What About Stiles Fic Where Their Class Is Going On A School Trip And Stiles Has A Massive Crush On A

What about Stiles fic where their class is going on a school trip and Stiles has a massive crush on a reader and he's been trying to show it/make a move for a long time but he couldn't because they're friends and because in his eyes reader is perfect so he thinks they're too good for him and sth happens on a trip (maybe there's a party or the pack decides to play a game) and he somehow confesses or kisses the reader

Sorry if it's confusing 🙈😅

THIS WAS REQUESTED ON AUGUST 28TH. I AM SO SO SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG. also: 'tis once again unedited. beware.

(i'm gonna clarify now: this is NOT the school trip they take in season 3A. that was too dark and serious and important for me to try and weave a cute storyline in!)

☆

six months ago, stiles had tried to give you flowers. they got crushed in his bag and then fell in a brown puddle when he tried to take them out and give them to you.

three months ago, he tried to have a study date with you where he planned on cooking food and confessing over dinner on the floor of his bedroom. not the most romantic, but he had candles! .....until his dad dropped one and broke it, stiles lost another, and the rest became futile when he burnt dinner and scott called him all panicked, realizing it was a full moon and he didn't have a plan.

and then there was the lacrosse game last week. they won, no thanks to stiles the benchwarmer, but he got you a necklace. your favorite metal with a small pendant of your favorite flower. and he told himself, if they won -no, when they won- he would find you in the bleachers immediately and bear hug you the way you liked. then, he would present the necklace and ask to be your boyfriend.

and that one, unfortunately, had no excuse other than stiles was a big fat chicken. he found you, you bear hugged, and when he pulled back and looked you in your deep, excited eyes...

he chickened out.

it was nothing against you. oh no. no, no, no way. even the suggestion was ridiculous to stiles. the only reason he couldn't confess was the same reason everything conveniently went wrong every other time he tried to confess. the same reason he bit back every compliment, the same reason he held himself back when he went to touch you, for any reason. and god, stiles hated himself for that stupid string tugging him back to home base every time he went running out to first.

stiles, being bluntly honest with himself, was half convinced you were too good to even be his friend. don't get him wrong, he wouldn't lose your friendship for the world. which is part of his problem. he looked at you and saw a clever, funny, adaptable idiot with the looks of a goddess. he could pick your eye color out of a deck of those swabs you'd find at home depot and get the shade exactly right. he had your moles and freckles memorized, the scars on your knees mapped, he knew the way your lips curved up when you had a bad idea like he knew the back of his hand.

so when he looked in the mirror and saw stiles; skinny, rude, distrusting, not nearly as muscular as your type. not nearly as handsome, or kind, or gentlemanly. not nearly enough. he could tell you exactly why he had yet to confess.

you were too good for him, plain and simple.

so when he got up for your guys' class trip to some big museum, he wasn't feeling too fantastic. sure, you had texted him last night asking to sit with him on the bus ride there (lydia and allison were predictably going to sit together), and that had led to the two of you going from texting to calling until two in the morning. and you had said "i need to go to bed but i don't wanna hang up" and his heart had practically fell out of his mouth with how fast it beat when he heard your timid sleepy voice.

but then he woke up the next morning and remembered that you did not like him. he always forgot that when you were alone, talking for hours and never getting bored. or, alternatively, when you two could just be quiet together and never get uncomfortable. it just felt so natural with you. you were just so perfect.

and stiles was not. it sucked, and it hurt like hell, but he would live with it like he always did. even if it felt like it was getting worse every day. the highs and lows, that is; going from the 'oh my god she does like me!' to the soul-crushing 'oh. that's right. friends.'

he was currently at the low point, brushing his teeth and pulling out his clothes for the day. his jeep already had his bag in it, packed for the three day trip to a huge, fancy museum a little ways into a bigger town near beacon hills. he had done some research on the exhibits to see if there was anything he'd want to sneak off and see, and he found something you'd be fascinated by. part of him wanted to surprise you, and part of him knew you'd get antsy not knowing.

he realized he was smiling thinking about your antsy face and had to shake his head a bit, spitting out his toothpaste in the sink and splashing his face with water. get it together, stilinski.

☆

later, he's got his duffel bag slung over one shoulder and your backpack on the other, watching you from afar while you chat animatedly with allison and lydia.

all the students attending the trip were meeting outside next to the parked busses at an ungodly hour of the morning. you had said a tired "g'morning" to him and he had offered to hold your things, before the girls had dragged you away. and now, he stood like a sap watching you slowly wake up in the company of your friends.

"dude," he hears scott approach beside him, and he has to force himself to turn away from you to acknowledge him. "you've got it so bad."

stiles scoffs at his best friend, giving him a knowing look. it's the same as it's always been since you came in the picture. "yeah, okay, and you're so much better? don't think i didn't notice you looked for allison before you found me. you know, a 'good morning, stiles' would have done just fine."

scott shakes his head, and stiles clocks his 'you're so done for' look in a second. before he can remark on it, scott hums "good morning, stiles."

"good morning. do you have any idea when we're supposed to get going?" stiles resumes his admiring just in time to see you giggle behind your hand. he can see scott adjust his bag on his shoulder and join in the simp stare-off. his subject being allison, of course.

"i dunno, probably within the hour. you know coach never gets us anywhere on time. that's why i slept in."

stiles side-eyes scott. "stop acting like it was a strategic move and not you forgetting to set your alarm."

scott frowns, and opens his mouth to retaliate when coach's grating voice sounds from the front of the gaggle of sleepy teens.

"alright, the buses are gonna start loading and we got the nice ones, so put your bags in the bottom storage spaces. make sure you know who you want to sit with. we don't need a repeat of last year's incident, greenburg. okay, get your scrawny asses moving. lets go!"

he claps his hands hastily and the buses open their storage compartments. stiles haphazardly tosses his duffel bag in, annoying some kid trying to do things in an orderly fashion. he's not sure what to do with your backpack, since he remembered you having a suitcase too. just as stiles goes looking for you, he feels himself being turned around by the shoulder.

"hey, don't store that." you hum, holding his non-backpack shoulder with one hand and reaching for your backpack with the other. "it's got my book, i might wanna read on the way if i can't sleep."

"it's okay, i can hold it until we get on." stiles nods and blinks rapidly to try and shake the warmth he feels where your hand holds his shoulder. when you smile groggily up at him, he just about falls over. "you look tired, anyway."

you nod, and to his disappointment your hand leaves his shoulder to rub at your eye. he smiles a little at how cute it is, compared to your usual too-pretty-and-argumentative-to-be-cute look. "yeah, i couldn't sleep. i swear, if i don't pass out on this bus, hit my head against the window until i lose consciousness."

"aw, so you get to sleep and get window seat? this feels unfair."

"you're lucky i'm not making you sit with greenburg. remember the incident?" you both make your way to the line of kids boarding the buses, right behind scott (who is surprisingly convincing allison to sit with him).

"oh, i remember. coach said if we bring it up on this trip it'll curse us. sort of a 'theater kid hamlet' situation."

"do you think if we tell the story three times it'll reoccur?"

"that's beeltejuice."

you roll your eyes, just as stiles continues with a smirk. "beetlejuice, bee-"

"what are you two even talking about?" pipes in a tired danny from behind you. you both whip your heads around and find him giving the two of you an incredulous look. "it's eight in the morning, how are you this awake?"

"my company is just lively and fun, danny." you joke, turning up your nose. stiles knows you're playing, trying to be enjoyable before you crash and get cranky. he doesn't realize he has that idiotic sappy smile as you keep talking. "i don't hang around closet cases and wannabes. me and stiles like to summon demons in our free time."

"you sure you're not hanging out with a closet cased wannabe?" danny drawls as the three of you shuffle forward in line.

stiles scoffs. "i am not a wannabe."

danny slowly raises an eyebrow.

