dad!art anon here ill do this emoji 🫧<3
i was thinking maybe art and reader are trying for their first baby and maybe they just for married and he’s sooo inlove and readers so inlove something cute love uuuuu
A Married Thing:
summary: art donaldson wants one thing for the rest of his life and that’s you. he made that clear when he proposed, then when he married you, and makes it very clear that he wants you and maybe a little you… for the rest of his life- when it’s finally just you and him after a long day of wedding activities.
warnings: smuttttttttt, art being reverent and devotional, slight breeding kink from art, talk of pregnancy, etc.
Art takes a second to let it all settle in. It’s so much; he has to run a hand over his face to try to ground himself and remember that this is real. This is his life. You are his life, and with that ring on your finger, you’re the rest of it too. The second the officiant says he can kiss you, he does with so much of himself. He kisses you like he means it, like his foot is down, like you just bought the grave plot next to his. His hands wrap around your waist while yours wrap around his neck, a kiss so close to an embrace, everyone who sees it can feel how much he loves you.
He’s as thrilled for where things will lead you as he was on your first date. He talked a big game while you were dating, all the typical promises a man makes to marry you, to give you a good life, except Art meant every single one. You had every reason to doubt him at first, love is love and men are men, but Art knew he loved you very early on and didn’t stop trying to show it, not once.
So when he put his grandmother’s ring on your finger, he figured this was all he ever wanted. He couldn’t imagine loving or having you more, but of course, marriage was still to come- impossible, maybe. His heart might explode. And you kissed him, hard, crying the same tears he was. Some luck had found him, he thought.
And luckier, you can imagine a ring on the finger, a few glasses of wine- it was a sure thing that he loved you. Right there, on the couch where he’d gotten on his knees, reverent to your ‘yes’, and the fact that soon you’d be his wife. You tasted like his fiancée now.
So he kisses you at that altar like he means it, his mother loudly crying tears of joy. You pull away and you laugh and he sighs like his knees might give out. “Are you okay?” You ask, hand on his chest, smiling the smile he fell in love with before he even knew your name. He nods, and unexpectedly, kisses you again, eliciting a second, even louder cheer from family and friends, this cheer spotted brightly with laughter.
The reception is lovely, family everywhere, friends drinking and talking and celebrating. The speeches make you cry, and Art himself is having a hard time trying to fathom that any of this is his. His family, his new, bigger family, is wonderful and inspiring. The room is thick with appreciation, love, and sentiment. These people are here, and despite a wedding, they aren’t even close to understanding how much he loves you.
He listens to his mom give her speech, talking about you like the angel that you are- and that breaks him open, just a little. “Hope it’s not too soon to say,” his mother starts to sign off, “But a grandbaby or two wouldn’t be too bad while I’m still in my prime.” She does a little shimmy, laughing loudly, tapping the side of her nose at him.
His heart surges just a little at the thought. It’s been talked about, but it’s your hand finding his under the table at the joke that really gets him. It’s like he’s been turned into a teenager again, the way his ears pink. The idea of a life with you after this stepping stone hits him like a freight train every time he remembers it’s real, over and over again, all of its beauty, all of it being completely within reach. He steals you away for a dance the second he can.
“Married,” you say, like you’re tasting it. “Mrs. Donaldson.”
It’s like music. He can’t help but grin. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” you smile, and he swears it’s brighter than any light in the room. His eyes wander your face like it’s the first time, like it’s all unknown, and he’s mapping it out. “What’s on your mind?”
“I love you,” he repeats, like he’s lost. Eyebrows knit. “You’re beautiful.” It’s real, he knows it, but so many other things begin to seep through the cracks. And just as his mother ‘wouldn’t mind a grandbaby’, he finds himself lost in the fact that he wouldn’t mind a daughter, especially if she ends up as beautiful as you are.
You bite your lip and mouth ‘thank you’, under your breath.
“I was- am, thinking about what my mom said.” He admits. “That maybe not now, but soon…”
“Mmm, yeah,” you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck, your nose brushes his. “You want a little tennis player, hm?”
