#i have no idea what im doing im tired and i hurt

[allbark-no-bite]

good boy.

art donaldson x reader (wc: 2.9k)

summary: as Art’s personal physical therapist, it’s your job to fix what Tashi has torn apart, by whatever means necessary. or in which Art just needs some TLC

warnings: 18+ smut, it could be worse tbh, mentions of disordered eating

author’s note: i’m back ig?? im out of uni for the summer and challengers has me in a chokehold. Art Donaldson the man that you are

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You're standing just within earshot of the doorway, passing a sanitary wipe over one of the tables in the athlete treatment room when you hear the door abruptly open. Tashi storms in with a purpose and Art trails meekly behind her. Even if you had been clueless to how the match had gone rather than on the sidelines beside Tashi not even twenty minutes ago, you could have guessed by the hard line of her mouth that Art was in for it. Not that her displeased scowl was much different from her usual scowl, but you'd been around long enough to know the difference.

She stops abruptly, and Art heels obediently as Tashi turns around to face him. "I need you to tell me when you're going to fucking get it together so that I can stop wasting my time."

Weary and sweat soaked, Art just stares at her with that pitiful look on his face and says nothing in reply. His blue eyes solemnly take in her harsh disappointment as though beyond used to it. At this point it's not all that foreign to you either.

"You may as well be fucking asleep out there," she snaps.

This time his mouth opens. "I- I'm just tired-" he begins, although there's hardly any argue to his voice at all.

"No, I'm tired, Art," Tashi interjects. "Do you have any idea how much fucking work I've put into getting you back onto the court this past year?! I've done everything! The least you could do go out there and try to act like I've done anything for you at all!"

Art swallows, the slight frown on his face deepening. "I am. I just- I don't-"

Before he can even finish his sentence. The open palm of Tashi's hand connects with his cheek as she pops the left side of his face. Art closes his mouth. You pretend to concentrate on wiping down the table. It's not the first time you've witnessed one of these conversations but it still feels private, like you shouldn't be here. You keep wiping the table.

Understanding that anything else he says is only going to make Tashi angrier, Art resigns to once again watching her in silence. His blue eyes are sad. The usually fair skin of his cheek is tinted pink where she popped him. Although it wasn't very hard, you're sure it still hurt him all the same.

"Quit wasting my time," is all she says before she finally turns and leaves, walking right past you and out the other door. You hold your breath as she passes you. Art watches her go but makes no move to follow. You release an audible sigh. It's been a frustrating day for everyone. As Art's personal trainer, physical therapist, and close friend, you felt every loss, every ache and pain, every bad play. And there seemed to be a lot of those lately.

Art is still standing there, watching the closed door that Tashi left though.

Not knowing how to break the silence, you finally pat the freshly sanitized treatment table. "C'mon," you call gently, as though beckoning to a wounded dog.

It takes a moment for him to budge, but eventually he does, his disheartened spirit apparent in the way he walks over. Used to the usual routine, he tugs his damp shirt off over his head as he takes a seat, the lean muscles of his torso flexing as he does so. You allow yourself to ogle at him, only for a brief moment before stepping in between the bracket of his knees. Gently, you cradle his chin, tipping his head back to look up at you as your thumb smooths over the redness of his cheek. His blue eyes blink up at you, sad and dog-like.

"It wasn't terrible," you reassure him. "You had surgery six months ago. You're still getting your feet back underneath you. Most people wouldn't have come back." You're right. The still-pink scars on his shoulder are still fresh on your mind. The stitches weren't even out before Tashi had him in physical therapy. Even though his medical team had released him, it was still a bit early to start doing rehab so soon after surgery, Art's comfort being your biggest concern. But when Tashi wants something, she gets it.

Wordlessly, Art sighs, the weight of his head settling into your palm as he finally lets go of the tension he'd been carrying. It was always like this. You fixing what Tashi had torn apart. You understood where Tashi was coming from. Art needed a firm voice in his training, and you had a lot of respect for the way she put her foot down and never let up, not even once. But there was only so many times you could kick a dog while he was down.

So if Art needed someone to coddle him, you would coddle him.