"..... or a closet case-look, we were perfectly content with our conversation before you rudely interrupted. so if you'll excuse us."

you laugh quietly but it turns to a yawn, and you use a sweater-pawed hand to cover it. stiles mentally picks out his coffin. yeah, he's planning on killing himself if you keep looking so holdable. no biggie.

"yeah, you look so content, stiles." danny mumbles through his sleep deprivation. stiles blushes pink and glares at him. fucking danny. shut up.

"god, i probably look horrible right now. i didn't feel like putting makeup on at seven AM, and of course my two hot best friends show up with swipes of mascara and blush and look like runway models." you're talking to yourself, stiles can hear the familiar tone. he adjusts your backpack on his shoulder and squeezes the strap tight, imagines holding you around the waist and pressing his face into your neck. telling you how wrong you are, telling you,

"shut up, you look cute."

oh fuckity shit! great job, stiles. wanna go ahead and relay every fantasy you've had of her while you're at it? what about you favorite one in freshman year, when you were first getting the hang of your hormonal wants and needs? fucking idiot said it out loud.

"liars go to hell, stiles." you hum, only half-joking. he clears his throat, blushing. you dug this grave, stiles. now lie in it.

"i'm not lying." it's simple, he can hear danny huff out an unsatisfied breath in the back, and he can feel you shift next to him. your shoulder brushes his arm.

"alright. thank you."

he has never heard you speak to him like that before. it's... sure, full of your usual "i don't believe you" insecurity, but something else catches in your tone. it's quieter. softer. he scoots forward in line.

when you're both on the bus (you at the window, stiles at the isle), you fall asleep on his shoulder in seconds. your arms wrap around his bicep like a teddy bear, and he falls asleep quickly after, head lolled back on the top of the seat.

scott, now successfully sitting with allison, takes a few photos and sends them to stiles. allison peers over scott at you two, 'aww'ing quietly.

"i knew he liked her back." allison whispers to scott, sliding her palm down his arm to squeeze his hand. she's grinning, and scott admires her dimples silently. "she's so convinced otherwise, like he's 'too good' for her or something."

"wait-" scott blinks away the lovesick fog in his head and registers allison's words. "wait."

"what? what is it?" allison tugs on his hand, trying to catch his eyes as he sees the next three days unfold before him, as well as things clicking into place from years prior. allison grows more impatient. "scott?"

"she likes him? for sure?"

allison's eyes widen as she nods. "crazy for him."

scott turns back to watch as you nuzzle against stiles and huff out a breath in your sleep, causing stiles to make a 'auh' noise as he snores. allison joins him, and seems to see the next three days, this trip they're on their way to, play out before her as well. a smirk grows on both of their faces, and scott's voice is full of mischief when he speaks.

"then let's help them out."

☆

stiles can feel the ghost of your body pressed against his even once you've been separated into your hotel rooms. you're with allison, lydia, and some girl named claire that's friends with lydia.

stiles and scott are alone, after all the guys picked their roomies and the dust settled. stiles was grateful, for once, that they still didn't quite reach that popularity status. having his own bed to curl up and die in after spending a whole day looking at exhibits with you was a blessing.

"so..." scott hums after they set their bags down (which looked more like throwing them on the nearest bed or couch). "big day."

"it is?" stiles is rifling through his bag, searching for his phone charger.

"well, y'know, lots of opportunity..." stiles can hear scott smirking. oh no. "lots of ideas..."

stiles rubs a frustrated hand down his face when he can't find his charger, only half listening to his best friend. "ideas? scott, what the hell are you talking about?"

"ideas like maybe you should see if a certain someone needs a room to stay in for the night." scott leans against the wall, watching stiles with a knowing smirk and crossed arms. stiles straightens and sets his attention on scott.

"are you asking me to invite a girl over? with you in the room? and coach breathing down our backs? and dead cockroaches in the corners? how romantic, wow."

"obviously i'd find somewhere else to go!" scott defends, feeling his feeble attempt slipping away from him. stiles can see it in his eyes. he's so bad at scheming. "and coach will knock out at ten. you know he's a heavy sleeper with a tight schedule. and... well, the cockroach thing is out of my hands. you can clean up?"

stiles raises an eyebrow at scott. "if you wanna have sex with allison, i'd be more than happy to sleep in danny's room, scott. i hear he's a cuddler."

scott blushes and groans, picking up his phone and texting in an annoyed attitude. "that's not..."

scott leaves the sentence unfinished and stiles doesn't ask him to change that, opting instead to checking the front pocket for his charger. he could've sworn he grabbed it.

instead of the sweet victory of a chord, stiles' fingers brush a hard box. he frowns and pulls the small, dark object out and turns his back to scott, who's too busy texting god knows who to notice anyway.

"what the..." stiles turns the small box over in his hands before he feels his whole body go cold with shame. the loopy, gold lettering of the jeweler he bought your necklace from. the necklace that he failed to give you just over a week ago. the necklace that he shoved back in his duffel bag after the game, hauled home and promptly buried in the back of his mind.

and now, it had travelled hours with him and appeared right when he was on a 'oh my god she does like me' high from the bus. like a physical embodiment of his inadequacy, it dumps a bucket of ice-cold water on his heart and leaves him dripping wet and filled with shame.

he sets the box down on his bedside table and makes for the door. yep, he's totally storming out like a baby. whatever.

"where are you going?" scott calls as he swings the door open.

"i'll be right back." stiles hisses over his shoulder, skittering out of the room as quickly as he can.

stiles rubs a hand over his mouth as he goes for the stairs. all he needs is five seconds alone to wallow, and he'll be fine.

instead, when he swings open the door to the staircase, he finds you in the corner, sitting on the platform with your phone in front of you. your head whips up and you blink up at him. "oh, hey."

"hey." he nods, tilting his head a bit. "what... what are you doing?"

you wave your phone, shrugging. "just taking a second. the girls were talking about tonight. after the museum, what they wanna do."

you pause, looking away from stiles.

"who they wanna do."

stiles shuffles, clears his throat, rubs his neck, does anything to fill the space. "ah, yeah, scott seemed to be getting at that too. i wonder if the wet towel stench of this place is an aphrodisiac."

you laugh, pressing your phone in between your thighs as you draw your knees closer to your chest. he analyzes you, before smiling softly.

you look up at where he stands, and when your eyes lock, it's like everything else gets blurry. all stiles can see is you; hair all messy from the bus ride, bags under your eyes, picking at your nails. he wants to kiss you. so bad.

you suck in a breath and both of you snap out of it, you going for your phone and stiles speaking to cover his tracks.

"it's probably almost time for us to be heading back to the buses." he offers you his hand. "you should bring a jacket, just in case."

"i'll be fine." you grab his hand and he pulls you up. "i didn't bring any comfortable ones, anyway."

he holds open the door for you and you both part ways for your respective rooms, trying to ignore the electric feeling where your hands touched.

☆

"alright, now i know you horndogs can't be trusted," coach stands in front of the bus with the light of the hotel parking lot and the moon casting odd shadows on his face. "so i expect lights out at eleven. ya hear me? eeee-leee-veeen. and remember to take some notes for the essay you'll be writing about this trip. alright, get out of here."

the museum had been interesting enough, but nothing to write home about. you and stiles had been separated into different groups, so the closest he got to seeing you all day was that morning and the things your and your friends posted on your private stories throughout the tour.

and then there was the bus ride home, but you sat with lydia in the back, and stiles was stuck next to coach himself near the front, since his best friend took it upon himself to remind stiles of his singleness and sit with allison. which was fine, until every other spot was taken except for the one right next to the bane of stiles' existence. whatever.

so stiles got to his hotel room in a bit of a sour mood, needing to numb his brain on his phone or the tv and knock out asap.

just as he had gotten on his pj pants and flopped (shirtless) into his hotel bed, there was a knock at the door. expecting one of the guys to be asking to borrow a pillow or something, stiles continued to lay on the bed as scott swung open the door. but instead of one of the guys, stiles hears the voice of an angel ring through the hall.

