#art donaldson dumbification

[martiansodas-blog]

too pretty to think.

when art started to slip, it almost felt like falling asleep…

a. donaldson x reader

word count: 2,216

contents: dumbification, body worship, face sitting, multiple orgasms, cuming untouched, brief mommy kink, subspace, nicknames and pet names, this is freak nasty.

Xx

The first time 

You and Art have been going steady for 6 months and you loved every second of it. the two of you mostly hung out at your place, it's a tad cleaner than his dorm and he never bothered with things like decorations. It was a haven for the both of you. So when your Blackberry buzzed with a message asking,

“r u home?” 

It was hardly out of the ordinary.

“yeah. just changed clothes”

“can i come over?”

“of course”

Donaldson is a man who never knows when to quit. Let's rephrase: He’ll only quit when instructed to. 

He treats his body like a machine. He eats what his nutritionist tells him to, he pushes his body to the limit, and he rarely turns in a paper late. 

When you opened your front door your boyfriend was in chaotic ruins. His eyes were puffy and his cheeks were stained. He stared at the floor with his calloused hands in his pockets.

“Oh my gosh, what happened?? What’s wrong?”

Your tone had urgency as you ushered him inside. Once the door is closed he pulls you in for a hug. You don’t dare speak, just hug back. He’ll tell you when he’s ready. 

It’s obvious he’s trying to hold himself together, but stroking his back caused him to break.

“Aw, baby,” 

You sway him from side to side. 

“Shh, it’s ok. I’m here.”

After a few minutes, Art regained control of his breathing. You put him at arm's length—your voice just above a whisper. 

“Would you like to come lay down with me? We don’t have to talk about it if you don't want to, let's just get you comfortable.”

Art sniffles and nods his head—your poor baby. 

You held his hand and led the way to your room. You sat on your bed with your back against the wall so he could lay between your legs. He often takes this position when you guys are watching movies so it will add a level of comfort for him. 

Art takes some deep breaths as you run your nails through his hair. 

“We got a new coach and he- he’s so intense. I don’t know. I’ve been berated by coaches since I was 13. Why the hell is this one affecting me differently?” 

You twist one of his curls in your fingers. 

“Everything's just so much right now. Schoolwork, post-graduation plans, sponsorships… There's so much going on all the time. I- I can’t do it.” 

Your heart broke for him. 

“I’m so sorry, Artie. I wish I could take it all away from you.”

You rubbed his arms and back for who knows how long. It could have been hours. You didn’t care. You’d cancel your week's agenda if that’s what he needed. You weren’t getting up until he felt better. 

You analyzed his words.

“It’s not that you’re unable to make decisions, and it’s not that you make bad decisions. It’s just that decisions are constant unrelenting work… is that an accurate assessment?”

He nodded and sighed into your shirt like you were the one person in the world who understood him. 

“...And a good boy like you should never have to work.” 

Art froze. 

Well, that’s new. 

You decided to test the waters further and put on your most sultry voice. 

“Don’t worry baby, I’ll think for you.” 

He let out a sound that can only be described as a mewl. His body curled into a semi-circle. 

You swept some hair out of his eyes, they seemed to get droopier.

I don't know what exactly is transpiring he’s responding to it.

“Let your thoughts go. You don’t need them.” 

Eyes are fully closed now.

“Can you unclench your jaw for me? That’s it.”

He does as he's told, falling deeper into whatever hollow you're creating. He bites back a smile but his blush is evident. So easy to get him to blush. One of his cutest attributes.

Next step is Moving your handsome boy to lay on his stomach so you can rub his shoulders. You hear him sigh while the tension is worked out of his muscles and watch him relax under your hands. 

Walking him through some deep breaths while you place dozens of soft, light kisses on his neck. 

You want to make him understand what a privilege it is to have him.

Rubbing his thighs and calves, slowly melting away the stress of the day. Kisses on the backs of his knees while he laughs and tells you to stop that and that it tickles.

Helping him turn over to lie on his back and climbing carefully on top to straddle him.

You toy with the hem of his shirt. 

“Can I take this off?”

He looks up at you. mouth open and nods. 

It causes you to giggle. 

“Thank you.” 

Once that’s out of the way your hands wander up to his chest while trailing more impossibly light kisses down his Adam's apple. Massaging his chest, squeezing and grabbing and just feeling his skin. 

Kissing his collarbones, trailing your tongue along the dip where they meet under his neck. Slowly working that boy up with teasing touches that only get more and more unbearable.

Slowly returning to his lips to kiss him again while you reach down to trail your fingertips over his cock. He pants and whines so sweetly into your mouth while you play with his cock. You're not even trying to make him cum-- not yet. 

I could do this all day. 

Letting him drift in a fuzzy-headed space while you work your fingers soft and slow over his pants. Doesn't need to worry about anything but your hands on his body. You're right here to keep him safe and make him feel good.

“There's nothing I love more than watching my brilliant, polite, well-spoken boyfriend turn mindless.” 

Art whined and bucked his hips up to meet your hand.

“I need to be in you so bad. Please.”

Who are you to refuse him?

“Don't worry baby, I’ll give you what you want.” 

You slid off him and he reached for you, like he couldn’t stand you being an inch away for any amount of time. You chuckled and took off your bottoms and underwear, he copied. 

You hopped back on top of him, which made him break out into a smile. His girl was about to take care of him. 

You grabbed his cock and started stroking him. 

“I don’t know if I’m wet enough, Artie.”

“Sitonmyface.” He begged all in one breath. 

You bit your lip so as not to laugh at him. It wasn’t in a mean way, no no! He was just so excited about it. It’s adorable and flattering all at the same time.

“Are you sure? We’ve never done that before.”

We haven’t done a lot of this before. 

He shamelessly nodded. Grabbing your waist with both hands and shifting your body up before you could protest. 

“I don’t want to crush you.”

At this point, he was panting. A dog seconds away from getting a treat. 

“You won’t.” 

Art has eaten you out before, and it’s been wonderful. But this? This is a new kind of ecstasy. 

His tongue reaches new trenches. 

And that fucking nose. It bumped your clit every time. You were gasping and making noises you didn’t know were possible. His mouth is memorizing your folds. He's getting off on your arousal.  His tip is red and hurting, but can barely care when a taste crafted just for him is on his lips. 

“Shit. Just like that.” 

Your thighs trapped his face, your breath hitched with every thrust, and your walls clenched around his tongue. 

“Oh god, oh god,” 

Truthfully, Art didn't know which of you came first. 

The only thing he knew was your body. 

You shuffled down and kissed all over his face which was covered in your release. 

“You made mommy feel so good.”

He smiled up at you. He was so proud that he could do that for you. Like it was his purpose in life. And oh did he love that nickname. It made him feel all soft, like when you recall a fond memory. 

“Do you want Mommy to sit on your cock?” 

He whimpered and nodded. 

You lined yourself up with him and sank. It was so easy due to both of your juices, you had to concentrate on lowering slowly so he didn’t bottom out too fast. 

The two of you moaned in unison. It was almost tantric. Even though the focus here is on Art, it’s impossible not to feel the same pleasure. It wasn’t just your sexualities that were aligned but your souls. The love you felt for each other was palpable. 

It didn’t take long for him to bottom out. But it wasn’t enough. You ground your hips into him, causing his voice to raise an octave. 

“Oh fuck. Hnnn! Fuck, feels so good, please.”

He was babbling nonsense, unable to create cohesive thoughts or keep any sounds in. 

You remove his hands clutching the sheets and replace them with your own. To bring him back to earth. 

When he couldn’t get enough he bucked his hips up into yours. Moving aimlessly, mindlessly. You held his hips down to the mattress and bounced on his dick. The sounds of his cock hitting your weeping entrance were insanely beautiful and sinful to listen to. 

“Such a good boy.” 

His dick jumped inside of you at that. Seemingly of its own volition. 