He trusts you. He needs you, is what Tashi had told you when she asked you to stay on as his trainer full time. The three of you had been in the same year at Stanford all those years ago, Tashi and Art on the tennis team and you helping out as a student trainer as part of a class requirement. Three peas in a pod, the trio of you were. Of course then they both graduated, leaving you to finish up your schooling, meanwhile Art set off to go pro.

A few years later, once Tashi officially took on the position as Art's coach, she began building his team, and that's where you came in. You were hesitant at first.

'I already lost to you once, Tashi. I won't come in second to you again.'

She had paused on the other end of the line. Back in your Stanford days, it was obvious to anyone with eyes that you were head over heels in love with the blonde tennis player. But loving Art was like accepting the participation ribbon for a game you knew you weren't going to win in the first place. It was like standing next to the podium, just lucky enough to be included in the picture while Tashi and tennis took first and second place. And so you let him go.

'I'm not asking you to. This is different.'

Your hand slips from his face, and he forces his eyes open.

“Have you eaten?" you ask, stepping away in order to put some distance between the two of you and look for the granola bars that you keep especially for him. The gels were good sources of quick fuel in between sets, but they were hardly enough to even begin to make up for the calories he burned while playing.

Slowly, Art shakes his head, but he makes no move to take the snack from your hand when you offer it to him. Ever since his injury, nutrition became all the more important. So much to the point that every single thing that he consumed was mapped out to the exact calorie. Although he would never admit it, any sort of change in this routine made him incredibly anxious. Some days it was better not to cause him the anxiety than to force him.

Today, you insistently hold out the bar until he begrudgingly takes it from your hand. You don't move until you've seen him tear open the package and take a bite.

"Were you still feeling tight?" you ask as you walk around the table, stopping at the slouch of his turned back. You reach out to grasp at the joint of his neck and shoulder, your thumb smoothing over the kinesiology tape that's peeling away at the base of his neck.

He half turns his head to glance back at you. "You watched the match. You tell me."

His response is meant to be snippy, but it comes out more defeated than anything. To be fair, you've been his trainer long enough to know that if something was bothering him physically, you would have picked up on it.

"I want to hear it from you."

"I felt fine."

Your left hand follows suit on the other side of his neck, and you use both of your thumbs to apply pressure to what you assume will be a tense spot along the upper part of his traps. Predictably, Art groans at the attention. The muscles of his back contract as he fights the urge to shake you off. Relaxing the muscle hurts as much as it feels good. Besides his obvious discomfort, the rest of his body has gone lax under your touch. His shoulders have dropped at least an inch, and his chin has fallen to rest against his chest.

"Finish your granola bar," you reprimand him, your firm fingers working across his back until you find another spot that nearly has him jerking away. He releases a whine but obediently takes another bite of the bar. This time he finishes it before you have to remind him again.

You spend a few more minutes torturing him before you're satisfied that a majority of the tension has left his shoulders.

"Okay, good boy," you murmur, leaning forward so that your chest is close enough to brush against his back. One of your hands trails up to squeeze the back of his neck reassuringly.

You're close enough to hear him swallow at the name. The skin on the nape of his neck shivers despite how hot he still is from the match.

"Was I?" he asks timidly. "Good today?"

'I can be his coach. Or I can be the person he cries to after a bad day. But I can't be both. That's why he needs you."

Without removing your hand from his neck, you walk around the table so you're standing in front of him. Art widens the spread of his legs so that you can stand between them. His chin is still pressed to his chest, blue eyes focused on the ground.

"Art," is all you say, shifting your grip on his neck to tug lightly at his golden blonde hair. At your voice, he lifts his head just enough to look up at you through the pale wisps of his eyelashes. The irises of his blue eyes shine are wet with uncertainty.

Your fingers loosen their grip to allow your nails to scratch at his scalp. "You're good, Art. You'll always be good."

Art twists his head to nuzzle his cheek along the inside of  your outstretched arm. His lips kiss the crook of your elbow. He swallows again. "Even if I don't play tennis?"

You can tell the question's been bothering him, eating at his nerves, and messing up his game. You know him well enough to know that retirement isn't what he wants, not really. At least not right now. What he wants is the reassurance that it's going to be okay if he can't swing the comeback.

"Look at me."

