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lexiharleyy · 11 months ago

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♡ Am I Making You Feel Sick?; Art Donaldson ♡

nsfw! (18+) cw: subby!art donaldson, solo!art donaldson, mentions of reader, gn!reader, porn w/ plot, masturbation, hurt/no comfort, crying, heavy angst, desperation, begging, self-choking, established relationship, toxic relationship dynamics, general filth, also the title is inspired by an ethel cain song lol

wc: 3.3 k

prev. art donaldson fics: ♡ ♡ ♡

This wasn't how Art's Saturday night was supposed to go.

At all.

He was lying in bed with a you-shaped absence next to him, his hand sweeping weakly over the empty bedsheets before fisting them tenderly under his palm. It was silent in your guys' apartment except for the low hum of the bedside lamp, and he was desperately trying to swallow the lump in his throat and blink away the sting in his eyes. He'd been trying for the past ten minutes. This wasn't how he pictured the evening going. Everything felt so confusing and muddled and wrong.

About twelve hours earlier, around 8:30 AM, you and Art had had a fight.

It started out simple. It really did.

You had brought up the fact that he seemed 'off his game' lately, with him losing matches and lessening his time in the gym and whatnot. He had quipped back that he was just tired lately and maybe needed a break. You hadn't loved the sound of that. You knew that if he took a break now, he'd never go back. It would be over. And as much as you cherished your partner and his wellbeing, you had spent far too much time and energy building and sculpting him into the perfect player. It was selfish and almost sadistic in nature, but you wanted him to keep playing. You needed him to. After all, you had been playing tennis vicariously through him ever since your knee injury about a decade ago. You had tried to convince him to resist the urge to take a break before the Open, but he had just frowned and sighed and crossed his arms over his chest before he responded by saying that he felt suffocated on the court. The conversation grew increasingly heated as it went back and forth. I mean, was there ever any other way it could go?

'You don't need a break, Art, you're just feeling discouraged.'

'I'm not just feeling discouraged, I'm exhausted..!'

'How can you be exhausted when you've put only half of yourself into the game recently?'

'That's not fair! I've put everything into this! I've done this all for us...'

'You need to be doing it for you, Art!'

'How can I when every time I lose, you look disgusted with me?!'

It didn't take long for him to grow resentful and for you to get defensive. The whole argument lasted a mere thirty minutes, but that didn't matter. Thirty minutes is all it really takes to destroy someone's self-worth and lose another's respect.

You two had huffed and scowled before moving to separate areas of your shared flat, but before Art could muster up the strength and motivation to say 'i'm sorry', you were already leaving.

'I'm going to a friend's for the night,' you had said.

And it took everything in him right then not to pull you into his arms and kiss your lips and beg you to stay. But he didn't. He knew it would only make things worse. You needed your space, and he probably did too, but he always found it hard to be apart. He understood that you needed your space, but he couldn't help but feel completely and utterly rejected anyways.

And then the anxiety came soon after the door shut behind you.

You still loved him, didn't you?

Whatever. He didn't care. He'd let you have your night alone.

Who was he kidding? Of course he fucking cared. He needs you. He always needs you.

Art tossed and turned on the bed relentlessly, trying his hardest not to think about whether or not you were telling your friend what an ungrateful and selfish partner he'd been for ever wanting to pause his tennis career (and your career as his coach). Your friend would likely only make things worse. He could practically hear their voice telling you things like 'he's such an asshole' and 'you should just leave him' and 'let him rot as a washed up player all on his own'.

Ugh.

It made him feel sick to his stomach.

He turned onto his side, his sad eyes looking to the spot where you usually laid. He swiped his fingers across your pillow, his calloused digits brushing over the cream-colored satin, and then he was shifting forward on the mattress to let his head rest on it. It only took a minute for the faint smell of your hair and warm skin to flood his senses, and that was all it took for the dam to break. He was suddenly crying like a teenager during a first breakup.

