Art Donalson X Reader - Blog Posts

I do not know what fic you are talking about but now i NEED to find it

sighhh 😓 so do i!!! i must find it again

does anyone know about a blurb or one-shot about art sleeping with patrick’s wife since he knew of patrick and tashi’s affair? and then art ends up doing the same gesture as patrick??? DOES ANYONE KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT OR AM I CRAZY????? 😭😭😭

⋆ ࣪introducing.. 70s GOLDEN BOY ART DONALDSON

golden boy art.. may live and breathe tennis, but he’s not just his sport. Off the court, he’s the picture of effortless style, pressed polos, crisp white shorts, loafers without socks, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose like he belongs in some glossy magazine spread. Even when he’s lounging, he looks like he has somewhere important to be, like he’s already won at something.

golden boy art.. doesn’t read much, but when he does, it’s always something too intellectual, something dense and complicated. He wants to be the kind of guy who reads Camus or Kerouac at a party, drink in hand, looking effortlessly cool, but the truth is, he barely makes it past the first few pages before he gets bored. Still, he keeps a book on his nightstand, just in case.

golden boy art.. was raised in country clubs and private schools, where competition was just as much about who you knew as how you played. He’s always been good at both. He knows how to charm the right people, shake the right hands, flash the right smirk. He’s got that old money ease, the kind of confidence you can’t fake, but underneath it all, there’s something restless. Like he’s always searching for the next thing to chase, the next high, the next game.

golden boy art.. was raised in country clubs and private schools, where competition was just as much about who you knew as how you played. He’s always been good at both. He knows how to charm the right people, shake the right hands, flash the right smirk. He’s got that old money ease, the kind of confidence you can’t fake, but underneath it all, there’s something restless. Like he’s always searching for the next thing to chase, the next high, the next game.

golden boy art.. never turns down a dare. Jumping into pools fully clothed, sneaking into concerts without tickets, taking a road trip to nowhere just because someone said he wouldn’t. He thrives on impulse, the thrill of the unexpected, the idea that life is only as interesting as you make it.

golden boy art.. is secretly a romantic, but he’d rather die than admit it. He doesn’t do grand gestures, but he’ll remember the way you take your coffee, the song you hum under your breath, the exact shade of your eyes when the sun hits them just right. He teases more than he compliments, but when he does say something sweet, it sticks with you for days.

golden boy art.. loves the ocean. Not just for the way it looks, but for the way it feels, cold saltwater against sunburned skin, the endlessness of it, the way it makes him feel small in a way he actually likes. He’ll dive under waves like he’s chasing something, stay out there longer than he should, come back to shore breathless and grinning.

golden boy art.. has a way of making everyone feel like they belong, even when he feels out of place himself. He’s the life of the party but also the guy who’ll sneak out early just to drive around with the windows down, radio low, smoke curling from his lips as he sings along to some song no one else remembers.

golden boy art.. is the guy who falls asleep with a book on his chest but never actually finishes reading it. He likes the idea of being well-read, but he prefers stories that move, movies, music, things with rhythm and motion. He’s seen every classic film twice and can quote entire scenes from memory. He thinks Casablanca is overrated but The Graduate is genius.

golden boy art.. loves the chase. Loves the way people look at him, the way they lean in when he talks, the way they fall into his orbit without him having to try too hard. He flirts like it’s a game, all teasing grins and lingering touches, but sometimes, just sometimes, he catches himself meaning it. And that terrifies him.

golden boy art.. is all confidence and charm until he isn’t. There are nights when the weight of expectation feels heavier than his racket, when the pressure knots in his chest so tightly he can barely breathe. He doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t know how to talk about it. Instead, he drowns it in late-night drives and half-finished cigarettes, in the feeling of someone else’s hand in his, grounding him, steadying him, reminding him that he’s not just golden boy Art Donaldson, but something more. Something real.

taglist.. @italiansunsetss @sylvanianngirl @st7rnioioss-alt @sincerelykelsss @throatgoat4u @wiseladypoetry @gracieabrmslvr @pearlzier @1-hypegvrl @piperrrr-16 @mackyyyk @luna443 @flowerxbunnie @calliepie @cupidsword @notaboutlovebyfiona @recklesssturniolo @littlebookworm803 @blissfulxsins @camsturnz @st7rnioioss @yearlyism @cinnamoncunt

Do people still do song based fics? I used to love those but I don’t really see them around any more. Would yall be interested in me making a song list? As potential inspiration and stuff like that. If so also feel free to send in song suggestions in my request to add to it.