He lingers a moment longer with his lips pressed lovingly against your skin before he reluctantly shifts his gaze up to you. His look is anticipatory but reserved, as if to preemptively conceal his disappointment should you choose to crush his heart with your answer.

His fear is understandable. Art's relationship with Tashi has always been entirely built off of his tennis career. By being the driving force behind his success, Tashi has vicariously lived out the life she would have had had her injury never happened. Without tennis, Art has nothing left to offer her. He knows that if he gives up tennis, he loses Tashi.

Your relationship with Art was a little less conditional. Hell, you'd been in love with him since the first time you'd laid eyes on him at Stanford. You can still picture him standing there on the court, barely nineteen, scrawny, nervous smile, backwards cap over his strawberry blonde hair. Before he was the Art Donaldson. But when Tashi had stepped into the picture, you figured that was where your fairytale ended.

"I don't love you because of tennis. I love you because you're kind, and thoughtful, and you're passionate about what you do." You smile a bit before adding, "And you're my good boy."

The name turns him bashful again, and he's quick to turn and hide his smiling face against your arm, only the flushed tips of his ears visible. "[Y/n]," he mumbles, likely meaning to be threatening, but it doesn't come out that way.

Art Donaldson lived to be praised.

You laugh, pulling him closer so that his face is held against your chest. The hand that you don't have threaded through his hair trails up the muscle of his defined quad. "You're my good boy. Aren't you, baby?"

Art whines, squirming when your hand reaches the apex of his thigh and hovers over the forming bugle of his shorts. He's not quite there yet, his dick only half chubbed up in interest, but given the day that he's had, you won't make him wait.

"Please?" he mumbles, his face still buried into your collarbone, as if attempting to curling into you, like a small child needing their parent to hold them for comfort.

You rake your nails lightly up the inside of his thigh. "What, baby?"

Not only did Art liked to be praised, but he was masochist even on his worst days.

"Want you to touch me," he mumbles, his voice muffled by your shirt. "Please."

Your hand still scratching through his hair, you press a kiss to the side of his head, unable to suppress your smile at his timid politeness and how it never seems to fail him. The only time he ever resembled anything remotely voracious was on the court.

Palm finding his tented shorts, you cup him through the fabric. Art responds immediately to your touch, his hips shifting further into your grasp. You continue to pet him through his shorts, appreciating the way you can feel him actively responding to your touch.

His nails dig into the padding of the treatment table when you give his now fully hard dick a less than sympathetic squeeze. His breath is hot as he pants against your collarbone, alternating between laving open mouthed kisses to your skin and whining when you pause fondling him just to feel his hips rut up into your palm.

Art was so in control on the tennis court, that often after a match, putting the control into someone else's hands was just what he needed.

When his hips start to stutter, you ease up but continue to stroke him through his shorts. The front of his shorts are damp with the musk of residual sweat and precum.

His breath is shallow—anticipatory.

"Gunna come?" you ask softly, speaking into the blonde mess of his hair, cradling him. He right there, you can tell by the lackluster buck of his hips, his building fatigue, and the change in his breathing.

"Can I? —Please?" Art asks breathily. He hiccups out the last part, his voice catching.

"You know you don't have to ask."

There's a brief pause, as if coming to the realization, before he meekly murmurs, "I know.

It should be sad really, his unwavering obedience, but there are two sides to Art, two polar extremes. On the court, every match, every set, every debilitating second is up to him. No one else can help him out there, and up until about a year ago, he played like it. That was the side of Art Donaldson that Tashi wanted. After the match is a different story. In private, Art needed someone to do the thinking for him, to pull him into a reality where he could believe that it didn't matter whether he won or lost. Tashi had not the sympathy nor the patience for that kind of fragility.

Art comes with a brief cry into your chest, his body arching into yours. Your hand palms at his pulsing dick until he's oversensitive and pulling away. When you relent, the front of his shorts are sticky and wet.

Finally, Art lifts his face from the safety of your chest. His blue eyes are glossed over, but it's an improvement from the detached look they held ten minutes ago. His cheeks are flushed, a mixture of his own embarrassment and satisfaction. 