Tears had filled his eyes in an instant and spilled down across the bridge of his nose as he remained laying on his side, his face half-buried in the plush cushion as he trembled. He sobbed harshly and loudly, his chest heaving up and down as he clutched the physical reminder of you in his hands, and he swore that he could just about die from heartbreak right then and there. He missed you. Why did you have to go? Why didn't you just stay to talk it out? Surely he'd lost you forever.

Self-loathing, mixed with strong codependent tendencies, was an easy pill for Art to swallow. He'd take it with water, with tears, with blood; he'd surely want it through his IV if he was comatose.

It was a comforting type of poison, but oh hell, did it burn every time. A part of him would be lying, though, if he said he didn't like it this way. He knew that. He tried to ignore that.

He rolled onto his back as he gasped for air between heart-wrenching sobs. His bottom lip wobbled furiously as he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed furiously as he sweat and shook. He couldn't stop crying. God, he had said such horrible things to you. Worse than what you had said. He was sure of it. He didn't deserve you.

Your warmth.

Your selflessness.

Your compassion.

Your love.

The thoughts messed with his head.

He started to picture your smile when he would make you breakfast in bed on Sundays, and hear your laugh when he'd purposefully perform an awful backhand during a practice session, and feel your touch on his skin when you'd—

...

Oh.

Oh no.

He took in a shaky breath as he removed his palms from his puffy eyes and looked down to his boxers.

He was sporting a full-on semi. Warm and aching and growing with every second. He could feel every single pulse of his blood pump into it.

Just from a few thoughts of you, no less.

This was truly pathetic.

He sniffled wetly and shook his head, wiping his running nose with the back of his hand as he tried not to think about how badly he wished you were here.

Art's hand involuntarily reached down to adjust his erection, but it only made it harder. He hissed softly through gritted teeth before his lips parted and his head tilted back.

He removed his hand instantly, letting it rest back on his chest over his shirt guiltily.

He didn't want to touch himself. That was something you helped him with. You always did. He bit his lip as it quivered, trying to stop the flow of tears that were still falling from the outer corners of his eyes and past his ears as he stared up at the ceiling.

And then he thought for a few moments.

If you knew the state he was in, you'd want him to touch himself. Even if you were mad at him. Even if your anger towards him was justified; even if he deserved it. Right?

You wouldn't want him to lay here, stiff and throbbing, when he could be thinking about you and getting himself off.

He mentally scolded himself for about fifteen seconds over the fact that he had so quickly managed to conjure up an excuse to relieve the pressure in his crotch, and then he was letting his hand slide down into the front of his underwear.

He wrapped his touch around his cock at the base, biting his lip as his brows pinched up, and then he let his eyes flutter shut as he began to move his hand up and down.

He wasn't exactly too worked up yet, which meant no precum, so there was an uncomfortable tug on his flesh as he stroked himself. Art pulled his hand up and spit a thick glob of saliva onto his fingers before bringing it back down into his boxers to slide them over his tip.

"Ah-"

His back arched as soon as his fingertips slicked over his cockhead, and his knees lifted slightly up from the comforter. He worked his saliva down over the length of himself, before he started to slowly jerk off.

If you were here, you'd probably slide your hands up under his tee shirt and touch his chest. Maybe even play with his nipples. You knew all the right places to touch him. He didn't even have to ask anymore. Oh God.

Tears started to prick at his eyes again, but he furiously blinked them away as he started to let out little gasps and barely-audible moans. He decided to let himself melt into the sensations alone. He wanted to forget about you for a little while. That didn't make him a bad partner, did it?

And so he tried not to think about you for a little while as he touched himself — he really did — but he only lasted about two minutes before he started to lose his erection. He frowned, and then he sighed, and then he gave in. Of course he couldn't get off without thinking about you. You were all-consuming. You were everything he's ever wanted. Fuck. He really wished you were here.

