The Pink Pony Club
TIMECAST - Roaring Twenties
The Pink Pony Club
pianist!art donaldson x burlesque dancer!reader
c.ai bot | moodboard and introduction
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The music was never written down.
Art played it like a secret, fingers moving from muscle memory, heart memory. No sheet. No name. Just a tune he’d stumbled into one night after watching her dance and never managed to shake loose.
It didn’t match the other numbers. Too slow. Too sad. It had no business lingering beneath rhinestones and tassels. But it fit her. The real her. The one he only caught glimpses of between routines—when the lights dimmed and the sweat on her shoulders hadn’t yet cooled.
Carmen—though that wasn’t her name, he was sure—had a laugh like a brass bell and walked like she’d never been taught to apologize. On stage, she glowed. A constellation of sequins and hips, dazzling and deliberate. Offstage, she smoked French cigarettes and swore like a man on leave.
Art kept his eyes down when he played. Most nights.
Except for hers.
She was halfway through her number, some wild, thumping thing with feathers and a chair, when she caught him.
Not just looking. Watching.
Her mouth curved mid-spin, slow and dangerous. She pivoted, winked, and blew him a kiss so theatrical the crowd howled.
He fumbled the next chord.
The number ended. Applause. Laughter. A crash of cymbals. Carmen disappeared behind the velvet curtain, and Art was left blinking at ivory keys like they’d betrayed him.
It wasn’t until an hour later, after the last call had been whispered through shadowed booths and the club was quieter than a prayer, that she approached.
He was still at the piano. Always was. Tinkering with chords like they might one day answer a question he didn’t know how to ask.
She perched on the edge of the piano bench without asking. One long leg crossed over the other. Glitter smudged along her collarbone like stardust.
“That song,” she said. “The slow one. The one you always play when I dance. Is that for me?”
Art didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.
“I just…” He cleared his throat. “Play what fits.”
A beat of silence.
Then Carmen laughed, soft and sharp. “You’re lucky I like flattery, sweetheart.”
She slid off the bench and disappeared into the dressing room corridor, scent trailing behind her like rose perfume and danger.
Art stared at the keys a long time before touching them again.
—
The Pink Pony Club was never silent, not really.
Even after the doors locked and the girls peeled rhinestones from their skin, there was always a hum. A low, ambient hush like the place had its own pulse. The walls held secrets in their velvet folds. Lipstick prints on half-drunk glasses. Ghosts of applause in the rafters.
Carmen lit a cigarette with one hand, the other holding her silk robe shut at the chest. She was perched on the piano bench again, bare legs crossed, one heel dangling from her toe. The smoke curled around her like mood lighting.
Art played.
He didn’t ask what she wanted. He just let his fingers move—minor chords, soft harmonies, a lazy rhythm like the stretch after a long, slow kiss.
She hummed along under her breath.
“Do you ever sleep?” she asked, eyes closed.
“Sometimes,” he said.
Carmen cracked one eye open. “That a joke?”
He shrugged.
She took another drag. “You always play like you’re dreaming.”
“That’s when it sounds right.”
Silence again, except for the music.
Carmen reached into her robe pocket and pulled something folded and worn. She slid it across the top of the piano toward him. Art stopped playing.
It was a flyer. Faded. Creased from being carried too long. A girl in feathers smiled from the page, kicking her legs in silhouette. The headline read “Amateur Night—$20 Prize” in a cheap, jagged font.
“That’s me,” she said.
He looked up.
“I was seventeen,” Carmen said. “Didn’t even know how to sew a snap into a bodice yet. I borrowed shoes from a girl I met in the train station bathroom.”
Art didn’t ask how she got there. He just waited.
She tapped ash into a teacup. “I didn’t win. But Miss Kitty saw me. Told me I had legs like a chorus line and the face of a woman who’d never lose a fight.”
Art stared at her for a moment.
Then, carefully, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a thin, leather-bound book. He laid it between them. Inside, faded pencil notations danced across yellowed pages. Sheet music. Some finished. Some not.
Carmen raised a brow. “This your diary?”
He gave a small, helpless smile. “I don’t… write things down. Not really. But this is how I keep them.”
She touched the edge of a page, delicately, like it might flake apart.
“Play me one of these,” she said. “Something no one’s heard before.”
Art hesitated.
Then he turned the book, laid it flat, and began to play.
The song was slow. Not sad, but wistful—like a window left open on purpose. A melody that didn’t ask anything of you, just stayed awhile and listened.
When it ended, Carmen blinked and cleared her throat like she hadn’t meant to.
“You got a name for that one?”
He shook his head.
She leaned back. “Call it Glitter.”
Art looked at her.
She smiled, a real one this time. Smaller. Softer. “That’s what it sounded like. Glitter in a drain.”
—
They called her Sugar Lace.
She arrived on a Tuesday with a battered suitcase and a voice that tried too hard to purr. Said she came from St. Louis, used to work the Rivoli, knew how to handle men and high kicks in equal measure.
Her curls were firetruck red. Her heels were too tall for the way she walked. Her perfume came in waves, like someone had spilled it on her train ticket.
Carmen clocked her before she even finished her introduction.
Too gay. Too eager. Too much brass, not enough brass band.
But Miss Kitty took her in anyway. Because Kitty always did.
Kitty didn’t turn girls away. She took the raw ones, the bent ones, the ones with lipstick too dark and shoes too big. She’d press a compact into their hands, teach them how to glide instead of walk, and make them family before anyone else could ruin them first.
“You don’t have to be the best,” Kitty said once, holding a girl while she cried in a beaded bra. “You just have to be yours. Everything else is rehearsal.”
