Eater!Art Donaldson (I loveeee your writing!!)
Helllooo!! thanks for this ask! seriously lol. Really funny story cause at first i didn't know what to write for him so i was just thinking of writing a vvvvv shprt blurb. But somehow i ended up with this... anyways i hope you like it!
warnings: MDNI! 18+ afab reader x art donaldson, blood, cannibalism, killing, groping, dry humping like a little, nipple play, niplle sucking, fingering, finger fucking, multiple orgasms, cock warming, p in v (unprotected sex)
Eater! Art donaldson so maybe like hes had this tendency since he was a child and maybe thats why his parents sent him to boarding school and they told him to keep to himself and told the teachers to keep an eye on him. But he fucked up big time when he ate his roommate patrick, his best friend. He literally woke up from what felt like the most fulfilling, dreamy sleep, only to see the disfigured body of his roommate, with blood all over the carpet, and his blanket that he tugged over himself in his satisfied daze. Blood all over his hands, and in his golden hair, over his sleep shorts, hands trembling as he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, face painted in red. It was currently three am so the first thing he did was take a shower, he needed to get this blood off his body, out of his hair, picking it out from under his nails.
He scrubbed once, twice, three times but he could still smell the blood all over him. And he sat naked on the bathroom floor as he urgently dialled the number of his mother, bringing the phone up to his ear as it rang - once, twice. He dialled her number again, and again, and again, until she answered - by now it was 4:45 am.
“Hello? What is it, art? Aren’t you supposed to be asleep by now?”
“Mom… i-i it happened again, mom- i, i don’t even remember how it happened-”
“Arthur? What do you mean you did it again? God, you can’t even do one thing right, can you? How hard can it be to just-” His mother cuts herself off with a frustrated sigh, “Why are you calling me?”
“W-why?” He repeats, confused through his tears.
“I told you, didn’t i? If this happened again, you’re going to have to take full responsibility, arthur. I’m tired, of cleaning up your mess. Don’t call me again.”
“And don’t call me mom. I’m not your mom. You’re your father’s son anyways.” And with that she cuts the call. Leaving arthur in a puddle of confusion, helplessness and the desperate sinking feeling of being completely alone.
He didn’t even know what to do, he sat there for thirty minutes, just staring at patricks lifeless body which just seems so wrong for a boy who used to be so full of life. Used to. How funny. They were going to compete in the US open together, and he was so excited. But now, he has completely no chance. How is he supposed to explain why patrick went missing in the middle of the night? What is he supposed to do now?
He had to get out of there. That’s the only way. He packed his bag, staring one last time at patricks barely recognizable body, it could’ve been art for all they know. But the only identifiable part of him remains his brunette hair. And his piercing green eyes. He snuck out through the window, he didn’t even know where he was going, but his mom made it very clear - he’s on his own now.
And i’m thinking that’s how he meets eater!reader. He’s been on his own for a few years now, he thinks hes twenty, but hes not sure. He hasn’t really kept track of his birthday, not when everyday is just pure survival. He tries to push the urges down, but sometimes at night when he’s sleeping outside on a cold bench, he can feel it gnawing at him on the inside, it feels like his own body is trying to eat him alive. So, he caves. Again. And again. And again. And he still feels the same guilt every time. It tastes sweet in the moment, but then afterwards, he can taste the metallic taste of it lingering behind his teeth, under his tongue, sticking to the insides of his cheeks. And he cries himself to sleep, tears staining his face the next morning. He was just sleeping on the bench of a bus stop, when he awoke to a shadowy figure blocking the sun. Blinking as he comes to. It’s a girl. Her hair obscures her face as she just looks down at him. He sits up slowly, the sun is still rising behind her, as he stares at her, she smells… familiar. Like a scent that he’s known forever, but yet still so foreign at the same time, “Can i… help you?” She just gives him a small smile, “I smelt you.” His eyes widen ever so slightly at that.
She sits down next to him, “Close your eyes,”
Art hesitates, but does as she says. “Now… focus. Use your nose. What do you smell? Describe it to me.”
Art furrows his brows, sticking his nose up in the air like a dog, “It smells… sweet. But pungent. But also very mild…”
“Yeah, see where it leads you.”
He does as she says, and hes leaning towards his left, and the scent grows stronger. He can feel the brush of hair against his cheek, and he realizes - it’s coming from her. He opens his eyes slowly, pulling back to meet hers. “It’s you.”
“Yeah, its me. That’s what you smell like too.”