Hello and welcome to my humble blog!

My name is Walnuts and this is a new blog so please, please fill the inbox with whatever is on your mind

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ rules:

i wont write smut

i wont write about canonically minor characters

this is a safe space so be nice

i will block you if i feel uncomfortable

do not repost/translate my work

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ fandoms i write for:

Got/Hotd

Jjk

Jjba

Nana

Challengers

Stark men

The bear

Batman

Cod

Death note

House MD

Attack of Titan

hope you have a good time and remember to be kind!

"shower punishment" reupload from littlesoulshine

that puppy, ugh...you're going to have to chain him up, because does he really think the water will hide him?

does he thinks the steam curling off the mosaic tiles and the hiss of the showerhead will muffle the soft whimpers in his thick throat, the slap of skin on skin as he fists his big cock like a filthy little secret. his forehead’s pressed to the wall, panting. he’s quiet, he’s trying—he’s so fucking desperate. he hasn’t come in a week, and your rules are eating him alive.

but your rules are rules, and for some reason, he breaks them.

you open the bathroom door like you own it, and you hear it the second you walk in. the low moan, all the slick, rhythmic sounds of a man touching what doesn’t belong to him. you’re on him before he even notices. the glass door yanked open, and he jolts, mouth dropping open, eyes wild.

his hand freezes on his cock. “did i say you could do that?”

he stutters, no words, just the look of a dog who knows the leash is coming out.

you reach in and grab him by the wrist, yanking him out of the water like trash. the cold air slaps him in the face. he almost slips on the mat, barely catching himself, hard dick so big it's bouncing on its own and leaking as the rest of him trembles.

“i asked you a question.”

“n-no, baby” he whispers, head down, water droplets sliding off his body. you shove him against the wall, hard enough to make him gasp. you look down at his cock, swollen and twitching. it's disgusting and shameful. he’s lucky you haven’t slapped it yet (even though it will make him cum).

“what do we do to sweet boys who don’t follow rules?” you murmur, leaning in close, lips brushing his ear.

“we…we punish them.” his voice is so small it barely counts as sound.

you cup his balls, firm and unforgiving. his knees bucking as you squeeze—not the sweet 'making him cum squeeze' but a mean squeeze. just enough to make his eyes snap wide, breath hitch. “that’s right. and do you think i’m going to let you cum tonight?”

he whimpers. “please—please, i was just—I needed—”

smack. your palm slaps the tip of his cock. he screams into his own shoulder, teeth bared, and body curling in. it jerks so hard you think he might cum untouched just from that. but he doesn’t. not yet, because he knows you won't let him. “you needed permission. and you didn’t have it.”

he’s nodding, frantic, lips bitten raw.

you drag him to the bedroom by the ear like a child. he doesn’t resist, he just follows, wet footprints on hardwood, and the sound of his shame echoing behind him. you push him down to his knees at the foot of the bed. still dripping and humiliated.

“hands behind your back, baby.” he obeys. “and open your mouth.” he obeys that faster.

you settle into the mattress like a queen preparing for a foot rub. and that’s exactly what he becomes. not a husband or a man. just a warm mouth and a lesson waiting to be learned. you slip one heel off. press your bare foot against his lips.

