pretty little thing..

Time seems to have slipped through your fingers over the past year. Your mom got married seemingly out of nowhere after years of girlbossing her way through being a single mother. The relationship made her happy, though, and that’s all you really cared about. Her husband, your new stepdad, turned out to be a decent guy. He’s nice—not awkward around you like you had anticipated. Probably because he has a kid of his own. Learning that you’d have to get used to having a ‘brother’ was a little weird, especially when you found out he was only two years younger than yourself. You assumed, being a teenage boy and all, he’d be a jerk. However, when you met him, you were pleasantly surprised. Art. He was polite and greeted you with a warm, lopsided grin. Still, when you moved into the Donaldson household, your interactions with Art remained brief and awkward. As polite as he was, it didn’t change the fact that you still felt like complete strangers forced under one roof.

Then Art’s nineteenth birthday rolled around. You hadn’t actually intended on sticking around for the party, but your mom insisted it would be rude not to. The living room was adorned with decorations and the sound of laughter and chatter filled the air. Lingering at the edge of the room, feeling out of place among Art's friends, you fidget with the hem of your dress. An ugly and unfamiliar feeling of envy bubbles up in your gut as you watch him. Never before have you wanted to be the center of attention - it's just not your style. But something about the way Art laughs and preens under the focus of his tennis academy friends makes you go green with jealousy. Strange. These people mean nothing to you, infact you'd go as far as to say you don't like half the guests here. Their voices grate on your nerves, their backwards fuckboy hats and rich kid laughs, it's insufferable. So why do you yearn to be at the center of it all? It doesn't even occur to you that you might not want to be the one in the middle of it all - but rather the one receiving all of Art's attention.

All of a sudden the room feels too warm, the noise too loud. You drift towards the kitchen, seeking a moment of solitude. As you reach for a soda from the fridge, you hear footsteps behind you. Turning, you see Art standing there, his expression unreadable. "Hey" he speaks softly, almost inaudible over the chatter and music from the other room. "Having fun?"

"Oh, yeah" you nod, trying your best to sound convincing "happy birthday, by the way"

"Thanks"

And here comes the uncomfortable silence you've become so acquainted to. Art shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between your eyes and the floor. The noise from the party seems to fade into the background, leaving only tense energy hanging in the air. He's not used to seeing you in makeup, or seeing you at all really... it leaves him confused and flustered. He thought he'd be over the way his heart palpatates whenever you're around. It was just hormones, right? There's no way he could let himself actually start to fall for you, no matter how pretty you are. It's wrong.

The air between you feels charged, as if there's something unsaid hanging in the space. Art shifts his weight, looking away momentarily before meeting your gaze again. "Listen," he starts, his voice low and hesitant. "I've been meaning to say..." Before he can finish, your mom's voice interrupts from across the room, calling for Art to join in the birthday toast. He shoots you a quick apologetic look before hurrying off, leaving you standing there - stunned by the encounter.

Almost reluctantly, you rejoin the party in the living room. Your stepdad holds out a tray, with what you think is the biggest cake you're ever seen on it, candles ablaze and casting Art's face in a hazy glow. A chorus of "happy birthday to you-" fills the house as guests begin to sing. You don't join in. It feels like you're a ghost, watching the living carry out their traditions while all you can do is stare. He looks so happy, eyes crinkled and nose scrunched as he smiles for a picture, one of his friends leaning over to photo-bomb. Watching Art blow out the candles, smoke casting faint ephemeral swirls in the air, you sigh to yourself and decide it's time for bed.

With your social battery drained, you plod sluggishly to the bathroom. Too lazy for a proper routine, you resort to washing your makeup off with soap and water. You're skin won't be thanking you in the morning. Pulling your dress up to pee, then remembering you have underwear on, you grumble incoherently and kick them off into the corner. Maybe it's the bad mood your're in or maybe it's the exhaustion of tangling with your emotions all night - but either way you forget to pick them back up on the way out. You don't even bother taking the dress off when you get to your room, crawling under the covers and knocking out cold upon impact with the pillows.

There are multiple bathrooms in the Donaldson household, and despite that Art still ends up going to the same one you used. Call it fate. Or the universe playing a sick joke. When he first spots the item of clothing his brain almost misses it. Then he realises there are only two women in this house and he doubts your nom is the type of lady to be wearing harley quinn print panties, much less leave them lying around. A combination of curiosity and guilt fight for control of his brain and in the end, against his better judgment, he pockets them. He glances over his shoulder repeatedly as he makes his way through the hall, feeling like a wanted criminal.

