I’m Currently On Chapter 2 Of Rdr2 And I’m Literally Just Spending My Time Doing Side Quests And

DILF!HUSBAND!ART DONALDSON — quickie at a family birthday party

the house roars with noise—sugar-wired kids shrieking, adults exchanging strained pleasantries, the chaos of domestic bliss. but upstairs, behind a locked door, your husband isn’t content with playing the polite party host. no—he’s starving for you. and he takes his time devouring.

pairing: dilf!husband!art donaldson x fem!reader

warnings: semi-public sex, p in v penetration, unprotected sex, hand over mouth during sex, fingering, fully clothed sex, creampie, aftercare

notes: i legit just cooked this up for y’all, so sorry if there’s any grammatical errors! i also apologize for the length, it’s a little bit shorter than my usual works. i’ll make up for it my lovelies 😇

It starts the way all sins should—quietly.

The living room’s overstuffed with bodies and chatter, frosting-smudged faces screeching joy into plastic forks and paper plates. The kind of midday suburban hellscape where no one knows whose kid belongs to whom and every dad thinks he’s the next grill-master prophet. You’ve been balancing on the arm of a couch for what feels like a decade, one thigh going numb, lemonade in your hand turning piss-warm, your polite smile clinging to your face like static. A toddler drags their syrupy fingers down your calf. You flinch, too tired to correct them. Too wired, too watched.

And across the room, Art’s gaze is burning holes through your goddamn soul.

He stands framed in the doorway to the patio, lips barely moving as he humors some dad explaining lawn care or stocks or something equally soul-killing. But he’s not listening. Not really. His eyes keep snagging on you, pulling like thread through fabric—slow, deliberate, tightening with each glance. His gaze isn’t casual. It’s heavy. Possessive. It curls around your ribcage, slides under your skin, presses right where you want him most.

Your sundress was a calculated move. Pale yellow. Thin. The kind of cotton that clings after a breeze and rides up with each step. Innocent in the way lingerie dreams of being. You wore it for him. You always do. And from the way his jaw ticks every time you shift in your seat, he knows it.

The moment your eyes meet, his lip twitches. The kind of smile that promises sin. You shift your thighs, not for show, but because you fucking need to—because under all this conversation and chaos and birthday cake air, you’re slick and throbbing like you’re in college again. All because of that fucking look.

He doesn’t ask when you slip away from the crowd. He doesn’t follow immediately either. He waits. He lets you lead. And when the stairs creak under your feet, your heartbeat is so goddamn loud it might as well be broadcast over the baby monitor someone left running on the kitchen counter.

You don’t even reach the guest room before you feel him behind you—close, not touching, but there. His presence is a temperature. A pressure. A fucking gravitational pull.

Inside the room, the air changes. No words. Just the click of the door lock behind you, and silence so sharp it hums. You don’t turn. You don’t need to.

You feel him behind you like a storm rolling in. Warmth licking at your spine before fingers even find your waist. When they do—Jesus—it’s reverent. Thumbs sliding up your sides like he’s reading Braille, like your body contains answers he’s been chasing all his life.

“That dress, baby,” he says, voice thick like honey left too long in the sun. “That fucking dress.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not when his mouth finds your shoulder, his lips parting against the skin like he’s trying to taste what the sun left behind.

“I wore it for you,” you finally whisper, like a confession through a prayer.

“I know.” A kiss, open-mouthed, heat and breath and barely there teeth. “You always do.”

It’s slow. Excruciatingly, deliberately slow. He peels you apart like fruit—one careful touch at a time. His hands slide down, grip your hips, pull you back against the heat of him, still clothed but unmistakable. Unignorable.

“You were sittin’ there lookin’ like a fuckin’ dream,” he growls into your neck. “Actin’ all sweet while your thighs were pressed so tight, I thought you might snap in half.”

You whimper. Soft. Needy. Embarrassing in the way only want can be. And he loves it. You feel it in the way his hands grip harder, the way his breath stutters against your skin.

Then: he turns you.

The look in his eyes is dangerous. Not cruel—never that—but devastating. Like you’re the only soft thing in a world made of stone, and he’s starving for every inch.

“You’re not gonna make a sound,” he says, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip. “You understand me?”

You nod. He doesn’t move.

“Say it.”

“I won’t make a sound.”

That smile again. That sinful, knowing curve of his lips as he leans in close, nose brushing yours. “Good girl.”

You don’t remember falling onto the bed. Only the feeling of the mattress dipping beneath you, your dress pushed up with reverent slowness, your thighs guided open like the petals of a flower coaxed by the sun. You’re still wearing everything. So is he. And that’s what makes it unbearable—the friction of cotton against heat, the crinkle of fabric caught between skin and need.

When he slides his hand between your thighs and finds you soaked, he groans. Low. A sound that hits you somewhere between your sternum and your soul.

“All this for me?”

You nod, lip caught between your teeth, hips twitching under his palm.

He doesn’t give you what you want. Not yet. He teases. He strokes. He circles and ghosts over you until your toes curl and your stomach aches, until you’re arching and gasping and begging with your eyes because your voice is a luxury you can’t afford.

“Shhh, baby,” he murmurs, and when you whine despite yourself, he covers your mouth with his hand—firm, warm, fingers splayed across your cheek like a lover and a captor. “You wanna get caught?”

You shake your head.

“Then be quiet.”

