Oh Danny Lyon I Want You

wanna write, painfully uninspired

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so uhm... you're welcome??

i miss my boyfriend (mike faist)

i am slowly challengers-ifying my wardrobe. next victims are tashi's JC zip up and art's green striped button up

𝚊𝚜𝚑

࣪ ִֶָ☾. she/they twenty mike faist connoisseur.

english major. aspiring writer & cinephile. european. queer. fake fashion icon.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎𓆝 𓆟 at the beach, in every life.

i absolutely love this community because everybody here is SO talented. i'm not trying to idolize anybody but genuinely i'm in such awe of everybody here :( i love reading fics with such amazing quality and i love interacting with you guys because you're all SO NICE

thanks to these sillies for bringing us all together xoxo

a little shoutout list because i love you all:

@voidsuites @diyasgarden @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @happenssweet @222col @x0teric & so many more <3

i have literally NEVER felt this way about a man before ever

i so love that with this whole zendaya hat thing, zendaya shows up with a hat. she looks gorgeous though <3

hahaha oh my god OH MY GOD.

MIKA DARLING YESSS you deserve 200000 more followers but this is a start <3 is this my time to request the dodge mason massaging you after a fall from a horse thing we talked about ...

200 FOLLOWERS GAME.

ASH!! thank you so much for this oh my God! i had a spark of imagination for this so hopefully you’ll like it! 💕 here’s Dodge Mason massaging you after a bad fall. fluffy but hinting at something more. 🫶🏻

You didn’t cry when you fell. Not when your ribs slammed into the packed dirt, not when the air was punched clean out of your lungs, and not when the horse spooked and left you behind like yesterday’s news. You were fine. Or so you told everyone.

Dodge didn’t believe you.

Which is why you’re here now, laid out on your stomach in his dimly lit bedroom, shirt bunched up just enough to reveal your bruised back. The air smells like peppermint oil and laundry detergent. His hands—big and steady and warm—press slow circles into the knots gathering just beneath your shoulder blades.

“You tense up every time I touch you,” he says, voice low and rough. “What’s that about?”

You huff into his pillow. “Because you’re touching me.”

That earns a small laugh, something rare and secret, like the glint in his eyes when he looks at you for too long. “I’m trying to help.”

“You are,” you admit, breath catching when his thumbs dip lower. “But maybe don’t sound so smug about it.”

His hands trail lower, finding the bruises blooming over your hips. He hesitates, fingertips ghosting the edge of your waistband. “You hurting here too?”

“Mhm,” you breathe.

“You gotta tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s not.”

And it isn’t—not the pressure, not the heat curling low in your stomach, not the way his hands are careful but firm, like he knows exactly what kind of touch you need. You feel him shift above you, the bed dipping as he leans closer, breath brushing your ear.

“You scared me today,” he murmurs.

“I’m okay now.”

He hums, mouth barely grazing your shoulder. “Yeah. You are.”

His hands linger longer than they should, fingertips slipping just under the waistband of your leggings, not pushing—just asking. And maybe you shouldn’t want this, not after falling off a damn horse. But his hands are gentle, and his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, and when he says, “Tell me what you need,” your body answers for you.

It’s him. It’s always been him.

more ftm!art x reader if you can this awakened something inside of me

summary: it’s a rainy night, and all you want to do is take your time to worship your boyfriend, Art. in the safety of your shared intimacy, you help him fully go—trembling, messy and beautiful.

pairing: ftm!art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 1k words. submissive art. praising. dirty-talk. messy makeout. fingering (art receiving).

taglist .ᐟ @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @idyllicdaydreams

Art’s hoodie is too big on you, but you don’t mind. You’re curled up in his lap on your bed, legs tangled, the TV flickering across his face — not that you’re watching it. His hands are warm under your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles. You shift to face him, brushing your nose along his jaw. He’s already flushed.

“You’re staring,” he mumbles, voice low and raspy, with that slight edge he gets when he’s trying not to get ahead of himself.

“Can’t help it,” you whisper back, eyes soft. “You’re hot like this. Blushing. Trying not to lose it.”

Art huffs out a breath — half a scoff, half a laugh — and looks down, but you catch his face in your hands. You kiss him slow. Open-mouthed. Your lips move like a question: Can I? And the way he breathes out against you says yes, yes, please.