Still, Carmen had earned the late night slot with blood, bruises, and boa fluff. So when Sugar Lace strutted onstage in Carmen’s eleven o’clock spot four days later, something behind her ribs twisted sharp.
From his bench, Art noticed too.
He always did.
⸻
Carmen was in the wings, arms crossed, one brow arched like a challenge. Her corset still clung to her ribs from the earlier number. She hadn’t even taken her lashes off yet. That’s how fast the schedule had flipped.
Miss Kitty stood behind her, cigarette smoke curling around her like a halo. “She’s a novelty act. Just passing through. Don’t bristle.”
“She’s flailing.”
“She’s trying.”
“She stole my slot.”
Kitty smirked. “No one steals from you, baby. Not without consequences.”
Carmen’s eyes flicked to the stage.
Sugar Lace was mid-routine, something involving a velvet swing and a poorly timed glove toss. The crowd liked it well enough—men laughed too loud and slapped tables—but there was no rhythm. No tease. Just noise and skin.
And the piano?
It didn’t sing.
Carmen’s head snapped toward the bench.
Art’s fingers were still moving, but the tempo was wrong. The chords a little off. The cue for the bridge came too early, then too late. It wasn’t much. But it was enough.
Sugar tripped her exit spin, laughed like it was part of the act, and jogged backstage to scattered applause.
Kitty didn’t say a word.
Carmen did.
She waited until the next act had started—one of the twins with champagne bottles and a comedy bit—then found Art exactly where he always was after a misstep: by the side piano, fussing with a page of fake sheet music like it might confess for him.
“You messed up,” she said, arms folded across her chest.
He didn’t look at her. “Sorry.”
“You don’t mess up.”
“I just wasn’t… focused.”
“Try again.”
Art glanced up, eyes meeting hers, cheeks already flushing.
“She took your number,” he said softly. “I didn’t like it.” He shrugged.
Silence.
Then she leaned down, placed a hand on the bench beside his, and kissed his cheek. A quiet press of mouth to skin. Nothing flashy. Just real.
“Don’t go starting a fire on my account, piano man,” she whispered. “Unless you want me to dance in the flames.”
⸻
Later that night, the girls were curled up in the dressing room like cats after a long hunt. Robes slipped from shoulders. Stockings dangled from the edge of the vanity. Glitter stuck to everything—skin, mirrors, even the doorknob.
Goldie passed around a tin of balm for bruised feet. Jo flipped through a gossip rag, reading the horoscopes out loud in her fake radio voice.
Lorna was painting her nails with bootleg polish, one leg kicked up on the makeup table. “Carmen, you hear your replacement?”
“She’s not my replacement,” Carmen said, biting into an apple like it had personally offended her.
“She cracked her knuckle on the swing,” Jo offered. “Heard it from Theo.”
“She’s got nerves,” Kitty said, appearing from the hall with a fresh martini in hand. “She’ll learn.”
“She doesn’t listen,” Carmen muttered.
“She’s scared,” Kitty replied. “You remember what that felt like?”
Carmen didn’t answer. Only clicked her tongue in annoyance.
Goldie grinned. “Art sure listened.”
Jo whooped. “You see that chord sabotage?”
Lorna raised her glass. “To shy boys with good ears.”
They clinked imaginary glasses and howled with laughter. Carmen rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.
Across the room, tucked half out of view, Art sat alone with a paper napkin full of notes, scrawled staves, and tiny sketches of stars in the margins.
He wasn’t laughing. But he looked like he wanted to.
And Carmen? She looked at him and felt it.
The spark.
—
It started with a kiss behind the prop curtain.
It was after a long set. Carmen still glittered at the collarbones, sweat like pearls at her hairline, her robe clutched loosely over her costume. Art had just finished packing up the second piano—his fingers still tingling from playing her exit number like it was a love letter he wasn’t allowed to send.
She passed him in the hallway, didn’t even pause, just grabbed his tie and pulled him into the dark behind the curtain.
The kiss was fast. Heat and lipstick. A bite on the bottom lip.
She didn’t say anything after. Just slipped away like nothing had happened.
But it did.
God, it did.
⸻
The next time was in the back storage closet between sets. She cornered him while he was reaching for a fresh music stand. Kissed him again—slower this time, mouths fitting like they’d rehearsed it. Her thigh pressed between his. His hands, awkward and reverent, found her waist like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold her even now.
She broke the kiss and whispered, “This doesn’t have to mean anything.”
He nodded.
It already meant everything.
⸻
It kept happening.
A dressing room when no one was looking. An empty stairwell at midnight. Once, breathless, against the hallway wall while the show thundered through the floorboards above them.
She touched him like she needed something from him—release, relief, quiet. He let her take it. Gave himself up in pieces.
But he never touched her like that.
He touched her like a hymn.
⸻
Art didn’t know how to be casual.
He tried. He told himself he could. But every time Carmen kissed him, he melted into it like sugar in heat. Every sigh was a song he wanted to write. Every time she undid her robe for him, he wanted to kneel.
She’d press him against the cool tile of the back room, kiss his throat, pull open his shirt with impatient hands. He’d slide his palms up her thighs, feel silk and strength and softness. He’d breathe her in like she was the only real thing in the city.
She’d laugh—low, wicked—and tell him not to get sentimental.
And he never said it out loud, but—
Too late.
⸻
One night, after, they lay tangled in the dressing room chaise, her head on his chest, their clothes half-askew.
He traced the edge of her arm with two fingers. Light, like a breeze. Her skin raised under it.
“You always touch me like I’m breakable,” she murmured.
“You’re not,” he whispered back.
“But you think I am.”
He didn’t answer. Just kissed the back of her hand.