"hey, sorry, do you guys mind if i use your shower? all the girls in my room need to and i'll be up until ungodly hours waiting my turn. just wanted to get it over with and go to bed." you ask scott, whose eyes widen slightly. he nods vehemently and lets you in, giving stiles no warning to throw on a shirt or get under the covers or hide or something.

you thank scott and smile at stiles as you pass through to their bathroom, setting your stuff down on the sink counter on the way so you could get organized.

"hey stiles, you forget something?" you joke, not even sparing him a glance as he grabs a t-shirt and hastily shoves it on. he can feel his cheeks burn red and grumbles.

"you barged into my room, what were you expecting?" he fusses with his hair. scott stifles a laugh poorly.

"decency." you hum, winking prettily at the poor blushing boy before stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind you. the boys are frozen a moment as the water starts running, and then stiles falls back against the pillows, groaning.

scott rubs the back of his neck, smiling. "maybe she thinks the grumpy attitude is cute?"

"get out."

scott's smirk grows, and he steps towards stiles' bed. "why? wanna have the room to yourself?"

"no, so i don't slowly suffocate the life out of you with one of these pillows. you know, real friends try to encourage and cheer on their friend's romantic escapades."

"i am encouraging!"

"not well!"

"okay, well, i was leaving anyway." scott turns towards the door and stiles shoots up, scooting towards the edge of the bed.

"what? why?"

scott turns slowly, jaw ticking like he's hiding something. stiles knows the tell.

"...allison... needs.... to borrow my..... shoes......"

stiles watches the cringe slowly crawl up scott's face. he shakes his head, waving his best friend out. "you know, that is much better than half the lies i've heard you tell to go see her. wrap it first, dude."

"i'm not...! ugh, okay, bye." scott leaves in a hurry and stiles shakes his head, used to scott's antics. at least someone's getting some.

that leaves stiles to listen as the water patters down in the shower. he has to turn the tv on and scroll on his phone so that his mind doesn't conjure up images of you in the shower.

images of your wet hair shining softly in the light. your skin, slick and plush, covered in scented suds. stiles clenches his jaw as he imagines the rest of you. as he imagines things he totally should not, having to turn the volume up on his phone and will the blood in his body to stop concentrating to the wrong places. he sighs.

"i'm so screwed." he mumbles, letting his phone fall to his chest.

not even minutes later, the water shuts off and you come out, hair up in the towel like a turbie-twist, smelling like hotel body wash and your shampoo. he watches you moisturize your face in the mirror, then take your hair out of the towel and hang it up, brushing your hair quietly in the meantime.

there's something intimate about laying in bed and watching you pamper yourself. stiles admires your legs and your concentrated face, feeling a bit like a husband watching his wife. god he fucking wishes.

"find something interesting?" you break the silence as you put product in your hair, making the room smell even nicer. it's like a bath & body works ran through the room, covering the boyish musk.

stiles blinks, registering the fact that your question wasn't rhetorical. "...huh?"

"on tv," you giggle and meet his lovesick eyes through the reflection. "did you find anything interesting to watch?"

"oh, um." he shifts up, glancing at the tv where a bland action movie plays. "not really. why?"

you finish your nightly routine and turn to face him. you look like a clean, fresh dream. dewy from the shower, damp hair and healthy skin. you look happier, too, like getting clean helped with your tired funk. as you get closer to the bed, stiles feels the temptation to touch you- to feel how soft your skin is after a shower. but he's not a perv, and you wouldn't want it.

would you?

"where's scott?" you ignore his previous question and crawl onto stiles' bed, sitting next to him and practically knocking him over with how good you smell and how pretty you look. he wants to pull you into his chest and die in this dingy old room.

"scott? oh. i..." stiles ponders saving a lie for his friend, but he knows allison probably had a similarly see-through excuse and opts for the truth. "i think he went to have sex with allison. not sure where."

you roll your eyes, getting comfortable against the pillows-and stiles' side. he blushes all the way down to his neck.

"all the girls are room shuffling to hook up. coach is an idiot if he thinks telling teens lights out will stop them from getting some on a school trip." you move stiles' arm to press yourself into his side more comfortably. "that's like, the whole point of a school trip."

stiles feels a sudden bout of jealously coarse through him. "is that the point of this trip for you?"

you sigh, pressing your head against his side and dampening his shirt. stiles, feeling bold from your cuddling, wraps his arm around you. his heart hammers as you draw out the silence, taking too long to answer for his liking.

“no, it’s not.”

he breathes out a sigh of relief.

“is… is that the point for you?”

stiles sometimes forgets that you don’t know. he’s surprised for that very reason by your timid question, like you’re scared of his answer too. it’s almost laughable to him, since it must be obvious. the way he stares, the way he touches you like you’re a gift from the gods, how he constantly calls you and keeps track of your location on pack missions, your study dates he spends making you laugh and letting you control the music. the inside jokes, the good morning texts, the good night phone calls. he knows when you’re going to cry, when you’re going to smile. isn’t it obvious? isn’t it?

and yet you’re curled up against his side, making his arm fall asleep and getting his pjs wet, completely unaware that he wouldn’t let this slide with anyone else. he turns to face the tv, swallowing.

“no. it’s not.”

the two of you fall silent, watching the tail end of a crappy spy movie. the volume is low enough not to be bothersome but high enough that you can hear. stiles can feel your body slowly relaxing completely under his arm, head resting against his chest like a pillow. the dim lighting of the bedside lamp illuminates your features like an oil painting, and stiles can’t look away.

your lashes flutter closed and your lips part, huffing small breaths out and giving him goosebumps. your brow pinches slightly and you shift, curling one leg over his. he shuffles lower onto the pillows and now you’re both laying, eyes closed, falling asleep to the sound of an infomercial.

☆

stiles wakes up to an empty bed, feeling cold where you were laying. it’s late-or early. stiles can’t tell and the clock in his room is off. he sits up and looks for you, hearing the bathroom door click open.

“oh, sorry. had to pee.” you mumble tiredly, washing your hands, giving stiles a moment to blink away the sleep and admire your short shorts. he scratches his bed head and shrugs.

“‘s okay. were you, uh.. comfortable?”

you nod as you walk back to the bed and crawl back over to him. he adjusts to accommodate you again, but you pull at the covers. “let’s get under these. I was freezing.”

he obeys, but just as you go to resume your previous position, your eyes catch on the bedside table. “what’s that?”

“huh?” he raises his head off the pillow and follows your gaze. “what’s what?”

you reach across him and pluck the small jewelry box off the table. “this. woah, looks fancy. is it a hospitality gift or something?”

you start to open the box, and stiles snatches it out of your hands roughly, making you jump. if you see the pendant, your favorite flower and your favorite metal, you’ll know. you’ll know and you’ll call him a creep and slap him, get out of the bed like it’s on fire, and he’ll lose you. that’s the last thing he can lose.

so stiles tosses the box away, onto scott’s bed, urging you to lay back down.

“it’s nothing. just some gift scott’s planning on giving to allison, i think.” his tone has an edge that makes you curl away from him.

“oh, okay. um. but it had your name, on the bottom.”

“what?”

“the order sticker, it had your name. did… are you lying to me?” you sit up, over him now. he swallows back the surge of longing he’s hit with, when he sees your hair a bit messy and your shirt hanging off one gorgeous shoulder, giving him a glimpse of your skin.

“lying? no, scott just needed me to order it so it could be a surprise.” he’s fumbling the fib now, and he can see you doubt him in your deep, pretty eyes. he feels a lump of panic in his throat. “lay down, I’m tired and coach’ll have us up early.”

your eyes narrow and you shift away from his hands. fuck. “that doesn’t make sense. scott could just take the sticker off.”