The kiss deepens fast — messy, wet, tongues tangling with a kind of quiet hunger. You feel the tension in his thighs beneath you, feel his hand tightening on your hip. His hips twitch up before he catches himself. “You’re shaking,” you murmur against his lips.

“I’m not—” he cuts himself off with a sharp exhale as your hand sneaks under his hoodie, resting just beneath his scars; thumb brushing against his skin.. Art shivered at the touch.

“You are. It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.” You kiss the corner of his mouth, then down to his neck, sucking softly at his pulse. “Wanna make you feel good.”

Art swallows hard. “Y-you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say, slow and deliberate, watching the way his pupils dilate. “Let me take care of you tonight. You always take care of me.”

His breath hitches. That gets him. You know it does. You kiss him again, deeper this time, your hand sliding down to cup him between his legs — gentle, reassuring pressure. He whimpers into your mouth, hips twitching again. “There you go,” you coo. “Already so sensitive for me.”

His hoodie comes off easy. Yours follows. You take your time, making out like you’ve got nowhere else to be. Like you’re addicted to the taste of his tongue and the way he gasps when you tug his lip between your teeth.

When you slide your hand into his boxers, he tenses for a second — but you’re slow, patient. You touch him how he’s taught you he likes. Not rough. Just enough pressure to drive him a little crazy.

The moment your fingers touch him, he flinches — not from discomfort, just sensitivity. He’s already so wet. Your hand is instantly slick, and you groan softly into his mouth.

“Jesus, baby,” you whisper against his lips, dragging your middle finger through his folds, slow and steady. “You’re soaked for me.”

He whimpers, biting his lip. “I can’t help it—”

“I want you like this.” You kiss down the side of his neck. “It’s so fucking hot, Art. You feel so good already.” Your fingers part him gently, and your thumb brushes against his clit — just barely — enough to make his whole body jerk beneath you. He gasps, eyes fluttering shut.

“There it is,” you murmur, kissing the flushed skin of his chest. “You’re so sensitive tonight.”

Your fingers stroke over him again, this time more deliberately — back and forth, gathering slick, teasing his clit in slow circles. He arches up into your hand without even meaning to, and the sound he makes is barely human — a needy, breathless whine.

“Such pretty noises,” you breathe. “Let me hear more, baby.”

When you press a finger inside, he lets out a broken moan. He’s warm, tight, and fluttering around you — his thighs tense on either side of your hips. You keep your movements slow and deep, curling your finger upward until his back arches and his mouth drops open in shock.

“Oh—fuck—right there, right—”

“I’ve got you.” You kiss his ribs, his stomach. “You’re taking me so well. Look at you.”

You add a second finger slowly, watching his face the whole time. He gasps again, his nails digging into your shoulder, hips rolling helplessly into your palm. You curl your fingers just right, dragging them in and out at a steady rhythm, each stroke making him clench and shake.

Your thumb returns to his clit — this time with more pressure, circling in time with your thrusts. Art cries out, trying to muffle himself against your shoulder, but you pull back.

“No hiding,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He moans again, louder this time — hips bucking, thighs trembling. His eyes are glassy, lips wet, sweat beading at his temples. You speed up your pace just slightly, fingers sliding deeper, thumb tighter on his clit, and his whole body starts to stutter.

“That’s it. Just like that,” you whisper hot against his cheek. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

“I—fuck—yes, yes, I’m—”

“Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Let go.”

His orgasm crashes through him like a wave — thighs shaking, breath catching, hips grinding into your hand as he comes with a loud, raw moan. You don’t stop until he’s whimpering, twitching, so sensitive he’s pushing at your hand even as he rocks through the aftershocks.

You ease your fingers out gently, cupping him one last time as he pants beneath you, eyes glazed and lips parted. You kiss him slow and deep, one hand brushing the damp hair from his forehead.

You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his mouth — still messy and hungry, but softer now. “That was so good,” you whisper against his lips. “You’re so good for me.” Art blinks up at you, dazed and red-faced, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.

“Say it again,” he murmurs.

You grin. “You’re so fucking good for me.”

And you kiss him again until the room fades around you and all that’s left is the warmth between you, the slow drag of breath, the softness of afterglow.

ash my beloved <333 am i too late to ask for a song?? ❤︎❤︎

hmmm actually yes you're too late.

i'm joking ofcourse you can have a song my love

(this song means the world to me)