He tugs you in by your waist, unable to hide the grin that blooms from ear to ear. The after-party dress is silk under his fingers. He wonders how easily it might slip off… “Hey- whatever she wants to get involved in,”
“She?” You giggle and kiss him into it. “I love you so, so much. I want this too.” You assure him, swallowing. Your eyes dart like they do when you’re shy, “But sooner than soon…”
He lowers his voice, and it’s a little funny how his smile goes completely serious, “Now?” And his smile still breaks through, like he can’t suppress it.
You laugh, leaning into his shoulder. His hand instinctively finds the back of your head, laughing with you. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world. God, he loves you so much. The smallest things, like your laugh, remind him of the decades ahead of him that he gets to listen to it. For now, it’d echo around your apartment, but soon a house, a home. He knows he’s the luckiest man alive, still yet to find himself luckier.
“Later than now, sooner than… Sorry,” you giggle, meeting his eyes. “I… want you. I want that. For us, our… future. But later.”
“I have to wait?” He chuckles in return, “After you say something like that?”
Your smile pulls up at the corner like a smirk, he feels like he just lost all his breath. Your eyes twinkle. He’s hard, he knows that, so do you. “Mhm,” you nod slowly, looking quite satisfied with his reaction, almost smug. “Soon. Later.”
“You’re cruel,” he kisses you, once, twice. You kiss him the third time, holding him as close as you can. His skin feels hot, sparked, and it hits him all over again.
By the time everyone is gone to their hotel rooms, you and Art are both beyond tired. The perks of such a friendly family are great, except for when their energy keeps going well into the night. You, in that pretty white dress, silky- that seems to ask to fall off your body, the way the sleeve droops down your shoulder. He admits he’s reasonably buzzed off that good red wine, the same as you, but just enough to feel the lust settle in like love itself, in his throat, his chest, his hands.
Your shoes are already in your hands, the white ribbon that wrapped up your calves is draped over your arm, and you lean, tired, against him in the elevator, cheek pressed to his dress shirt. A lifetime of being yours to lean on makes him smile. He kisses the top of your head, just casually, as if it’s just the small gesture it seems to be, and not the vessel of all of his restraint.
“Art,” you say, from under his chin. Soft, to get his attention. His eyes meet yours as the elevator dings its arrival to the honeymoon suite. He looks up at it, taking in how it’s decorated gently in pretty pinks and oranges, noting the large, circular bed complete with draping curtains in the corner. The dim lamp lighting casts that orange and pink light over you, in that dress, looking at him like he owes you something. And he does, he always will, for you loving him the way you do. You blink softly, almost nervously, and he catches it. Your promise of later is more haunting than it had been the entire rest of the reception. He couldn’t get it out of his head, the idea, the dream so close in reach- you, a family, that you wanted it and soon. Now.
He wonders if you taste like his wife, but he just swallows, hard. “I love you so much, I can’t believe I married you.”
“Us, married. I love you, too,” you sigh, breathing the words out like they have weight. “So much. And I’m not… forward in… wanting a baby?” You giggle like it’s the silliest thing. It sort of is, but isn’t, not the way he’s thinking.
His heart jumps at the word like he hasn’t spent his entire life fantasizing about the night he fucks you with that intention. Gently, his hands find your waist, and he pulls you by it gently into the suite. The doors close, blending into the wall now. “You have no idea,” he says, low, face close to yours, causing a tired smile to climb your expression. His hand cups your face, your jaw, as he leans down to kiss your neck, the gentlest he possibly can. He feels how it makes you shiver, “I want you. I want a baby, I want a family.”
“We’re still house-hunting,” You reason with a tilt of your head, his arms slipping around you with the ease of that white silk. His fingertips brush the backs of your arms, and he swears he can’t tell where you start and the fabric ends. He knows your words are just to prompt him.