And from that day on, wherever she went, he went too. He followed her around in that truck of hers - she said she got it from some guy that she ate. He was almost in awe of her, of how comfortable she seemed in her own body, in her own skin, comfortable with this part of her. She taught him how to drive, how to kill. The first time he did it, it was some girl from a bar, she smelled sweet like cherries, and she was flirting with him. You told him to go for it - just get her to follow him behind the building. And she was sweet, she was so sweet, he almost felt bad for doing this to her. But you reassured him, fresh meat is always the sweetest.
So while they were making out behind the building - mind you, the first time hes ever felt another persons lips on his in a long time. He reached into his pocket, and she tasted so good, she felt so warm in his hands, he creaked open his eyes and he could see you over her shoulder, hidden in the darkness. And he plunged your pocket knife into the side of ehr benck, blood gushing out as he did, and he dropped his hands immediately, hands trembling as she fell to the floor, knife still stuck in the side of her neck, strangled gasps escaping her as her eyes looked at him. And he could feel his stomach churning with guilt, and disgust. And as he tore into her flesh, he couldn’t help but sob. She tasted so good, but he knew the guilt would eat him alive later.
As he sat in the passenger seat, blood drying around his lips, he still felt a hollow ache deep inside his chest, one that he knows no matter how much he fed, how much flesh he consumes, how much he tries to bury under the guise of starvation, no amount of food could fill. He still felt guilty every time, but he’s starving. Starving that knows no bounds, that knows no ends. Sometimes, when you guys are parked under the moonlight, he can’t sleep. So he looks at you, your sleeping figure shining under the white light. He traces your face with his eyes, and he wonders how you’d taste. Not like, in the way where he wants to eat you, no… in the way like he tasted the girl before he killed her. He wants you alive, he wants to consume you, he wants to let you consume him. But he’d never tell you that, life is already hard enough.
So, he just pulls the blanket up higher, and lets your presence lull him to sleep.
“It’s your turn,” He says as the two of you sit in one of the tubs on a glowing ferris wheel. He’s hungry again. He’s not sure if he’s hungry hungry or just… bored, hungry. But all he knows is he needs something to fill this aching hole inside him.
So, he sat waiting in the truck, ducking his head down as he saw you approach with another guy. He’s a brunette, with short, fluffy hair, wearing a grey shirt as you led him by the hand - you’ve never held art’s hand before. That’s the thing, the both of you were always more intimate with your meals than with each other, despite the fact that you slept next to each other every night, the closest you guys ever got was when you were both hunched over a bleeding body, feasting. He watched as the two of you started to kiss, getting out of the truck to follow the both of you through the haze of the cornfield.
He could hear small chuckles escaping from the guys lips as the both of you kissed, he could see his hands on your waist, and then slipping lower, bunching your dress up as he groped at your ass. He could see the bridge of your nose glimmering in the moonlight as you tilted it back as the guy kissed along the slope of your neck. Usually, you’d let them get you off first before you offed them, but art’s watching. You can tell, blonde peeking out from between the strands of the field.
You reached into your jacket pocket, concealing the pocket knife in your palm as you tugged the guy back up for another kiss. You can already tell he’s going to taste good, he’s an athlete he told you. He doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, the freshest meat there is. A choked sound escapes from the lips against yours, and he’s clenching where you stabbed him, looking at his own bloodied hand as he collapses. You watch as the last breath leaves his body, before you’re looking over to where art is hiding, you gesture for him to come out and he walks out slowly.
You don’t waste anytime tearing the clothes off his body, sinking your teeth into his flesh. Art joins you, while you work on his bicep, art works on his stomach. Ripping of flesh, and slurping of juices in tandem as the two of you gorged in silence. Art watches you as you eat, mouth chewing slowly, you catch his eye but yours flicker away quickly - that was one of your rules, you didn’t like to talk while eating. Maybe it helped with the guilt.
You guys left him there, went through his car for any money, or anything valuable. Twenty bucks, and a lollipop. You guys drove to his house, according to the address on his card. It was a nice building, the two of you snuck up the stairs quietly - it was a quaint apartment, barely furnished, just a worn-down couch, a small TV, a fridge with an ‘I HEART NEW YORK’ magnet, a few dirty cups in the sink, an unmade bed.