The hand that wasn't on his dick maneuvered up under his shirt, and he let his eyes close fully again as he started to explore his chest the way he knew you would. His hand caressed over his toned stomach, and then up over his sternum, before it settled over his collarbones. He thought about your lips pressing there, your tongue poking out afterwards to lathe his sensitive skin with the needed amount of attention. He failed to stop a louder, anguished moan from being let out as his imagination took over once more.

His touch soon slid to one of his pecs, his thumb gliding over the nipple, which only made his hips buck up into his hand as he started to speed up his arm's movements. A sticky 'shlick shlick shlick' filled the space around him as he let out a low whine and started to squirm. Hot, boiling pleasure was building up faster than he thought it would.

As his cock squelched into his fist, he started to imagine that both of his hands were yours instead. The progression to this was was only natural.

"please touch me," he murmured softly into the loneliness of the bedroom, "please touch me more, baby.. i need it.."

Images of you started to swarm his head, and he began to picture what you would look like if you were the one touching him. You'd probably smile at him while he whimpered, and you'd coo at him and tell him he was pretty for you right then.

"Oh, fuck, ohh," he whined, his head tipping further back against the pillow as his thighs began to shake. A blurt of clear, sticky fluid leaked from his slit.

He stroked himself furiously, his other hand moving back down the length of his torso. He slid it down until it met his moving hand at his cock, and he cupped his balls.

"You're making me feel so good," he moaned as his brows twitched, "I wanna cum for you.. I wanna cum, baby.. let me cum..."

The silence in response to his pleas for release meant nothing to him. He could still hear your voice. He could hear it in death.

'You can't finish yet, I'm still playing with you,' you'd probably say.

He shook his head feverishly.

"No, no no," he gasped, responding to an imaginary you, "I need to cum.. I'm close, oh my god, 'm so close for you—"

A gasp, a stuttered moan, a buck of his hips. He sped up his hand a little.

He felt borderline drunk.

The hand on his soft balls glided up to squeeze lightly at his own throat, fingers applying a benign amount of pressure to the sides, and he felt his mind grow hazy at the pleasure thrumming through him as a result. He also felt his eyes roll up to the back of his head under his lids, and his cock grow heavier in his other grasp.

Sometimes, when Art got overwhelmed during sex, he'd ask you to choke him. Most people would think that this would only make a person more overwhelmed, but not Art. The feeling of your hand wrapped around his neck, gently and pleasurably stifling his blood flow, was more than enough to bring his focus back to you and less on every other separate sensation going through his nervous system. He could focus better on you when you did it, which was all he wanted. Honestly, most times when you choked him, it was so tender and loving that it didn't do too much. He actually liked it better that way. All he wanted was to be reminded of the control you had over him, not to be throttled. Pain like that wasn't really his thing.

He couldn't stop himself from picturing you straddling his pelvis as you choked him and asked him if he wanted to climax now.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," he wheezed under his hand's touch over his jugular veins, "i'm gonna cum, i'm.. please give it to me, baby..!"

"I need to cum.. i promise i'll be good.. i'm really gonna cum, i am.."

"Please, please— plea- ohh, hah anngh- HAH— please!”

In the fog of his building orgasm, Art realized something. If you were here, you wouldn't let him babble and slur like this over and over. No, you'd definitely do something about it.

With that, he let go of his neck and slid his index and middle finger over his tongue and into his mouth, closing his hungry lips around them instantly.

You always did something like this to shut him up. He considered it blissful torture.

He pressed the digits down over the back of his tongue and sucked needily as drool began to pool around them. His moans grew louder as his other hand moved faster over his twitching cock, but they were all coming out muffled. Art swallowed thickly. The copious amount of saliva coating his fingers was gulped down, only to be replaced by more flooding in. He started to think about the taste of your fluids and how happy he was whenever you'd let him use his mouth on you.