“yeah,” stiles tries to look casual, rubbing his eye. “I don’t get it either. scott just wanted to be really cautious.”

“scott’s never cautious.” you’re glaring at him now, and stiles wants to melt into the pillows. “you’re lying.”

“jesus, why are you so suspicious of me? it’s just some stupid jewelry scott got for his girlfriend, alright?”

“don’t talk to me that way.” you hiss, getting off the bed. stiles shoots up like a rocket and goes after you as you gather your things in the shower.

“no, I didn’t mean… fuck, okay, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have talked to you like that, i just got defensive.” he paces and scrubs the back of his neck anxiously. “I’m sorry, okay? I am.”

you turn to face him, sizing him up. stiles watches you with a mouth open, ready to plead. “why did you get defensive? because you’re lying? did you get jewelry for a girl?”

stiles steps back, slapped in the face by the ice in your tone. something sharp lingers, like…

like jealousy.

he scrambles to stop you as you make for the door, grabbing your shoulders.

“please, cmon, seriously? you’re gonna leave over this? I…”

you shrug off his grip roughly and he lets you pass. “you let me sleep in your bed when you planned on giving jewelry to another girl, stiles. now I’m stuck looking like some… homewrecker, and this poor girl won’t know a thing. you know how bad this looks? on top of the lying? just… goodnight.”

he gapes at you as you leave, the door shutting loudly behind you. stiles can’t even move for a second.

what the fuck just happened?!

it was paradise, sleeping next to you.

and here he is, back in hell. because of his own cowardice.

he tugs at his hair and squeezes his eyes shut. “fucking dammit!”

he has a hard time sleeping after that.

☆

the next day, stiles wakes up late and has to rush getting ready. the necklace box has disappeared and he’s honestly grateful; his eyes sting a bit, from being up late and all the crying he got up to once you left. scott barely got a word out of him all morning, and the bus ride to the museum was torture, listening to you chat and laugh just two rows behind him as if last night was some hazy dream-turned-nightmare.

it only got worse, too, when allison approached stiles as coach was breaking everyone into groups.

“so,” she hums, mischief painting her tone all singsonged. “how was your night?”

“I think you’re in group c.” stiles responds blandly, hands shoved in his pockets. you haven’t even looked at him all morning.

“no, no, some stuff got switched up. we’re with you now!” she grins, tilting her head to where scott is chatting you up kindly. you seem almost as tired as stiles. he cringes, knowing it's his fault.

allison blinks up at him, smiling all excitedly like that's good news to stiles. he shifts his weight, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze. "are you sure that's... when did that happen? there's no changing back or anything?"

her smile falls, and she tilts her head a bit. "no... is everything all right? you seem-"

"i'm fine." stiles lets his tone get snippy, and allison narrows her eyes, visibly recoiling.

"that's odd. i got the same response from her this morning." she nods her head towards you again. stiles doesn't even glance your way, afraid he'll see you and want to fall to his knees. allison purses her lips, before seeming to clock the situation. "did something happen?"

"no, no. nothing did. jesus, what's taking coach so long to get us going?"

"stiles, what happened between you and my best friend? something did, i can tell." she steps into his line of vision, and he huffs out a frustrated sigh.

"nothing, allison, jeez. now can we-"

"stiles, tell me right now or i'll go ask her instead. and she'll tell me. and then i'll tell her you said it was nothing and... and that will really hurt her feelings. you know it will. if it was something, it will."

"alright!" he snaps, shushing her and steering her by the shoulders away from the group. she still has that stubborn scowl on her face, and stiles scrubs a hand over his own expression as he tries to calm himself. "okay. fine."

"after the most recent game," he sighs, "i planned on telling her... how i feel about her. and i got her this necklace. cheesy, i know. but, um, i chickened out and put the necklace in my duffel bag. well, i forgot i did that and brought it all the way here on accident, and when i found it i put it on my bedside table. when she came over last night, she saw it and i got... i acted like an asshole to get her to drop the subject, and she could tell i was lying about it. and i feel like an idiot because i know she hates lying but it just felt so good to finally have her, for just a second. and then it all went to shit and now she thinks the necklace is for another girl and that i'm a player and a liar."

allison blinks, silent for a second. then , she breaks out in a huge, girly smile. "you got her a necklace?"

"will you-" he starts to cover her mouth before deciding against it, and swallows, glancing around to see if anyone heard. "it doesn't even matter now, okay? she hates my guts and i would too. i was kind of a horrible liar and huge dickhead back there."

"stiles stilinski, you're in loooove. that's so sweet!" allison is still hung up on the necklace (which stiles already lost), as she pokes his arm teasingly. "what was it?"

clenching his jaw, stiles grumbles out a short description of the necklace, and that only sends allison into a bigger giggling fit. he's blushing like a kid, glaring at her, and she doesn't even care.

"okay, well, you're gonna apologize. today. before we leave. and then that necklace is going around her neck and you're confessing, because you totally fucked up and she deserves a good day." allison is still grinning like the cheshire cat, and stiles shakes his head at her demands.

"noooo way, i'm not talking to her until my pride heals. and until she stops looking like that." he glances over at you finally, eyes filled with the longing in his chest. you look sad, even when you smile, like you feel it to your core. "i can't stand the thought that i made her look so..."

"rejected?" allison pipes in, also watching you now. "yeah, that's because she thinks the boy she's been head over heels for the past... however long, is about to gift expensive jewelry to another girl. you have the power to change that, stiles. and you're going to. today."

"but i-" stiles can't even form a response before allison's walking away and over to scott, pulling him away from the conversation you and him were having. you catch stiles staring, and the both of you look away like wounded animals.

☆

stiles is reading the information panel next to an exhibit when scott sidles up next to him, glaring holes into his skull. "dude."

"hm." stiles barely responds, immersed in the jargon of the museum that scott would have a hard time understanding.

"don't 'hm' me right now, allison told me what happened." stiles can hear the annoyance in his best friend's voice. "you have to tell her. right now. she's, like, depressed!"

"what do you want me to do?!" stiles hisses quietly, whirling around to face scott with a scowl. "i'm trying not to hurt her more by rubbing my presence all in her face!"

"first of all, gross." scott deadpans, scrunching his nose. "second of all, that is the complete opposite of what she needs. look, i'm not a genius when it comes to girls,"

stiles scoffs.

"but," scott continues, "if there's one thing i do know, it's that girls love apologies. good ones. ones that end with really nice gifts that are personalized to the girl. and you are totally screwing this up right now!"

stiles rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up slightly. "i don't even have the goddamn necklace on me!" their whispers grow a bit more passionate, and a few people turn their heads as they pass the boys. scott digs in his pocket, presenting the small box.

"it was on my bed this morning. now take it, and find a secluded spot and make your speech good. i swear to god, stiles, i can't stand watching you mope around like a lovesick dog and tell yourself she's 'too good' for you. if you don't get this over with, i'm telling her you like her and that's going to be a whole bunch of underwhelming."

stiles stares at scott with a bit of shock, mouth open slightly.

"what?"

"i didn't know you knew how to pronounce underwhelming. or what it meant. you've really been studying, huh?"

"shut up." scott laughs and shoves the box into stiles' chest. he catches it and stares at it hopelessly as scott leaves him to ponder, turning the box over in his hands.

the first thing stiles does is peel the sticker off the bottom. then, he shoves the box in his pocket and goes looking for you.

lo and behold, you're admiring a painting almost as pretty as you, eyes dancing along the brushstrokes like you made them yourself. stiles approaches quietly, letting his eyes drink you in for a moment before he dares to speak.