“We’ll find a house,” he mumbles into your neck, kissing higher, hand moving your hair to kiss up toward your ear. Your hands grip the front of his dress shirt in a way that gets him harder than he already is. The smallest little things you do, so incredibly beautifully, as simple as your hands bracing against the way his kiss feels, it’s more intoxicating than any red wine buzz. “Somewhere pretty, near some good schools…” He continues, kissing your ear itself. The sensation sends a wave of pinpricks down your entire body, causing you to hold him tighter. “- I want this. I love you.” He can’t say it enough.
“I love you, too,” you manage, breathily. He pulls away from your neck, a smile on his face that strikes you as a man ruined and completely, entirely, in love. His hands cup your face, the lightest touch imaginable, in a way that makes you feel it in your bones. That love. His reverence. “I need you. Now. Please.” You tell him, under his gaze. He lets out a breath that comes out just the slightest bit shaky, making you smile again. There isn’t a better response than kissing you.
It’s not an urgent kiss, there’s no rush. It’s late, you’re both a little tiny bit wine drunk, and he is a man starved. He kisses you gently, but with the force of all of his passions. He’s never loved anyone or anything more than he loves you, and he kisses you like those words are on his tongue. His hand finds your jaw, tilting your head back to kiss you, lips parting to allow as much as possible, while his other hand subconsciously gathers silk off of your waist, hips, ass. He’s done this a million times, but this feels differently charged and new. His heart pounds like it’s the first time he’s ever touched you.
“I’m going to have your baby,” you giggle, even in a kiss as serious as this one. It’s why he loves you. The words have more power than you think- Art hoists you up into his arms, and in a second, your back is pressed to the bed's dark pink Egyptian cotton sheets. Something in the phrase fuels him, he knows that- you know that. “I want it so badly.”
Art kisses down your jaw, your neck, collarbone, hands still under you, travelling the places the silk borders on skin. Your fingers tangle in his hair. You smell like home and faintly of the bouquet that rested against your chest all afternoon. His hand finds yours, holding it gently, closer to a cradle than a hold. And he brought it to his lips, lifting his head from kissing your collarbone to kiss the ring on your finger. Lips brushing skin so slightly, somehow, even that touch sent another sheet of goosebumps over your skin. “I want it-” he starts, kissing your knuckles, then your fingertips, before meeting your eyes, “So much more than you know.”
“Mhm?” You prompt him again. Cheeky. He can’t help but grin, kissing down toward the shoulder of your dress. That slow, soft hand of his comes up, and slowly, his pointer finger rims the left shoulder of your dress, gently pulling down. “You think about it?” You ask, a little breathy.
“All the time,” he admits, voice thick with devotion and focus, his other hand coming to slip the other strap of your dress down your arm. “You’d never leave bed…” He kisses your shoulder. “I’d take care of you, every ache, every craving… You’ll be so, so gorgeous, carrying something made of us both. I can’t even think about it too much, I’ll go crazy.”
You chuckle, keeping composed though your skin burns at his every word, “I’d like to see it.” And you pull him by his shirt into another kiss. Slow, wide, generous. He can’t help but feel complete every time your mouth meets his. Every kiss in return from him is made of sugar, wine, and gratitude. You push, sitting up, the front of your dress falling like a feather in the air, revealing everything you had hidden, waiting for him. He pulls away, forehead resting against yours, laughing under his breath, almost like he can’t believe all of it is for him. Lacy white, balconette, his. And he kisses you like he means it.
You end up standing again, just for a few moments, the dress falling from where it gathered at your waist to land soundlessly on the floor. He cups your face, your back pressing to the bedpost. He hasn’t even let himself see you in all of this yet; he can’t, or he risks getting ahead of himself. “Art-” you say, between kisses. “I need you.”
“I need you,” he returns in the same pause, kissing you again. “Need you-”
“You have me, all of me, I- ” You giggle, pulling away. It gets him harder, almost painfully, in his dress pants. He meets your eyes in the warm light of the room. He chuckles with you. “You have all of me…” You continue, hands slipping around his neck. He lets his eyes wander down your frame, eyeing all of the lingerie that will only ever be for his eyes. He looks at you like he found religion. “Forever.”