You can't help the soft smile that creeps onto your face at the look of him, and immediately Art is abashedly trying to hide his face again, his own smile starting to appear. Before he can, you bring your hands back up to cradle his face, thumbs wiping away the wetness from under his eyes. This time he lets you.

His eyes study your face for a second, admiring you, appreciating the love he has for you.

“I don’t want to play tennis anymore.”

You can’t tell if it’s more of a statement or a confession. Either way, you know he’s telling you the absolute truth.

“Okay,” you reply softly, not hint of judgement in your voice. Maybe some disappointment, but that was understandable.

Retirement would be a kindness. Art would finally put back on some healthy weight, start smiling again, put on a real, actual smile. You could already see it, a nice house for the two of you to settle down in, with a picket fence and a dog in the backyard, the kind of things the two of you would have never had time for on tour.

Tennis had brought the two of you together, but it wouldn’t end you.

[sailorholly]

Between Us Pt 8

Summary: You and Spencer had a casual relationship. A misunderstanding ruins it all.

Pairing: Spencer Reid × F. BAU Reader

Warnings: Friends with benefits. Pregnancy.

Part 7

See my Masterlist Here

Three Months Later

A white frosted cake decorated with a hand drawn baby on it sat in front of you. Penelope was thrilled to be god mother to your baby, and she wanted to do a gender reveal party. You didn't mind and she was excited, so you and Spencer let her plan this little get together at Rossi's.

You held the knife alongside Spencer, bringing it down to slice the cake. When the piece was cut, you held a plate as he placed the cake on it, revealing pink bread. Penelope squealed "It's a girl!" Spencer hugged you, "I told you." He said, beaming. You had been convinced you were having a boy, but Spencer said he had a feeling the baby was a girl.

"About time we had a girl in the family! She will have all these boys wrapped around her finger in no time." JJ hugged you, nodding towards Jack and Henry running around the yard. Everyone congratulated you while the cake was being served. You were finally starting to show, your baby bump looked huge in your normal clothes. But in the maternity clothes you bought a few days ago, it looked small.

Spencer took you shopping over the weekend when he found you crying because your jeans wouldn't button anymore. He went all out, splurging on a new wardrobe. He even got you two pairs of shoes because your feet were starting to swell especially after work.

Tears welled in your eyes as you watched your coworkers interact with each other. You really loved them like family. Well, everyone except for Ashley who was noticeably absent tonight. You heard a rumor she wasn't happy at the BAU and was looking to transfer. You hoped it was true. She had been nicer to you after her talk with Hotch when she pushed you. You still didn't like her, only tolerating her because you had too.

It was getting late, and you were tired, so you went to take a small nap on Rossi's sofa. You found Penelope sitting there playing on her phone. She told you to lay your head in her lap while she shopped. She was already ordering the baby frilly dresses and matching headbands. You closed your eyes, drifting off pretty quickly.

When you woke up, Morgan was carrying you to the car. You and Spencer had been staying the night with each other for months. You fell back into your old situationship. The pregnancy hormones made you insatiable. Spencer was happy to help you, but you didn't want to get too close to him again. He had hurt you, and you were still offended that he only wanted to be with you because you were pregnant. He tried to argue, but you know that's what it was.

When you got back to Spencer's apartment, you took a quick shower. A new episode of your favorite show was coming on soon. You and Spencer cuddled on the couch watching it. When it was over, he took you to bed, making love to you twice before work the next morning.

A/N: If you have any ideas for a baby name, let me know!! ♥️

Tags

@cindylynn @wheredafandomat @loz-3 @megharat-barnes-reid @kats72 @mochie85 @cakesandtom @spenciesprincess @kimm4710 @tmilover1993 @nomajdetective @cynbx @comboboo @134340ona @wannabewolf @weirdothatwritess @silver-tongue-taken-to-bed @freegardenbanananeck @lover-of-books-and-tea @maybe-not-this @drewsandsebastianswife @lamentis-10 @lizzyk137 @hypotheticallyspeakingwitch @rosylnsworld @amortencjja @ah-blossom @dreamsarebig @khxna @diasnohibng @nommingonfood @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @isakslilsmile @lavvylove @creaming4daddy @justdianaz @aubs444 @im-this-girl @xblueriddlex @spencerreidsgf420 @witchsbitchestime @lovelyygirl8 @chonkybonky @prentissesredtanktop @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @ilikw @theoraekenslover @queenshu