It wasn’t love. Not exactly.
But it was something blooming wild and impossible in the dark—like orchids in a whiskey glass.
—
“Okay,” Jo said, leaning across the vanity with a cherry popsicle between her teeth, “so when are you gonna admit you’re absolutely, catastrophically, full-body stupid over the piano man?”
Carmen blinked. “Jesus, can I breathe?”
“Nope,” said Goldie, kicking her heels up on the chaise. “You’ve been walking around with that just-fucked shimmer for weeks.”
“You’re glowing like a cabaret Virgin Mary,” Lorna added, rifling through someone else’s lipstick bag. “Spill it.”
Carmen didn’t mean to.
But it was late, and her robe was falling off one shoulder, and she still smelled like his cologne from when he pulled her into the stairwell between sets. And her thighs? Still trembling a little.
So she smirked, twisted open her perfume bottle, and said, “Fine.”
Jo straightened.
“I’m fucking him,” Carmen said.
Screaming. Absolute chaos.
Goldie fell off the couch.
Lorna choked on her gum.
Jo slapped the mirror. “Oh my god. You’re fucking Art?”
Carmen lounged. “I’ve fucked him in the linen closet. Twice in the prop cage. Almost on the piano bench, but he got shy.”
“You corrupted a musician,” Goldie gasped from the floor.
“He said ‘oh fuck’ like it was a prayer,” Carmen said, grinning. “He says my name like it’s gonna kill him.”
Jo threw her popsicle. “You bitch.”
“He holds me like I’m gonna break,” Carmen continued, dreamy now, voice going all warm. “But he eats me out like he’s trying to ruin my afterlife.”
Lorna screamed. “I need him to teach a masterclass.”
“I’m gonna die right here,” Jo said, wheezing. “Art ‘I-blush-when-you-say-bra’ Donaldson? With the tongue of God?”
“And the hands,” Carmen added, dazed.
Goldie climbed back onto the couch like a ghost. “Tell me he calls you ‘ma’am.’ Tell me he whimpers.”
“Oh, he whimpers. He asks. He begs.”
The room exploded.
Jo was crying. Lorna rolled off the table. Goldie was chanting, “I knew it, I fucking knew it,” like a victory song.
Carmen tucked her chin into her palm, smug and soft at once. “And now,” she added, “he looks at me like he’s halfway in love and doesn’t know what the fuck to do with it.”
Silence.
Then a long, collective awwwwwwfuckkkk.
Jo wiped her face. “I’m gonna be sick. That’s adorable.”
“He’s gonna write you a fucking symphony,” Lorna said, starry-eyed.
“He did,” Carmen admitted, quiet now. “He played it for me after I let him take my stockings off with his teeth.”
Even Kitty—passing by the door—stuck her head in, arched a brow, and said, “Just make sure you’re not leaving a mess on the floorboards.”
Carmen winked. “No promises.”
—
It was half past three and the club was asleep.
The glitter had settled. The air was thick with old perfume and spilled gin. Somewhere, the record player was warbling a tune no one had flipped in hours.
Theo was behind the bar, wiping glasses and humming to himself, when Art slid onto the stool in front of him—shirt rumpled, tie loose, face a little too flushed for someone who definitely hadn’t been drinking.
Theo looked up. “Jesus. What the hell happened to you?”
Art stared straight ahead. “I think I’m in love with Carmen.”
Theo blinked. “…Okay?”
Art buried his face in his hands. “She climbed on top of me and told me not to come unless she said so and then kissed my neck and I think I blacked out for ten minutes and also she stole my glasses after.”
Theo set the glass down carefully.
Art kept going. “She bit me. Like actually bit me. And I liked it. Like, a lot. And then she made this sound—like a gasp but also a laugh—and I swear to God my soul left my body.”
“Okay.” Theo leaned on the bar. “What exactly do you need from me here?”
Art looked up, wide-eyed. “I don’t know. Advice? Perspective? A cigarette? A shovel to dig my grave?”
Theo sighed. “I pour drinks for a living. I once got broken up with because I didn’t know what ‘astrological incompatibility’ meant.”
“I’m so fucked,” Art said, voice rising. “She’s cool. She’s hot and charming and terrifying. She could eat me alive and I’d thank her. She laughs when I beg. And then she cuddles me like I’m breakable.”
“Sounds like you’re having a great time,” Theo said dryly.
Art slammed his head onto the bar. “She calls me baby. Like she means it. Like I’m hers.”
Theo slid a whiskey across to him. “Here. On the house. For your suffering.”
Art didn’t drink it. Just stared at it like it might hold answers.
Theo, against his better judgment, softened. “Look, man. She keeps coming back to you, right?”
Art nodded miserably.
“She kisses you after? Not just the… you know. Stuff?”
Art blushed. “Yeah.”
Theo shrugged. “Then maybe stop spiraling and let it be good. Not everything has to make sense. Especially not in this dump.”
Art looked up slowly. “She moaned my name.”
Theo put a hand up. “Nope. And we’re done here.”
Art smiled.
It was soft. Nervous. Stupidly, blissfully content.
“Thanks, Theo.”
“I did nothing.”
“You were here.”
“Tragically,” Theo muttered, walking away. “Fucking musicians.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
She didn’t knock.
She never did. She just slipped in past the curtain like a secret, still in her robe, cheeks pink from the dressing room heat. Her heels were off. She walked barefoot across the sticky floor like she owned it.
Art was alone onstage, the club empty now except for the two of them. The lights were half-down, just enough for shadows to lean into everything. He was playing something soft. Something new.
She didn’t speak. Just slid onto the piano bench beside him like gravity had dragged her there.