“You’re-” he chokes. “Perfect. I love you. I want you. I need you.” His knuckles gently skim your collarbone, then the curve of your breast, the side of your arm, your waist, his eyes following as his other hand meets the other at your hip. Your chest rises and falls, heavy with each breath. The air is full of trust that you both inhale like a drug. He can see his future reflected in your every feature. Your giggle at his soft words, hoping to be copied into something equally yours and his. “Can you imagine it?” He asks you.
Your smile makes him want to fall to his knees. “You’ll be such a good dad…”
His grin is from ear to ear, voice hushed, “And you’ll be the best mom. God, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I want to give you everything, all of it, all of me. I…” Your fingers start on his buttons, quickly undoing every one as if you’re just as eager as he is. Everything you do takes him out.
“What happens if I start wanting ice cream at 2 am?” You tease, almost. Another prompt he’s happy to speak about.
“Then I go find some,” he replies, lost in you. “You’ll share?”
“Always. What about tennis?”
“Hiatus, play locally,” he replies without even pausing a beat, your fingers on the last few buttons. He swallows hard, like his throat is dry. He sways closer to you, he can’t help it. His nose grazes yours, eyes flickering from your eyes to your body, all the lace waiting to be thrown across the room.
You draw out the act of pulling his shirt off, slowly opening the front, taking his wrists in your hands to undo his cuffs. You tsk, cheeks pink, “What about when I end up… huge and swollen and sore? When I can’t get upstairs or reach around myself, hm?” You pull him just a little closer, knowing the impact of your words. His ears match your cheeks, and his lips part just a little, a small breath slipping out. The shirt falls off his shoulders and meets your dress on the floor. You’re already on the buttons of his pants, not even looking. Eyes on him to study that lust-clouded gaze he’s dripping onto you. “What about then?”
“You-” you’re making him nervous. Only you could unravel him this way. He breathes out hard, hands on you, moving, sliding, just trying to touch you the most he can. “I would do anything to see you like that,” he replies. “All the evidence of us under your shirt, knowing I did that, we did that. I want to watch the changes happen, see you grow with our baby.”
“Our,” you repeat, because it sounds beautiful, and you aren’t sure how to function when you want him this badly.
“You’ll be so gorgeous, even more so- I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it.” Your hand finds him down the front of his pants, and he hums into your mouth. “Hey-” He catches, cupping your jaw again. He kisses your nose before he kisses you again full force, his hips pinning you to the bedpost, pressing against you. And almost like it’s funny that he isn’t fucking you, he picks you up off the ground, one hand on your waist, the other under you, both of you laughing breathily. He kisses you, head tilted back, as you get pressed back into the bed.
You crawl backward, pushing yourself back against the pillows, eyes bright, eager, hungry. He follows, letting you tug his pants the rest of the way off. He’s hard, still quite painfully, even without the pants. He crawls over you, kissing you into the pillows. Despite all the heat of the moment it’s soft, like each kiss has effort put into it. Hands travel each other like it’s all new, and it is. It’ll be the first time he gets to have sex with his wife. He loves the thought, he loves the sound of the word.
He kisses back over your ear, jaw, neck, and collarbone, trailing tiny bites all the way down. His mouth kisses lower until it meets the top of your breast, right above where it matters, which is half an inch hidden under the lace that adorns you, decorates you. He can’t get over this, you, your body, what it does for him, does to him, and will soon be doing for your future. “I want to fuck you so badly,” he mumbles, his hold on you tight as he continues lower, down your body. He likes that he can feel your skin so affected by his touch, loves the small gasp that comes from you when he kisses your stomach. The top, just under the wire of the pretty little bra that one of his hands was unhooking, then the middle of your stomach, “You’re meant for this.” He tells you, worshipful in the way he looks at you. “I want to give you this.”
“Please do,” you smile, then breathe out. He lowers himself, chest resting on the bed between your legs, as he kisses your lower stomach, where the lacy bottom part of the set begins. He then kisses your hip, where the waistband sits, then your thigh, taking all of his time, but he can feel your restraint as he gets closer to where you need him. “Please.” You follow.
