Never Say Sorry -sub!art Donaldson X Fem!reader Smut

never say sorry -sub!art donaldson x fem!reader smut

notes- this was literally supposed to be super short but i got carried away cause i am a whore (and proud of it)

cw- art is a little insecure:( , mentions of him having sex with tashi before (NO TASHI SLANDER I LOVE MY GIRL BUT IT'S FOR THE PLOT😭) , he cums prematurely (like...really..) art's a whiny little slut, art keeps calling reader love ( i got a thing for that pet name sorry y'all) , reader calls art 'artie' once cus it's cute&idc.

thinking about art constantly apologizing while having sex :( like ur unzipping his pants and he's already bucking his hips up into your hand, and then immediately muttering "sorry":(( my babyyy

so at first you think that okay, whatever, it's just something that slips out

but then he does it SO many times that you're actually starting to be concerned

like, you're giving him head and he moans a little too loudly- he's apologizing again. while kissing, you pull back for air and he still follows you, mouth half-open, wanting more - but then he realizes and he apologizes again.

but one time he really caught you off guard-

it had been a long day for him, spending almost all day training for his upcoming match. he barely had any time to rest, so he comes back to his dorm, taking off his shirt and pants, getting into bed with you only with his baby-blue boxer briefs on.

he kisses you. he's so fucking tired, but he still kisses you. 'cause he needs you, especially after the day he just had. you could feel his hard cock, practically begging you to take his boxers off.

"please love, wanna see you" he says while tugging at your top, watery eyes glistening with tears waiting to be spilled.

you take it off and unclasp your bra, little whimpers leaving his lips at the sight of you over him, with your tits out. you would love to take your time with him, really. to hear him beg and plead for you. but he's so eager, and so polite about it too- you just can't do that to him right now. so when you take off his boxers, his cock immediately jumps up, slapping his lower abdomen, right over his strawberry-blond happy trail.

"aww baby, look at you. you're so pretty aren't you?" you smile down at him, admiring how his legs shake slightly at every word you say. "hmm? aren't you?" you repeat. "mmghn- yeah, i- uhh i am" he says, eyes almost rolling back from the lack of touch. "you're what? say it." he sighs. you do this a lot. 'self love is important' you usually tell him- but not now. not when his dick is out, aching and leaking and begging to be touched. but just for the sake of it- just because he wants to please you, he says it. "i'm pretty"

"good boy," you coo, finally bringing a finger down to his cock, only to circle his pink, wet tip. and with that, he loses it. his mind goes blank, and he can't help it- all the waiting, the anticipating made him lose control of his body. he really didn't want to cum, he wanted to be good for you, but you were just so hot, he couldn't hold back. so immediately after his white, thick and warm liquid lands partially on his stomach and a bit on your hand, he starts babbling out apologies.

"i'm sorry, i'm so sorry love, please don't be mad, please- i'll clean up after myself- oh my god i'm so sorry-" he was so obviously tired, he could barely make up the words, yet he still continued apologizing. until you cut him off.

"art, baby- you dont need to apologize to me! what's up with this" you ask, softly. "you know i love making you feel good. and it's even better when i get feedback like this" you giggle. his cheeks turn bright pink as he covers his face.

"but i literally came the second you touched me" he mumbles, shyly.

you kiss his shoulder, smiling. "and it was hot."

"i- I don't know how to explain it to you, love- i just don't want to disappoint you. tashi used to hate it when i did any of this, she hated hearing me, and stuff like that- sometimes it made me feel like i was an object to her or something, y-you know? she'd get mad at me, and uh- it wasn't great."

"oh." you could actually feel your heart breaking for the boy. he was so sweet, he never deserved any of that. "well i'm not tashi, and i definitely won't get mad at you for anything like that. i like hearing you, and believe it or not, this was really fucking hot. you're letting me know i'm making you feel good. what's wrong with that?"

"just don't wanna upset you." art shrugs.

"i promise you artie, you could never upset me." you peck his lips and he smiles. "now let's clean you up"

Time Of Our Lives || Part 1

Part 1:

When they were kids, Liana and Art didn't like each other. To be more precise, they couldn't stand each other. They were born in the same month, and because their parents were such good friends, they always celebrated their birthdays together. Since Art was born two weeks after her and his grandmother firmly believed that one should not celebrate in advance, Liana never celebrated her birthday on its actual date, and that was a good enough reason to hate Art Donaldson forever.

When they were 7 years old (or more precisely, he was seven, and she was seven and two weeks), Art received his first tennis racket, and Liana got a small skateboard with a Pokémon design. He cried. Of course, he cried; everything Liana had, Art wanted too. He didn't know how to share anything, and eventually, Liana was forced to let him use her skateboard whenever they met, which unfortunately was at least once a week.

"You don't even know how to ride it," she tried to instill some logic into the blonde boy. "Do you?" he asked curiously. "Not yet, but I'll learn, duh," she rolled her eyes at him. "Then I'll learn too," he shrugged and went to wash his face, returning a few minutes later as if nothing had happened.

Only those who knew Art well understood what Liana knew - he was a crybaby who was never satisfied with what he already had. His friends passed around the racket he received as if it were a chocolate cake while he continued to glance at Liana, who was trying to balance on the skateboard and nearly fell.