You shifted to pepper kisses on his jawline. The new position forced his cock to rub all kinds of new places. You nearly collapsed onto him from the shock. Heavy exhales leave your mouth. Your pussy suffocates his cock. 

“My good boy. Just a dumb little thing for me to use isn't that right.”

Art came on the spot. No warning. His skin flushed and curls were damp on his forehead. Words were coiled at his throat, coming out as broken sobs, wanting more. 

You rode him until it was clear he'd finished. 

“Did you cum for me, baby?”

“Yes. I'm sorry I should’ve said something I couldn't help it. Felt too good, I didn’t -“

“Shh sweetheart, you did nothing wrong. You can cum in me as many times as you like. That's what I’m here for. That’s what this,” you clenched around him, “is for.” 

“Fuck.” his breath quivering. He arched his back, sensitive little thing. 

“I love it when you spill yourself into me. it’s so warm in here now.” 

You placed his hand on your lower stomach, your womb. 

“Can we go again please?”

“Are you sure? I don't want to push you.”

He shuffled so you were both sitting up. causing you to gasp. His erection never left, and it’s ever so prevalent right now. 

“Please! Wanna keep myself buried here forever.” 

It was hard to remain the level-headed one after hearing that. 

“You make me so wet when you say that, Artie.” 

There's drool coming from his mouth as he watches you talk. Nothing behind those eyes.

“So wet and needy.” 

You soften your voice, and when you talk it’s into his mouth. 

“You gonna let me take you again?”

He groaned and nodded, then ferociously kissed you. He wrapped his strong arms around your torso and immediately disliked how much fabric was between the two of you. He ripped your t-shirt and sports bra off in nearly one motion. Sighing when he felt skin on skin.

“I’m going to play with you until there's nothing in that head except my name.”

And you did. You fucked him till his brain turned to mush. Till it felt so good he thought he was going crazy, till he couldn’t even hear how loud he was being. Just blissed out being pulled back into your cunt. 

What an honor, to have such an obedient, adoring boy like him. 

You let him stay like that, floaty and sweet until he fell asleep to whispered praises. 

“My good boy. You did such a good job for me.”

A kiss to his forehead. 

“You know I love you so much.”

Tucked under the covers.

“So good for me, honey. You're okay. I'm proud of you. You're all mine, and I'm all yours.”

You raked your nails along his back.

“Relax, It'll all be there for you tomorrow. But for right now, all you need to be is my good, sweet boy. And you are.”

You moved off the bed which concerned Art. 

“Are you leaving?” 

He looked like he could cry. You cradled his face. 

“No baby boy, of course not. I’m only getting you some water. I’ll be right back” 

You spoke to him like a child bedridden with a cold. It was clear the comedown was something intense and never experienced before. He needed you next to him right now.

“Alright lovely, I know you’re tired but have a few drinks of this for me.”

You guided the water bottle into his mouth till you were satisfied with the amount he got in his system. 

“Rest now. I’ll cuddle you.” 

The blonde fell asleep immediately in your embrace and you hoped it wouldn't be the last time you took his thoughts away.

[cryptfile]

⨳ kinktober file 02 — victims of love, a. donaldson.

summary — you will simply not tolarate losing.

warnings — 18+ mdni, rivals to lovers, fem!reader, tension, filthy mouth, praise kink, whiny&pathetic!art, choking, pet names, p in v, masturbation, mentions of spit, blood and injuries (reader falls during a match and Art takes care of it, nothing wild), dumbification (art calls reader a loser multiple times).

side notes — this takes place before Tashi’s knee accident, it’s not important to know but whatever, english is not my first language thanks to the greater power of the universe, so any mistakes, let them be, i’m not sorry, also, like my previous file, dividers by @cafekitsune! let me know if you want to be tagged in the next kinktober file! been thinking about doing a kinktober masterlist so it’s easier for you my pretty people to look up and read whatever you want. Requests are still open at the moment!

Fuck being a loser.

Even when the tournament is a friendly one. Stanford always do that shit, this thing to bring students together and forces everyone to participate, yet, when you find out who you’re compiting with, it’s pretty obvious you’re going for the throat, not caring if the word “friendly” is in name as there was a medal and 150$ on game.

Yes. You are competitive by heart, it’s part of your genetics now that you’re deep into this tennis world you never wanted to be a part of, Tashi made you sign up and suddenly, suddenly you take it very seriously.

You win the first match, the second, and when it comes down to the final one, you find out it’s none other than Art Donaldson the one who’s on the other side of the tennis court, bouncing the yellow ball until he’s confident enough make the first move.

By the end you’re sweaty. Visible drips of sweat even when you’re standing on the other side, running to match his stregth and game. You wanted to be pro, enjoy the luxury of a relaxed life whose only meaning is to win plays, and to finally be that, you need to beat everyone, man or woman alike as it’s not a matter of sex, but rather talent.

It does not matter if it’s a friendly tournament, it does not matter about the masses saying you’re good, it’s about the fact that you won, that you beat Art Donaldson out of all people. Tashi is a wild ride yes, she makes you work for it when you two are against each other, run to every side, get tired. Art is tension.

Competition.

There’s nothing friendly about the way he’s looking at you, like he’s not dripping in sweat like you are, making those filthy sounds he makes each time he uses force to hit the ball, enough effort on it to make him tired, utterly tired.

So when he won, your knee is already bleeding, shaking his hand in nothing but hatred as he gives you this confident smile he uses to flirt sometimes. You hate it, every second of it, hate the fact that you lose against Tashi’s friend (who you’re sure she must have fucked before cause how there’s so much unresolved tension there?) and how he’s looking at you like he just crushed you in every sense of the word, even enjoyed it while doing it so.

“Good match,” he says when everyone’s looking at your interaction with him, but you don’t say a word. Art chuckles cause he knows people like you, people who need to prove themselves over and over again. “You did a good job.”

You don’t need praising even when it does things to you. You remain professional as you shake his hand, a fast and tight shake before taking the second place. Second.

What you don’t expect is to be in that party later. The music’s loud and people are celebrating something you’re not much aware of, yet the third place greets you with the tequila as you arrive, a bronze medal on his chest as the strong, burning taste goes down your throat before you caught him out the corner of your eye.

Art Donaldson.

He loves praising so much he cannot help it when people stop and say something nice about him: A good little tournament he won? It’s not something he’s going to be proud of his life forever, but it’s enough to make him enjoy the comments about his talent as the day goes through, the medium-sized gold medal still on his neck as he walks like he owns the place. 150$ dollars richer.

Fucker.

Everything seems to be against you: Sororities aren’t your thing but you’re there, the tournament went to shit, Art was literally haunting you.

You think about leaving. You live in a small residence where everyone knows each other, so big spaces filled with as much students as they can possibly fit is not a exactly a plan for you in a friday night, not when you like to stay indoors— But Tashi’s there, your friends are there, and man, you just need to have a good time after the disaster of a day.

So instead, you shove down a shot or two. And when you’re invited to smoke some grass outside, you don’t doubt it, even when Tashi says something about training tomorrow before disappearing, you're sat in a small circle, not caring about your friend’s words as you forgot about the pressure and simply smoke oblivious to everything — Even to Art's gaze.

Fuck being pro. You were doing okay in physics, maybe you should stick to that.

So while you’re drowning in misery, Art just looks at you with a beer in the hand. You picked his interest right at the end of the game: Tashi's friend, new blood, and a fresh face after a whole semester of knowing the same people — It’s safe to say he's drawn to you like he has been with everything he liked during his life. So yeah, he caught himself staring, going back to his memories and the imprinted scene on his brain of the match you two shared before like it was something intimate everyone in the public saw, the dripping sweat falling off your skin as you throw yourself to the floor caughting the small ball when you don't care about your physical well-being anymore.

He can see the wounds on your knee still, the scraps of dry blood as you smoked weed. He knows you're abusing, abusing your limits, testing how far you can go after a hell of a mach, and Art's usually pinning after Tashi at that point, desperate to sabotage Patrick, yet that night specifically he finds himself in trouble until that very moment, that very moment that everything seemed to change all of a sudden.