He didn’t stop playing.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. Pressed her lips to his neck. Light. Thoughtless. Familiar.
He breathed out hard.
“You left a button undone,” she murmured. “I thought you were trying to kill me.”
“I didn’t—”
She unbuttoned the next one. Slow.
“You’ve got the softest fucking skin,” she said, and he swore his soul left his body.
“I, uh—”
She kissed his throat. Lower. Dragged her nails lightly down the back of his hand where it rested on the keys.
“I came here to say thank you,” she said, voice like warm smoke. “For letting me be a greedy, filthy, terrifying thing around you.”
He swallowed. “You’re not—”
She looked up at him. “I am. And you like it.”
He did.
He liked it more than he’d ever liked anything in his life.
“I can’t breathe when you look at me,” he admitted.
She straddled his lap.
“Good,” she said.
He kissed her like he was scared of being good at it. She bit his lip until he stopped being scared.
⸻
They didn’t have sex on the piano bench.
They almost did.
But then Carmen looked at him, fingers curled in his curls, and saw something tender in his eyes—something not just hard or needy, but open.
So she leaned in close, cheek pressed to his, and whispered:
“I want to hear the song you wrote me. The one you don’t want me to know about yet.”
Art froze.
Then—without a word—he adjusted the bench, flexed his fingers, and began to play.
Carmen sat in his lap, wrapped in robe and affection, listening to her heart get played in harmony.
The melody was all her edges.
And all his softness.
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SUGAR RUSH.
peter parker x afab!reader
fluff. heavy kissing. implied intimacy. teens being ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ teens. light suggestive vibes but nothing explicit. ♡
You're on your stomach on Peter's bed, your legs stretched out while wearing the hoodie you stole from his closet a week ago. The sleeves are too long, covering half your hands, but you like it that way. It smells like him, like detergent and that cologne he pretends he doesn't use. You've been living in it like a raccoon in a stolen nest. You're not doing anything right now, just waiting for your boyfriend to finish studying, with your mouth full of Pop Rocks that won't shut up.
Crack. Pop. Crack. It's funny, honestly. It sounds like a neck getting cracked in half—well, it can sound like fireworks too. It's annoyingly loud because your mouth looks like it's trying to pick a fight with physics.
Peter groans from his desk and doesn't even look at you. "You're so annoying." The words come out flat like he's already said them three times today. You know he doesn't mean it. Not really. He's just complaining. As always. It's his nature.
You chuckle, candy still fizzing. "You said I could have them." You roll onto your side just to get a better look at him, your lips pouting as if you're using them against him. His pen is tapping against his notebook while listening to the popping of the Pop Rocks.
"Didn't say I wanted to hear them every five seconds, baby." He pinches the bridge of his nose. Sometimes you wonder how he can even manage you. Maybe he's praying for patience and not getting any divine assistance.
You shift a little, cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his bed. "You can't even hear me over there," you say before scoffing and chewing deliberately, just to make a point.
"I can. It's like... background music. In my head." He spins slightly in his chair, just enough to throw a look at you over his shoulder.
You snort. "Dramatic." You drag the word out, milk it, trying to piss him off. Then you toss another handful of candy into your mouth like a kid.
He finally turns around the chair creaking. His hair's a mess, and there's a pencil tucked behind his ear like he forgot it was there. He crosses his arms and damn... those muscles are flexing. "I'm trying to study, and you're over here sounding like... I don't even know what to call it." His expression is all annoyed, but his eyes are warm. Tired, but warm. Not angry. Honestly? You love it when he gets like this, grumpy and soft around the edges.
You open your mouth real wide and go "Aaahhh," just to make the fizz louder. It's obnoxious. Truly. The kind of noise that would make people glare at you, and you're so proud of it.
Peter squints at you like he's in pain. "Why is my girlfriend like this?" He says it like a curse, like a prayer, like a man at the end of his rope who still wouldn't let go.
"Aw, come on, you love me." You say it too easily. It's not a question—something settled and obvious and unchangeable.
He exhales through his nose and walks over to you anyway, flops down next to you on the bed, elbow bumping yours. You hold out the package of candy. It rustles between you like a peace offering. Or a trap. He hasn't decided which yet.
He eyes it before looking back at you and your lips. "You're gonna shut up if I take some?" There's no heat in it, like the everyday tone he uses when you're being like this. Just a tired sort of fondness, like he's resigned himself to your antics and this weird little life you two have built. Annoyingly lovable, what he always says when you're asking for assurance if he still loves you even though you're playful.
You shrug. "Probably not." And you mean it. You're indecisive, and impulsive, with tendencies to be pushy. He knew that when he let you steal his hoodie the first time, and when you did things just to get his attention.
He sighs but takes a few and tilts his head back to chew. The sound bursts in the quiet like tiny firecrackers, and he physically winces, like he didn't think they'd be that loud. Hates the sounds. Obviously.
He looks at you like you just committed a crime. "Why does it... feel weird?" His face scrunches, and he's trying not to like it but also can't deny that it's kind of hilarious.
"It's fun-weird, not bad-weird." You roll onto your back beside him, shoulder brushing his, voice smug. "It tastes good though!"
Peter turns his head toward you and looks at your mouth. "You're ridiculous," he says softly, barely louder than the crackle. But he's still watching you, still close before he takes the Pop Rocks from your hand, gets enough from inside, and puts it in his mouth.
Then he kisses you.
Like... no warning. One second he's staring at your mouth like it's got all the answers to his questions, and the next, he's leaning in, slow but sure, like he already decided and you just didn't catch up yet. It's not aggressive, not rushed- it's soft, warm, and easy.