He does what he’s told, but gentler than wanted, a nudge with his nose, through the fabric. He’s done this so many times, he’s spot on. Your thighs squeeze just gently, and he shuts his eyes under the pressure of it, trying not to press himself into the bed too much. “Art…”
“I know,” he replies quietly. But he pulls himself away, that cheeky grin on his face. “One thing first.” He says, propping himself up just enough to kiss your thigh again, right below the garter. You giggle from above him on the bed, disbelieving that he paused things just for this… His teeth graze your skin on purpose when he pulls it gently down… over your knee, over your calf, and off your foot. The first of three items to be thrown far out of reach.
You nearly gasp at just the sight. His body is contoured by the shadows from the dim lamp, he’s still so hard, the front of his boxers just a little wet from everything that had already happened. Your bra comes off and gets thrown as well. He chuckles, crawling right back to where you want him, except this time, he doesn’t tease or kiss anywhere but exactly where you want him. Through the fabric.
“You’re so-“ his tongue pushes against the fabric, words humming against your clit. “Wet. My god.” Hands reach up and pull at the sides of your underwear, getting it gone, down. You raise your hips, but he doesn’t even take it all the way off. He pulls them as much as he can before he’s between your legs again. Your legs go over his shoulders, kicking the lingerie to the other far corner as your hips involuntarily press up toward his mouth. You taste like his wife, and it’s his favourite thing in the world.
He could genuinely live between your legs, always hungry, starved even. His tongue works, flicks, drags, pushes, while he sucks just gently enough to elicit the first real moan of the night from you. Broken, slow, low, breathy, for him. He knows just what to do- it’s often that you have to try not to finish under his mouth. He wants more, he tries for more, thinking about what he’s about to do. Thinking about the difference he is about to make.
Art moans against your cunt, unable to help himself at how your muscles contract around his tongue, at how you taste, how it feels to lick from your base to your clit and back again. Your fingers tangle themselves deep in his blonde curls, tinted pink by the light that reflects off the sheets. He is suddenly struck harder by that freight train of reality and emotion. You feel like a drug, warming his body through the blood in his system.
The want comes crashing, dizzying, burning hotter and brighter than before. Suddenly, the need to be inside you washes overwhelmingly over him. He wants more. Not just to taste, but to have, to bring close, to come into. He knows the feeling is mutual, through some insane connection-or maybe it was just what happened when you got married-because you mumbled his name almost incoherently the millisecond before he pulled himself away from you.
He uses the discarded dress shirt to wipe his mouth before he crawls over you again to kiss you, almost desperately. Still, rushless, more like neither of you could handle waiting. Your hands tug at his boxers with one hand, one immediately gripping him the second he’s freed of them. He groans quietly. As a joke, you toss them all the way across the room, making him laugh as he kisses you again. Your legs are parted, he’s over you, you’re under him. He can feel the heat radiating between you as you give him that loving little nod. “I need you. Deep, okay? I need it, I need that, I want your baby, I want-” you mumble, words falling out.
“I don’t want to be-” he lines himself up, “-anywhere else.” He breathes. Your lips are centimetres apart, breathing each other’s air. His hand braces your hip, upper thigh, as he slowly pushes into you, feeling your body give way to his shape and stretch so perfectly around him. He holds his breath, and you gasp. He goes so slowly, your nails are already digging into his back. Your muscles push him, squeeze him, he can’t help but groan lightly. “You feel so good-”
“Fuck, Art,” you sigh. His name sounds like a symphony when you say it, so out of breath. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” He says, ruined, not even buried to the hilt. “S-So much. My- god- my wife, my pretty-” he kisses you just as his hips meet yours. You gasp, he feels the air cold on his lips, then the heat of your exhale. “I love you so much.”
He doesn’t give you much of a chance to say more, pulling himself just slightly out, then slowly sinking back in. Usually, off wine, he wouldn’t feel this much, but his senses seem to be high. He can feel every inch of you lining him, can feel every little twinge of pleasure that comes from getting so deeply inside of you. He can’t stop thinking about you, pregnant and perfect, all his fault. He’s practicing control, fucking you so slowly the way he is.
