"I Heard People Are Shipping Us" "to Where?"

"I heard people are shipping us" "to where?"

now I need to know what Patrick is :(

Idk what sign Art Donaldson is but trust me he's a cancer man

it's ok if pookie Art broke it <3 I forgive him :3

bro I was gonna make this fire Art c.ai bot right? so I go to my computer- ONLY TO FIND OUT IT BROKE AND WONT TURN ONNNN WTF BROOO..WHAT DO I EVEN DO!?!? I'm scared to go to a tech repair store so I only have my phone for now :(

NOOOOOO ART'S MASSIVE DUMP TRUCK BROKE YOUR COMPUTER

Try to call the tech support or something idk, I always call my dad when I have PC problems. 😭😭😭

DEALER ART DONALDSON BOT HERE .ᐟ

you're inexperienced and looking to try some new things... what better way than with the local dealer ?

CLICK FOR PLAYLIST

new bot checkkkk. since you guys really liked my drug dealer! art post I wanted to test my luck and make him into a bot ! gonna be honest. i've changed his personality several times trying to perfect it, but at this point I'm just putting it out there so it's not an idea to waste. mostly based his personality around arthur in atlantic City story so lemme know what u think!!

as always, I definitely think he's more character aligned on desktop but I tried him on a whim on phone n it was alright. if u wanna tell me anything please send me some asks and enjoy <3

gnawing at the bars of my enclosure rn :3

I think about Ghostface Art and Patrick way too often (they are literally Billy and Stu).

Second attempt, finally. Tagging those who asked: @frnchgirls @vendetta-ari

TW: dubcon

Late October, a Halloween party, and somehow the two are not once seen together.

You're at somebody's house, a bunch of sticky, smelly teenagers surrounding the whole place. Alcohol is being passed around in red cups, people taking pictures in their costumes. And you're in the middle of the crowd, carefully watched by two pairs of eyes.

First, Patrick pulls you towards the dancefloor, the middle of the living room. Some boring pop music is playing in the background, but you don't care for how mainstream it sounds. Not when Patrick's body is pressed flush against yours and his big palms are groping your ass.

"You're so sexy tonight," he mumbles, lips finding their way to your ear. He licks a stripe up your jaw, teeth tugging onto your earlobe. "This fucking costume."

He's whispering naughty words in your ear, your costume is making it really hard for him to control himself. The tight fucking skirt, hugging your ass, and even tighter fucking top. Your tits are almost spilling out but you remain oblivious to being such a slut, far too gone to even adjust your clothing. Patrick almost wishes take tail hanging off of your ass was real and he could tug on it to draw a gasp from your mouth.

His boner is pressing against your crotch, getting you all worked up and hungry for something more. And his lips curve into a smirk when he manages to get you even tipsier (his annoying "just one more cup!" being the only reason why you won't stop drinking) and soon, he disappears.

You're in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with another red plastic cup resting on your lower lip, body lazily moving almost automatically to the beat of the music in the background. Soon, a familiar mop of blonde hair approaches.

"Hey kitten, enjoying yourself?" Art's arm wraps around your waist, lips pressing against the top of your head where the two fake ears stand up from your hair.

He lets your tipsy self lean against his own body, caressing your butt soothingly and loving the way you're all pliant and far too gone. You look a bit messy, quite a lot, actually, but he couldn't care less.

His presence is warm and soothing, a slight contrast to the drunk teenagers everywhere around you. Noticing the way your face scrunches uncomfortably at the loud laughter, he grabs your hand and beckons you to follow. You do, like an obedient little kitten.

You almost crawl up the stairs after Art, following him to one of the bedrooms, luckily an empty one. It's much calmer up there, gone from the high pitched pop music and annoying drunkards. When you, not holding back at all, lean in to kiss Art, he stops you and tells you to wait for a while. So you do, again, like a good girl.

Your feet carry you to a mirror where you take a small glance at your own self. Your clothes are all wrinkled, skirt pushed up (probably Patrick's fault) and the neckline of your top pulled too low so your red lace bra could be seen by anybody. What once was your lipstick is a mess, hair tangled and pupils blown wide. So sexy.

Too lost in the sight of yourself, you almost don't hear the world opening. Only when a tall figure, swallowed in a dark, flowy cloak shows up behind you, towering over your own reflection. Spinning around, you're met with a prolonged white mask, painted with a horrifying expression of something nightmarish. But you drunk self is incapable of feeling spooked.

You only snicker, stepping closer, feet dragging across the floor. "Art?"

But the person remains silent, just staring down at you through the mask. Completely motionless, dark eyes glued to your face.

