fuck, more. I want more,” he pants against your mouth, breaking the kiss just enough to look down between you both at how seamlessly he fills you and how sticky his dick looks from how wet you are. Your stomach flutters with a whirlwind of butterflies at how desperate he sounds even while he’s taking everything he wants. Then almost suddenly he’s merging into these heavy jagged plows that bury him balls deep inside you, driven carnally by the tight, milking suction of your walls alone. He’d been so impatient all day and needed this. You whine as your toes curl and your eyes briefly roll back, you can feel that familiar feeling rising in your stomach. You know he feels it deep in his too when he started blathering—something along the lines of “I wanna…stay right here. Like this. All day, baby,” he slurred, the t’s and d’s almost disappearing. Each word sounding like it weighed on his tongue as his thrusts got sloppy—followed by a pathetic moan right after. You kissed him again to hide your own whimpers and broken moans.

His breath hitches once, then hitches again, heavier, a moan filtering through his lips right as you gasp and fall silent. Your thighs tremble while his tense and his hands loosen their grip on your hips entirely, coming to rest there, his thumb rubs your stretch marks as he catches his breath. You rock your hips subtly, chasing that feeling a little longer, but then he grunts and clamps down on your hips to hold you still. Shaking his head, he lets out a trembling exhale.

A thick silence settles over the room, thick with a scent of salt, musk, and the lingering heat of each other’s skin. It is not a suffocating or empty silence. You don’t move away from Art immediately. Instead, you collapse forward, your full weight pressing him straight into the mattress, your forehead resting against the sweat slicked damp curve of his shoulder while the aftershocks refuse to subside, making both of your bodies jolt involuntarily. Your breath puffs ragged against his neck before you shift just enough to bury your face in his crook, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of him. It’s crazy how even now you can smell a mix of his body wash and your perfume clinging to his skin.

Your thighs burn from the effort of riding him, the muscles tight and feeling completely like jelly from the sheer intensity of your pace. His hands slide up your spine in slow, trembling strokes, trying to soothe you now that the high is passing. You can actively feel the tension draining right out of his muscles, leaving behind a boneless exhaustion that mirrors your own, his chest rising and falling heavily beneath your palms while you find yourself absentmindedly rubbing his chest. "You okay?" he murmurs. The words are thick with fatigue, vibrating right against your skin rather than just reaching your ears. He lifts his head slightly, his eyes searching yours in the dim light now that it’s gotten darker outside. Reaching up, his fingers are clumsy now but gentle as he brushes a damp strand of hair from your forehead, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone to wipe away a bead of sweat.

He seems to notice your dry throat before you even do when you swallow too thick, the sound loud in the quiet room. Breaking eye contact, you carefully withdraw, the sudden loss of his warmth making you shiver instantly despite the lingering heat. You reach for him instinctively, but he only moves to the edge of the bed, fumbling in the dimness. There is no perfect glass of water waiting; he just grabs a half-empty plastic bottle from the nightstand, the label crinkling loudly under his grip. He unscrews the cap and brings it right to your lips, his hand steadying the plastic as you take greedy, desperate sips. The water is lukewarm and tastes faintly of plastic, but it feels like salvation. He takes a quick drink himself, then tosses the empty bottle on the floor beside the nightstand with a careless clatter.

"Come here," he murmurs, pulling you back down. You don’t dismount him fully, instead you settle your weight back onto his lap, but softly now, no longer working your hips, just resting. He pulls the rumpled sheets up, tucking them around your shoulders and his own with a clumsy, protective fierceness, creating a tight cocoon against the cooling air. Then he pulls you forward, settling his chest flat against yours, his arms draping heavily over your waist to hold you secure. Your legs remain straddling his hips, tangled together under the sheets, a continuous line of contact grounding you both.

He lets out a long, shuddering breath, his forehead resting against yours. "That was..." He stops, shaking his head as if words are too heavy to lift. His thumb begins a repetitive, soothing motion on your lower back, tracing a scar there, over and over, as if trying to ground himself through touching you. "Just... don't move yet. Please." The room is quiet save for the syncing of your breathing and the distant sound of the TV still going in the living room. He nuzzles his nose deep into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple that lingers, his lips soft and heavy. When a cool draft hits the room, he simply tightens his hold, sharing his body heat and rubbing your back until the chill passes. It isn't polished or perfect. There are no candles lit and the pillows weren’t fluffed like usual, just the viscous reality of sweat, the tangle of limbs, and the desperate, clinging hold of two people because this wasn’t planned. But it was so good. Better than good. And you wanted to do this all over again even though it was unexpected.

But as the minutes stretch toward ten, the cozy weight of his body beneath you begins to shift from grounding to pressing. The water you just drank hits your system faster than expected, and the lingering pressure from the friction against your bladder ignites an undeniable urgency. The warm cocoon suddenly feels restrictive; every small shift of his hips sends a jolt through your lower stomach, reminding you of the much needed release. You squirm slightly, trying to ignore the growing ache, but the pressure builds relentlessly.

Art catches on. His hands pause their soothing rhythm on your back, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes clouded with sleepiness but alert to your discomfort. You shift your weight, wincing as the movement emphasizes the fullness in your bladder.

Understanding dawns on his face, softening the exhaustion in his features. He doesn't say a word, just slides his hands down to your hips to help you lift yourself off of his dick. The separation is slow, makes both of you make an unfiltered noise. As you rise, the air feels freezing against your overheated skin, a stark contrast to the furnace of his body beneath you. He watches you, his gaze heavy and adoring, as you carefully step onto the floor, your legs wobbling slightly from the exertion.