Art walked around the apartment as you showered, he had a couple records - beatles, metallica, aerosmith… it made him think, what would it be like if he had a place of his own? What would he even put in it? Where would it be? He doesn’t know. But he likes to daydream about it, about what it would be like to finally have a home. About what it’d be like to settle down, to stop running, to just be normal for once. And he’d want to do all of those things with you. He doesn’t think he has a chance of surviving without you, you’re the only constant in his life, you’re the only thing that makes sense, you’re the voice of reason when the guilt is clouding his judgement and he feels like he’s going insane.
He’s watching you again. Sitting up in the cashmere bed as you’re curled up in the blankets, you look so gentle, so safe, so peaceful. You told him that you wanted to be a singer when you were younger, that your parents signed you up for piano lessons… that was until there was nobody to teach those lessons anymore cause you ate them. So you guys moved, and moved. And then moved, again. Until your parents kicked you out once you were eighteen, and for a while, you tried. You really did. You tried to ignore those urges until one day they finally bubbled over the top and spilled over. That’s the most he knows about you - he doesn’t even know your favorite colour, your favorite animal, or even your favorite song. And he’s never heard you sing either.
He wishes he would have known you back then before you closed yourself off. There are a lot of things he thinks about in the dead of night, a lot of wishes he’s made. He wishes you’d know you’re not alone, not anymore, that you can trust him. He’s caught in the middle of his daydreams as you stir awake, to see those shimmering blue eyes looking at you so intently, pupils dilated in the night, the only light coming in from the window. “Can’t sleep?” You ask him quietly. He shakes his head, admiring the way your eyes look.
“Can you sing for me?” He asks you, looking down at his fingers. “You want me to sing? Why?”
“I want to hear what your voice sounds like when you’re happy.”
You stare at him. “What do you want me to sing?”
He lifts his gaze to look at you, “Anything. Please?”
You haven’t sung for a long, long time. But looking at his earnest, honest eyes you can’t deny him. You’ve never denied him anything, really. You shift, sitting up on the bed as you start singing the first few words to Dreams by The Cranberries
Your voice sounds so sweet, silky smooth. He’s never heard your voice this soft before, or your eyes looking at his this long either.
*I want more, impossible to ignore*
He doesn’t know if you’re doing this on purpose or not, if you’re singing this on purpose. But all he knows are your lips - the way they part around every word, every sound that comes out of your mouth is heavenly, and he’s sure he’s never been this hungry before. A throbbing ache deep within his bones, one that reverberates throughout every single vessel, one that he can feel pumping behind his eyes, knocking on every corner of his body. He’s been starving, and he hasn’t even realized it until now.
He can feel his lips getting dry, and licking at them doesn’t seem to help, if anything they seem to get even drier. And he doesn’t even think, which, he's always thinks. But he can’t, not right now, not when every muscle in his body is screaming for relieve, screaming for you. He interrupts your singing by pressing his lips to yours, and immediately, he regrets it when he doesn’t feel yours reciprocating. He pulls back slowly, ducking his head down, forcing them back up to meet yours, “Im sorry,”. He thinks he’s ruined it, this little arrangement the two of you had.
So, he’s shocked when you cup his cheek, moving your face closer, touching your lips to his. He feels like he’s dreaming. Your soft, pillowy lips, are actually moving against his own, he lifts his hand hesitantly to rest it on your hip. He feels the weight of you settle in his lap, your thighs on the sides of his own. Your warmth, snug against him. Your taste, mixing with his own, and he thinks this is his favourite flavour in the entire world. His other hand threads through your hair, the silkiness of it seeming to remove past traces of guilt between the ridges of his fingers. He thinks he could stay like this forever. Somehow, things have never made more sense. He’s never felt more whole, than with you slotted on top of him like this. And he can feel that hole within him slowly patching itself up.
He can feel your hands against his neck, your gentle fingers tracing along the curves. This is a different kind of hunger, hunger that keeps growing with every swipe of your tongue in his mouth, with every brush of your fingertip against his jaw, hunger that builds up between his legs. His grip tightens on your hips as he can feel something stirring between his legs, almost awoken by your heat. Trailing his lips down to your neck, mouthing at it like he needs it to breathe. Whimpering as he feels the first nudge of friction against his long dormant cock, your clothed cunt dragging against his bulge and he wants more, needs it. It’s the selfish kind of hunger that grows when you submit to every one of it’s demands.