Your mouths meet soft at first. Just lips brushing lips, a little sticky from the candy's effect. But then the Pop Rocks crackle between you, loud and sudden, like someone just started a time bomb under your tongues, and everything jumps.
You giggle against him, nose bumping his, but he doesn't pull back. He just tilts his head and pushes in a little deeper. And, well, yeah, maybe that's when it changes.
Because now it's not soft. It's something else.
His mouth opens just enough for your tongue to catch him, and he tastes like cherry- you're sure it's from the candy. The candy's still popping, still snapping under your tongues, and it's a funny feeling. Literally. Your lips part wider, let it get messy, let it get loud. You lick into his mouth a little and feel him suck in a breath right through his nose.
And God, that's all it takes before he's kissing you back harder now, licking the taste of candy right out of your mouth like he's trying to shut it off. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, gently and soft the way he knows you like. It's steady; he's holding you in place. His teeth graze your bottom lip, yearningly, just barely, just enough to feel it, and you groan, soft and surprised and too into it.
It's clumsy, yeah. Of course, it is. You're both grinning too much, breathing too hard, lips swollen already, and the candy still going off like a fucking broken record. But you don't stop. Neither of you. Because it's fun and silly. Because it's stupid. Because it's so much better than it should be.
Peter pulls back eventually, breathing hard, his lips pink and wet, a little sugar stuck at the corner of his mouth again. He licks it away automatically, and your stomach flips.
"Okay," he says, voice low and just barely wrecked. "That was..."
He doesn't even finish the sentence.
You're already grabbing more Pop Rocks.
"Again," you say, out of breath but grinning. "C'monnn."
He laughs, but it's a little shaky now. "I'm gonna die."
"Mhm," you hum and press your mouth to his before he can say another word.
This time, it's not that gentle. It's full of tongues and teeth and stupid little moans pressed into each other's mouths, sugar and spit and heat all tangled up in a kiss that has no business feeling this good.
You taste like candy, and he kisses you like he’s starving for it.
𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍
𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝
A HELPING HAND
summary: it's the last night at mark rebelatto's tennis academy for art and patrick. the last night of being bunkmates, the last night of staying up to talk about tennis, the last night before art is off to stanford and patrick goes on tour. when art falls asleep, patrick usually jerks off like any regular guy with needs. it's not weird of course. he taught art how to jerk off in this very room afterall. but tonight is different. patrick would already be finishing into a sock if it weren't for arts quiet little sobs.
pairing: patrick zweig x art donaldson
content warning: 18+ mdni mlm mutual masturbation mutual handjob internalized homophobia?
word count: 2.4k
authors note: ahh this is my first fic! i was inspired by a post i saw a week or two ago but i can't remember what the @ was. the concept stuck with me and i just had to write something. i hope it's enjoyable... if it is i'll make a part two. happy reading!!
taglist: @fwaist @pittsick @cowboyfaists @manipulatemedonaldson @glassmermaids @zionna @femme-lusts
for the last hour, patricks hand has progessively slid lower and lower until it's found purchase at the waistband of his boxers. he'll occasionaly dip his fingers beneath it out of boredom, but he can't find it in him to go any further. not when the room is practically calling out to him. each corner holds a different memory. the walls, which have heard all of the late the night conversations between him and art. the trophies, that they've both worked their asses off for. the beds, where patrick taught art how to jerk off when they were younger. where they talked about kat zimmerman. where they came at the same time. it was underlined with a sensuality both of them would take to the grave. he can't believe it but he might miss the place. not the constant pressure nor his judgy peers. just the memories. all of which are with art.
speaking of, patrick looks across the room in an attempt to make out arts figure in the dark. his eyes have a hard time adjusting and he can only hope he's asleep. he opens his mouth to check but thinks better of it and looks up at the ceiling. his fingers slip under the waistband of his boxers once more, sliding more downwards than before. he's about to wrap a hand around his growing hardness when he hears something. he yanks his hand back and sits up slightly, eyes searching the darkness.
if patrick strains his ears enough he can hear the muffled cries coming from the direction of arts bed. he sits up completely and plants his feet on the floor, causing it to creak under the new weight. patrick curses inwardly to himself when it goes quiet. "art? are you uh.. are you awake?" he whispers loudly in hopes that his best friend won't ignore him.
"...yeah, sorry if i woke you up." art whispers back after a beat. patrick almost laughs at how pathetic he sounds. like he always does. but the sniffle that follows is enough to have him crossing the room and sitting down on arts bed.
the silence that follows is uncomfortable and long. uncomfortably long, if you will. patrick has never been good at comfort. he can't even think of an instance where he's actually comforted someone. he tends to just make a joke in hopes of lightening the mood. that or he aborts the scene before tears fall. too late now. "what's wrong?" the words don't even sound like his own and it takes him by surprise. it's something he's never asked before in his life. apparently it surprises art even more because he sits up and gives him a curious look. "why do you care? it doesn't even matter." patrick scoffs at that. "it does matter." his tone is uncharacteristically soft. "but you're also keeping me up, so either talk to me or spare me the trouble." he redeems himself before art has more questions that he can't answer. why does it even matter?
another beat. "i'm just— i don't know— i'm sad, i guess. about leaving. we grew up here and now we're moving on. leaving it in the past." he shrugs and looks down at his lap like a kicked puppy. patrick only sighs because art's right. he himself was reminiscing for the last hour, barely even able to get hard because of the memories plaguing him. "i get it, this place means a lot to us. but you got accepted into stanford and i'm going on tour. we're going further than we ever dreamed of. we'll finally have more to our names than this shitty academy." he laughs and ruffles arts curls, settling for the joking tactic. "yeah.. you're right." his tear stained eyes finally meet patricks and he offers a sad smile. patrick offers one back and it's far different than his customary smirk or grin.