"Patrick?" you try with another guess but, again, no response.

Only when the figure draws a knife, definitely not a plastic looking one, you gasp, swaying on your feet. Staggering backwards, as the figure being approaching you, you eventually land on the bed with nowhere to run. You hold your breath, cold shiver running down your spine as the figure traces a line down your jaw, tilting your chin up with the tip of the cold knife.

The masked stranger still doesn't speak, not even when he lowers himself down onto you, caging you under himself on the bed. Only his heavy breath could be heard, but you can never feel it hit your face through the mask, and you almost wish you could. You wish to know who this stranger is. Or perhaps not. Perhaps just to feel him.

As if he could sense the excitement spiraling around in your head, he slides one gloved hand under the tightness of your skirt that has already bunched up as the result of your slurred movement. Complete silence, only disturbed by a wet squelch and a gasp from your lips, brings a smile (not that you can see it) on his face.

"Slut."

Unfortunately, that single word only gets your pussy wetter.

You don't even care for the knife still resting under your chin, threatening to cut you pale skin with any wrong movement when the cold leather of his glove fully slides through your slick folds. It's cold and slightly harsh, enough to draw one more sigh from your mouth, and yet you become used to that sensation way too quickly.

Hypnotized by the screaming expression of the mask, you allow yourself to fully drop down, tangled curls spreading around your head like a halo, your eyes wider than possible. The still unknown man teases your clit with his fingers, smirking upon discovering it seems to have his own heartbeat, and it's beating just for him.

"Dirty girl? That's what you like?"

Before you could process it, you're flipped onto your stomach, and with the help of his two strong hands, you're pulled into something close to a kneeling position. Panties pulled down and skirt pushed up, your glistening cunt is on full display for the frightening creature.

He's touching you, groping your ass, rubbing your clit and sliding his fingers in and out of your weeping cunt, doing everything he shouldn't be doing, everything that shouldn't be allowed and yet here you are, unable to push him away, whimpering like a hungry whore. You're moaning, just stupid babbles that he doesn't pay any attention to, and you don't even know whose name to say, who to beg.

Your aching hips are rolling against the leather and at one point, you ride the strangers finger as if it was a dick, the muscles of your warm cunt squeezing him like a sweet treat. Completely stripping yourself of any dignity, of any self worth, you let this total stranger finger fuck you on somebody's bed, unaware where your two best friends have disappeared. You don't even think to look for them, to yell and beg for their presence, for being saver. All you beg for is being treated like the slut that you are.

By now, all the thoughts of the party have evaporated, tears of pleasure spilling out of your burning eyes, mixing with the mascara running down your cheeks. Your lipstick is wiped all over the sheets and your fucking tits are spilling out of that tiny top. You look like a goddamn mess and yet so fucking beautiful for the horny stranger.

And when you finally feel like it was enough, that knot in your stomach tight enough to unravel, everything stops. His hand retreats, leaving you hot and bothered, at the brink of an orgasm.

When you try to inch your hips closer, seeking the friction, the cold metal between your legs stops you. "Uh-huh."

You gasp, fingers digging into the sheets, frozen in your movement. Suddenly, you're as stiff as a statue, not daring to move a muscle when the cold, sharp blade rests against your dripping folds.

"Careful," the masked man whispers, his free hand palming the back of your head, pushing your head deeper into the pillow. You feel the cotton cloak fall over your own bare body as he leans over you, his chest warm against your arched back. "That's not so nice now, huh?"

Realising he really expected an answer from you, you shake your head. But the slide of the blade forward, the cold tip resting just against the puffy muscle of your clit gets your body to jerk. "N-no."

The man above you chuckles, his voice still too muffled by the mask for you to make out who he really is. "Sluts don't get to cum. They don't get to enjoy it, baby."

He twists the knife, coating the sharpness with your wetness, the cool sensation against your burning clit being almost enough to bring you to an orgasm. And he notices, chuckling at your desperation.

"But you don't need to enjoy it, right? You just need to cum, don't you?"

And just as fast as it has begun, it suddenly ends, with the big body pulling away from yours, leaving you a panting, sweaty, overwhelmed mess on the bed. He strokes your face once with the leather, spreading a bit of your own arousal over your cheek, adding to your miserable state. And then he's on his feet, hiding the knife (and very much delighted by earning the slicky souvenir) in his pocket, sparing you one last sorry glance.

"Maybe this will teach you a lesson, remind you not to be such a slut."

call me crazy but this is giving a back to school pic that his grandma took 😭😭

sighhhh