"hey," he hums and you jump a bit, turning on your heel to face him with wide eyes. "can we talk?"

you tuck some of your hair back and nod, not meeting his eyes. he nods too, just once, and leads you out of the room your group is in. stiles hopes he can remember correctly, that his research wasn't in vain and that exhibit that he knew you'd like was here. down a couple more huge halls filled with people, past the food court. you never asked where he was taking you, just looked around and followed closely behind.

there. a sign, in loopy writing with an arrow pointing to the left. stiles followed it and found the entrance, lit with pretty fairy lights and a huge sign above the door.

botanical garden.

he opens the door and lets you in first, but you don't step in; meeting his eyes instead, hesitating, and open your mouth to say something. but then you decide against it and go in, stiles following close behind.

it's gorgeous.

a greenhouse of sorts, with all kinds of flowers blooming all over. you lead the way, walking slowly and drinking in the sights and smells of the garden. stiles thinks you look radiant next to the spurts of color, complimenting them like you came with the garden itself. he watches you admire the different plants as you walk deeper into the garden, reaching the door that leads to the outdoor area slowly.

the two of you step outside and are blown away with the beauty of the garden. it's colorful and bright, doused in the scent of the flowers and sounding of the fountain in the water. once you start walking the path again, stiles musters up the bit of courage he might still possess and speaks up.

"i was an asshole last night."

you glance up at him, but continue walking silently.

"i lied to you, and i was wrong to do that. i'm sorry."

you stop abruptly, stiles skittering to a halt beside you and blinking down at your narrowed eyes.

"right. but you still let me sleep in your bed with full knowledge that you were going to... to... romance another girl the next day, and i don't think that's right."

he grinds his teeth and swallows. "i wasn't-i'm not going to romance another girl. can't you...?" he huffs, scruffing up his hair in frustraion.

"then who was the jewelry for?" you demand, stepping forward to accuse him more passionately. "looked awfully important, and don't try telling me it was anyone else's, stiles. i saw your name on the box. i mean, seriously, what kind of a lie-"

"it's you." the fountain erupts in a beautiful spurt of water beside the two of you. the confession comes out of stiles before he means it to, and it's not as lengthy and wordy as he pictured it. "it's always been you. really, seriously. always. i mean, you're so passionate and honest and funny and kind. are you kidding me? another girl? it's laughable. i've... i'm... it's you."

you stare up at stiles as he pleads at you with his eyes, filled with longing and need and want that goes unfulfilled without you. he's breathing a bit heavy as he watches you part your lips.

"me?"

he nods, eyebrows upturned, and fishes around his pocket before pulling out the small black box that caused him so much anguish. handing over, he urges you. "open it."

you do, pulling the lid off gently and peering down at what stiles has been hiding from you. a gasp leaves your lips as you pull out the small, gorgeous necklace that has your favorite flower dangling from the chain. you admire it for a long moment, leaving stiles to hold his breath and pray you don't throw it in the lake and run.

instead, you meet his eyes and he can see the tears brimming at the corners. "stiles. tell me it's not just a gift."

"no, no, no no no no-don't, don't cry." he panics, unsure of the cause of your emotional state as he rushes forward to cup your cheeks and swipe the tears as they begin to roll down your face. "it's not just a gift, it's a confession. i like you. so much. every day i wake up and i wish you were next to me. i constantly think about you, your hair and your eyes and your mind and your smile. i feel so... so home with you. please don't cry."

"they're good tears." you laugh and lean into one of his hands, sniffling. "i like you too, stiles. i just... i was so scared it was for another girl, i can't believe i was a bitch over nothing."

"you reacted just like i would, honestly. i should've just fessed up. i'm so sorry." he leans forward and presses his forehead to yours. "please forgive me."

"i do." you whisper immediately, warm in his hands. he sighs with relief and lets his eyes fall closed for a moment, drinking in the comfortable silence with you.

"let me put it on you?" he asks, heart still hammering from the leap he finally, finally took. how did he wait so long? having you like this is the best thing he's ever felt.

you hand him the necklace wordlessly and turn around, lifting your hair. he loops the pretty chain around your neck and clips it in the back, letting it fall against your skin. when you turn back to face him and show it off, asking a timid "how does it look?" he has to remember how to speak.

"it's perfect."

stiles leans forward slowly, giving you time to move. when you don't, he cups a hand around your neck and pulls you close, kissing you softly. he hears the box fall to the ground as you kiss back, arms looping around his neck and foot kicking up like it does in the movies. you fit just right against him, like you were made for each other. stiles tucks that thought away and pulls back, admiring your beautiful, just-kissed blush.

after a long pause, you break into a smile and stiles matches it, both of you giggling softly.

"oh my god, we're both idiots." you laugh, kissing his cheek sweetly. he hums in agreement and leans down, kissing the pendant that sits on your sternum. you swallow the giddy squeal that a young, newly-crushing you wants to emit from years prior. stiles pulls you close by the waist and smiles down at you, eyes darting between your lips and your eyes.

"does this mean i finally get to be your boyfriend?" he teases, a dopey grin he always seems to have with you melting your heart.

"i dunno," you pretend to think. "are you gonna lie to avoid having feelings around me?"

"gahhh," he throws his head back and groans. "am i ever gonna live that down?"

"nope!" you laugh and kiss his exposed neck. "you're really not."

"that's okay," he leans down again, lining up for another kiss. "as long as i get to keep doing this."

somehow, it's sweeter than the last, and the hand stiles doesn't have on your waist is pulling you closer gently by the pendant around your neck.

☆

allison and scott cheer like they just won a lacrosse game when you and stiles show up twenty minutes later than you were supposed to with your hands connected and silly smiles on your faces.

"we did it!" allison squeals, pulling scott in for a hug. "we're matchmakers!"

"we're so good at this, babe!" scott kisses all over his girlfriend's face and makes her laugh loudly. stiles raises an eyebrow at the couple.

"if by 'matchmakers' you mean threatening, stealing, lying, and emotionally manipulating-then yes, you two are fantastic at this." he drawls, making your eyes go wide as you hear everything they did to your (now) boyfriend. your eyes meet a guilty allison as her and scott begin to back away slowly.

"you two did what?!"

☆

heyyyyy guysss........ i feel so bad for taking so long omg. and this isn't even good enough in my eyes for the time it took!! i'm sorry i've been so inactive! i'm going to (hopefully) get the train back on track after this bad boy gets out and about. love you all, keep requesting lovely lovely dob characters! or just pop by and say hi, words of affirmation work better on me than they should (praise kink) (jk) (not jk) (but jk if it makes you uncomfortable)!

♡ 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!:)

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!!

college art donaldson !!!

maybe something about him , tashi , reader , and patrick all being in a friend group at while in college. maybe patrick comes down to visit tashi and suggest an idea where they drive down to the beach and rent a beach house for a few days or something. while they’re there tashi and patrick start arguing leaving reader and patrick alone.

change whatever if u need to but js anything with college art , please !!

so i took a million years and definitely wrote too much but. finally. FINALLY. thank you sm for this request, i hope you like it :)

☆

beach trip

pairing: art donaldson (challengers, 2024) / afab reader [gender not specified]

word count: 3.9K

warnings & info: 18+, afab reader, NOT beta read lol (but nothing of mine ever is), college era art my love, friends to lovers, art and reader swim in their underwear lol, reader wears a bra, reader likes swimming, first time together, oral sex (reader receiving), p in v sex, safe sex (condom moment), art is a munch

summary: A group beach weekend sounded great- until Tashi and Patrick spent the whole drive bickering and the whole first night moments from pouncing on each other. Looks like you and Art will have to keep each other company.

☆

“Don’t let him scare you, he’s shit at board games. And card games. Just like he’s shit at tennis.”

You just blinked, eyes darting to Patrick to see how he’d react to Tashi’s dig. The nervous laugh to your left let you know Art was just as unsure as you were.

When Patrick had come to visit Tashi and suggested all four of you take a trip to a rental beach house, you knew being in close quarters with the both of them for a full 3 days would be interesting, at the least. You weren’t about to pass up on the beach trip, though- not when Patrick was covering the rent.