At the age of 12, Art was accepted into the fancy tennis boarding school he couldn't stop talking about to anyone who would listen (even those who wouldn't), and Liana was the first to arrive at the party held in his honor. She was so excited. As far as she was concerned, Art wouldn't be coming back. There was a high chance that now, with him gone, she could convince his parents that it wasn't worth maintaining him at home. He was too much of a headache, and they were too good-hearted to keep enduring his presence.

Instead of that happening, he came back with a curly-haired addition named Patrick Zweig. They shared a room at the boarding school, and now he spent half the summer with them. Every time Liana wanted to do something like go to the pool with her friends, her parents would say that the Donaldsons had a pool at their house. Every time she wanted to lie on the grass and read a book, the two noisy boys would decide to play right in front of her, until she gave up on the book and had no choice but to stare at them. It was a pity her plan didn't work, sadly Art didn't stay at his stupid boarding school forever.

By the age of 17, it was clear to everyone that Art was good at tennis. Really good at tennis. He won youth singles competitions and also did well in doubles with Patrick. Her parents forced her to attend quite a few of these tournaments.

"Li, I think you're my lucky charm," he said in front of everyone at dinner after one of the tournaments, smiling a smile that only Liana knew was malicious. Everyone melted at the touching gesture of the ultimate champion taking time for the girl he grew up with, but Liana knew Art too well. He couldn't fool her with his feigned niceness, his suddenly acquired manners. She knew him too well and knew that everything he did was always about embarrassing her and making her do something she didn't want to do. "So, are you suggesting I stop coming to your games?" she asked, taking a bite of chicken, throwing a smile of her own. Two could play this game. "You're going to be at most of my games for the rest of our lives anyway," he shrugged while Liana raised an eyebrow, and the adults around the table laughed as if they knew something Liana and Art didn't. Later, Liana sat on a chair by the pool, and Art sat next to her. She looked at him with the same expression as before, and he raised one hand in surrender. "I come with peace offerings," he pulled out a cake and two spoons from behind his back. Her raised eyebrow turned into suspicion. "What do you want?" she reached for one of the spoons. "I missed you, Li. Tell me something good," he took a bite of the cake and in response got another eye roll that made him lightly slap her hand as it reached for the cake. "You're not getting any until I hear at least one interesting story," he moved the cake as far from her as he could. "I'll just go in and get a piece for myself," she replied quickly. "There’s no more. I took the last one," he took another bite, knowing she was starting to worry about how much cake would be left for her if he finally agreed to let her have some. "I started working on my applications to Stanford," she said, and he moved the cake closer to her, finally letting her eat.

"How's it going?" he asked. They both knew Stanford was a big deal; their families had history there. Art's parents got engaged there. Everything in their lives revolved around getting into Stanford. "I'll be fine. I'm in all the extracurriculars at school, student council, and prom committees. My essay is a bit boring, needs more work, but I have a year, so maybe something will change," she shrugged and saw he hadn't eaten the last bite of the cake, leaving it for her.

"Write about your best friend and what it's like growing up in the shadow of the best tennis player in America," he said with a serious tone, and after a few seconds, he started laughing. "Write about how you miss me," he added. His laughter faded a bit as he studied her, and she went back to looking at the pool. "If I decide to lie in my university application essay, I'd rather write that I got into a modeling agency and live a double life like Hannah Montana," she replied without looking at him. "You're mean," he chuckled and stared at the pool, enjoying the silence between them.

When they went inside, Liana saw there was still half a cake left, and Art, noticing her look, just shrugged and went to talk to her dad about basketball. A year later, things got a bit complicated. Liana had a boyfriend. It wasn’t anything too serious, but he came to her and Art’s joint birthday party. Needless to say, Art and Patrick couldn’t stand him. Patrick said he smiled too much, like he wanted everyone to like him. "How can you trust a guy with a smile like that?" he asked for the third time that evening, as they stood there watching Liana talk to her parents with Jake holding her hand. "All his teeth are in place," Art responded. He felt betrayed. He felt as if tennis had betrayed him. If it weren’t for tennis and the boarding school, he would still be going to the same school Liana went to. He wouldn’t take his eyes off her, certainly not for long enough for her to have a boyfriend with a smile like that. "Do you think they’ve fucked?" Patrick asked suddenly, making Art turn his head sharply in his direction. "You think they did?" he asked back. "I don’t know. You know her better. I only talk to her on the phone occasionally," Patrick shrugged. "You talk to her on the phone???" Art asked, unable to process this new information. In his view, there wasn’t an option to talk to Liana unless she came to watch him play or their parents arranged for them to meet. The thought that Patrick and Liana had phone talks and didn’t just meet in the summer made him uncomfortable.

"Yeah, that’s what phones are for, to call people you miss," Patrick chuckled, but quickly returned to the same expression as he watched Liana and the quick kiss her annoying boyfriend gave her. "In front of her dad," they said together. Art knew her dad well. He knew that gesture wasn’t appreciated. "What do you talk to her about on the phone?" He was a bit embarrassed asking. He felt like he was losing to everyone. Losing to Liana, losing to Jake, and worst of all, losing to Patrick. "Just stuff. She called when she got accepted to Stanford, for example. I promised her I’d take her out for ice cream this summer to celebrate. And she said she stole a bottle of wine from her parents and celebrated with her friends," Patrick felt like he was rambling. He knew Liana and Art didn’t talk on the phone. He didn’t want to compete with his best friend because, well, he was his best friend. But Art had a significant advantage with Liana. He’d known her all his life. And if someone with such an advantage wasn’t making the most of it, Patrick had to step in. He had to show Art he was also in the picture. That even if they both went to Stanford, Patrick would still be around.