“you want to touch your cock again?” he nods, eyes wet. you smile, cruel and soft. “then you’re going to earn it. with your tongue. and if you cum without permission?”

your toes slide along his cheek, his breath catches. “i’ll edge you for a month.” he whimpers at your response. you press your foot harder, making him moan. his tongue is out before you even ask.

on his knees, he's soaking wet, hair dripping into his lashes, cheeks red, and mouth open around your foot like it’s his last meal. his cock’s flushed dark and bobbing helplessly, twitching with every breath, leaking like it knows it’s in trouble.

his tongue moves in slow, strokes. “mhm,” you murmur, watching him through lazy lashes, heel tucked under your thigh. “look at you. just a stupid little mutt who can’t go a day without needing to hump something.”

he whines around your toes. mouth wet, eyes glimmering.

you lean forward, spit in your hand, and start stroking him—so slow he sobs. long, cruel pulls from base to tip. not even for him. just to watch him fall apart.

“ma’am—fuck, mommie, i-i’m gonna—i can’t—”

smack. your palm hits his thigh. he jerks, hips lurching, mouth still kissing your foot like it’s sacred.

“you can’t until i say,” you snap, voice low and sharp. “you even think about coming again without permission, i’ll shove your cock in the freezer.”

his head drops, forehead hitting your knee. “i’m sorry—please—please i’ll be good—i swear—”

you push him back, flat on his back like the pathetic mess he is. you climb over him slowly, knees on either side of his face, your bare cunt glistening inches from his mouth.

his breath hitches and his eyes go wide.

“you want to make it up to me? make it to your wife?” he nods so fast it looks painful. “then you’ll keep that mouth busy. and if you even look like you’re getting close?” you glance at his cock, throbbing in the air. “i’ll ruin you so bad you’ll cry every time you get hard.”

you sit, full weight, right on his face.

his moan is muffled under your cunt. tongue eager, sloppy now, desperation leaking out of every pore. you grind down slowly, letting him breathe through your slick, using his nose like a toy. you don’t hold back. because why would you? he doesn’t deserve soft. he deserves to be used. your thighs clamp around his head. you reach down and slap his cock. not too hard though, just enough to remind him it’s yours.

he bucks. his moan is so loud your clit pulses. he begins to cry, tongue trembling, hands still behind his back like you told him. he’s trying so hard to focus on your pleasure, to not think about his own, but he can’t, it’s too good.

you ride his face harder, letting yourself enjoy it, hips rolling, grinding down until your thighs are soaked and his lips are red and raw. you lean forward, panting. “you close, baby?”

he nods frantically, muffled under your cunt.

“don’t you dare.” he whimpers into you as his cock twitches, pulsing, begging to let go. you grab it—tight—and hold it at the base. he thrashes. you don’t let him come yet.

you keep riding his face while you ruin him. stroking him too light, too slow, until he’s trembling, sweating sliding down the sides his temples, lubing the inner parts of your thighs.

you clench around his tongue and cum—grinding down, back arching, moaning loud enough to drown out his begging.

he’s moaning under you, sobbing, cock bobbing helplessly in the air. you let him edge there, cock twitching, balls tight, muscles locked. you reach down again, fingers wrapping around his shaft.

he gasps. “you want to cum, my love?” he nods, eyes wide, wet, desperate. you start stroking him quickly.

“then cum,” you whisper. “but don’t you dare enjoy it.”

he explodes. spilling over your hand, sobbing like it hurts. his whole body spasms—hips bucking, mouth still lapping at you like a good boy while tears spill down his cheeks.

you ride his tongue until he’s done whimpering. you climb off him slowly, standing over his ruined body, watching the way his cum drips down his belly. you wipe your hand on his chest.“next time?” you say, voice like ice. “ask.” he nods, broken, blissed-out. you peck his red lips, and step into the shower. he crawls after you without a word.

retags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa @tinythebunni

inspiration ➳ my lovey @rafesplaymate

"pretty little provider" reupload from littlesoulshine

he comes home super nervous. you see it in the way he holds the box—tucked tight under one arm, like he’s scared you’ll tell him it’s too much. scared he’s too much. his other hand fiddles with his watch, knuckles pale. lily’s upstairs, the house is quiet, and your wine glass already half-full.

he crosses the threshold and you look up from the couch. silk robe, with bare legs crossed and with your lashes heavy. you don’t smile at him, just watching to see why his anxious energy has filled the room.