What you didn’t know was that they would be argue-flirting the entire way there, and every moment since you’d all arrived. It made sense, though- between Tashi rooming with you, Patrick not having a room since he wasn’t a Stanford student, and his long stretches between visits, they hadn’t had any time alone in a little over 2 months.

Their flirting was always a little angry- little jabs and remarks that would have made you wince if you were the target. For them, it just made the other’s eyes linger on their partner's lips for a little too long.

Patrick licked his lips before he responded. “Do you ever talk about anything else?” He asked, a lazy half smile on his face.

Tashi’s comeback was almost immediate: “Not like you give me anything else to talk about.” She leaned back on her hands, eyes raking over him from top to bottom.

Patrick seemed to enjoy the scrutiny. He leaned forward, that lazy smirk changing into a playful grin. “Yeah? I got something I could give you right now.”

Alright. That was your sign to go.

When you turned to Art, brows raised, he was already looking at you. You glanced from him to the door and back. You knew Patrick and Tashi would be on each other any second now, whether you two left or not, and you really didn’t want to get caught up in it.

Art nodded.

Your “I think I’m gonna call it a night” and Art’s “Uh, me too” fell on deaf ears as you two scrambled out of the room. Art had barely shut the door behind himself before you could hear those two pounce on each other, the board game you’d been playing definitely scattered and forgotten.

It made you snicker, like a middle school boy. One glance at Art and he was laughing too, a hand over his mouth, his red stanford baseball cap the only thing keeping his hair from falling into his eyes as he shook.

More noises from the room- a crash, then the dull thud of something falling to the carpet. You winced through your grin, then made your way down the hall toward the front porch, beckoning Art to follow you.

Outside, you placed your arms on the railing, leaning entirely on the rickety wood. In the cool night air, you couldn’t hear your roommate and her boyfriend getting it on like animals. You didn’t blame them, even if the angry flirting style wasn’t for you. If you had a partner who was always away, you knew you’d jump on them the moment they were in sight.

You glanced over as Art joined you, mimicking your posture. You knew there was a point, early freshman year, when he’d liked Tashi. It was hard to ignore how his smile dropped when he’d watch Patrick and Tashi reunite, thinking no one was watching. And you always recognized how lost he looked when he stared at her while the three of you had lunch- after all, you looked at him the same way.

Recently, though- over the year and a half you’d known the three of them- he was easing up on it. His smiles lingered long after he thought everyone had looked away. He didn’t even notice when Tashi walked into the cafeteria until you waved her down to sit with you guys. And now, next to you, he was grinning at their antics instead of grimacing.

He seemed to be over it. If only you could be so lucky.

“Like… animals,” Art said, glancing over at you. You were caught so off guard, you didn’t even remember to pretend you hadn’t been staring.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” You laughed, grinning. “They definitely needed that. Did you hear them in the back of the car on the way down here?”

Art groaned. “Oh my god, I thought they were gonna go at it right there.” He brought his voice an octave higher, lifting his chin in an imitation of Tashi that could’ve also passed for royalty- what was the difference, really. “‘You eat like shit. No wonder you play the same.’”

Immediately, you dropped your voice, giving him a coy side smirk and raising one eyebrow. “‘I’ll tell you what I’d rather eat.’”

The two of you doubled over, howling in laughter. Then, another crash from inside. Escaping them was going to be harder than you thought.

“You wanna head down to the water?” Art asked.

“Sure,” you said, smiling wide when he gave you a mock bow and let you lead the way.

The roar of the waves was comforting as you got closer, sand covering your bare feet- neither of you remembered to grab shoes- and the salty air filling your nose. The walk was silent, and the few minutes you spent standing at the edge of the ocean was, too. You watched it reach out toward you, then retreat back into the glittering blue-black. At some point, you closed your eyes.

“I’ve never swam in the ocean.”

Your eyes snapped open. Art was still looking out at the water, head tilted like an inquisitive puppy. The wind fought to ruffle the few curls that peaked out from under his hat. “Never?” You asked.

Art shook his head. “We didn’t really go when I was a kid, and I was way too scared, anyway. Then when I went with friends it was more about beach volleyball and drinking than actually swimming.” He looked over at you, then laughed. “I’m guessing from your face right now, you must love swimming in the ocean.”

You closed your mouth, which you hadn’t realized had fallen open, and shook your head. “Do I?” His incredulous head shake made you smile. A beat of silence. “Are you still scared of it?”

He took a moment to answer, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then he shrugged. “I don’t know. Not too scared to try, I guess.”

“Alright, wanna try?”

Art just tilted his head at you. You gestured toward your clothes, then the ocean, then to him. You could see it in his face when he caught on. “I’m not going in alone.”

You only took a second to think about it before you were tugging your t-shirt off and tossing it on the sand between you two. Your shorts came soon after. You already had one foot in the water when Art called your name, laughing so hard he could barely say it.

You shrieked at the cold as it hit your stomach, then sunk down to your shoulders, getting the shock over with all together. When you turned back toward the sand, you saw a shirtless Art running toward you in his boxers, moonlight tracing his chest and shoulders. He still had that fucking hat on. It made you grin.

He didn’t shriek when he hit the water, but he did take a lengthy inhale. You watched as he held his nose, screwed his eyes shut, and dunked himself up to his head. His hat bobbed just above the surface, and you picked it up and put it on yourself.

When he came back up, he shook his head, wet hair sending droplets flying. Art grinned, wiping water from his eyes and pointing at the hat on your head. “Thief.”

You rolled your eyes. “Next time I’ll just let it float away then, idiot.” It only made him grin harder. You waved your arms back and forth through the water, the cold easier to ignore when you moved. “So?”

“Hm?”

“Still scared?”

Again, he thought about it for a moment. “No, actually. I think I’m okay.”

You hummed, bringing a finger to your chin in mock deep thought. “What if there are sharks? I think you should be scared of sharks, probably.”

“Nah.” Art shook his head. “The sharks should be afraid of me. I’m the scariest thing here.” He lifted his arms out of the water to flex comically, chin lifted in comical pride.

You laughed, splashing him, making him yelp. “Okay, sure, macho man.”

“What, don’t believe me?”

You shrugged, a smirk tugging at your lips.

Before you knew it, Art had his arms around your middle, lifting you and dunking you in the water back first, like a baptism. You had all of two seconds to scream, then shut your eyes and mouth. He let you up immediately, wading away from you and toward the sand as you resurfaced, spluttering.

“Donaldson!” you shouted, though your serious tone was undermined by your beaming face. Somehow, his hat stayed on your head.

He’d gotten a little ways away from you, but you still had the advantage- you swam in the ocean every chance you got.

You surged toward him, biting back a cackle as his eyes widened in fear. You grabbed his shoulders, pushing off him and shoving him under the waves. He stayed under for a second- then two, then three, until you vaguely started to worry- before jumping out in front of you, wrapping his arms around your torso and making you all but scream.

“Holy shit!” You were giggling, wrapping your arms around Art’s neck for stability. “Isn’t it fun in here? You’ve been missing out.”

He didn’t respond for a moment, so you met his eyes. You hadn’t realized how close you were. It seemed like the realization was hitting him, too, as his eyes scanned your face. He glanced from your eyes to your lips and back. Despite the breeze and the water, your skin was suddenly very warm. You could feel every point where his body touched yours.

You knew what was happening- you could sense it. At least, you were pretty sure you knew. It’s the only thing that could come next, right?

… Maybe you were reading it wrong.

You hesitated. Then, suddenly, “God, it’s cold,” and you kicked off of him to dunk yourself in the water one more time, resurfacing a couple steps away and wading onto shore. When you looked back at him, you could almost convince yourself that the same disappointment that filled your chest was written on his face. “Come on!” You called cheerfully, and Art started after you, replacing the look with an amused smile.