What none of them considered was that Liana could choose someone else entirely. That someone else might win. Come to think of it, neither of them even saw her that way. She was just Liana, the girl who was always there, in the background of their lives. And neither of them planned to change that anytime soon. Well, anyway, Jake had to disappear.

here it is. Once again, English is not my first language, and it's my first time writing in it. Hope you like it as much as I love writing it. I'd really like to hear your thoughts so don't stop yourselves from hitting the ask box ❤️

renovation | ☆ミ p. parker

summary - y/n renovates the spare bedroom into something she thinks peter will love, but there’s something he loves even more.

genre - fem!reader x peter, fluff, domestic

warnings - kissing, can be read as any peter but i imagined tasm!peter :)

w.c - 800+

a/n - first marvel fic ever!!!! i hope yall like it. i was inspired by that one stardew valley scene- also i dont actually know alot about photogrpahy and darkrooms but hey you write and you learn.

You stood back from the second bedroom and sighed, a smile crossing your face as feelings of self-accomplishment and proudness rushed through you. The room was set up with two desks, bottles of processing fluids, papers, storage containers and string hung from one side of the room to the other.

Though it was a small room, your heart felt big when you looked at it. You originally scolded yourself for doing this, as Peter had insisted on the room being your office or library (he was getting tired of book stacks), but as your hard work ties in together in a picture of purpose, you mentally wipe the dust of your shoulders and hold up a trophy reading 'Best Girlfriend Ever'.

One last time, you checked to make sure the red lights worked and that everything was set in place, as Peter's nightly retirement from swinging through the city was approaching. The time that actually happened was varying night to night, but you hoped he caught you before you fell asleep and he discovered the darkroom himself.

You situated yourself on a stool facing the kitchen counter, which faced the door. An old tie was resting on the bench, as well as your phone which buzzed unanswered messages from coworkers and friends. The doorknob jiggled with the sounds of keys (he changed his ways of climbing through the window after you almost got doxxed) before the door opened. You stood, dressed in a sleeping shirt and some pyjama pants, and rushed to him. Avoiding his hello kiss unintentionally, you wrapped the tie around his head and giggled to yourself. Peter was adorned in loose jeans and a shirt with a physics joke you didnt understand, his hair messy from flying through the wind for the past four hours.

"What's going on?" His cheeks bunched in a smile, as he placed his bag down before reaching out to you blindly.

"I've got a surprise for you, your not allowed to look beforehand."

He smirked and let out a sigh, "Oh god you haven't tried to paint me again have you?"

"Nope. Something much better." You took his biceps in your hands, squeezing them in excitment and anxiety as you pulled him down the hallway.

Peter had an idea where you were going, but not why. The new-ish apartment was basically memorised by now, and by the time you stopped pulling him he assumed he was stood in front on the spare bedroom. It had been unfurnished for the six months you had been moved in there, and even if he insisted you made it your own personal space, you denied the idea immediately.

Next, he felt you fingertips brush against his cheeks and unwrap the tie from his eyes. The first thing he saw was your beaming face and your hand on the doorknob behind your back. All he wanted was to squeeze your face and place a million kisses on your face, but alas you looked too excited to even blink.

His eyes darted from your eyes to the floor under the door and unconsiously raised one eyebrow with curiosity. It was tinted red.

"Okay. Before we go in, there are things that definitly need to be added and arranged differently but that depends on how you like things. Seriously, like this is not going to be everything you need-"

Peter gently pushed you to the side and opened the doorknob, eyes still on yours, "I'm sure whatever's behind this door is-"

He was met with a darkroom. A room to accompany his imense love for photography, in his very own apartment. He didn't need to rent out a dark room anymore, or borrow time from someone else. It was right here. He could photograph to his heart's content.

The strings we are at his eye level, and they swayed slightly when he bent down to observe the whole room. It was hard at first to differentiate one object from another due to the red hue of the entire room, but nonetheless he loved it.

"Is perfect." He finished his sentence in shock.

His gaze spun to face you, your back to him as you closed the door. When you turned, your face was full of anxiety and expectance. His eyes raked your face, he ducked below a string and grabbed your face, smashing his lips to yours.

You squealed in surprise and giggled into his lips. He ripped away - hands not leaving your face - and he started rambling. "This is perfect, Y/n! Oh my gosh. This is like the best thing ever- I'm a little angry that you didn't use it for yourself- But still this is like..." His eyes swirled with adoration and love, and it almost made your legs turn into jelly.

A weight was lifted off your shoulders at his reassuring words. You let out a happy laugh, "You deserve it, I'm glad you love it."

He took one more look at the room with the biggest smile you've seen on him in a while, before turning his attention to you once again. "Oh, but I like you much more."