Truth is Art don't know you very much. He knows Tashi got a female friend she happens to like, a breathe of fresh air as she would describe you, that you play tennis sometimes, but more than that? He's totally clueless even about your name.

It’s just,— God. He loves girls that can put him in his place. It happened with Tashi before driving him crazy with need, and it has happened now in a lame tennis court with you out of all sudden. He thinks about that look you gave him, the tension of the competition, about the fact that even when you saw him, you choose to ignore him, the silver medal you received before well hidden in the back pockets of your shorts instead of proudly display it on your chest like the thrid place did.

You’re no second place. It’s very clear.

He likes your ego, that cocky face you got when someone mentioned the match, dismissing your second place like it was nothing; and Art just stares, even when people notice he’s looking at you, he doesn’t care about being evident as he scans each and every one of your actions.

Shit, he’s been staring a long time. Your friends notice when they tell you about the cute strawberry blonde that’s been checking you out the whole night, but you, knowing who he is, just know that he’s only doing it for teasing, to make your blood boil like he did in the match.

No one’s breaking the nice bubble you made though, laughing, dancing until you’re dizzy and you need to tell one of your girls that you’re going to the bathroom real quick, plan that usual, goes incredibly catastrophic.

The door is locked and you stand outside knocking a couple of times, cursing at the time it took the person inside to get out. And it’s all very cliché when you think about it hours later, cause when the door opens and you’re so rushed, so high already, you don’t happen to notice who you’re running into.

Either way you crash into him when he comes out. Art, Art, Art fucking Art. You’re half way drunk as you would say, and he’s dead sober as he prevents you from falling, grabbing you by the arm as you lose balance.

“Careful,” he would say before noticing it’s you—. “Having trouble to keep on your feet, second place? you okay?”

The nickname stirs something in you. Boiling rage mostly as you quickly stand on your feet again, regaining the balance you lost.

“Thanks. Watch where you’re going,” you quickly reply, rolling your eyes to the back of your head—. “Gotta be careful. People are not kind as me.”

“Kind? You sure about that?” he laughs softly, looking down at you. Fucking rat. Is he mocking you? “Don’t think you were kind to me. You were nothing but the opposite.”

“Were you expecting a pat on the back and a kiss on the cheek?” you asked furrowing your brows in response, an attitude that only appears cause you lack of shame, driven by liquid courage.

“Well for starters, that could be nice” he admits, and you now understand how it ended like it was going at the moment, how he prevented you from getting into the bathroom as he puts his hand right in front of you, blocking the way inside. “Maybe a good job would do.”

You sober up really fast after that, impossible not to.

“How’s your knee?” he asks after the silence, and you notice how he’s leaning towards you, hand on the wall as he points out the wound you didn’t take care of before, too mad to disinfect it as you ignore the pain after the match: Nothing hurts more than a bruised ego. “Did you go to the infirmary?”

“It’s only a bruise, m’okay” you say, looking at your kneecap as well, the dried blood that’s still on your skin—. “Can I go in or what?”

He’s pretty confident in himself, it seems like it (or maybe it’s because he has a gold medal with a number #1 on it), yet he’s grabbing you by the waist, pushing you inside the bathroom as he closes the door behind him with the help of his foot, helping you sit on top of the sink as he looks out for the first aid kit in a bathroom that’s not his.

And you, weird enough, forget why you’re there in the first place. That you were feeling strangely dizzy, that you were going to the bathroom to stare at the mirror and wash your face to sober up, even drunk for a moment as he presses a clean towel dipped in alcohol, a weird silence as you leg tweak against the sudden pain, a reflex you cannot control.

“Do you always get so mad when you don’t get what you want?” he asks, distracting you from the burning sensation as he takes care of the wound in your kneecap—. “Never met someone that could get so passionate about a friendly tournament.”

“No,” you admit, looking at his hands. Even when the blood is dried it still hurts. His touch is gentle, warm against your skin as he touches only what he needs to be touched, keeping his left hand on your tight as he prevents you from moving involuntarily. “Don’t lose often.”

“That so?” he asks, tilting his head slightly backwards, giving you this smile as if he has a huge secret about you only he knew, like you two share confidence now that you’ve shared five minutes in a bath away from the noise. “How long you’ve been playing anyway? Haven’t see you around.”

“A while,” you find his curiosity annoying, yet you’ve been rude enough so you don’t say much, not when he’s helping you—. “Didn’t take it very serious until this semester.”

He hums. Art likes that. The fact that your brain works for something else rather than the competition, that you could talk about the fucking weather if you like and not another match, so he takes in the information in, standing between your parted legs, incredible close.

“And you’re winning don’t you?” he asks curiously. “Hoping to go pro.”

“Well, I think we all want that in the end, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t respond, not with words exactly, but he leans over the bathroom sink, body barely touching yours as he grabs the red thread hanging on the back pocket of your shorts, the one he knows it’s there cause he’s been looking at it the entire night, and you need help cause your breathing hitches on your throat for a moment: Art’s touch is soft, equal as it was when he was taking care of your wound, his fingers sliding in the back as he grabs the silver medal of the second place between his fingers.

How, the hell he smells so damn good? Since you heard he was participating in the tournament you were eager to beat him and reduce him to ashes, but now, you find yourself sniffing on his scent as he fills your nostrils with a sweet smell much like vanilla, clean.

“You should wear your medal,” the blonde says, placing it over your head—. “Let people know you’re good in what you’re doing.”

“I don’t want people to cheer over a second place,” you admit looking at the silver with disgust, too proud to let it slide. “That’s mediocre.”

He seems to thing about it for a second: “Mediocre huh? Would you be happy if we switched medals then, second place?” he asks, looking down at your face. He’s too comfortable now that you didn't pushed him away, caging you in the sink as he places a hand on each side of your legs, his weight now against the spacious marble counter—. “Is that what you want? I’ll tell everyone you beat me if that’s going to make you happy.”

“No,” Why are you even nervous? You scold yourself in your mind a couple of times, he’s looking at you with those fucking puppy eyes, glistening under the white lights of the bath as he looks at you almost pleading—. “Cause that’s not true. You won.”

“Don’t really care. I just want to put a smile on your face,” Art replies, and god, it’s getting damn hard to think at that point cause his fingers are tracing invisible patters on the sides of your legs, stupidly close as he scans your face, no shame, nothing but a pure act of lust. “Don’t want you to be mad a me, second place. Would not want us to start off on the wrong foot.”

Whatever he’s doing? It’s working. Cause when he’s taking the gold medal out of his neck to put it in yours, exchanging the silver one you hated so much with his gold? You’re sure you’re making it all up in your head.

“There,” the athlete smiles almost proud as his knuckles brushes against your chest—. “Looks better around your neck anyways.”

He caughts you off-guard. You’re no longer high, drunk, or whatever excess you’ve been through the night, and you simply dig it, a lot to be honest with yourself. Maybe it’s the fact that you lose the tournament, that you’re somehow vulnerable thanks to your ego being bruised so much, but you let it happen, let his fingers grab the skin of your tight again like its their original place cause you want him to do it, to experience his touch.

“Nobody’s going to believe me,” you blurt out, nervous enough to act like you’re normal about it, about his warm skin seeking yours—. “They all saw you win. You played good.”

“You really think that?” he’s dizzy on that cocky confidence, that boost your words give him as he smiles, his right hand caressing your cheek for a moment, losing itself in the strands of your hair moments after. “You really think I did a good job out there? Beating you?”

It’s the way he’s saying it. How he’s all desperate about it, so needy for you to admit he did good as he brushes your hair using his fingers.

“You know I do. That’s why you won, Art.”

“I swear i’ll keep the secret, loser” he chuckles lowly, breaking every rule as he pushes you to the edge of the counter. “I’ll tell everyone that you won, but you’ll still be the second place to me.”