“hi, baby,” he murmurs, eyes hopeful. “i, uh…i got you something.”

you arch a brow, sipping your wine slow, then pating your lap. “come show me.”

his ears turn pink. you know he was hoping for approval first, a kiss maybe, a thank-you. he walks over fast, obedient, and when you uncross your legs and lean back as he comes closer to place the gift on your lap.

the box trembles slightly in his hand as you take it, nails grazing his wrist. a necklace, gaudy yet rare and seems imported. carrying disgusting price tag—you don’t even look surprised.

your free hand drags slowly up his spine, beneath the fabric of his button-up. he shudders, arching slightly. the heat of his back presses into your palm like he’s starving for it.

you lean in close, lips brushing his ear. “my pretty little provider,” you whisper, voice low, syrupy.

he moans. God, that delicious moan.

your nails rake down his back, slow and sharp. his breath catches, his hands shifting to your lap. leaning over to his crotch, you feel the way he’s already getting hard, straining against his slacks.

“you like buying things for me?” you ask, words a little rougher now. your nails drag again. deeper. he gasps.

“yes—yes, princess. i love it. i want to—i just want to take care of you—”

“you do.” your hand cups the back of his neck, thumb stroking just under the hairline. “but you know what that makes you, don’t you?”

his lips part. “your…your provider?”

you smile against his jaw. “no, baby. that makes you mine.”

he melts. his head drops onto your shoulder, breath ragged. you feel him leaking through his pants already. your palm slides over his chest, fingers toying with the buttons.

you tug one open, and then another.

your lips brush his temple.

“how long were you hard in the store, hm?” you murmur, undoing each button like it’s a reward. “walking around all polite with your wallet in one hand and my name in your head, cock aching because you knew i’d call you good when you handed this to me?”

his hands clench on your thighs. his voice breaks.

“i was…i was throbbing. the whole time, i kept thinking about your voice.”

“and what voice is that?” you slide your hand down, palm resting right over his cock. he bucks against it.

“that voice,” he pants. “when you call me yours.” your fingers curl around the wet patch, displaying his thick bulge, slow pressure.

“say it again.”

“i’m yours. i’m yours, my love. i belong to you. i—i earn for you. i spend for you. i ache for you.”

your fingers tighten, making him whimper.

you unzip him, slow and deliberate. pulling his cock out without a word and let it sit against his belly, hard, flushed, and twitching. your other hand trails down his stomach, light touches, teasing.

“you want me to fuck you for it?” you ask. “or should i edge you all night while i wear your little gift and moan for someone else?”

he whimpers. “i want you to fuck me for it, baby.”

you nod, grabbing his jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks, yanking his face back to yours.“next time, get the earrings too.” before kissing him deeply, and climbing on him.

retags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa

inspiration ➳ my lovey @rafesplaymate

"good boy!" reupload from littlesoulshine

for being a good boy, you decided to give arty a little treat. you set the table—linen, crystal, and a single candle lit, flickering low; around it roast chicken, green beans, and a perfect glass of red wine, his favorite. you wear something sheer with no bra or panties on. art walks in, wearing his gym clothes, and freezes like a deer in headlights.

“shorts off,” you say, without looking up. he obeys instantly, dropping like he’s allergic to disobedience. you tilt your head just slightly, pointing to the chair at the head of the table. “sit.”

he moves fast, you straddle him before he’s fully settled, one slow grind of your hips as you guide his cock inside you—bare, of course. no prep or foreplay. he gasps, hands flying to your thighs like he might hold on—

“no,” you say, catching his wrists. “hands in your lap. or i stop.”

he obeys, trembling already. you can feel every twitch of him deep inside you, stuffed full, throbbing against your walls. 

you pick up a bite of steaming hot chicken, blow on it, and bring it to his mouth. “open, baby.”

he does—lips parting, tongue just barely peeking out. you feed him. as you stare at him, he chews slow and swallows hard (moaning as you softly tighten around him.)

you moan low in your throat—not from pleasure, but from power he’s giving you. he’s shaking under you, hips pressed against the chair, your cunt keeping his cock soaked and tight. he wants to thrust, wants to fuck up into you. but he knows he can’t (only on his birthday, new years, or any time you tell him to).

he gets a bite of green beans next. his lips brush your fingertips and he moans.