He kissed you hard, opening the door behind you and leading you to your bedroom.

taglist is open!!

i feel like art would have a babbling problem. like, he can’t stfu the closer he gets to cumming, so you have fun finding different ways to occupy his mouth while you suck him off or ride him. first instinct is sitting on his face or shoving your fingers in his mouth

// MDNI; art donaldson x reader

warnings; smut, oral (m receiving), praise, fluffy af ending, light dom/sub undertones, sub!art, art definitely has a praise kink i don’t make the rules 🫡

Art has always been loud— loud on the court, grunting and groaning as he plays, loud when he’s kissing you, breathy whines and gasps that you swallow greedily with your own mouth.

But most importantly, he’s loud in bed.

You always know when he’s about to cum; those corded thighs tighten around your head, back arching from the bed. His lips- rubied and swollen from your greedy mouth against his own- part around a moan, a drawn out whine, and an outright shout when your tongue laves across the tip of his weeping cock, drooling and flushed from your attention.

“Baby, baby, please,” he babbles. “Need it so bad. Gonna fuckin’ cum, please, baby.”

One of your manicured hands drags its way up his glistening chest, slick with sweat and littered with dark marks from your hungry teeth. He moans again, and you part his lips with a gentle thumb, pressing two digits flat against his tongue; he takes them greedily, suckling against the curve of your knuckles as you work him over with your other hand. You resist the urge to roll your eyes— always so obedient.

“Good boy,” you giggle. “Pretty baby.” He whines. You soothe him with a kiss to the tip of his cock.

His hips sporadically jerk as you seal your lips over him, sinking downward until the heavy length of him is settled snugly in your mouth. His chest stutters, a bare leg twining under your arm and round your waist until his heel presses into the base of your spine.

You know he’s cumming before he does.

His breath seizes, missing a beat. The muscles in his thighs tighten as he grinds further upwards into your warm mouth, and then he’s spilling into you with a sob.

His mouth is a wet throbbing around your knuckles, tips of your fingers still pressed to the dip of his tongue. You coast your thumb over the underside of his chin, pressing to the hollow of his throat— he preens under the attention.

“Shh, shh,” you coax. He bends at the waist, hooking a lithe hand under each of your armpits, and you’re dragged up and over his front until you’re nose to nose.

“Baby,” he sighs, nuzzling his cheek against your own. “Love you.”

“Love you too, pretty baby,” you coo. He’s almost limp underneath your weight, eyes half lidded and crinkling at the corners. “Can I have a kiss?”

He melts.

“You can have anything you want. C’mere.”

finally some good food

I'm thinking of Stiles meeting readers parents or reader meeting Noah and Stiles being very handsy and PDA prone during that event 🤭🤭🤭🙈

me, looking out the window as rain patters against it. "i took so long to answer this ask. i wonder if anon remembers me..."

☆

you're practically vibrating with nerves when you approach stiles' front door, wearing your favorite date night dress and holding a small container of home baked cookies.

sure, you've met noah stilinski in passing. but you hadn't really met him met him and part of you was grateful. it would be so awkward if you were familiar with the sheriff (for the wrong reasons) and he turned out to be your boyfriend's dad.

you only have to knock twice for stiles to swing the door open. he's smiling, a bit disheveled, and he's got... flour on his face?

"hey, come on in, we were just finishing up dinner. what's in the box?" he ushers you inside and leads you through his home, stopping just before the kitchen to smile down at you.

"oh, just a little something to ensure parental approval." you joke, shaking the tupperware gently. stiles laughs and wastes no more time taking the container out of your hands to set on a nearby hallway table, pulling you into a hug. you inhale his scent deeply and feel him do the same to you, squeezing you tightly against him.

"you smell nice." he mumbles into your hair. "missed you."

"you saw me yesterday."

"yeah, and i missed you afterwards. okay, come on." he kisses the top of your head and pulls back, hands sliding down your arms to hold your hand. "burnt pasta awaits."

you don't dare ask how he burnt the pasta when stiles turns a corner and leads you into the very room his dad is standing, mixing a pot of penne pasta. he looks up and smiles politely when he sees you, and you do your best to return the smile with confidence (and not fear of rejection).

"dad," stiles hums excitedly, "this is my girlfriend. girlfriend, dad."

"nice to meet you, sir." you hum. you step forward and shake his hand, meeting his eyes.

"ah, the pleasure's all mine." his handshake is firm and he's grinning kind of like stiles does when he's about to make fun of you. "my son won't shut up about you, it was about time."

you blush and laugh, glancing back at stiles, who snakes his arms around your waist and presses his cheek to the side of your head. "that's very true, she's already gotten that comment from scott."

eyes widening, you feel even hotter with embarrassment. stiles is acting like a theme park couple, one of his hands squeezing your waist where he knows it tickles. you squeak and jump back, wiggling out of his arms. he smiles all dopily at you.

"alright," noah claps his hands together, seemingly not even noticing the interaction. "who's ready for burnt pasta?"

you clear your throat, throwing stiles a bit of a warning look before turning your attention to noah. "i've heard about this, i'm curious to see what burnt pasta could taste like. i'd love a bowl."

noah laughs and dishes you up some, leaving you to bask silently in the victorious (accidental) joke. meanwhile, stiles tucks some of your hair behind your ear and smirks.