Making a pitstop to his bedroom, Art stashes the stolen item under his pillow for safekeeping before returning downstairs. Patrick immediately notices the absence behind his friends blue eyes, mind wandering off to dirty thoughts. "Dude, what's wrong with you? Have you even been listening to anything I was saying?"

"Huh? Yeah, yeah. Obviously I have" Art lies.

"Really? Cos' if you had, you'd probably have punched me by now" Patrick smirks, the way he always does when he catches Art in a lie.

"What?"

"I was just saying how hot your sister is-"

"She's not my sister" Art cuts in defensively.

And that’s all Patrick needs. He can read the situation in an instant. And Art knows he knows. Especially when that smirk turns into a full on cheshire smile, full of mischief and chaos. "You perv!" Pat scoffs but he sounds way more proud than he should, "you totally wanna fuck your stepsister"

"Dude, no! You got it all wrong- plus we're , like, barley even family!"

"Wow. I mean, wow Art. I thought I was gonna have to do some convincing but you did all the work for me"

Almost heasitantly, Art asks "What are you talking about?"

"You. Her. You know. It'd be hot, right? And you need to get laid. I'm sick of being the only one getting pussy, you gotta lose your v card before starting at Stanford"

At a loss for words, Art glances around to ensure nobody else heard what Patrick had just said. "Are you- are you serious? You want me to, to..." he trails off, unable to even voice it. "Why? So you don't have to hang out with your 'virgin loser' friend?"

"Pretty much, yeah" Pat shrugs, like nothing he said was abnormal.

"You know what? No. This isn't a conversation" Art huffs, waving his hands in dismissal before walking off. How could his closest friend even suggest something so grotesque? Then he recalls the used panties waiting for him under his pillow... would it be so wrong just to fantasise? Yes! It would. This is just Patrick getting in his head.

A couple hours later Art has his hand wrapped around his dick, the gusset of your underwear pressed to his nose. Everyone finally left and he got to slink off to bed, at last. He was just gonna go to sleep. Honest. He didn't mean for this to happen! But he just couldn't stop thinking about it. You're everything he can't have and more. It's exciting. His dick jumps as he inhales, imagining you sitting on his face. A quiet whine slips past his lips as he gathers precome from his tip and traces it down his shaft. A hot flush flowers across his chest and neck as he gets an idea, pulling the fabric from his face down to his cock. He lines himself up with the slight damp patch and ruts into the material, pretending like he's rubbing against your clothed cunt.

Lost in euphoria, he almost forgets to feel shame for how pathetic he's being. What kind of freak gets off using his sisters underwear? Maybe Patrick was right. Maybe being a virgin was getting to him, leaving him all pent up and pining for things he knows are dirty and wrong. But it feels too good to stop now. Without thought his motions speed up until he's cumming into the fabric surrounding his cock. "Fuck!" Art growls when he doesn't go soft, he keeps stroking himself, his cum acting as an extra lubricant, sticky shlick noises filling the room paired with heavy pants and whines.

And then his bedroom door swings open, which he almost doesn't notice until he hears a gasp, "shit! Sorry!" You stutter out, feeling your heart pumping inhumanly fast. You'd woken up still tired and bleary eyed in the middle of the night - stumbling to the bathroom. Only, in your dazed state, you took a wrong turn and ended up barging into the wrong room. Seeing Art with his back arched, desperately pumping his dick, shocled you out of your sleepy stupor in an instant.

"Mph-shit. Jesus!" Art chokes out something between a moan and a cry of horror. He shoots up straight, hurrying to pull the covers over himself. "What, what are you d-" he cuts himself off. How can he have the nerve to be upset with you walking in on him when he was just getting off on the very thought of you? "Sorry. Shit. I'm sorry you had to see that"

Instead of rushing out in disgust or spitting out excuses and apologies, you sort of just gawk for a few seconds. Art's face is a deep scarlet, his body shakes subtly beneath his duvet and his eyes are watering from a combination of pleasure and embarrassment. Your brain plays the image of him fucking his fist in slow motion and something clicks. "Was that my fucking underwear?"

The question comes out more accusatory than you'd planned and Art seems to shrink in on himself like a puppy caught chewing up the furniture. Fear clamps down on him witn a crushing weight and his mouth refuses to open to form a defence. "W- I, uhm, I don't know what your talking about!" God, he curses himself for being such a shitty liar and secondly a complete pervert.

"Show me then" you huff, pushing the door closed behind you and crossing your arms over your chest.

It's unfair how the sight makes his dick twitch. He's still fucking hard despite it all, dripping steadily from his slit like a pathetic slut just because a girl - you, is in his room. "Sh- show you?" He rasps, voice hoarse and shaky.