but it was gone as quick as it came. "are we done here? 'cause you kinda ruined my me time, if you catch my drift." patrick makes a jerking off gesture with his hand, as if his words weren't comprehendable alone. "right..." arts smile falters when he notices the tent in patricks boxers. was that there the whole time?
he should be disgusted if it was. here he is, crying and in need of comfort. maybe even a lullaby. all the while his best friend is harboring a boner and can't even offer him a hug. but if the way his own cock is filling out says anything about what he's feeling, it's definitely not disgust.
and of course patrick catches on immediately, eyes watching the quickening growth in arts boxers. it's only then that he's reminded of his own which he left aching and wanting. their attention shifts from their dicks to each other once again. it's even quieter than before. so quiet that the gears in patricks mind can almost be heard working overtime.
eventually, he voices what he was thinking so hard about. "i could help you take your mind off of things if you want—" art shakes his head vigorously as if he'd rather die. "no, i don't want." patrick scoffs "really? well, i didn't know you were the type to get a random boner." he nods to the tent in arts boxers that now matches his own. "i'm not— i don't— it's a natural reaction—" art stammers, a flush already rising to his cheeks. "a natural reaction to what? my dick?" patrick grins, fully aware he has him cornered. all art can do is grab one of his pillows and plant it firmly over his lap, avoiding patricks gaze yet again.
there's that gleam in patricks eye. the one that shines when he's planning something regrettable, which is often. "come on, art." patrick drawls and leisurely crawls over him. he rips the pillow from his grip and sets it off to the side. "do you remember when i taught you how to jerk off? we did it together, right here in this room. you on this bed, a whimpering mess." he smiles down at art, dimples making him look slightly less devilish. "it's our last night here. you really wanna spend it sulking? let's just.. give each other a hand." his fingers trail down arts bare torso before he finds and palms his buldge, relishing in the whine it pulls from him. "for old times sake." he adds, as if that will make it any better. "f—for old times sake?" art asks hesitantly, unsure how he's even able to form words at this point. "yeah, for old times sake." patrick echoes and his palm presses down harder.
when art bucks his hips up instead of telling him off, patrick takes it as a yes and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of arts boxers. he tugs them down slowly as if to prolong his discomfort. when they're finally off, he tosses them into the void and his own follow suit. patrick props one hand beside arts head for support as the other finds his hip. art is staring between them, to which patrick follows his line of sight. their cocks are rock solid and straining against their stomachs, arts leaking pre-cum already. patrick removes his hand from its place on arts hip and wraps it around his base, avoiding arts at all costs. you see, palming and actually touching are totally different things. to the two of them at least.
he strokes himself once. twice. by the third, art is grabbing his own and mimicking patricks motions. they set a pace with their hands in sync whether it's purposeful or not. the previous silence of the night is now filled with ragged breathing and the occasional moan. patrick focuses his eyes on the headboard while art shuts his every now and then. they never make eye contact. it's an unspoken rule. one that would be way weird if broken. although, patrick does take the chances when arts eyes are closed to admire him. he watches the slight flutter of his eyelids, or how his eyebrows scrunch with pleasure, but mainly the way his lips part to let out sounds that go straight to patricks gut.
he doesn't even realize that his hand is leaving his cock and wrapping around arts until it's too late. arts eyes fly open and his hand stills. he wants to pull his hand away and ask him what he's doing. but they're making eye contact—dammit they're making eye contact—and all rational thoughts flee his mind. especially when patrick slowly moves their hands, guiding arts strokes. he's not even touching him and yet it's enough to make him lose it. "please—" art chokes out, staring into patricks eyes pleadingly. "please what?" it almost comes out tauntingly but it's far from it. "let's just... help each other out, like you said." the words leave a weird taste in arts mouth but he ignores it. patrick stops the movement of their hands and stares at art in contemplation. his eyes flick from arts to his lips then back. "alright. no kissing though, i'm not gay or anything." patricks words are laced with underlying meaning but they're both too lost in the moment to acknowledge it. arts insistent head nodding speaks for itself.
arts hand slips out from under patricks, allowing him to truly grip his cock. the moans they both let out is an obscene combination. patrick should've have stopped it from going this far. he knew that. but when arts hand wraps around his own ache he can't find any reason why he would.
they resume the pace of earlier but it quickly turns frenzied. hands pump, thumbs rub tips, free hands grab balls. their noses either drag across the others cheek or smush against one another. they share the same breath but they never kiss and they maintain their eye contact rule (with the exception of earlier.)
it isn't long before they're both thrusting into each others fists. art mostly, the needy thing. "fuck yeah— just like that." patrick moans into arts ear, so very tempted to pull the lobe into his mouth and suck on it. "like this?" arts tone is almost innocent even as he flicks his wrist. "mmmh exactly." patricks movements get sloppier, so do arts. the heat between them is boiling but the feeling is so good it feels like they're in heaven and hell all at once.
their climaxes rise at the same time, art working through his faster. "please pat— oh shit— patrick i'm gonna—" his words are cut off by a moan that sounds like it was extorted straight from his soul. patricks name on arts lips is enough to have his orgasm following right after. "yes— just like that art- fuuuuck-" ropes of white come shoot out from their swollen tips, crossing paths before landing on each others stomachs.
patrick collapses onto his back next to art, both boys covered in the others release and gasping for air. they don't find it in themselves to look at each other, at the damage they've done. they just stare at the ceiling and relish in the left over pleasure.