He'd have given anything to be able to suck and lick at you for real in that moment. Anything.

He stroked himself desperately for only a minute longer, before he was at the very edge. A finger ghosted over the underside of his oversensitive tip, a complete accident, and then his eyes flew open and his back arched as his heels dug urgently into the sheets. One loud, pornographic moan erupted out of his chest and around his fingers. His watery blue eyes squeezed shut tightly again, just before his digits slipped out and over the warmth of his wet tongue.

"I'm c-cum-ming, i'm— cumming-! i'm cumming, baby! don't stop!"

As soon as the words flew from his empty mouth, the waves of heady ecstasy were washing over him and pulling at his trembling limbs like he was a puppet. His abdomen flexed and shuddered with contractions, his hips were shallowly fucking himself into his hand, his other arm was flailing to frantically grasp at your pillow, and his cock was gushing all over his fingers in thick spurts.

It wouldn't end. It just would not stop.

He gasped as he milked himself dry, nearly sobbing from the throbbing relief and the burning high in his brain. He couldn't get air into his lungs fast enough as his heartbeat thudded rapidly in the confines of his ribcage.

You.

Oh, you.

You, you, you.

That's all he could think about.

If you were here, you'd probably say things like, 'wow, you did such a good job, baby' and 'came so hard for me, didn't you?'

He whimpered as he tried to shake the thoughts from his mind. He wanted to feel good for as long as possible before he knew the reality of his situation would come rushing back at him.

After several long moments, he started to come down from his release. The aftershocks left him sweaty and panting. It wasn't that comfortable. Even though you hadn't been here and he'd done this completely alone, he still felt the instinctual need to be held and kissed and caressed affectionately. He frowned, feeling his lip quiver.

He felt his legs stick to the sheets underneath, and white spots danced in his vision as he blinked his eyes open to glance around. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his lips, trying to steady his breathing and his heart rate.

As soon as the feelings of pleasure came, they went, and were replaced with the pit of despair in his heart that he had only briefly forgotten in the past twenty or so minutes. It was back, and it was only growing more painful each time he blinked. Flashes of you kept invading him. It was like there were goddamn pictures of you taped to the inside of his eyelids. His heart slowed, as did the air moving in and out of his lungs, and then he was left with nothing more than a sticky hand and those same anxious thoughts from before.

He sat up a bit in bed, leaning his flushed, clothed back up against the headboard, and he sighed. He suddenly felt sweat dripping down his cheeks, and he reached up to wipe at it, before he realized he had been crying again. When did that start? Before or after he came? He couldn't remember. Regardless, he knew the cause.

He bit his lower lip as he looked around your guys' bedroom.

It wasn't like you were dead, so why was he grieving the loss of your presence so hard?

This was bad. This was probably, like, super unhealthy. God.

He was startlingly shook from his daze by the sound of his phone buzzing on the bedside table next to him, and he leaned over and quickly slapped his hand over the device to turn it over and pull it close to him.

His heart fluttered when your name and contact picture lit up the screen, along with a red 'decline' and a green 'answer' button.

How could he ever hesitate?

His thumb was on the answer button before he could really process what he was doing, and he held the phone up to his ear as he breathed softly and shallowly. His heart rate was all the way back up now.

Please.

...

"Hi," you spoke. You sounded sad. Regretful, even.

He smiled and sniffled, clearing his throat as he sat up further in bed and blinked away the stray wetness in his eyes.

"Hey," it spilled from his lips a little too eager, but who cared?

You still loved him.

You had to.

You called him.

...

Maybe things were going to be okay after all.

note: ughhh. sad, angsty art donaldson .. how i love you so. sigh.

dividers by @h-aewo <3

🩷 tags : @idontevenknow1359 @odyseesnape @theoldsports @mitskilover23 @ysuftmikey (more tagged in the comments! sorry, still trying to navigate this! much love)

thank u to this anon + their ask for the inspo!:)

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