Fucker.

You want to respond, say something sassy as well, a snarky remark at least, but Art’s pressing his forehead against yours, grabbing you by the jaw strong enough to remind you he has more force than you, but gentle enough to let you enjoy it, demanding you to look at him. Look at him like he’s been looking at you the whole damn night.

“I do, really want to kiss you right now, second place” he admits close to you, gaze travelling to your pumped lips as his eyes take in the details, the pink shade mixed with a transparent lip gloss that only seems to invite him, to make a mess with it, dissapear at its finest. “It’s burning me alive.”

He waits for any sign of permission, and you try to think reasons to say no. Any motive to say no to him, but instead you simply chuckle, back against the wall, trapped in this atmosphere he so easily created: There’s no human way possible to say no cause to be brutally honest, you want it too.

He’s hot. he's handsome in a way you cannot stop thinking about so when he's kissing you? You have no complains. You let him be needy, let him touch you like an anguished men, like he encountered a glass of water after a long walk in the dessert. The kiss it's all teeth and bite — It's fast, messy, demanding and wet. He's grabbing you by the medal, tugging on the gold circle just to make you lean towards him, fingers now caressing on the skin of your throat now as he deepen the kiss, not even waiting for permission as he slides his tongue in, wanting more.

"So you wear my medal and i'll wear yours" his breathing collides against your skin soon after, planting kisses on the crook of your neck, drawn by your smell of peaches, the softness of your skin. "Say it, please say you'll do it."

Each second becomes a torture, a cruel joke when you were so invested in winning, something you don't care about now, that seems to be far from your interests as he squeezes the skin of your tight, toying with the hem of your shirt, the cotton fabric of your black t-shirt that only annoys him as he touches your stomach, the sweet intimacy he's been craving since the morning.

"I'll do it," you nod for a second—. "But you have to be convincing. Don't make me look like a fool."

"How could I?" he asks, utterly curious as he stops for a second to look at you. "You're a winner, anyone can tell."

It makes your blood rush. His words seems to hit the jackpot, cause your shirt's falling the floor, the door's being closed with lock, and suddenly, the air is hot, the only sound that filled the bathroom of the sorority being his kisses, your labored breathing as you forgot about the rest of the party.

It's not something you'd usually do, the rush of something so sporadic, so inconsistent, but you love the adrenaline, the touch of his hands, the electricity being poured down your spine.

"Nobody would even dare to think you're in reality a loser" he says, praising once again in his own way as he places a soft kiss on your lips, looking down at your hands now, fingers interwined now in his jeans. More. You want more. “A really hot second place.”

Your touch is getting more eager now, and as you unbuckle his pants, he's fucking whimpering, his hips moving in need for the friction the palm of your hand can offer, taunting him for a second before he's pulling down on his own underwear himself, the blue fabric of his jeans falling halfway over his tights.

Your hand leaves his body for a second, and he's ready to beg for more until he notices what you're really doing, a large amount of spit going into your hand in what Art could swear is the most erotic act he has ever seen, traces of drool on in your chin before your fingers finally hug his already hard cock.

Soon he's fucking your fist, burying his head in your neck, moaning and pleading you to keep on going, moving his hips fast enough to create a delicious sound you thrive on, ones that mixes damn well in the air. He's slightly sweaty, not like he was in the game, but enough to create this nice smell it only makes you addicted.

"Don't cum," you ask, and it's a lot when his movements are becoming more erratic at the time passes, incoherent words of praise and need as he bites on your neck—. "Art. Don't cum on my hand."

Fuck that.

His touch becomes desperate after that. The medal of the first place still on your bare chest, your black bra slightly up as he’s been touching you, rolling your nipple between his fingers, your skin almost glowing beneath the bathroom lights: He needs you more than what's actually possible, tugging on the button of your shorts, annoyed with the piece of fabric as he takes it off, the time it took to undress you being valuable time he simply doesn't want to waste.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks, making sure for a second you're okay, nodding in response before he grabs you by the hips only to push you in the position he wanted, finally throwing the damn shorts you're wearing to the floor before spreading your legs open, positioning himself in the middle. "God, you're such a fucking sight."

His voice is rough now, and that nice look on his face, that fucking rat smile, friendly even, is far erased from his lips now as he grabs his dick, pushing it between your folds without really fucking you, and the act is enough to make you moan when he’s moving his hips in a cruel pace, the tip of his cock leaking already against you clit. He’s fucking his own fist, your already dripping cunt making it easier for Art to slide as he wants to.

He spits, and it’s a crime cause nobody looks good while doing so, the trails of saliva that leaves his mouth land on his dick, coating your cunt before slightly pushing it inside with the help of his fingers, finally offering what you trully need—. And you feel him, inch by inch. When his fingers are grabbing you by the waist to keep you in place, pushing slowly until he’s deep inside, placing sloppy kisses all over your neck as you moan in response.

Art swears he’s in heaven. Invaded by an intense bliss as he began to move. The second place medal hits his torso, colliding against yours as he moves, and his left hand moves to grab a fistful of your hair just to pull it backwards, making your head follow the motion — He’s relentless, moving in a slow pace at first before gaining rythm, but shit. You’d lie if you didn’t say he knew what he was doing when his right thumb moves in circles over your swollen clit.

It’s hard to hate Art Donaldson like that. All whiny and pathetic, mumbling words about how warm your pussy is, how tight you feel, wet for him. It’s hard giving a fuck about the competition when he’s leaving your hair alone to instead grab the thread of the medal you’re wearing, the red ribbon that was on his neck before and now is hanging on yours, angling the medal so the thread is now choking you, pulling on the gold slightly to make it harder to breathe.

“C’mon, loser” he says with a cocky smile, looking down where his cock is, stretching you out to his liking with each thrust. “D’you feel that? How good your pretty pussy is taking me? That’s first place material there, champion material.”

You nod a couple of times, too fucked-out to function. Lewd sounds fill out the room after, the moans, the grunts, the coils of pleasure that started to form in the lower part of your belly, fueled by his rough movements now, leaving that soft touch behind to replace it with force, fingers digging on your skin so hard he’s sure it’s going to leave a mark behind.

Fuck it. Fuck the game, fuck second place. Your head hits the mirror behind the sink, yet it means nothing as you can feel the orgasm being poured all over by the minutes, the insane punch as he keeps on going, hitting that nice spot in an inconsistant pace as you come undone.

“God that’s it,” he says, pulling on the medal until your skin is changing fucking colors—. “That’s it, cum,” he demands. “Taking my cock like a fucking champion.”

He cums soon after you, pulling out as it lands on your stomach, the gold medal thats now resting on your belly stained with his cum.

And he melts in top of you for a second, breathing heavily against your neck, body covered in sweat before blushing slightly embarassed about the mess he did.

Weird enough, only one thought appears on his mind after five minutes: Just wait until you meet Patrick.

previous kinktober file [ dean winchester ] // masterlist

[vultbae]

small world ❀

art donaldson x female reader

part two (soon)

↳ summary: Art and Patrick were once your peers at the Mark Rebellato Academy —not the nicest ones. Five years later, you've made a friend that can help you fuck with their minds a little.

↳ warnings: making out, dry humping, manipulation, a lot of pettiness, mentions of bullying, and weight!! the dumbification of art donaldson tbh

↳ notes: Istg I be having the most random ideas, but I hope you enjoy!! as always, english is not my first language lolz

word count: 3.1k

Tashi enters the living room with a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes, moving gracefully in a beautiful blue mini-dress. With a soft pop, she eases the cork, instantly pouring the effervescent gold-ish liquid into the two glasses. 

"You shouldn't even worry about them," Tashi says with a wry smile. As she finishes serving you some rosé Veuve Clicquot, she hands you the glass. "What are you—like, the second or third in Europe? They are gonna be broke by their thirties," she concludes, staring at you with confident eyes.