He kisses down your shoulder reverently, slipping one strap of your dress down to expose more of your skin, it’s even better than he’d imagined. Slipping both straps down your shoulder, and he feels almost lightheaded when he sees your breasts staring back at him. He’s looking at you for permission, and when you give the slightest nod, his hands cup the sides of your breasts. Just grazing his thumbs over your soft skin gently, like he wants to memorize how pliant they are in his hands. His pads drag over the perked nipples of your breasts and when he hears how your breath hitches, he does it again, circling them like a joystick, and the way you shiver ever so slightly makes the blood pump straight to his cock. He moves his mouth over one nipple, giving it a soft kiss before latching onto it, sucking at it gently as his tongue works over it.
He feels your hand in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at his strands, and he takes that as encouragement. He’s feeling needy, desperate, frantic. He uses his hand to fondle your other breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and finger, making you let out a breathy moan. He lets out a whimper in response, other hand slipping beneath your dress, making contact with the sticky cotton. He starts rolling his fingers in circles over your sensitive bud, and you let out short, breathy gasps. You can’t remember the last time you’ve let someone touch you, let alone touch yourself.
You roll your hips against his fingers, and he slowly slides the fabric to the side, middle finger dragging through your soaking cunt. He teases at your entrance, pushing at it slightly, a little more… until his pad is finally inside. He pushes it all the way up to his first knuckle, and you tug on his hair, “You’re so tight,” he mewls out, as he starts to shallowly thrust his finger curling it such that it scratches that itch deep inside you. Your head falls back as you welcome this intimate feeling, hips rocking against his finger as he slowly eases another one in, feeling the way your gummy walls clench, and clench around his fingers.
His dick throbs like it’s the one being inside of you, and really, if he tries really hard, he can imagine that it is. You whimper, gripping onto his shoulder as you feel the familiar heat coiling low in your stomach, and then a shuddery gasp as it all gushes out, hips squirming against him as you ride out your high. Each wave, making you jolt slightly in his lap, and he’s letting you ride his fingers however you want, he just wants to see your blissed out face. If he thought you were beautiful before, he’s seeing double right now.
He lets you ride it out a couple more times, bouncing up and down on his fingers and he takes all your little sounds - your gasps, moans, whimpers, all in pride. He undresses you slowly, and he lets your hands wander over his body, covering up every rotten part of him, letting you heal his wounds. He lets you ride him after as well. Tits bouncing in his face as you did, and when your legs burned, he took over for you, going nice and slow, because he doesn’t want to finish too fast. Even though you’ve already come about like, three times at this point, he wants to make you come at least two more times.
He wants to make you feel good. You deserve it. Hand gathering your hair back and away from your dazed face to see every gloss in your eye, every sound that falls out of your lips, the way your eyes look at him, like he matters. Like he’s the only person in the world you could ever possibly need. So don’t blame him if his thrusts grow evermore slow, barely moving inside you, he just wants to engrave this feeling of your warmth, tight around him. Of the feeling of being this close to you, of being inside you. He wants more, and he always will. He picks up the pace with your forehead pressed to his, forcing his own eyes open to look at your half-lidded ones, squeezing shut once your last orgasm ripples through you like a fucking tsunami. You can almost see stars. Body jerking on top of his, as you let out needy whimpers and gasps like they’re the only thing grounding you to this moment. He mewls and his body arches off the bed as he feels his own, put-off orgasm burst through him. Spurting hot, white ropes deep into you, and crying out as he does, babbling, “Fuck, you feel so good, so good,”
And you can’t blame him when he lets his limp cock stay in there a little longer, cause who knows when this might happen again?
“What do you think about getting a place of our own?” He asks, breaking the silence, brushing your hair away from your cheek lays on his chest, but you’re already knocked out. The next morning, he already cleaned you up, tucked you nicely into bed and he wakes you up with breakfast in bed. Sweet, and domestic. You’re on guard, you’ve learnt not to trust things that are too flowery, or bright, or too good to be true. But looking at this blue-eyed boy who sits by your side, who always looks at you like you’ve hung the stars, who claims that he’s full and lets you have his share even though he’s clearly not? He’s slowly chipping away at your stone cage, and you let him. You let him whisper these sweet nothings into your ear, you let him fuck you to sleep every night, you let him stay in there till the sun peeks out. You let him do a lot of things, because you trust him. And you let yourself dream, for once. That maybe, he’s right. Maybe there is a way out of all of this, maybe you don’t have to continue down this path, that there is a space for the both of you in this world. But for now, you settle for waking up next to him every morning, staring at the sunrise with his warm scent next to you.
And for once, Art donaldson feels at home. You made it feel like home.