You both put your clothes back on, if only to shield yourselves from some of the breeze on the short walk back. You were both silent as you neared the house, as you walked down the halls. Neither of you even remarked on how Tashi and Patrick had finally gone silent. When Art got to his door and stopped, though, you turned to him.

“Goodnight,” you said, willing your voice to sound less defeated than you felt. Your hands fiddled with the hem of your soaked shirt.

Art nodded. That look was back in his eyes, the one that looked just how you felt. “Goodnight.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The shower was much needed and very welcomed. You took your time getting sand off of you as best as you could, working the water into your hair (you’d wash it tomorrow- you weren’t going through that whole workout this late). When you stepped out of the hot water, toweling yourself off, your eyes caught on the red Stanford baseball cap on the sink counter. You bit your lip and walked past it, into the connecting bedroom you were calling yours for the weekend.

Pajamas on, you sat at the edge of your bed, scrunching your hair mostly dry with a spare t-shirt you’d packed just for that. The crash of the ocean enveloped you through the open window.

You thought about it. About his arms around you and his chest against yours. About the way he’d looked at you and you’d known exactly what he was going to do. About his face when you’d second guessed yourself and ran away.

Fuck. Why did you run away?

When you got up and walked to the door, you grabbed the hat from the bathroom counter. You told yourself you were only going to return it, but something in the back of your mind laughed at your excuse.

You had just gotten to the door, lifting a hesitant hand to knock, when it swung open and you were met with a flushed, freshly showered, boxers-and-t-shirt clad Art Donaldson.

The two of you stared for a moment. You didn’t see the disappointment in his eyes anymore, but there was still something there. You were sure it was on your face, too.

You cleared your throat. “Hat,” you said, intelligently.

Art glanced at the hat in your slightly raised hand, then nodded. His eyes came back up to meet yours, then darted down to your lips. He opened his mouth and hesitated. “Do you wanna-”

You pushed forward, pressing your lips to his for just a moment, before pulling back, searching his eyes. He didn’t give you too long to think about what you’d just done, his hands flying to your waist, pulling you back toward him and kissing you again. Hard.

Art yanked you into the room, and you dropped the hat, the door shutting as he pushed you up against it. His hands found their way under your sleep shirt, settling on your bare waist, and one of yours cupped his cheek while the other thread through his hair. You tugged gently at the curls, and he sighed your name into your mouth.

You pulled back just long enough to murmur, “Bed?”

He obliged, grabbing your hand to lead you to the corner bed. His rental room was similar to yours, save for a warm, dull bedside lamp on, barely illuminating the room.

You both crawled onto the bed on your knees, leaning forward to pick up where you’d left. Art’s hands played with the hem of your shirt and you helped him lift it off of you. His shirt went next. He cupped your breasts tentatively, thumbs brushing over your nipples, his face watching yours like he wanted to see if he was doing this right. You pulled him back in for another kiss and bit his lip. He groaned.

“Lay back,” he murmured against your mouth.

You did as told, scooting up the bed and falling into his pillows. They smelled mostly of the air freshener the owner of the beach house had doused it with, but the vague hint of Art’s cologne permeated the room.

He kissed you again, holding himself up over you. He placed kisses down your neck, your shoulders, your collarbone. As one of his hands came to rest between your legs, pressing against you between your pants and underwear, he placed his mouth on one of your nipples. He bit at it gently, sucking immediately to make up for the hurt and moving his hand against you. Your breath stuttered and grew heavy, lips parting, as he moved to your other nipple.

Art pressed a kiss to your stomach next, trailing lower, eyes closed. You watched as he murmured against your skin, “You don’t know how fucking long I’ve wanted this.”

“Yeah?” ‘Sex with me or eating me out specifically?’ you wanted to ask. Instead, you bit your lip and watched him hook his fingers into the waistband of your pants and underwear, pulling them down together and tossing them on the floor. He pressed alternating kisses to each of your thighs, inching closer and closer. You could barely hear your voice when you asked, “Why didn’t you do anything?”

A shiver ran through you, partially from the vulnerability and cool air, partially from the way Art was looking at you- reverent. Devout. “I couldn’t imagine I’d be lucky enough.”

You wanted to say something back- something clever and sweet to let him know just how easily he could have had you- but his mouth was on you in less than a second, and all that you could do was let out an odd cross between a huff and a whine.

His tongue pressed flat against you- eager, almost desperate, like you were an oasis in the desert. His nose bumped your clit as he bobbed his head, switching between long strokes and focusing on sucking your clit. “Shit,” you whispered, your hand threading through his hair. He fell into a rhythm, the consistent vulgar noises of his mouth against you filling the room alongside your gasps and whines.

When his tongue pushed into you, your eyes screwed shut. “Fuck, Art,” you said, barely gripping his hair and faintly hoping that it wasn’t painful for him. He only whined at his name, a desperate noise, and pushed his face impossibly deeper. “I’ll- I’ll come if you keep-” You cut yourself off with a groan.

Art pulled back just enough to say, “I want you to. Please, let me taste it.” Immediately, his mouth was back on you, like he couldn’t keep himself away for long. You would’ve playfully chided him for being so filthy had you not been busy gripping his hair and letting curses fly.

You let your head fall back, hips rolling on their own accord, and he only adapted and let you ride his face and bring yourself to the edge. You came with a loud cry, thighs pressing in on his head, back lifting just slightly off the bed. Art didn’t back off as your high subsided, continuing until you’d come down and were laying there, panting.

You pushed yourself up to a sitting position, then pulled Art back up onto the bed. His eyes were glossy, much like the majority of his face, covered in you and his own spit. You put your hands on his cheeks, ignoring the sticky feeling and pulling him in for a rough kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue.

One of your hands wandered, trailing down his chest and coming to rest at the front of his boxers, palming him. He groaned.

“I wanna fuck you,” you said, pulling away to look him in the eye.

Art huffed a laugh. “You can’t say that to me. I’m not gonna last at all.”

That caught you off guard, and you laughed. “What?”

He shrugged coyly, almost smug as if his cheeks weren’t still flushed and glistening from his time spent between your legs. “I’m, like, halfway there already.”

Just from eating you out and a little petting? That was… surprisingly hot.

You told him as much, relishing in how deeply he flushed and how widely he grinned. You made him lie back on the bed. “Condoms?” You asked.

He nodded toward his bedside, to the backpack leaning against the nightstand. You raised an eyebrow at him before leaning off the bed to grab one. All he offered you was a shy smile.

You kissed his chest, making your way down to his waistband, and he watched, propped up on his elbows, like he was sure if he took his eyes off you you’d disappear. When you pulled down his boxers and tossed them aside, you wasted no time ripping the condom wrapper open and rolling it on.

Getting up on your knees, you hovered over him and lined your hips up with his. You gave him a quick glance. “This okay?”

He nodded, eagerly, and you could’ve broken at the sight. You sank onto him, gasping slightly at the sensation. Art watched your face, open mouthed, eyes never leaving yours. You almost wanted to look away, but the intensity was riveting.

With him now fully in you, you gave yourself a moment to adjust, hands settling on his chest as he gripped your thighs. You gave your hips an experimental push forward.

Art let out a groan that sounded somewhat like “Fuck” and “Ugh” put together. You repeated the motion, your mouth opening softly as you watched his eyes flutter open and shut. It was like he was struggling between giving into the feeling and watching you.

You increased your pace, head falling forward as you lifted your hips with each push. Art’s hands moved to grip your ass, eyes focused on you, little pants and whimpers escaping him as you moved. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured. You would’ve responded in kind, but he bucked his hips moments after and your head fell back with a moan.

With your hands now supporting you from behind, gripping the sheets, you rolled your hips with each lift. Art let out a particularly pathetic whine, and you grinned through your heavy breathing, gazing at him with heavily lidded eyes. “Close?” He nodded, his expression so desperate that you were sure he was right on the edge. You could feel yourself right behind him. “Cum for me then,” you panted.