You nod, taking a sip of champagne. "Don't see it as serious; it'll be fun."

Tashi raises her glass, a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. "Im just saying, don't stress over men."

You clink your flute against Tashi’s. "Alright."

A year and a half ago, you had met Tashi Duncan, who you believed was a hard-hearted bitch but ended up being a close friend of yours. She is merciless, proficient, and goddamn; she has that vicious aura you worship so much. While living in Biot, you'd always look for the nearest CRT to watch Tashi flawlessly play, enchanted by how she unnerved her adversaries.

During summer break, your father dragged you out of the academy to visit California for a benefaction event. Amidst the glamour and chatter of the event, you caught sight of Tashi —most likely attending due to her relevance spiking around the area. Luckily, your connection rapidly deepened, fueled by reciprocal admiration and tennis dependence.

And the commitment to stay in touch despite the geographical distance worked. Tashi became pretty much your best friend, and you became hers. Aside from the workaholic aspect, the resemblances between you were too much to ignore. Sooner than later, you discovered much about Tashi's personal life, the players she liked and despised, and her daily anecdotes regarding tennis and her intimate life. And that's how you became acquainted with Fire and Ice's peculiar hyper-fixation on Tashi.

Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig.

You thought it was a unique offering from God. You didn't expect you'd get the opportunity to face the golden pair again. When Tashi told you she had met Zweig and Donalson, a powerful sentiment of gratitude washed over you. You nearly fell to your knees when she proceeded to explain they were a walking boner for her. If that wasn't high power granting you a second chance to delight yourself, it was an insane coincidence.

But telling Tashi the backstory was a different pain in the ass. Although she expressed some sort of disgust towards Zweig and Donaldson's brainless carnal-based attitude, you couldn't buy it.  And your skepticisms were demonstrated as valid when she —dreamy voice and all that shit— confessed through the phone she nearly had a threesome with them. A fucking threesome. You couldn't hold it back anymore, so you told her everything.

Tashi was aware of tennis's influence on your household, as you were raised by two renowned tennis coaches from the States. When you turned eight, your parents turned you in at the Mark Rebellato Academy —as if you were condemned to play tennis by default. The detrimental part of your journey was developing thyroid issues when you were twelve. Jesus, twelve years old — the commencement of the preteen period where kids either kiss your feet or bully you. One year after, along with the anticipated weight gain, you met Art and Patrick. And as if you weren't unfortunate enough already, the two ���who at the time looked like fucking Beavis and Butthead— decided they didn't like your physical appearance. They hated it.

“Hey, Y/l/n!” Patrick’s voice rang out, sharp and mocking.

You froze, your heart sinking to the underground. You tried to focus on your serve, but your hands were immobile. 

Patrick sauntered over, his smirk widening as he looked you up and down. “What’s the matter, Y/n? Ball too heavy for you to lift?”

You heard Art’s laughter behind your back. He joined in a kind of trembling voice. “Or maybe she’s saving her strength for lunch. She doesn't hesitate when it comes to eating.”

The echo of them and the rest of the kids on the court laughing was a sound that felt like daggers piercing your heart.

After two years of ceaseless bullying and humiliation—which also distracted you from tennis—your parents sent you to The Mouratoglou Tennis Academy in Biot, a small town in France. You are not sure if it was the harassment itself, the low self-esteem, or possibly your undeniable attraction for Donaldson. It didn't matter. By the age of seventeen, you were undoubtedly one of the major promises of European tennis.

So, explaining the theatrical, soap opera-like backstory to Tashi for your detestation of Zweig and Donaldson took time. But when you did, it was worth it because Tashi didn't distrust your testimony, and if anyone was exhilarated to play some moves against them at the beginning, it was Duncan. 

That's the explanation behind Tashi pitching a tremendous party to celebrate her commitment to Stanford. This was absurd, to say the least, considering she had college offers piling up, and no one doubted she would commit to a prestigious school. But Tashi knew you'd visit from France, and this was just the perfect instance to hook you up with both condemned.

Because, of course, her biggest fangirls would attend. 

It didn't take long until the country house was full of people ranging from Tashi's cousins to bare acquaintances. And spotting Fire and Ice was easier than you thought. 

Tashi elbows you discreetly and signs with her head the direction they are standing. "There they are."

Your gaze falls over Art, who is laughing with —who you assume is—Patrick. His features are sharper and more defined. The lanky, slender physique you remembered from his premature teenage years had filled out into a more athletic build, with broader shoulders tapering to a trim waist covered in a light pink shirt. His blonde hair, which was no longer too light, was now strawberry blonde-ish, slightly tousled, and cascading over his ears.

Patrick, standing a few feet away, was equally transformed. His brunette hair, just a bit longer than you remember, frames a face that had hardened over the years—angular jaw, defined cheekbones, and piercing eyes that seem to miss nothing. The fucking smirk is still there, and you can see how he displays it every two seconds at whatever thing Art is telling him.

The interior of your stomach resembles a volcano about to erupt. You feel ambivalent, so many emotions overlapping each other. You see two cute, hell, gorgeous guys, and you wish you could approach them without considering crucifying them before. And you can't help but feel envious at how effortlessly Tashi managed to tame Art and Patrick while the only thing you got from them was hostility.

Your eyes can't seem to unbuckle from them. Tashi catches you slightly frowning at the panorama, and she isn't certain if you are infatuated or planning murder on the spot. "Come on."

You have no time to react before Tashi leads you through some partygoers to reach where Zweig and Donaldson are. Like dogs sniffling fresh meat, it's pathetic how their heads twist simultaneously when Tashi approaches them, conversation instantly pausing. It is as if Tashi's presence was magnetic for them.

"Well, hello, both of you," Tashi greets them excitedly, still holding your hand. "Didn't think you'd come."

Art's eyes widen, "Are you kidding?" he's about to keep speaking, but his gaze merges with yours for a split second, and he shuts off. Dead. Silent. 

"—Stanford's a big deal, Tashi." Patrick interrupts, compensating for the awkwardness of Art's sudden number. "I had to drag this lazy fuck out of his bed, but we made it."

Suddenly, Art's out of the trance, tearing his blue eyes off you to bombard Patrick with a killer look. "Hey—shut up, Patrick."

Tashi sweetly, softly giggles at their word exchange. God, she's good, you think. Tashi turns to gesture to you, "This is my friend, Claire, by the way. She is visiting from the Mouratoglou Academy—

To be fair, Claire is a believable name.

"Wait, the Patrick Mouratoglou Academy? In France?" Art runs over Tashis's sentence, incredulously shooting you a broad-eyed glare. You nod in agreement, still processing you are having a civil conversation with Art Donaldson.

You feel Tashi squeezing your hand at your quietness.

"Yeah, you know it?" you timidly ask, forcing a polite smile that, if you were Art, you wouldn't buy it. But, of course, he's as dumb as a pigeon.

"Heck... Of course, I do. I wish I could go there."

Tashi smirks, enjoying the spectacle. 

Patrick’s investment in the conversation piques. "Mouratoglou, huh? That's impressive. Maybe we could hit the court sometime."

And that's the first time Patrick makes eye contact with you. He's stabbing you with his stare. You abruptly wonder if he's as dumb as Art, probably not. 

You squeeze Tashi's hand.

Tashi leans closer to Patrick, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "Hey, Pat... do you remember what you mentioned about erectile dysfunction? My aunt's a sexologist, I think—

Patrick loudly chuckles, apparently alarmed by the deficiency of filtering confidential information. "I need to smoke sum' stronger. Wanna come, Tash?"

Tashi purses her lips, casting a quick glance at you. "Sure."

Your point of view is like a sitcom scene, swiftly panning from Tashi's body leaving your radar to the boy in front of you, staring at you with soothing eyes and reddened cheeks. It's basically comical.

Art's eyes dart around the lively yard before landing back on you. He clears his throat. "So, uh, Claire? That's a cute name."