“you love this, don’t you?” you murmur, picking up your own fork. “sitting still like a good boy, stuffed full of my cunt, while i feed you like the dumb little pet you are.”

“yes, ma’am,” he breathes. “i love it. love being inside you—so warm—so tight—fuck, i can’t—”

“you can.” your voice cuts sharp. “and you will.”

he bites his lip. his cock twitches inside you. you feel it—so fucking desperate, pulsing with every heartbeat. you take a sip of wine. press the glass to his lips next. he drinks, soft whimpers caught in his throat, neck flushed and glossy with sweat.

the sight makes you clench and he choke from the pleasure. “mommy—please—please just let me move, just once, just a little, i’ll beg—i’ll do anything—”

you cut a piece of meat. feed it to him. “no.”

his eyes flutter, while he continues to pant with his cheeks red and balls tightening.

you lean in, lips brushing his ear, giving him little kisses. he makes a incoherent sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan. his hands tremble in his lap, making him cry all soft and wet, with pretty glassy eyes.

you press your hips down just a little. his hips jerk up and you instantly slap his thigh. “sit still, baby.”

he nods as you feed him again, but he’s so far gone by the time you’ve finished your meal, his cock was soaked, balls super heavy and lips shining with spit, wine, and your praise.

you set down your fork and look down at him. “you want to come?”

“God—yes—please—i’ve been so good—”

you rise off his pretty cock before slamming down again, and lifting up again that being his breaking point. he screams, high-pitched and all. his cum spurts painting his belly, chest, even his chin. he jerks, sobs, full-body trembles, hands still clasped in his lap. you bend down, scooping a little with your fingers, feeding it to him while trying it for yourself, moaning at how good he tastes. “mhm, this is good.”

retags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa

inspiration ➳ my lovey @rafesplaymate

"late!" reupload from littlesoulshine

oh, you told him. just once. just one rule. don’t be late.

you weren’t asking much. he could fuck up a dish, forget the grocery list, make lily’s sandwich wrong—fine. but he is not allowed to be late. not for you. you told him in that sweet posionous voice of yours, over the sink while rinsing strawberries. "if you’re ever late for me, art, i’ll act like you don’t exist."

and today, he was late.

five minutes. maybe less. but five minutes past the time you told him to be home for lunch, five minutes of you sitting on the couch in silence, untouched wine glass in your hand, one stiletto crossed over the other while your pasta went cold. he walked in breathless, hair tousled, and tie askew.

“baby, i’m so—” you stood up without looking at him. you walked past like he was air. you didn’t slam the glass down. you didn’t yell. you just didn’t speak to him.

⋱

he followed you from room to room like a kicked dog. you folded laundry with perfect creases while he lingered by the door, hands in his pockets, waiting for you talk to his sad self. you adjusted the pillows on the couch he wasn’t allowed to sit on. you smiled at lily like your heart was full and art wasn’t dying two feet away.

he tried again. during dinner. “that’s a nice dress, my love” he murmured. like you might throw him a scrap of affection. you didn’t even blink.

⋱

he doesn’t make it to bedtime. you’re brushing your hair in the mirror when you hear him behind you—shuffling feet and shallow breath. you don’t look at him directly. your wrist flicks the brush through untamed strands, lazy and indifferent. your perfume clings to the air, soft and sharp at once.

and then—thump. he drops to his knees. “please, baby.”

his voice is low, cracked. you still don’t look. you glide your brush slower, watching yourself instead.

“baby, please. i’m—i fucked up. i know. i know i did.” his voice shakes. “ but i can't take this, i hate it. i hate when you won’t even look at me.”

your silence is the loudest thing in the room.

you hear him crawl. the shuffle of pj pants over hardwood. his hands touch the hem of your robe like it might burn him.