"me, too. we never really cook, so it's got to have something wrong with it." he turns to his dad. "dish me up some, chef!"

"you can dish some up yourself. i'm only getting it for our lovely guest." noah looks unimpressed with stiles, waving the wooden pasta spoon at him. "don't think you get off just because you have her to hide behind."

stiles makes a "wha-hey!" noise and scoffs, reluctantly grabbing himself a bowl and scooping out some pasta, bringing both of your dishes to the table. once you're all sat, you thank them both for dinner and ask noah about his work.

and you swear, on your life, you're trying to focus.

but with stiles' big, veiny hand on your thigh like a lifeline, it's a bit fucking difficult.

you know stiles likes touch. but when his fingertips are pushing the hem of your dress up a bit to caress your upper thigh? you swallow thickly. in front of his father, of all people!

you tune back in when stiles starts relaying a funny story. his unoccupied hand reaches across himself and lays on top of your hand as he gets animated, explaining scott's hilarious mistake to his dad with enthusiasm. once he finishes, his hand slides away from yours and the one on your thigh squeezes lightly. "do you guys wanna watch a movie?"

"i rented close encounters of the third kind." noah smirks, pointing at stiles. you watch as stiles gives you a bashful look.

"my dad has an affinity for alien media. you'll learn this sooner than you think."

"they're real!" noah seems only half-joking as he gathers your dishes and makes for the kitchen. "just you wait, you'll be wishing you listened to me."

"yeah, okay dad." hums your boyfriend, waiting for his dad to be out of earshot. once you're safe, he pulls his chair impossibly closer to you. "so, how's it going?"

you blink, still blushing from the whole thigh-hand thing. "oh, uhm, good. right? i think it's going alright."

he nods, standing. you follow and let him cup your face. "i think it's going great. he likes you."

"do you say that to all the girls?" you joke, letting him glance down at your mouth obviously. if stiles wants to make a move on you now that you're dating, he usually does. he hums and laughs a little, pushing your hair out of the way.

"only the pretty ones." he leans down and kisses you, briefly. by the time he's pulling back you've forgotten your manners, pulling him by the t-shirt weakly to keep going. he laughs at you, nibbling his lower lip. "when do you need to be home?"

you glance to the side. "soon, probably. how long is the movie?"

"...two and a half hours."

"yeah," you smile apologetically. "i won't make that. sorry, sti'."

"it's okay babe. my dad and i will probably talk through the whole thing. or worse, we'll kill whoever does talk. it's best if you leave on a good note. c'mon."

you follow blindly as he leads you through the house to the living room, pulling you into his side and wrapping his arms around you loosely. his dad is sat on the couch pulling up the movie, and he turns to look at you guys. he seems only mildly phased by stiles' touchiness. you blush, completely mortified at the inappropriateness of it.

"dad," stiles muses. "she's gotta go."

"ah, alright." noah slaps his thighs and stands, and stiles only moves from your side to behind you, holding your hips lightly as his father approaches. "it was so great to finally meet you. thank you for coming."

you smile and shake his hand, doing your best to ignore stiles' too-comfortable hands. "thank you for dinner, sorry i can't stay."

he shakes his head and waves like 'no problem', but he doesn't get to speak it as stiles perks up. "oh shit, the cookies! we have to try them in front of you!"

"stiles, i'm sure that's not-"

"i'll go grab them, be right back." and he's gone.

you make eye contact with sheriff stilinski, watch as he sizes you up and smiles softly. "i'm sure you're a bit put off by the touching?"

"it's... not unusual. just not so..."

"confident?"

"yes," you laugh, flustered and warm, and glance to where stiles ran off. you can both hear him rummaging around. "i'm sorry about it. i don't want you to think we're immature."

noah shakes his head. "believe it or not, it means good things. i don't know how much he talks about it, but..."

noah stilinski looks off, clenches his jaw. "stiles used to hang off of his mother like that. constantly touching, holding. he used to do it with me, too. a lot. and then, after claudia passed... he just stopped. didn't touch, even hug. the first year was the worst. he's much better, but we don't do much loving anymore. not as much as i should be."

he looks back at you, dead in the eyes. "you're the first person i've seen him so comfortable with. physically, i mean. he holds you almost exactly how he used to hang off of his mother. save for a bit of..." noah clears his throat. "romantic tendencies."

you feel your heart swell; you remember when stiles first got all touchy, that night after you had really dug in, actually had a conversation about the nitty gritty of each other. it had been the first month into dating. he had wandering hands ever since, fully subconsciously.

before you can respond (what are you supposed to say? your boyfriend's dad basically just told you that his son loves you in a way he hasn't loved anyone before), stiles comes barreling back in.

"found 'em! they were on the hallway table, imagine that!" he slings an arm over your shoulder and it makes you all fuzzy in the chest. "okay, lets try them. open the lid, babe. my hands are full."

his hand that isn't offering you the container full of cookies is too busy running through your hair. you smile and gently take the container from him, only giving him another hand to put on you.

☆

later, when he walks you to your car and kisses you goodnight, he can't stop talking about how good the night went. you smile into the kiss (he tastes like chocolate chips) and lean back against the drivers side door (his hands are on your hips your cheeks your neck your sides) as he kisses all over your jaw and cheeks and finally, your lips.