The way he moves is with worship. His hands lift the crook of your waist, your hips, letting him rotate them. He reads your body language like it’s the bible, leaning into every little thing that makes you moan. The lift, the angle, the slow squeeze of his hand at the flesh of your thigh, your chest, your stomach. He’s memorizing all of the ‘before’ because he knows how this ends. Slowly, he picks up pace, though every thrust is just as deep as the last, hips meeting yours every time. The sound is graphic, he knows how wet you can get, but he’s never heard it this loud, this wet, and the reminder that this sound is his for life only makes him fuck you harder.
“I can’t- god, you’re perfect,” he groans over your lips. They’re wet from kissing. “I can’t stop thinking about it-” he breathes. “You, full with our daughter. Every change, every want, every need, I want to give- I want to give you everything.”
“God-” you try to smile or laugh or quip again about the fact he keeps insisting the unconceived baby is a girl, but only a moan makes it out of your mouth. A moan and a quiet smile, which of course, drives him crazy. You sigh, “I’m yours. Yours to have-” you can’t finish your sentence, silenced by your own moans. You swear he’s doing it on purpose.
“Tell me what you need.”
“I can’t-” he already knows. “Fuck, harder? Faster? I just want you to put a baby in me, it feels so good- it’s not fair.” You tell him, words continuing to spill off your tongue. You kiss him between breaths, messy, but still perfect. The impact of him hitting the top of you is dizzying. The perfect pace, pushing, pumping as you squeeze around him. His hands grip you harder, but still manage to be closer to an embrace than a handhold.
He’s happy to oblige and fuck you the way you need. He would do anything for you, all of this, even if it took him hours. He goes harder, faster, and your hand leaves his hair to grab the headboard behind you. He moans loudly, unable to control any part of this anymore. It’s like sense takes over and your bodies tangle, but your souls are having their own sex. He continues to watch you, looking down at where he can see himself disappear into your cunt. So wet, so smooth, warm, tight. “You’re-” he huffs, “Godsent. I love you more than anything, fuck, you feel so good, I’m close-”
“I need you to come in me,” you blurt, desperate. He’s never felt an orgasm knot in his stomach like it was already happening, yet pending. You feel like home, you feel like the future home of his children. “Fuck me, just fuck me, I want it so badly, Art. I want to make you a-” you’re going to say father, dad, or anything, but he’s too quick to follow your instructions, both hands on your hips now, lifting them to fuck into you. All of his muscles are tensed, showing their definition, so gorgeous already glinting with a slight sweat that was bound to get worse as the night went on. He had no plans of this being the only round tonight, and neither did you; you were newlyweds, after all.
His breathing gets heavy, low, and your eyes roll back the way they do when he knows he’s doing something right. You tighten around him every thrust like you’re going to take all of it from him. It’s a mess, a scene, a sight, the way he groans and whines when you pull his hair. He can barely handle how you feel on a regular night, but with all of this love in the air, all of these promises, it all hit a lot harder. Gracious and in love, he supports your body as he fucks you with all of this intention. His fingers trail your stomach and dip down between.
Art finds your clit like it’s the easiest action in the world and knows exactly how to touch you so that the sense of his finger mixes with the impact of his length to your cervix. You’re a mess, the way he loves you, hair messy and lips shiny, body shaking under his touch. You are his entire life, shaking underneath him, begging to carry his and your future in you, and best believe, he will make sure that any baby he makes with you will be made with the labour of both his climax and yours. Little circles, building the pleasure in your core to an undeniable point. “I-” you’re so pretty, unable to speak, only moan, sigh, and breathe. “Please.” And beg.