patrick is the first one to make a move, getting up and looking around for his boxers. art sits up to watch him. definitely not to stare at his naked form. once he finds them, patrick pulls them on and tosses arts to him. he takes a moment to let what they just did sink in. he looks over art from head to toe as he tugs his boxers on himself. his eyes linger a little too long on the mess on arts stomach. his mess on arts stomach. arts mess on his stomach. a strange feeling of pride swells in his chest and it makes him feel sick. he knows art must feel just as sick, if not more. it's not like patrick has never thought about this before. he has. more times than he'd like to admit. it's that he knows art hasn't and never will. so he deems it best to avoid it.
he walks into their bathroom and comes back with two cloths. he carelessly throws one to art and walks back to his side of the room to clean himself off in the mirror. however, he keeps an eye on art in the reflection. he watches as he quickly wipes off the liquid as if it was toxic waste. patrick does it himself, and they discard them in their trash bins.
art fixes his pillows and pulls the sheets over him whilst patrick settles himself back in his own bed. they don't exchange looks or even a goodnight. they simply turn over and fall asleep.
—
in the morning, patrick and art are up at their typical time. aka the ass crack of dawn. they're both tired, like usual, but more so from their late night activities. they each mutter a goodmorning and make small talk here and there while they get ready for the day. "how'd you sleep?" "good, you?" "pretty good." "nice."
when the time comes for packing, patrick almost expects to see art crying as he brings in empty boxes. but he's not. his demeanor is entirely different than how it was last night. before... everything.
"want some help?" patrick offers when art begins to stuff his respective boxes. "sure, if you don't mind." they spend an hour packing all of arts stuff, nice and neat, and another hour packing patricks stuff, unorganized and an overall mess.
by the end of it the room looks empty, but they both know it's not. it's full. full of memories and shared moments. full of secrets that will never leave. full of whatever happened between them last night.
patrick is the one to break the heavy silence. "wanna play a match later? i'll even buy us some beer after." art switches his focus, eyes locking with patricks (now that the rule isn't in place) and grins. "only if you get the good stuff."
"when have I ever not gotten the good stuff?" from the smiles on both of their faces, you wouldn't think that they were leaving a big chunk of their lives behind. you also wouldn't think that they jerked each other off the night prior.
Ain’t no way I’m seeing people forget about Peeta. “All 3 victors have a bird representing them” “all district 12 victors weren’t reaped fairly” “did you know that all 3 of the victors from 12 actually cheated in the games” “it’s so cool that all the victors are from the Seam or are Covey”. Like omg what about Peeta?!?! Mans did not almost die like 10 times just to be tossed to the side!! He won the 74th games alongside Katniss, she wasn’t the only one who won it!! Just please put some respect on his name
cheating on your shitty boyfriend with your best friend johnny storm??? ummm . . . check! ✅️
"shit, baby." he chuckles into your mouth, your legs wrapping around his waist— nails digging into his broad forearms by your head.
"your pussy really fuckin' needed me, huh? poor thing." he hums before pulling his hips back and thrusting deeper into you, earning a shudder from your body.
you moan into his mouth, your eyes fluttering shut— his arms lock around your head as he drives his cock deeper and deeper. it feels so good— your lips opening in a trembling 'o' shape as he drills into you.
your eyes are almost crossing and it makes him laugh— "never thought i'd hafta be the one to treat this pussy right." you nod, and he places a kiss on your lips before speaking— "your boyfriend ain't got shit on me."
you whine, whimper, hiss—
"johnnyyy—. . johnny, oh my god . . fuck— i'm!"
"yeah, yeah. cum for me then, drench me, baby. lay it on me. i deserve it for fucking ya so good." he hums, lips pressing against yours. his tongue licking into your mouth with ease, prodding at yours— its so hot.
you whine for a moment, voice cracking as your cunt convulses around his cock in pulses. he groans, eyes shutting for a brief moment before opening quickly to watch your fucked out face.
he feels you drench his pelvis in squirt, your legs trembling and voice going a pitch higher as he continues to fuck into you— effortlessly riding out your orgasm and overstimulating you.
"mmmnn! mmnn.. ! i luuhhh— mmnn... i luhh youuu—" you whine, hooking your arms around his neck, fat heavy tears spilling from your eyes as he pulls you impossibly close.
"yeah. i love you too, baby. fuck— fuck, i love you."
later . . . — your boyfriend stares at his phone, the message popping up out of nowhere. it reads —
' shiiiiit broo... this ur girl?? she sayin she love me! 😬😬 '
1 video attachment .
' my fault big dawg 💪'
sub!art taking strap and begging the reader to cum in him
summary: art begging for that strap.
pairing: ftm!art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.
cw: +18. mdni. 1.3k words. submissive art. praising. begging. strap in v (art receiving). fake fluids. disgusting dirty-talking. drooling. oral sex (art receing).
taglist .ᐟ @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @magicalmiserybore @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @idyllicdaydreams @sohighitscool
The sound of rain against the window filled the room, soft and rhythmic, blurring the city outside into streaks of gold and grey. You were curled up on the couch, a throw blanket tucked over your lap, a half-finished movie playing low on the TV. Art sat beside you, long legs tucked under himself, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, like he wasn’t sure how much space he was allowed to take up—even here. Even with you.
He always got like this after a match—withdrawn, tightly wound. His body ached, and not from the training. From the pressure. From everything unspoken.
You nudged him gently with your knee. “You good, baby?”
Art turned his head toward you, the softest smile tugging at his lips. His eyes lingered on your face for a moment too long, and then drifted down—neck, chest, lap—before he caught himself and looked away, ears turning pink.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just… tired.”
But the way he said it wasn’t really tired. It was restless.
You reached over and combed your fingers through the dark strands falling over his forehead. “Want me to help you wind down?”
His breath hitched just a little. He nodded, once.