It takes tons of willpower not to drop the good girl act right there. You attempt to return the sentiment with a quirk on the corner of your lips. "I need to get a drink. Come with me?"

He shakes his head up and down, finding it easier than answering with words.

For the first time in a couple of months, the inside of Art's mind has more than a giant cardboard cutout of Tashi Duncan. He is in awe. 

You lead the way, weaving through clusters of drunk teenagers towards the house. You feel Art's gaze lingering on your back —or ass, you don't know—a magnetic pull that makes you hyper-aware of his presence.

You arrive in the kitchen and quickly grab a bottle of vodka, a can of soda, and a party cup. Art watches you closely with a look of hypnotic admiration as if you were concocting the most complicated cocktail in the world. You want to roll your eyes so badly.

"That dress looks amazing on you." Art blurts out, unable to contain his thoughts any longer. 

You look at him. Art is sitting on one of the high stools by the kitchen island, his elbow resting on the table's sleek surface, supporting his chin with his hand. There is a softness in his eyes completely foreign to you, an infrequent vulnerability that contrasts sharply with the characteristic asshole demeanor you remember.

To Art, you appear almost ethereal, like an ideal concept from a wet dream of his. His thoughts are a kaleidoscope of jumbled fragments of memory that make no sense. You look so familiar... but no. 

There's no way he would forget about you.

You glance up, a faint blush coloring your cheeks. "Thank you," you reply, handing him a drink.

Art sips on his red plastic cup, eyes hooked on yours. "So, uhm. I just realized I never introduced myself properly. Im Art—

"Yeah, Donaldson, I know." you cut him off, leaving him completely silent and confused. "I've seen you play. Not bad," you clarify, with an unconscious hint of pride in your voice.

Art's smile widens. "Wait, you've seen me play?" he exaggeratedly emphasizes me. 

You nod.

His eyes twinkle with excitement. There’s this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "That's, uh, great. Next time you are watching, I'll play better..."

His innate nerdiness and try-hard flirtiness provoke nausea in you. If you didn't know him, it would be a different story. But seeing a former, intense crush who shamelessly bullied you for so long, giving you heart-shaped eyes...

It's fucking bizarre. And it pisses you off.

Art begins conversing about something else. You don't know what—tennis-related, maybe. You are not wearing earphones with noise cancellation, but you can't hear him anymore. It's a blur as his words course through one ear and depart through the other. Immediately. Your brain has simply blocked the action of listening to him.

You step closer, so close you can see the fine lines in his eyes, the flecks of green amidst the blue, with a hint of brown sectoral heterochromia on his right eye. You can smell the faint woody scent of his cologne, something spicy that makes you salivate. His lips keep moving, forming words that dissolve into the dim background noise. The music, the laughter, the chatter—they all blend into a distant hum.

Art's voice vanishes into oblivion as you fix your gaze on his mouth, the curve of his lips, the way they part and close as he speaks. "Art," you say, stopping him in his tracks.

His eyes flicker with uncertainty, puzzlement, and a spark of hope. His adam's apple throbs as he notices you staring at his lips.

You lean in, your breath mingling with his, your heart pounding in your chest. Your hand reaches up, fingers brushing against his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin and the slight stubble that prickles against your touch. Art's breath hitches, his eyes widening in surprise, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he leans in, too.

Your lips crash against his. Although you don't want to make it weird, you fail. It's not a gentle kiss or a precious, out-of-a-book lips meeting. It's fierce, instructing, a clash of sour sentiments and intent. You pour all your frustration, your pent-up anger, and your fucked-up desire to overpower him into that kiss. 

Art's shock melts away and quickly replaces it with an appetite that matches yours. His strong arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours. The kiss deepens, his lips parting to allow your tongue to explore, to taste the unmistakable flavor of cigarette and cheap vodka. You can feel the warmth of his breath and the way his hands tighten on your waist. It's almost as if he's frightened you'll pull away at some point.

And you can only fantasize about the moment you walk away.

—but not yet. You push harder, your fingers tugging slightly in his messy strawberry-blonde hair. He lowly moans into your mouth, a sound that dispatches a shiver down your spine. His hands roam your back, tracing the curve of your spine and dangerously lowering to your ass level. There's a distress in his touch you never thought would come from him.

The way he's dissolving under your venomous touch is already a win for you. You've managed to put him under you. And it's intoxicating, this control you have over him, this ability to make him forget everything else.

You pull back, your lips hovering just above his. Art's eyes are half-lidded, his lips swollen and ridiculously red from the intensity of the kiss. He looks at you in pure infatuation, "What- I... Did I do something wrong?"

You press a finger to his lips, silencing him again. "Come with me."

You peek at the party going outside—most people are outside. The living room is nearly empty, with a few alcoholized individuals entering the country house to refill their drinks. It's perfect.

You take Art's hand, your fingers lacing through his, and you lead him toward the sectional, six-seat couch in the center of the living room. You push Art down onto the couch, and he complies without resistance, his lust-drunken eyes never leaving yours; he nearly chokes on his spit at the sight of you slowly straddling him, your knees sinking into the soft cushions on either side of his hips.

"Jesus, Claire—"

You get the ick at the roleplay name Tashi baptized you with. 

"Shh," you whisper, leaning in to brush your lips against his in a soft, teasing kiss. "You never shut up, Donaldson."

And that's odd for him. He gives it a second thought because he isn't aware of how much he has talked, but definitely not that much. 

The overthinking vanishes as soon as you begin to kiss him again, slowly at first, savoring the way his lips deliciously move against yours. Art's hands rest tentatively on your hips, his fingers twitching as if afraid to hold on too tight. You guide his hands around your waist, urging him to hold you closer. His grip tightens, and you can feel the heat of his palms through the delicate fabric of your black mini-dress.

A sigh rolls out from your throat when you perceive something hard putting pressure against your core —which, because of the dress, is only shielded by thin lace panties. The coarse fabric of Art's light denim jeans rubs splendidly against your pussy. 

A primitive groan slips out of Art's lips the moment you grind your hips against his clothed dick. Suddenly, he breaks the kiss, and his eyes wander downwards. "Shit— you'll kill me," he pants into your mouth.

You pull back slightly, looking into his eyes. They're dark with craving, his pupils dilated. "Then let me."

You are about to attack his lips again, but he hesitates. You tilt your head in confusion, murmuring a low what?

Art starts to speak, his voice shaky and breathless. "I... I was wondering if you wanted to go back to my hotel with me."

Before you can respond, Tashi suddenly appears in your vision behind Art's head. "Claire, there you are," she says, fucking loud with a knowing, manipulative smile on her lips. "Your dad called, he's outside."

You feel a surge of delicious triumph as you see the apparent dissatisfaction in Art's eyes. 

"Sorry, Art," you say, standing up and smoothing your dress. "Maybe another time."

There’s a raw sadness in his eyes, an almost childlike hurt that he can’t quite conceal. He isn't even drunk; he's fully conscious of the stunning girl he just met and now is evaporating as if she was going to turn into a wolf at midnight or something. 

As you are about to disappear from Art's vision, he shouts at you, "I'll see you later, right?"

But you don't answer.

Instead, you hurriedly walk with Tashi to reach the front yard. 

"I didn't lie about your dad being here, though," Tashi clarifies, pointing at the big Jeep parked in front of the country house.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, a smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah, alright." You glance back at the house to ensure you are out of earshot. "I think fucking him would've been better. Do you think he's gonna remember about this tomorrow?"

"Oh, yeah. This is definitely gonna fuck his head up for a while." Tashi chuckles, "he's pretty obsessive."

You feel a swell of fulfillment at your best friend's words. "How obsessive?"

Tashi smiles. "A lot."

❀

[ldy11lc]

POSSIBLE KINKTOBER BOTS ᥫ᭡

aughh !! guys, i am SO disappointed rn !! i had originally planned on making all of these bots and releasing two each day for the first week of october, BUT i got sick and i wasnt able to make all of them in time 💔💔 instead of letting all of my work go to waste though, i figured id ask which of these you guys would want to see the most, so i can hopefully still get out SOME for kinktober <33 !!