Art groaned, one hand moving to press sloppy circles against your clit. You forced yourself to keep your eyes open, wanting to see his face as his orgasm hit him. His eyebrows were furrowed, lips parted as he panted and he whimpered. When his orgasm came, his eyes shut and he cried out, gripping you tightly and continuing to rub your clit, hips bucking into you involuntarily. You were only a second behind, “Fuck, Art!” the only thing you could say before your hips stuttered and your second orgasm washed over you.

Slowly, you came to a stop, panting and barely keeping yourself up. Your head was light, and you couldn’t wipe an exhausted smile off your face. When you finally felt like your arms wouldn’t give out, you lifted yourself off of him, collapsing on the bed between him and the wall, catching your breath.

Art removed the condom, tying it off and throwing it in the trash before turning to face you. His breathing was much more regular, but his chest still heaved. “...Fuck,” he said.

And you laughed, one arm over your eyes, the other clutching your stomach. “Yeah?”

He was grinning at you when your arm moved off your eyes, then leaning in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your collar bone, your cheek. “Yeah,” he murmured. Silence fell over you both as you watched him intertwine your fingers and stare at them. His lip twitched, like he was working up the courage to say something. “I meant it, you know. I wanted this- you- I’ve liked you for… a while.”

You hummed, now suddenly also very interested in your intertwined fingers. “‘Liked,’ past tense? All done now?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, dumb-ass.” You smacked his arm, glancing up to find him looking at you now. “Like. Still. And probably will for a while.”

You felt your face warm. You kissed him. “I like you, too. Still do. Will for a while, etcetera.”

“Thank fucking god,” he said, and you couldn’t help but snort a laugh. When Art kissed you again, you could feel his smile against your lips, and you were sure he could feel yours.

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"

Ok so this might be an odd request but I’ve been really sad about the fact that the network vetoed bisexual Reid so I was wondering if you could write boyfriend Spencer coming out to reader and just having it be really sweet and fluffy??

this is the cutest. great minds are bisexual reid truthers. i am honored to do this for the tumblr community and the world at large

warnings/tags: potentially VERY slight internalized homophobia from spencer if u squintttt but he's just nervous that's all!! my boyfriend has never done anything wrong in his life!! fem reader

“My type is you,” you say sweetly, angling your head up to look at your boyfriend. The two of you have been laying on the couch for the better part of an evening, (more accurately, he’s on the couch, you’re on him) talking about nothing and everything. Somehow the conversation has meandered to this—him asking you what your type in men is, of all things. 

“What a convenient answer,” Spencer teases, pushing your hair away from your face. You laugh, leaning into the warmth of his touch. 

“I mean it! I don’t think I ever really got what all the excitement was about men until I met you.”

He hums, a satisfied little smile on his face. “That’s very flattering.”

“What about you?”

His brows dart up. 

“What’s my type in men?”

An inadvertent laugh bubbles from your throat—slowly going stale in the air while you watch as Spencer actually flushes. It dawns on you with a splash of anxiety and a generous helping of guilt that maybe it’s not exactly a joke to him. You attempt to play it off casually, keeping your tone even but receptive. 

“Well, I meant in women. But, if you have a type in men, by all means, tell me.”

Hazel eyes dart between yours as his hand continues carding through your hair—and then he’s looking away, studying the wall behind you like there’s more there than faded green paint. 

Silences stretches as you chew on the inside of your cheek, worried you’ve somehow said the wrong thing. You wriggle higher up his body and gently grab his wrist, interrupting what you suspect is a self-soothing motion. 

“Hey,” you murmur, pulling his hand to your lips and pressing them to his knuckles. “Come back.”

Finally he looks at you again, mildly surprised like you’d tugged him from the very depths of his thoughts. But his eyes are soft, grazing his his fingers over your lips. 

“I’m right here.”

“You know what I mean.” The words are gentle. His thumb catches on your bottom lip and you nip at it playfully, trying to lighten his suddenly heavy mood. It’s hard to tell if it works—he continues tracing your lips absentmindedly, biting his own. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and wavers ever so slightly, the way it does in the rare instance that he’s not 100% sure of himself or what he’s talking about. 

“I was thinking about your question.” You don’t dare speak for fear opening your mouth will somehow break whatever self-hypnosis is keeping him honest. “I don’t have a specific type. In women. Or… or men.”

His voice is so fragile that you have to run it back in your mind a few times to process what he’d said. Several layers of clothing do nothing to dull the rapid drumming of his heartbeat against your chest. And your poor boyfriend looks so scared during the moment of silence while you’re thinking that it breaks your heart. He needs a sign, something to reassure him that it’s okay, before he backtracks and dissociates entirely. Delicately your hand slides up the side of his neck and jaw. You crane your neck to press a long kiss to his flushed cheek. It’s okay, you’re okay. We’re okay. The world is still turning. His chest rises and falls slowly in a deep, silent sigh. 

“I love you,” you remind him once you pull away, wiping away the slight sheen of chapstick your kiss had left. He catches your hand, wrapping it in his larger one. The guarded look in his eye does a poor job of concealing how badly he wants to please you, and everyone, and how scared he is that maybe this was the wrong answer. That maybe this is just another way he is not quite right, and you’ll tell him so, just like everyone else always has. 

“You’re not—you don’t have anything to say?”

Gentle fingers brush away invisible tears under his eyes, sweeping over the skin with the utmost care. He’s not crying, but you imagine at one point or another he had, and since you weren’t there to wipe away the tears then, maybe you can make up for it by being here now. 

“Is it something you want to talk about?” you ask, fingers still skimming over the angular plane and valley of his cheek. The darting of his eyes between yours, the slight furrow of his brow, the pressed-together lips—he’s profiling you. Trying to extract your thoughts through osmosis. 

“I… I’ve never told anyone before.”

Your stomach twists. You hate that there’s any part of him he feels he has to hide—and that he’s done it for so long. 

“Well I’m glad you told me, angel.” 

His eyes are like warm honey as he looks up at you, dulling that sharp, defensive edge as the endearment slips past your lips. Usually it’s the other way around, and you hope it soothes him even half as much as it always does for you. 

A surprised laugh is expelled from your lungs when he pulls you down into a crushing hug. Immediately, gleefully, you reciprocate, pushing your arms under his waist and tangling your legs with his, holding on ferociously and for dear life. His face is buried in the hollow of your neck, so you have to assume that much like you, he’s picked this over oxygen. 

“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he breathes, lips brushing your neck and hair. Muffled, because there’s no space between you. Your eyes sting and tear up almost immediately. A joke forms on the tip of your tongue; low bar? But you bite it back, unsure if you can manage persuasive sarcasm in this moment. “And, for the record, you are the most beautiful human being I have ever met in my life. Nobody else has or will ever come close.”

You laugh tearfully into his collar. “Spencer, I’m not worried about that.”

“I know you’re not,” he says, finally coming up for air. You do the same, laying on his shoulder contentedly and looking into his eyes. “But I’m telling you anyway because it’s true and I want you to hear it.”

A contemplative moment passes, and you wonder how it’s possible to be falling even more in love with him. You’d thought you already loved him as much as any human being had ever been capable of doing. You hope love has no end. You hope you keep falling deeper and deeper forever. 

“You should know something,” you say, looking down to toy with the collar of his shirt. He hums. 

“What should I know, angel girl?”

“You should know that I’m still going to fight anyone who tries to flirt with you. I don’t care if it’s a six five body builder or a seventy year old woman with a walker. You’re gonna have to hold me back.”

A bemused smile tugs at his lips. 

“You would physically fight an elderly woman?”

“Or a six five body builder,” you agree. Spencer faces the ceiling like he’s watching the scene play out. 

“Okay,” he snorts. “I don’t love that, but okay.”

“It’s what you signed up for,” you mumble, snuggling back into him. His hand finds the back of your head and tangles comfortably in your hair once more. 

“You’re right. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”