The first twenty minutes were nothing more than touch. You moved to straddle his lap, lips brushing his jaw, your hands roaming under his hoodie—slow, reverent. You kissed the column of his throat until he sighed into you, until his hips shifted beneath yours, until his fingers bunched in the hem of your shirt like he needed to anchor himself somewhere.
“Fuck,” Art whispered, head tilting back. “You always touch me like you’re afraid I’ll break.”
“I just like taking my time with you,” you murmured against his skin. “You’re worth it.”
That made him shiver.
By the time you peeled his hoodie off, he was already flushed. You worked him out of his sweatpants next, mouthing along his stomach as you slid them down. He let you, pliant and quiet and trembling just a little. His briefs were dark with arousal, a wet spot already blooming through the front.
“God, look at you,” you said, brushing your fingers over it. “You’re dripping.”
He whined. Actually whined.
You tugged his briefs down slow, inch by inch, revealing the slick shine between his thighs, the soft curve of his hips. His cunt was swollen, flushed, begging for attention. And when you kissed the inside of his knee and looked up at him, his mouth was parted, a thread of saliva already gathering at the corner.
“Baby,” you breathed, settling between his legs. “You need it, don’t you?”
Art nodded fast, biting his lip. “I need your mouth,” he mumbled. “Please. Just—don’t make me wait.”
You didn’t.
Your tongue dragged through his folds, slow and flat, savoring the taste of him. He gasped and curled inward, one arm over his mouth, trying to muffle the broken sounds that spilled from him. His hips bucked when you sucked his clit into your mouth, and when you kept going—lapping him open, tongue fucking him until his thighs shook—he moaned so loud you could feel it echo in your core.
“Don’t hide from me,” you whispered, pulling back just long enough to say it. “Let me hear how much you love this.”
Art whined again, hand curling in your hair. “Feels so good,” he choked out. “Your mouth—fuck, I can’t—” You gave him one more deep lick, then pulled away. His whole body trembled when the air hit him.
“Don’t worry,” you said, rising to your knees. “You’re gonna get more than my mouth tonight.”
His eyes fluttered open, and when he saw what you were doing—reaching into your drawer for the harness, lube, and the soft pink silicone cock he liked best—the special one, his pupils blew wide.
You strapped it on slow, letting him watch, letting him see the way it jutted from you, slick with lube before you even got close. Art reached between his legs and touched himself, fingers dipping back into his slit, gathering the slick you’d left behind.
“I want it,” he said, voice raw. “Want you.”
You grabbed a pillow and slid it under his hips, guiding him to lie back against the couch. His legs spread willingly, shamelessly, cunt glistening and twitching as you moved between them.
“You sure?” you asked, rubbing the tip of the strap through his folds, coating it in his slick. “I want you begging for it.”
“I am begging,” he groaned, arching. “Please—just fuck me. Fill me up. I want you to cum in me.”
That made your stomach flip.
You pushed in slowly, the head of the strap breaching him with a thick, wet sound. Art gasped, hands clutching the couch cushions, every muscle going tight as the fake cock stretched him open.
“That’s it,” you murmured. “Take it, baby. You look so good like this.”
Art whined through his teeth, breath ragged. “So full already—fuck—feels so fucking good.”
You bottomed out and leaned over him, pressing kisses to his flushed face, his damp hairline. “You’re doing so well. Look at you—so pretty when you’re stuffed full.”
His hips jerked. He loved being called pretty. Loved hearing how good he was.
You started thrusting, slow at first, just enough to make him squirm. Every inch you pulled out left him gasping; every push back in had him drooling, lips parting in a wet, blissed-out moan.
“God, yes,” he babbled, head tossing back. “More, please—I can take it—”
You gave it to him. Deep and hard, until your hips smacked against his ass, until his thighs trembled and his cunt made obscene squelching sounds every time you drove into him. You leaned over him again, catching his mouth in a kiss, and were met with spit-slicked desperation. He kissed like he couldn’t breathe without it, mouth open and tongue needy, drool trailing down his chin.
“You’re drooling for it, baby,” you growled, fucking him harder. “You want me to cum in you that bad?”
Art let out a broken, shattered moan.
“Yes, fuck—please, please—I want it in me, I want you to fill me up, I need it—”
“Gonna pump you full,” you rasped, one hand gripping his hip, the other coming down to rub his clit in messy, frantic circles. “Gonna make a mess in you, baby.”
Art was gone. His eyes rolled back, hands clutching your wrist, hips slamming up to meet your thrusts. His whole body was trembling, slick gushing from him in waves as the toy plunged deep inside over and over again.
And then—you pressed deep, grinding your hips, moaning his name like a prayer. “Cum in me,” he begged again. “Please—please, just do it—I want to feel it, want to be full of you, I—”
You gasped as the fake cum released inside him, thick and warm, the fluid filling the toy's reservoir and spurting into him in slow pulses. Art cried out, back arching, body locking up as the sensation tipped him over the edge.
He came hard, cunt spasming around the strap, hips jerking helplessly as he sobbed your name into your mouth. His thighs were soaked. His chest heaved. And when you pulled out, slow and careful, the fake cum dripped from his stretched hole, glistening down his ass and thighs in sticky white rivulets.
You kissed his stomach. His chest. His open mouth.
“You did so good,” you whispered, wiping the drool from his chin with your thumb. “So perfect for me.”
Art blinked up at you, dazed and blissed out. “Love you,” he mumbled.
“I love you too.”
You curled up beside him on the couch, pulling the blanket over you both, and kissed his temple while the rain kept falling outside.
can all five other mcu Joaquin Torres fans stand up, I want to get a headcount of us all
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