“please punish me, yell, hit me, use me. anything, i’ll take anything. just look at me.”

you pause, letting the brush hang mid-stroke. the corner of your mouth lifts. not quite a smile….more of an encouraging him to go on.

“i said i was sorry, princess” he breathes, forehead pressed to your thigh. “please. don’t shut me out. i’ll do anything. i’ll lick the floor clean if that’s what you want. just—don’t ignore me.”

you finally look down. slowly, your eyes meet his and he flinches, like it hurts. God, he’s beautiful when he begs.

“anything?” you say, voice like silk drawn tight.

he nods too fast. “yes. yes, anything.”

you drag your fingers through his hair, curling them in until you’ve got a grip. he whimpers. “strip.”

he obeys, very clumsy and frantic. shirt buttons pop open, and his pj pants drop quickly. his cock’s already hard, leaking at the tip, humiliated and desperate.

“on your back.” he scrambles. you press your heel to his chest, pinning him to the floor. he gasps as your robe slides open just enough to show your bare thigh. he stares like a starving man.

“my time isn’t free, art.” your voice drips disdain. “you want my attention?” he nods, choked. “earn it.”

you step onto him, one heel digging in, just above his heart. his hips twitch. he’s moaning like a bitch in heat. “start by apologizing with your mouth.” you lift your foot and turn away, robe swaying.

you don’t look back as you settle into the armchair. and behind you, you hear him crawl again. lips pressed to your ankles. kisses soft, reverent, and ashamed.

he’s not allowed inside you tonight. but you let him cry between your thighs, whispering "i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m yours," until he’s soaked in his own sweat, face shining with your slick, begging to be used. and tomorrow? you’ll decide if he gets to cum. maybe, but only if he’s not late again.

retags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa

inspiration ➳ my lovey @rafesplaymate

meet art's new wife જ⁀➴ reupload from littlesoulshine

𖠁   housewife!reader who wears sheer satin robes, kitten heels, and a constant look of disapproval. art trails behind you like an obedient puppy, always trying to earn your praise. you never raise your voice—you don’t need to....all it takes is a disappointed sigh and he’s on his knees, begging for another chance to make you happy.

𖠁   housewife!reader who gives art the cold shoulder when he forgets something small, like taking the trash out or fluffing your pillows right. he sulks around the house, trailing you, murmuring “i’m sorry, baby” like a prayer. you finally give in and let him crawl between your legs with a smug little, “are you ready to be useful again?” and his eyes get all glassy.

𖠁   housewife!reader who makes art sit in on your weekly girl lunches just so he can carry your purse and refill your wine. the other wives giggle behind their glasses, whispering about how “whipped” he is—but he doesn’t care. you let him rest his head on your thigh under the table and stroke his hair while talking over him. you’re his whole world. he just likes being near.

𖠁   housewife!reader who dresses like a dream and argues like a demon. pink nails tapping on the counter, voice like poisoned honey. art doesn’t even flinch—he thrives in the submission. you call him an idiot, and he smiles. you roll your eyes at his affection, and he kisses your cheek anyway. he likes being your punching bag, especially when he knows you’ll reward him after.

𖠁   housewife!reader who makes art wait at the door like a sad little puppy when he comes home late. you don’t even yell. you just raise an eyebrow, fold your arms, and he immediately starts rambling—“i swear, baby, traffic was—please don’t be mad—i missed you—i love you—” and you just hum, already walking away. he follows like the lovesick fool he is.

𖠁   housewife!reader who loves him, but refuses to let him forget who’s in charge. and he doesn’t want to. he likes being reminded. he likes the leash. likes how you tug it gently with your tone, your look, your hands in his hair. tashi made him feel small in the wrong ways. you make him feel small in the right ones. safe. loved. and completely yours.