It’s not fast. It’s not rough. It’s devastatingly thorough. When he finally pulls himself out—all six, flushed, beautiful inches of him, and finally slides inside you, it’s like a stretch made of molten gold—slow, deep, purposeful. You choke on a moan against his hand, tears springing to your eyes from the sheer intensity of being so utterly filled.

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “So fucking perfect for me.”

The thrusts are measured. Each one a study in control. He fucks you like he’s trying to remember every inch, every twitch, every gasp you won’t let out loud. His praise is relentless—murmured against your skin, whispered like secrets meant only for the pulse point of your throat.

“You take me so well.”

“Fuck, look at you.”

“My girl. My sweet girl.”

You come undone with his hand over your mouth, your legs locked around his hips, your body shaking apart like the quietest little explosion. And he keeps going. Keeps moving. Holds you steady while he finishes inside you, moaning ragged into your neck, hips stuttering as he gives you everything.

When it’s over, the room is still. Sacred. The world doesn’t exist past these walls. Outside, laughter carries up from the yard, oblivious. You watch as his seed spills from your cunt, obscenely so, and meet his eyes.

He kisses your temple. Brushes your hair back. Helps you fix your dress. Cleans you up with a few tissues and his mouth.

No one suspects a thing.

But his fingers stay curled around yours even as you rejoin the party, and you both know what you did—what you tasted, what you claimed. He hands you an overly-frosted cupcake, seemingly a reward, and winks before walking off once more.

And that knowledge lingers like a brand, burned into your bones.

hi sweet angels,

i’m honestly… kind of overwhelmed in the softest, sparkliest way possible. i made this little corner of the internet just a few days ago, and somehow, in a week, a hundred of you have fluttered in and decided to stay. a hundred. i don’t even know how to wrap my heart around that. i feel like i’ve been handed a bouquet of wildflowers by strangers who somehow feel like old friends. i’m just really, really grateful.

i never expected to find such warmth, curiosity, kindness, and excitement tucked into my notifications—but you’ve given me that and more. every like, reblog, message, tag, little keyboard smash in the replies—i feel like i’m carrying them all in the pocket of my sweater, like petals, like stars.

so, as a little thank you, and to celebrate reaching this soft little milestone, i thought i’d do something fun and creative and a little different to give back some of the joy you’ve given me.

from now until may ends, i’ll be doing the SFW/NSFW Alphabet Challenge (you can find the details here)—and you can send in asks with a character from any fandom i write for, and i’ll write you a personalized drabble based on the letter prompt you choose! as sweet or as spicy as you want—whatever fits your mood and muse.

think of it as a love letter to all of you, from me. i want to make soft things and sharp things and everything-in-between things for you. because you’ve made this space feel like a dream, and i want to pour that magic right back into your hands.

thank you for being here. thank you for reading. thank you for seeing me.

with all my heart and a bit of glitter,

elowyn 💝💝

I have been chatting with your carmy bot and holy shit.. first of all your writing is so beautiful, the responses are all so good.. I will say though it tends to slip into third-person instead of second-person POV for me, it might be something with the examples you've given it

I LOVE HIM regardless, and I would love to see more bear content from u <<3 congrats on 100!!

ahhh thank you so much, seriously — that means a lot to hear. i’m really happy you’ve been enjoying the carmy bot, even with the little pov slip-ups (which yeah, might be from the examples i’ve fed it — i’ll definitely tweak that a bit!). it means everything that the writing and vibes are landing for you, and i’ll absolutely cook up more the bear content soon. thank you for the love and for being here, truly. 💓

#And he's dead serious (and right)

Tashi’s the kind of girl who has you wrapped around her finger before you even realize it. She knows exactly what she wants, exactly how to get it—and when she touches you, it’s deliberate. Slow. Calculated. She doesn’t rush, because she doesn’t need to. Her voice is like velvet, commanding and sweet all at once: “Look at you… already shaking? And I’ve barely touched you.”

She plays your body like a game, fingers teasing just enough to make you whine, to make you beg. One second she’s cooing, “Such a good thing for me,” and the next her tone drops, sharp and amused: “Pathetic. You’d do anything just to come, wouldn’t you?” And it’s true. You would.

Tashi makes you feel worshipped and owned in the same breath. She’ll praise you when you do exactly what she wants—kiss her thigh just right, moan at the right pitch—and degrade you when you fall apart too quickly. And you live for it. Her hand at your throat, her mouth at your ear, telling you exactly how pretty you are when you cry for her.

She makes you ache. She makes you beg. And she never lets you forget who’s in control.

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

STAKING HIS CLAIM ( FRAT!AU ), you knew what you were doing—fingertips brushing someone else, laughter a little too loud, eyes flicking to him like bait. he didn’t say anything until your second drink, then dragged you down the hallway like a line he refused to let you cross. the door slams, the fight starts, and somewhere between the spit of anger and the kiss he swore he wouldn’t give you again, you both forget why you were mad in the first place. it’s not an apology—but it’s the only kind he knows how to give.

function idea: you, me, and da boys licking and sucking on art donaldson, driving lamborghinis, and eating chicken tikka masala in the yacutzi 🔥🔥🔥🔥

THIS SCENEEEEEEEEEEE

hi i think ur so cool

hi ur cooler let’s kith 😙😙

I LOVE YOUR THEME SO BAD ELOWYN

i love YOU so bad achilles 🥹🥹