#(is that so wrong)

🗣️ hello is this thing on???

i just want to live.. is that so wrong? why doesnt anybody else want that?

art donaldson dropping to his knees after a bad day and desperately pulling down your bottoms with trembling hands, not heeding your suggestion to “slow down”, his bottom lip already wobbling. he doesn’t say a single intelligible word as he works to undress you. no time, no energy.

he blinks hard a few times as he pulls down your underwear next and stares up into your arousal. warm, sweet, perfect. the fifth blink sends fat tears spilling down his flushed cheeks. he sobs just once—a broken, wet sound in the tightness of his chest—and then surges forward to begin swirling his tongue. he laves the wetness of his mouth all over you; his hands clutching the backs of your thighs to keep you from squirming away. he cries into your heat. whines against your sensitivity. more salt trickling down his skin from damp lashes. you can hear him gulping and swallowing around your flesh, his jaw flexing as he suckles.

his blunt fingernails dig into your legs as he works you up to your burning end, and he tries his hardest not to wail when you fist his hair in your hands. he usually loves it when you pull his hair, the sting only adding to his enjoyment, but right now he’s too fragile—too emotionally frayed—and so the pain is no longer pleasurable. he just wants you to hold him. he wants you to run your fingers through the strands and tell him how good he is for you, how he’s the best tennis player you know, how you love him. that’s what he needs, but he supposes that it’s his fault for not telling you anything about his horrible day before he was on the floor and doing anything to get his touch on you. he flutters his tongue quicker, hollowing his cheeks right after.

come, he thinks, please, come.. let me drink you down and replace this ache in my body with your tenderness.

give it all to me.

i can take it.

i can make you feel good.