The silent nod you give is enough confirmation. His fingers tremble as he slowly pulls back the cover, anxiety at an all time high. He anticipates the berating words he knows he deserves. The look of repulsion you'll no doubt wear. But you don't say anything when you look down to his junk. Your face is blank and unchanging while you analyse the situation. Your panties, scrunched around the base of his erection. After what feels like a decade of silence you finally meet his eyes, "why?"

That's the last thing Art expected you to say. Why? Why? Well he supposes he owes you the truth. "I'm sorry, really, really sorry- I just couldn't help myself. I really like you and I know that's weird! So I wasn't gonna say anything but then I found these and-"

He gasps mid sentence when you move towards him and sit on the edge of his bed. Leaning closer and closer, he holds his breath while you examine his fucked out face. "I didn't know I was sharing a home with such a dirty boy"

The words make him shiver, beads of pre dribbling from his tip. "I..." he doesn't know what to say. He almost passes out when you lurch forward and kiss him, teeth clinking together clumsily but fireworks igniting nonetheless. His hands instinctively clutch your waist, digging into your flesh as you tangle your own in his hair. Moaning into your mouth, a vibration bounces along your tongue and tickles the back of your throat. When you pull back, Art chases after your lips with a disappointed mewl. "I'm confused" he murmurs breathlessly "thought you'd be mad... don't you think I'm disgusting?"

You shake your head and and trace a nail along the sharp line of his jaw, "that would make me a hypocrite" you're eyes flick back down to his dick, still leaking and crying out for attention. "Plus it's kinda hot"

Art gulps and watches you examine him. "I really want you" he whispers, "but we shouldn't be doing this"

"Nobody has to know"

He chews his lip nervously, the goody-two-shoes in him squaring up with the devil on his shoulder. "I really like you, fuck, I know it's not right but you're just so beautiful and I don't know what to - ohmygod!" He blurts out the blasphemous phrase when you suddenly flick the pink head of his cock. Pain and pleasure, (mostly pleasure), shoot through his body as his back arches. "Owww" he whines "why'd you do that?"

"You were talking too damn much" you grunt, "just tell me you want me to make you cum. I want to touch you, Art"

"You do? Fuck, okay. I- I want you to" he barley finishes his sentence before you're spitting in your palm and grabbing the base of his cock. He has to bite down on his fist to muffle the obscene sound that follows. "Oh shit! Pleasepleaseplease" in all honesty he doesn't know what he's begging for. It just feels so good. So much better than his own hand ever could be. It's not even like he hasn't had someone else touch his dick before either - he's had his fair share of blowjobs but those were different. Those weren't fueled by months of pining and built up tension. "I'm gomna cum!" He gasps, feeling the telltale tightness in his balls. But then you stop. Much to his dismay.

"Not yet, Artie" you coo, all smiley and smug with the rush of power denying him has given. "I've waited too long for it to be over so quick. I wanna get split open by this fat cock"

The sweet tone of your voice mixed with the bluntness of your words make his head spin. "You want...?"

"To sit on you're pretty dick, baby"

He whines at the nickname and throws his head back into his pillows. Embarrassment creeps up on him once again when he opens his mouth to respond, "I've, uh, I've never had s- never done it before"

Surprise would be putting it lightly. You gawk for a moment and have to practically pick your jaw up off of the floor. "You're a virgin?"

Your reaction only increases the burning shame in Art's chest and he covers his face with an arm. "Dontmakefunofmeee"

"I'm not!" You clarify, rubbing a reassuring circle across his clothed chest "I'm just surprised since you're so, well you know, good looking and the type of guys you hang around with aren't exactly saints"

"I just get nervous... I dunno. Like fingering a girl is different then putting my dick in her. What if I'm not good? What if she's into, like, really rough stuff and being manhandled and all that crap?"

That makes more sense. He's certainly not the 'fuck you into the matress' type. "You need somebody to be gentle with you, sweetheart?" You giggle but an underlying sincerity is evident in the question.

Art nods. You kiss his cheek and hook your fingers under the hem of his crumpled shirt. He complies without needing any verbal instruction, letting you take the clothing item off and toss it aside. "Can I see you?" He asks so gently, eyes lit up like he were staring at the moon herself. To deny such an earnest request would be downright cruel. So of course you shimmy yourself out of your dress, kicking it into the corner and moving to straddle Art's lap.

Involuntary, his hips jerk up to meet the heat between your legs, hands flying to your hips. "Is this okay?" You murmur, stroking a few stray curls back out of his eyes.