"i love you." he whispers against you as he pulls away. you can feel his hands tighten against your body. he's nervous.

"i love you too, stiles." you smile up at him, feeling your heart flutter as he leans in for more.

☆

now what the finger fried fuck is this i dont know what happened i got writers block so bad guys im sorry im so cooked omg please dont cancel me bc of this fic stiles lovers

♡ Am I Making You Feel Sick?; Art Donaldson ♡

nsfw! (18+) cw: subby!art donaldson, solo!art donaldson, mentions of reader, gn!reader, porn w/ plot, masturbation, hurt/no comfort, crying, heavy angst, desperation, begging, self-choking, established relationship, toxic relationship dynamics, general filth, also the title is inspired by an ethel cain song lol

wc: 3.3 k

prev. art donaldson fics: ♡ ♡ ♡

This wasn't how Art's Saturday night was supposed to go.

At all.

He was lying in bed with a you-shaped absence next to him, his hand sweeping weakly over the empty bedsheets before fisting them tenderly under his palm. It was silent in your guys' apartment except for the low hum of the bedside lamp, and he was desperately trying to swallow the lump in his throat and blink away the sting in his eyes. He'd been trying for the past ten minutes. This wasn't how he pictured the evening going. Everything felt so confusing and muddled and wrong.

-

About twelve hours earlier, around 8:30 AM, you and Art had had a fight.

It started out simple. It really did.

You had brought up the fact that he seemed 'off his game' lately, with him losing matches and lessening his time in the gym and whatnot. He had quipped back that he was just tired lately and maybe needed a break. You hadn't loved the sound of that. You knew that if he took a break now, he'd never go back. It would be over. And as much as you cherished your partner and his wellbeing, you had spent far too much time and energy building and sculpting him into the perfect player. It was selfish and almost sadistic in nature, but you wanted him to keep playing. You needed him to. After all, you had been playing tennis vicariously through him ever since your knee injury about a decade ago. You had tried to convince him to resist the urge to take a break before the Open, but he had just frowned and sighed and crossed his arms over his chest before he responded by saying that he felt suffocated on the court. The conversation grew increasingly heated as it went back and forth. I mean, was there ever any other way it could go?

'You don't need a break, Art, you're just feeling discouraged.'

'I'm not just feeling discouraged, I'm exhausted..!'

'How can you be exhausted when you've put only half of yourself into the game recently?'

'That's not fair! I've put everything into this! I've done this all for us...'

'You need to be doing it for you, Art!'

'How can I when every time I lose, you look disgusted with me?!'

It didn't take long for him to grow resentful and for you to get defensive. The whole argument lasted a mere thirty minutes, but that didn't matter. Thirty minutes is all it really takes to destroy someone's self-worth and lose another's respect.

You two had huffed and scowled before moving to separate areas of your shared flat, but before Art could muster up the strength and motivation to say 'i'm sorry', you were already leaving.

'I'm going to a friend's for the night,' you had said.

And it took everything in him right then not to pull you into his arms and kiss your lips and beg you to stay. But he didn't. He knew it would only make things worse. You needed your space, and he probably did too, but he always found it hard to be apart. He understood that you needed your space, but he couldn't help but feel completely and utterly rejected anyways.

And then the anxiety came soon after the door shut behind you.

You still loved him, didn't you?

Whatever. He didn't care. He'd let you have your night alone.

Who was he kidding? Of course he fucking cared. He needs you. He always needs you.

-

Art tossed and turned on the bed relentlessly, trying his hardest not to think about whether or not you were telling your friend what an ungrateful and selfish partner he'd been for ever wanting to pause his tennis career (and your career as his coach). Your friend would likely only make things worse. He could practically hear their voice telling you things like 'he's such an asshole' and 'you should just leave him' and 'let him rot as a washed up player all on his own'.

Ugh.

It made him feel sick to his stomach.

He turned onto his side, his sad eyes looking to the spot where you usually laid. He swiped his fingers across your pillow, his calloused digits brushing over the cream-colored satin, and then he was shifting forward on the mattress to let his head rest on it. It only took a minute for the faint smell of your hair and warm skin to flood his senses, and that was all it took for the dam to break. He was suddenly crying like a teenager during a first breakup.

Tears had filled his eyes in an instant and spilled down across the bridge of his nose as he remained laying on his side, his face half-buried in the plush cushion as he trembled. He sobbed harshly and loudly, his chest heaving up and down as he clutched the physical reminder of you in his hands, and he swore that he could just about die from heartbreak right then and there. He missed you. Why did you have to go? Why didn't you just stay to talk it out? Surely he'd lost you forever.

Self-loathing, mixed with strong codependent tendencies, was an easy pill for Art to swallow. He'd take it with water, with tears, with blood; he'd surely want it through his IV if he was comatose.

It was a comforting type of poison, but oh hell, did it burn every time. A part of him would be lying, though, if he said he didn't like it this way. He knew that. He tried to ignore that.

He rolled onto his back as he gasped for air between heart-wrenching sobs. His bottom lip wobbled furiously as he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed furiously as he sweat and shook. He couldn't stop crying. God, he had said such horrible things to you. Worse than what you had said. He was sure of it. He didn't deserve you.

Your warmth.

Your selflessness.

Your compassion.

Your love.