!!! VAUGE TALK OF NSFW SUBJECTS BELOW !!!

PROMPT 1 : Virginity / First Time

˙.꒦꒷˖ Getting It Right. ࿔ ₊⊹ ࿐ Art Donaldson

˙.꒦꒷˖ Favours Between Friends. ࿔ ₊⊹ ࿐ Jackie Taylor

PROMPT 2 : Lingerie

˙.꒦꒷˖ Her Underwear. ࿔ ₊⊹ ࿐ Tashi Duncan

˙.꒦꒷˖ Locker Room Teasing. ࿔ ₊⊹ ࿐ Natalie Scatorccio

PROMPT 3 : Photos

˙.꒦꒷˖ Polaroids. ࿔ ₊⊹ ࿐ Patrick Zweig

˙.꒦꒷˖ Her Muse. ࿔ ₊⊹ ࿐ Shauna Shipman

PROMPT 4 : Public

˙.꒦꒷˖ Bathrooms at Parties. ࿔ ₊⊹ ࿐ Tashi Duncan

˙.꒦꒷˖ Changing Rooms. ࿔ ₊⊹ ࿐ Lottie Matthews

PROMPT 5 : Threesome

˙.꒦꒷˖ Caught. ࿔ ₊⊹ ࿐ Art Donaldson + Patrick Zweig

˙.꒦꒷˖ Post-Game Adrenaline. ࿔ ₊⊹ ࿐ Lottie Matthews + Natalie Scattorcio

PROMPT 6 : Pet Play / Dumbification

˙.꒦꒷˖ Family Pet. ࿔ ₊⊹ ࿐ Tashi Duncan + Art Donaldson

˙.꒦꒷˖ Little Bunny. ࿔ ₊⊹ ࿐ Jackie Taylor

PROMPT 7 : Impact Play / Biting

˙.꒦꒷˖ Attention Seeker. ࿔ ₊⊹ ࿐ Patrick Zweig + Tashi Duncan

˙.꒦꒷˖ A Little Possessive. ࿔ ₊⊹ ࿐ Shauna Shipman

NOTE : i’m still super excited for these bots !! i did try to choose more “vanilla” prompts because c.ai is pretty limited with what you can do, but i hope they still end out good !!! i also do still plan on making most of these bots at some point, but i will obviously be prioritising any requests (for this or otherwise) !!

[heartz4shauna]

PLEASE stop putting art donaldson dumbification on my for you during school hours!!! let me look at the challengers tag in peace!!!

[martiansodas-blog]

“should i write a full on art dumbification fic or no”

YESSSSSSASS 🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🥵😫😜😝😋

right here !

i still can’t believe how it got so many notes so quickly. 💞 there may be a part 2 coming… maybe

[martiansodas-blog]

art whining when he’s dumb like don’t worry baby, i’m gonna make it go away

[martiansodas-blog]

i love art donaldson dumbification but what about art donaldson puppyification? no other thoughts other than being your little lapdog, fetching your things for you and living off of praise

🎾 🤍💐✨🎀

♡ if a.donaldson can’t cover you with licks and kisses like a devoted dog then he doesn’t want it.

squish his thighs or pet his head or rub his belly when you need to say i love you. speak his language.

imagine just holding him to your chest and running your hands through the back of his head, it's such a rarely touched place it almost startles him to let another run their fingers around, yet it feels embarassingly good.

its scary how much an intimate touch makes him wanna shy away.

he just wants to kneel in front of someone while they stroke his hair, look up at them with those big eyes. whine a bit when they tug at it. he longs to be one putty in someone’s hands.

♡ oh you’re looking for your bag? he’s already holding it.

you need to fill up your water bottle but are comfy and don’t wanna get up? he’s on it.

♡ art is proud to be your blanket. your body talks to him; your heart giving his cheek kisses.

♡ we all know art has an oral fixation. when he’s in his happy place, it’s much even more intense. he’s asking to use your tits or clit. what are you gonna do? say no??

he loveeees laying on top of you, eyes closed, arms wrapped around your middle and nipple in his mouth. you’ll binge tv like this. it’s background noise to art. there’s no thoughts behind those eyes.

he’s gentle, don’t worry. he’ll massage the other one from time to time. giving kisses all over when he’s done as a thank you. putting your shirt back on you.

you get caught up on your shows while your lapdog lays on you getting scratches. win-win.

when it’s your clit it’s a different story.

you remind him, “no biting, soft mouth".

it’ll cause him to pout cause he can’t fully comprehend just how delicate it is. he’ll bite a tiny itty bitty bit to see what he can get away with. he’s sorry he just finds it really cute when you squeal !!! (and it’s such a perfect size to nibble on 🤭)

♡ bonus: he likes when you feed him things. that game where you throw grapes or popcorn into the others mouth? GODDD he’s there. huge smile on his face. he’s very good at it too.

what a good boy

[baelaria]

Just wow

too pretty to think.

when art started to slip, it almost felt like falling asleep…

a. donaldson x reader

word count: 2,216

contents: dumbification, body worship, face sitting, multiple orgasms, cuming untouched, brief mommy kink, subspace, nicknames and pet names, this is freak nasty.

Xx

The first time 

You and Art have been going steady for 6 months and you loved every second of it. the two of you mostly hung out at your place, it's a tad cleaner than his dorm and he never bothered with things like decorations. It was a haven for the both of you. So when your Blackberry buzzed with a message asking,

“r u home?” 

It was hardly out of the ordinary.

“yeah. just changed clothes”

“can i come over?”

“of course”

Donaldson is a man who never knows when to quit. Let's rephrase: He’ll only quit when instructed to. 

He treats his body like a machine. He eats what his nutritionist tells him to, he pushes his body to the limit, and he rarely turns in a paper late. 

When you opened your front door your boyfriend was in chaotic ruins. His eyes were puffy and his cheeks were stained. He stared at the floor with his calloused hands in his pockets.

“Oh my gosh, what happened?? What’s wrong?”

Your tone had urgency as you ushered him inside. Once the door is closed he pulls you in for a hug. You don’t dare speak, just hug back. He’ll tell you when he’s ready. 

It’s obvious he’s trying to hold himself together, but stroking his back caused him to break.

“Aw, baby,” 

You sway him from side to side. 

“Shh, it’s ok. I’m here.”

After a few minutes, Art regained control of his breathing. You put him at arm's length—your voice just above a whisper. 

“Would you like to come lay down with me? We don’t have to talk about it if you don't want to, let's just get you comfortable.”

Art sniffles and nods his head—your poor baby. 

You held his hand and led the way to your room. You sat on your bed with your back against the wall so he could lay between your legs. He often takes this position when you guys are watching movies so it will add a level of comfort for him. 

Art takes some deep breaths as you run your nails through his hair. 

“We got a new coach and he- he’s so intense. I don’t know. I’ve been berated by coaches since I was 13. Why the hell is this one affecting me differently?” 

You twist one of his curls in your fingers. 

“Everything's just so much right now. Schoolwork, post-graduation plans, sponsorships… There's so much going on all the time. I- I can’t do it.” 

Your heart broke for him. 

“I’m so sorry, Artie. I wish I could take it all away from you.”

You rubbed his arms and back for who knows how long. It could have been hours. You didn’t care. You’d cancel your week's agenda if that’s what he needed. You weren’t getting up until he felt better. 

You analyzed his words.

“It’s not that you’re unable to make decisions, and it’s not that you make bad decisions. It’s just that decisions are constant unrelenting work… is that an accurate assessment?”

He nodded and sighed into your shirt like you were the one person in the world who understood him. 

“...And a good boy like you should never have to work.” 

Art froze. 

Well, that’s new. 

You decided to test the waters further and put on your most sultry voice. 

“Don’t worry baby, I’ll think for you.” 