"Yeah, more than okay" he breathes, chest rising and falling with the visible effort of keeping himself still. His eyes follow the way you reach down to line him up with your pussy, drooling like a starving animal. As soon as his head presses into the tight, wet hole his whole being starts to shake. "Ssshit!" He hisses through gritted teeth, every muscle in his body seeming to seize with ecstasy.

A mutual echo of moans reverberate around the room as you slide down inch by inch until you're stuffed full with cock. "Haven't felt this full in so long" you comment, brows pinched together in concentration as if you're willing yourself to adjust. All Art can do is whimper in response, lost in the feeling of your tight spongy walls. "Gonna ride you now, that okay?" He nods weakly, lips parted and eyes glazed over.

Slow, steady bouncing motions make his balls clap up against you. Not even the pornographic sounds of skin on skin break him out of his fuge state. The gummy sleeve clamped down on him is too much for his brain to take and in a truly pitiful amount of thrusts, he's shooting his load deep into you without warning. "Ah, ah, c-cu-" he tries and fails to give you a heads up, digging his fingers into your skin hard enough to bruise. When he's finally ridden it out he blinks up at you, pouting, "I'm sorry, that's so- mm, embarrassing, fuck"

He's still fully hard. "It's okay, pussy just makes you a little dumb huh?" And like the agreeable, sweet little thing he is - he nods his head. "We can keep going if you want"

"Yes please" he's quick to answer, moving his hands up to palm at your tits. "Wanna make you cum. Need you to cum on my cock"

A wicked smile graces your lips as you forcefully roll your hips. Art's fat tip pokes into the sensitive spot stopping just before your womb. "Fuck up into me- god! Right there!"

Ever so eager to please, he does exactly as you say, thrusting up into you sloppily. At this point he's moaning loud enough to wake the whole house so you shut him up with an abrupt kiss. You shove your tongue down his throat like you're trying to suffocate him and he accepts and suckles on it like it's his lifeline. His cum is leaking out of you and forming a creamy ring around his length, lewd moist noises overtaking the plap plap plap of his balls slapping against your cunt.

The pair of you are nearly out of air by the time you're clenching around him. You're vision blacks out as you pull back, gasping for air while you're orgasm crashes into you like a bus. Beneath you, Art is cumming for the third time in a row, overstimulation setting his nerves on fire as a burning hot numbness shoots through him. As you both pant, spent and weak, you carefully pull yourself off of his dick and watch in awe as a thick load seeps out and onto Art's stomach.

"That...was..." he rasps, unable to even move, eyes clouded by unwept tears.

"Yeah" you croak, flopping onto your side to lay next to him. Your fingers idly drag through the puddle of mixed cum on his tummy, tracing it futher up his sweaty skin.

"Was I...good?"

An exhausted laugh just manages to escape you, "very. I'll be jealous of all the other girls you're gonna fuck now"

Art feels a pang of offence at the notion. Why would you think he'd want to fuck other girls? He just let you have his first. "I don't wanna fuck other girls"

✫ "see that play?" you say. "his footwork? it's lazy. you're better than that. you just -- you're coasting, art."

✫ he kisses the end of your thighs in response, his fingertips circling the soft skin there. you're wearing his boxers and t-shirt, but he doesn't even deserve to see you in that at the moment, much less his ring.

✫ you close your laptop and leer down at him, hand not stroking his hair, but tangling in it to force his eyes upward, a firm, iron grip. "do you wanna win, art?"

✫ he doesn't, you know he doesn't from his dull pupils, but that bares the question: what does he want? normalcy? ease? and there it is, the striking motivation you've been trying to think of.

✫ you say, "don't you wanna have a baby?" he's been hinting at it for years, since you've gotten married, but you've insisted otherwise. no distractions. but, if it'll give him an endgame...

✫ his lips part and his eyes gleam, cautiously hopeful, like he's approaching the light at the end of a tunnel. "... i thought -- "

✫ "if you keep playing for that open, i'll give you a baby."

✫ he's fully upright now, elbow resting on the mattress as he gazes up at you. "that's -- baby, i --"

✫ "i'll get my iud out tomorrow if you promise to play."

✫ he promises he'll keep trying, trembling against your skin, saying how much he wants this, a child, hopefully a little girl. his lips quiver as he kisses your neck. that's all you wanted. stakes.

✫ you don't get your iud taken out, though. what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

✫ for months, art fucks you hard, all the time, and wet, clutching your belly almost every time he finishes, mumbling, "fuck, baby -- gonna give you a baby, want to so bad -- " cum drips out of your cunt more often than it doesn't, only leaking out of you when you shower or when art decides to fuck you next, the sloppy residuals dripping all over his pink, yearning cock. otherwise, you lay with your hips propped up on a pillow, art muttering something about keeping the semen inside.

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)