The thoughts messed with his head.

He started to picture your smile when he would make you breakfast in bed on Sundays, and hear your laugh when he'd purposefully perform an awful backhand during a practice session, and feel your touch on his skin when you'd—

...

Oh.

Oh no.

He took in a shaky breath as he removed his palms from his puffy eyes and looked down to his boxers.

He was sporting a full-on semi. Warm and aching and growing with every second. He could feel every single pulse of his blood pump into it.

Just from a few thoughts of you, no less.

This was truly pathetic.

He sniffled wetly and shook his head, wiping his running nose with the back of his hand as he tried not to think about how badly he wished you were here.

Art's hand involuntarily reached down to adjust his erection, but it only made it harder. He hissed softly through gritted teeth before his lips parted and his head tilted back.

He removed his hand instantly, letting it rest back on his chest over his shirt guiltily.

He didn't want to touch himself. That was something you helped him with. You always did. He bit his lip as it quivered, trying to stop the flow of tears that were still falling from the outer corners of his eyes and past his ears as he stared up at the ceiling.

And then he thought for a few moments.

If you knew the state he was in, you'd want him to touch himself. Even if you were mad at him. Even if your anger towards him was justified; even if he deserved it. Right?

You wouldn't want him to lay here, stiff and throbbing, when he could be thinking about you and getting himself off.

He mentally scolded himself for about fifteen seconds over the fact that he had so quickly managed to conjure up an excuse to relieve the pressure in his crotch, and then he was letting his hand slide down into the front of his underwear.

He wrapped his touch around his cock at the base, biting his lip as his brows pinched up, and then he let his eyes flutter shut as he began to move his hand up and down.

He wasn't exactly too worked up yet, which meant no precum, so there was an uncomfortable tug on his flesh as he stroked himself. Art pulled his hand up and spit a thick glob of saliva onto his fingers before bringing it back down into his boxers to slide them over his tip.

"Ah-"

His back arched as soon as his fingertips slicked over his cockhead, and his knees lifted slightly up from the comforter. He worked his saliva down over the length of himself, before he started to slowly jerk off.

If you were here, you'd probably slide your hands up under his tee shirt and touch his chest. Maybe even play with his nipples. You knew all the right places to touch him. He didn't even have to ask anymore. Oh God.

Tears started to prick at his eyes again, but he furiously blinked them away as he started to let out little gasps and barely-audible moans. He decided to let himself melt into the sensations alone. He wanted to forget about you for a little while. That didn't make him a bad partner, did it?

And so he tried not to think about you for a little while as he touched himself — he really did — but he only lasted about two minutes before he started to lose his erection. He frowned, and then he sighed, and then he gave in. Of course he couldn't get off without thinking about you. You were all-consuming. You were everything he's ever wanted. Fuck. He really wished you were here.

The hand that wasn't on his dick maneuvered up under his shirt, and he let his eyes close fully again as he started to explore his chest the way he knew you would. His hand caressed over his toned stomach, and then up over his sternum, before it settled over his collarbones. He thought about your lips pressing there, your tongue poking out afterwards to lathe his sensitive skin with the needed amount of attention. He failed to stop a louder, anguished moan from being let out as his imagination took over once more.

His touch soon slid to one of his pecs, his thumb gliding over the nipple, which only made his hips buck up into his hand as he started to speed up his arm's movements. A sticky 'shlick shlick shlick' filled the space around him as he let out a low whine and started to squirm. Hot, boiling pleasure was building up faster than he thought it would.

As his cock squelched into his fist, he started to imagine that both of his hands were yours instead. The progression to this was was only natural.

"please touch me," he murmured softly into the loneliness of the bedroom, "please touch me more, baby.. i need it.."

Images of you started to swarm his head, and he began to picture what you would look like if you were the one touching him. You'd probably smile at him while he whimpered, and you'd coo at him and tell him he was pretty for you right then.

"Oh, fuck, ohh," he whined, his head tipping further back against the pillow as his thighs began to shake. A blurt of clear, sticky fluid leaked from his slit.

He stroked himself furiously, his other hand moving back down the length of his torso. He slid it down until it met his moving hand at his cock, and he cupped his balls.

"You're making me feel so good," he moaned as his brows twitched, "I wanna cum for you.. I wanna cum, baby.. let me cum..."

The silence in response to his pleas for release meant nothing to him. He could still hear your voice. He could hear it in death.

'You can't finish yet, I'm still playing with you,' you'd probably say.

He shook his head feverishly.

"No, no no," he gasped, responding to an imaginary you, "I need to cum.. I'm close, oh my god, 'm so close for you—"

A gasp, a stuttered moan, a buck of his hips. He sped up his hand a little.

He felt borderline drunk.

The hand on his soft balls glided up to squeeze lightly at his own throat, fingers applying a benign amount of pressure to the sides, and he felt his mind grow hazy at the pleasure thrumming through him as a result. He also felt his eyes roll up to the back of his head under his lids, and his cock grow heavier in his other grasp.