“I’m so close,” he repeats, voice climbing with warning, thrusts not faltering, but pressing deeper with every thrust. There’s a pinch in your lower stomach, and like he reads your mind, he takes your weight under his knee, doesn’t stop fucking you for one second, and presses his other hand to your lower stomach. Your orgasm winds up like something ready to spring, like it might split you in two, constant, humming pleasure. The impact, the gentle circles on your clit, the press. You hold onto him like he can save you from what he’s doing. He grins, bending to kiss the closest place to your face, your chest. The angle kills him, you’re tighter this way, and he feels himself speeding toward the edge. “I need you to come for me,” he says quietly. “For me.”
You can barely breathe or think, but your body feels like it’s about to break. “I can’t. I’m trying- ”
“You can- God, you can, I need you to, please,” his tone is almost a whine, so breathless.
“I’m yours, I’m yours, don’t stop,” you plead, and it takes all he has in him not to finish right then. “God, Art, don’t stop, I need you, I need you to come inside me, please, please, please.” Your string of desperate words continues to keep him breathless.
“I am- I will, I need you to come on me, for me,” he returns. “You’re so beautiful, you feel so good, I love you.” His own string of desperation falls from his lips. His orgasm rises through his entire body, pending, waiting for the crash. It feels like waiting for the ocean to fall on your head and wipe you away. You, you’re convinced your body just can’t take this much pleasure. “You can do this, feel this, I need you-to-” He’s losing to himself, leaking inside of you already, almost. He’s at the sharpest edge he’s ever met. He pushes just slightly more, he speeds up his fingers, and he feels your orgasm begin to unravel inside of you, your muscles tightening suddenly. He feels himself about to spill over. He breathes out hard, feeling your resistance against his length, sucking him in, almost, taking him so well the way you always do. The way he always tells you, you do. “I’m-”
He feels it, all of it, as it comes over you. Your entire body writhes like you can’t take it, like it’s too much to bear. Your moans come falling like collected breaths, shaky, harsh, broken. He can feel the flood as your release is met, and he wants more than anything to feel it, how wet you are, how you shake, and pay close attention to every detail, but you get impossibly tight, and he can’t stop now to sit and admire. Just as it breaks in you, he can’t keep himself from what he wants, what he needs. “Oh fuck- I’m coming, I’m-” he chokes himself out with a groan, thrusts not faltering once as he gets thrown off that very edge. His body tenses, his cock coiling itself, then with that final kick, spilling into you. Pouring into you. And it was only then that he slowed to a stop, all the way inside of you.
The orgasm lasted much longer than either of you anticipated. It hits him, hits him more, and desperately, messily, you kiss him, full on. It takes twenty seconds for him to finally let his muscles relax, completely finished. Your hips squirm, orgasm unfinished- you’re flooding the bed with a mixture of yourself and him. He whispers soft words, reassurance, and devotional praise as he watches your pleasure span ten seconds more than his. Neither you nor him were aware that it could even happen, but neither of you would ever complain. Maybe it’s a married thing.
You taste like the rest of his life, and you look like a woman ruined. Art, on the other hand, looks destroyed. He stays that way, lying with you, while your hands tangle in his hair again, gentler this time. Your chest is rising and falling, high, low. His fingers trace patterns on the bare skin of your stomach. Neither of you speaks for three minutes, just laying connected, blissed out, completely gone. “I love you so much,” he breaks the silence.
“I love you more,” you tell him. “That was-”
“So-”
“Mhm,” you sighed happily. “Round two soon?” You joke. You’re perfect.
He laughs his hearty, loud laugh, “Of course.” And he pulls out, cleaning you up a little, then himself, before coming to crawl back over you again. He plants a kiss on your stomach before finding a place in the crook of your neck. Both of you still have your breaths to catch. “I can hardly wait-”
It only takes about ten months of waiting before Art meets his daughter. She’s small, sweet, beautiful, like you. She has your eyes, your smile. He sees himself reflected in her eyes and knows this is it. He sits next to you in the hospital bed, his own face tear-streaked, matching yours. This is all real, all perfect, all he’s ever wanted, all in one place.
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i haven’t posted anything like this in soooo long you need to forgive me for losing my taglist! if you’d like to be a part of it, never be afraid to comment to be added!