𖠁   housewife!reader who lets lily paint her nails and put curlers in her hair while art makes you both lunch. she babbles about school, and when she says, “i wanna be a wife just like you,” you glance at art—who’s smiling like he’s won the lottery—and say, “then pick someone who knows how to serve a woman, honey.”

retags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa

notes: thank you to my baby @rafesplaymate for inspiring me to write this!

unpure ; art donaldson

the moment you entered the chapel, art donaldson—perfect, revered, untouchable—momentarily unraveled. known as the pastor’s son and golden boy of a devout small town, he was adored, idolized, and expected to be without flaw. but you weren’t there for god, salvation, or belief. you were there for him. and there was something intoxicating about tempting someone so carefully constructed to be pure—something deliberate in your movements, in the way your skirt rode up, in the way you sat just within his line of sight. you knew he was watching, just as you knew he shouldn’t. yet the tension—the push and pull of guilt and desire—felt electric, and impossibly easy. maybe it was wrong, but it never felt like it. not with the way you looked at him.

memories ; art donaldson

art loved you. he had known ever since he had met you. he might’ve been hopeless in the moment (patrick said so, but whatever), but really, he won. he got you, and he was sickeningly content. you two had just gotten married, and were currently vacationing in greece for your honeymoon. the two of you were cuddled up on the hotel’s bed after a lazy morning, not wanting to get up.

you flashed a soft smile, noting his gaze on you. his palm rested against your head, the tips of his long, pale fingers tracing along your hairline. his thumb gently rubbed under your ear, in the tender spot behind it. he pressed a kiss to your temple, as he returned the smile, eyes flitting over your face. the warmth of your expression made his pulse quicken.

he leaned forward, pressing his mouth against yours in a slow kiss. his fingers gently tilted your chin, slender digits cupping your face as the kiss deepened. his tongue traced over your lower lip, the gesture lazy and yet full of affection.

“you’re my dream,” his hand tangled in your hair once he pulled away, eyes flickering to your face. he watched you intently, taking in the sight of you curled against him. his fingers skimmed over your side, tracing a constellation of old scars along your back. his expression softened, a tender smile tugging at his mouth.

you flashed another smile. “isn’t it crazy that we’re married?” you hummed, running your fingers across his chest lovingly. he huffed out a laugh, letting out a noise of agreement. he rested his forehead against yours. his breath was hot and steady, ghosting over your lips. “how did i get so lucky?”

the recollection came to him in fragments of memory, each flash more vivid—more tangible—than the last.

meeting you at a party he’d been drug to by patrick, his blue eyes flickering over you, lingering on your form as he nursed a cheap and watery beer. your head thrown back in laughter, the sound cutting through the crowded room and catching his attention. there was a flutter in his chest, he couldn’t hear what you were saying, but he wanted to hear it again. exchanging numbers and names in the cool, nighttime air. you’d flashed a sweet smile. “i’ll see you around, art.” and he watched you leave in a trance.

when he first kissed you, fingers tangling in your hair as he pressed you into the brickwall of a nearby building. your body arching into his as his mouth molded against yours. he remembered the first time he saw your place, messy and unorganized, records in no particular order with books covering your dresser.

he could recall the first time he took you to a coffee shop, your laughter over some dumb joke he’d said at the counter. your fingers in his hair after you’d dragged him to a club, the taste of tequila on your tongue as you’d pulled him into the backseat of an uber with a devilish gleam in your eye.

he’d met your parents next, your mother looked him up and down before your father pulled him into a bruising hug. he had taken you to the lake at night, stars speckled across the sky and the coolness of the water making your skin prickle. your fingers on his back under his shirt as you’d pulled him through your door, lips on his neck, eyes hazy with desire.

his head on your lap when you’d gone over to movie night at tashi’s, your fingers massaging his scalp. his head on your lap in broad daylight, your hand cradling his cheek, thumb tracing over the freckles that kissed his nose. the first time you’d kissed at his apartment, warm, soft laughter as he pulled you on top of him, his mouth on yours and hands wandering greedily over your body.

he slowly opened his eyes, the reminiscences still lingering in his mind. the rain still tapped against the window, a steady, lazy rhythm, providing a fitting backdrop to his thoughts. a tender expression still graced his delicate features, his gaze remaining on you. the warmth of his hand remained on your back, fingers gently tracing the pattern of your scars.

“i love you.”

“i love you too.”

intertwined by a ring. he’d never take it off. neither would you.