Sometimes, when Art got overwhelmed during sex, he'd ask you to choke him. Most people would think that this would only make a person more overwhelmed, but not Art. The feeling of your hand wrapped around his neck, gently and pleasurably stifling his blood flow, was more than enough to bring his focus back to you and less on every other separate sensation going through his nervous system. He could focus better on you when you did it, which was all he wanted. Honestly, most times when you choked him, it was so tender and loving that it didn't do too much. He actually liked it better that way. All he wanted was to be reminded of the control you had over him, not to be throttled. Pain like that wasn't really his thing.

He couldn't stop himself from picturing you straddling his pelvis as you choked him and asked him if he wanted to climax now.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," he wheezed under his hand's touch over his jugular veins, "i'm gonna cum, i'm.. please give it to me, baby..!"

"I need to cum.. i promise i'll be good.. i'm really gonna cum, i am.."

"Please, please— plea- ohh, hah anngh- HAH— please!”

In the fog of his building orgasm, Art realized something. If you were here, you wouldn't let him babble and slur like this over and over. No, you'd definitely do something about it.

With that, he let go of his neck and slid his index and middle finger over his tongue and into his mouth, closing his hungry lips around them instantly.

You always did something like this to shut him up. He considered it blissful torture.

He pressed the digits down over the back of his tongue and sucked needily as drool began to pool around them. His moans grew louder as his other hand moved faster over his twitching cock, but they were all coming out muffled. Art swallowed thickly. The copious amount of saliva coating his fingers was gulped down, only to be replaced by more flooding in. He started to think about the taste of your fluids and how happy he was whenever you'd let him use his mouth on you.

He'd have given anything to be able to suck and lick at you for real in that moment. Anything.

He stroked himself desperately for only a minute longer, before he was at the very edge. A finger ghosted over the underside of his oversensitive tip, a complete accident, and then his eyes flew open and his back arched as his heels dug urgently into the sheets. One loud, pornographic moan erupted out of his chest and around his fingers. His watery blue eyes squeezed shut tightly again, just before his digits slipped out and over the warmth of his wet tongue.

"I'm c-cum-ming, i'm— cumming-! i'm cumming, baby! don't stop!"

As soon as the words flew from his empty mouth, the waves of heady ecstasy were washing over him and pulling at his trembling limbs like he was a puppet. His abdomen flexed and shuddered with contractions, his hips were shallowly fucking himself into his hand, his other arm was flailing to frantically grasp at your pillow, and his cock was gushing all over his fingers in thick spurts.

It wouldn't end. It just would not stop.

He gasped as he milked himself dry, nearly sobbing from the throbbing relief and the burning high in his brain. He couldn't get air into his lungs fast enough as his heartbeat thudded rapidly in the confines of his ribcage.

You.

Oh, you.

You, you, you.

That's all he could think about.

If you were here, you'd probably say things like, 'wow, you did such a good job, baby' and 'came so hard for me, didn't you?'

He whimpered as he tried to shake the thoughts from his mind. He wanted to feel good for as long as possible before he knew the reality of his situation would come rushing back at him.

After several long moments, he started to come down from his release. The aftershocks left him sweaty and panting. It wasn't that comfortable. Even though you hadn't been here and he'd done this completely alone, he still felt the instinctual need to be held and kissed and caressed affectionately. He frowned, feeling his lip quiver.

He felt his legs stick to the sheets underneath, and white spots danced in his vision as he blinked his eyes open to glance around. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his lips, trying to steady his breathing and his heart rate.

As soon as the feelings of pleasure came, they went, and were replaced with the pit of despair in his heart that he had only briefly forgotten in the past twenty or so minutes. It was back, and it was only growing more painful each time he blinked. Flashes of you kept invading him. It was like there were goddamn pictures of you taped to the inside of his eyelids. His heart slowed, as did the air moving in and out of his lungs, and then he was left with nothing more than a sticky hand and those same anxious thoughts from before.

He sat up a bit in bed, leaning his flushed, clothed back up against the headboard, and he sighed. He suddenly felt sweat dripping down his cheeks, and he reached up to wipe at it, before he realized he had been crying again. When did that start? Before or after he came? He couldn't remember. Regardless, he knew the cause.

He bit his lower lip as he looked around your guys' bedroom.

It wasn't like you were dead, so why was he grieving the loss of your presence so hard?

This was bad. This was probably, like, super unhealthy. God.

He was startlingly shook from his daze by the sound of his phone buzzing on the bedside table next to him, and he leaned over and quickly slapped his hand over the device to turn it over and pull it close to him.

His heart fluttered when your name and contact picture lit up the screen, along with a red 'decline' and a green 'answer' button.

How could he ever hesitate?

His thumb was on the answer button before he could really process what he was doing, and he held the phone up to his ear as he breathed softly and shallowly. His heart rate was all the way back up now.

Please.

...

"Hi," you spoke. You sounded sad. Regretful, even.

He smiled and sniffled, clearing his throat as he sat up further in bed and blinked away the stray wetness in his eyes.

"Hey," it spilled from his lips a little too eager, but who cared?

You still loved him.

You had to.

You called him.

...

Maybe things were going to be okay after all.

note: ughhh. sad, angsty art donaldson .. how i love you so. sigh.

dividers by @h-aewo <3

🩷 tags : @idontevenknow1359 @odyseesnape @theoldsports @mitskilover23 @ysuftmikey (more tagged in the comments! sorry, still trying to navigate this! much love)

thank u to this anon + their ask for the inspo!:)