He let out a sound that can only be described as a mewl. His body curled into a semi-circle. 

You swept some hair out of his eyes, they seemed to get droopier.

I don't know what exactly is transpiring he’s responding to it.

“Let your thoughts go. You don’t need them.” 

Eyes are fully closed now.

“Can you unclench your jaw for me? That’s it.”

He does as he's told, falling deeper into whatever hollow you're creating. He bites back a smile but his blush is evident. So easy to get him to blush. One of his cutest attributes.

Next step is Moving your handsome boy to lay on his stomach so you can rub his shoulders. You hear him sigh while the tension is worked out of his muscles and watch him relax under your hands. 

Walking him through some deep breaths while you place dozens of soft, light kisses on his neck. 

You want to make him understand what a privilege it is to have him.

Rubbing his thighs and calves, slowly melting away the stress of the day. Kisses on the backs of his knees while he laughs and tells you to stop that and that it tickles.

Helping him turn over to lie on his back and climbing carefully on top to straddle him.

You toy with the hem of his shirt. 

“Can I take this off?”

He looks up at you. mouth open and nods. 

It causes you to giggle. 

“Thank you.” 

Once that’s out of the way your hands wander up to his chest while trailing more impossibly light kisses down his Adam's apple. Massaging his chest, squeezing and grabbing and just feeling his skin. 

Kissing his collarbones, trailing your tongue along the dip where they meet under his neck. Slowly working that boy up with teasing touches that only get more and more unbearable.

Slowly returning to his lips to kiss him again while you reach down to trail your fingertips over his cock. He pants and whines so sweetly into your mouth while you play with his cock. You're not even trying to make him cum-- not yet. 

I could do this all day. 

Letting him drift in a fuzzy-headed space while you work your fingers soft and slow over his pants. Doesn't need to worry about anything but your hands on his body. You're right here to keep him safe and make him feel good.

“There's nothing I love more than watching my brilliant, polite, well-spoken boyfriend turn mindless.” 

Art whined and bucked his hips up to meet your hand.

“I need to be in you so bad. Please.”

Who are you to refuse him?

“Don't worry baby, I’ll give you what you want.” 

You slid off him and he reached for you, like he couldn’t stand you being an inch away for any amount of time. You chuckled and took off your bottoms and underwear, he copied. 

You hopped back on top of him, which made him break out into a smile. His girl was about to take care of him. 

You grabbed his cock and started stroking him. 

“I don’t know if I’m wet enough, Artie.”

“Sitonmyface.” He begged all in one breath. 

You bit your lip so as not to laugh at him. It wasn’t in a mean way, no no! He was just so excited about it. It’s adorable and flattering all at the same time.

“Are you sure? We’ve never done that before.”

We haven’t done a lot of this before. 

He shamelessly nodded. Grabbing your waist with both hands and shifting your body up before you could protest. 

“I don’t want to crush you.”

At this point, he was panting. A dog seconds away from getting a treat. 

“You won’t.” 

Art has eaten you out before, and it’s been wonderful. But this? This is a new kind of ecstasy. 

His tongue reaches new trenches. 

And that fucking nose. It bumped your clit every time. You were gasping and making noises you didn’t know were possible. His mouth is memorizing your folds. He's getting off on your arousal.  His tip is red and hurting, but can barely care when a taste crafted just for him is on his lips. 

“Shit. Just like that.” 

Your thighs trapped his face, your breath hitched with every thrust, and your walls clenched around his tongue. 

“Oh god, oh god,” 

Truthfully, Art didn't know which of you came first. 

The only thing he knew was your body. 

You shuffled down and kissed all over his face which was covered in your release. 

“You made mommy feel so good.”

He smiled up at you. He was so proud that he could do that for you. Like it was his purpose in life. And oh did he love that nickname. It made him feel all soft, like when you recall a fond memory. 

“Do you want Mommy to sit on your cock?” 

He whimpered and nodded. 

You lined yourself up with him and sank. It was so easy due to both of your juices, you had to concentrate on lowering slowly so he didn’t bottom out too fast. 

The two of you moaned in unison. It was almost tantric. Even though the focus here is on Art, it’s impossible not to feel the same pleasure. It wasn’t just your sexualities that were aligned but your souls. The love you felt for each other was palpable. 

It didn’t take long for him to bottom out. But it wasn’t enough. You ground your hips into him, causing his voice to raise an octave. 

“Oh fuck. Hnnn! Fuck, feels so good, please.”

He was babbling nonsense, unable to create cohesive thoughts or keep any sounds in. 

You remove his hands clutching the sheets and replace them with your own. To bring him back to earth. 

When he couldn’t get enough he bucked his hips up into yours. Moving aimlessly, mindlessly. You held his hips down to the mattress and bounced on his dick. The sounds of his cock hitting your weeping entrance were insanely beautiful and sinful to listen to. 

“Such a good boy.” 

His dick jumped inside of you at that. Seemingly of its own volition. 

You shifted to pepper kisses on his jawline. The new position forced his cock to rub all kinds of new places. You nearly collapsed onto him from the shock. Heavy exhales leave your mouth. Your pussy suffocates his cock. 

“My good boy. Just a dumb little thing for me to use isn't that right.”

Art came on the spot. No warning. His skin flushed and curls were damp on his forehead. Words were coiled at his throat, coming out as broken sobs, wanting more. 

You rode him until it was clear he'd finished. 

“Did you cum for me, baby?”

“Yes. I'm sorry I should’ve said something I couldn't help it. Felt too good, I didn’t -“

“Shh sweetheart, you did nothing wrong. You can cum in me as many times as you like. That's what I’m here for. That’s what this,” you clenched around him, “is for.” 

“Fuck.” his breath quivering. He arched his back, sensitive little thing. 

“I love it when you spill yourself into me. it’s so warm in here now.” 

You placed his hand on your lower stomach, your womb. 

“Can we go again please?”

“Are you sure? I don't want to push you.”

He shuffled so you were both sitting up. causing you to gasp. His erection never left, and it’s ever so prevalent right now. 

“Please! Wanna keep myself buried here forever.” 

It was hard to remain the level-headed one after hearing that. 

“You make me so wet when you say that, Artie.” 

There's drool coming from his mouth as he watches you talk. Nothing behind those eyes.

“So wet and needy.” 

You soften your voice, and when you talk it’s into his mouth. 

“You gonna let me take you again?”

He groaned and nodded, then ferociously kissed you. He wrapped his strong arms around your torso and immediately disliked how much fabric was between the two of you. He ripped your t-shirt and sports bra off in nearly one motion. Sighing when he felt skin on skin.

“I’m going to play with you until there's nothing in that head except my name.”

And you did. You fucked him till his brain turned to mush. Till it felt so good he thought he was going crazy, till he couldn’t even hear how loud he was being. Just blissed out being pulled back into your cunt. 

What an honor, to have such an obedient, adoring boy like him. 

You let him stay like that, floaty and sweet until he fell asleep to whispered praises. 

“My good boy. You did such a good job for me.”

A kiss to his forehead. 

“You know I love you so much.”

Tucked under the covers.

“So good for me, honey. You're okay. I'm proud of you. You're all mine, and I'm all yours.”

You raked your nails along his back.

“Relax, It'll all be there for you tomorrow. But for right now, all you need to be is my good, sweet boy. And you are.”

You moved off the bed which concerned Art. 

“Are you leaving?” 

He looked like he could cry. You cradled his face. 

“No baby boy, of course not. I’m only getting you some water. I’ll be right back” 

You spoke to him like a child bedridden with a cold. It was clear the comedown was something intense and never experienced before. He needed you next to him right now.

“Alright lovely, I know you’re tired but have a few drinks of this for me.”

You guided the water bottle into his mouth till you were satisfied with the amount he got in his system. 

“Rest now. I’ll cuddle you.” 

The blonde fell asleep immediately in your embrace and you hoped it wouldn't be the last time you took his thoughts away.