[kelpiemomma]

i am not happy with my art right now and i so can't draw mechs of any kind, cyborg or construct or whatever, but here is a starting idea of CombatUnit!Khan

As a CombatUnit he's a little sturdier and more dangerous than a standard SecUnit. I wanted to try (and fail) at mech so he's a little more robit here. His lower legs are all mechanical, his forearms are mostly mechanical, and his hands are partially mechanical. (thinking of changing his neck,,,,)

his sternum and abdomen are reinforced externally, while his chest is reinforced internally.

he persuaded his hacker to give him a glowing eye feature after the hacker's younger siblings told him how COOL it would be (khan likes using them to scare the shit out of people)

as a standard CombatUnit his hair was in a buzzcut. He was typically straight-faced and revealed little. After becoming Khan he smirks a lot and grew his hair out a ton (so the kids can play with it and braid it).

someone tried to take one of his lil nibling kids. khan quickly tracked them down and made them regret that decision.

[silverskye13]

Man why is writing so hard today? I literally sat down at my computer and typed for a solid hour and a half and it was utter garbage. But the more I looked at it the less I could figure out how to fix it! So I pulled up PS and decided to draw instead but every image just flew out of my head I couldn't do it and really I should be writing and man my eyes hurt. My whole face hurts kinda, actually, but my eyes really hurt and it's so hard to focus and it shouldn't be this hard and-- Jesus Christ it's 1am and I only got 3 hours of sleep last night.

[moenmomentsthemoe-en]

[lith-myathar]

.

[urlocallesbiab]

sorry to everyone who's been missing me/waiting for something from me, i've been slipping in and out of depressive fog for a week or two (and in general have experienced significantly worse depression than normal for a couple years, but that’s another story)

i long to get back, too; a lot of things to read and ideas to write and people to talk to. love y'all, take care

[skrunksthatwunk]

found out that rascal's owner took him again while i was out, and he's probably not gonna be back since the semester's almost over. i don't even know if his owner's coming back next semester, if i'll ever see him again. if he'll ever see me again. why do they wait until im not around to do this? why do they never let me say goodbye to him?

[snailune]

wiki how do I stop spiraling about my life once every 2 weeks I'm getting sick of it

[sofarsogoodsowhat]

two y/o stick n poke finally looks cool >:)

[gooboogy]

I really hope someday I'm not living paycheck to paycheck. It would be so nice to have a savings. Maybe even be able to travel to somewhere cool and exotic like my backyard

[ozlices]

really fucking sucks that it does not matter how openly we cry about how fucked up we are after everything this year has put us through, we are just. ignored. like. we're very open about having abandonment issues & a burden complex, but nobody gives a fuck abt ensuring that isn't. you know. constantly fueled in the aftermath of all the shit this year put us through.

we haven't suffered in silence. quite the opposite. but we're literally just. ignored. & left to rot. no matter how transparent we are abt how badly we're doing. & it sucks. like it's getting to a point where we're genuinely starting to get apathetic towards our friends & we don't fucking care to fight it off anymore.

if my friends were posting the kinda shit we do during our meltdowns, id be rushing to call them as soon as i could. maybe im just different. maybe im just a dumbass for caring so goddamn much! cause jfc it clearly isn't mutual no matter what!

how am i supposed to fight off my persecutor telling me nobody fucking loves me bc i don't deserve it when i can beg for somebody to lend their hand to me, & all i get is silence.

we haven't been checked up on. anyone we used to talk to daily has just decided we're too depressing or whatever to be around, i guess. like. idk what anyone wants from us anymore. i really fucking don't. all we want is to have somebody give a shit abt us & fucking MEAN it. actually be there for us. actually take care of us the same way we take care of everybody else.

but nah nah instead we're just. having our complexes fueled. our persecutor's ammo refilled, meanwhile we're left with nothing. absolutely fucking nothing.

the best relationship of our lives couldn't even last longer than a month & no matter what, we can't fight being made to feel like we just weren't worth keeping around.

we've never escaped being "too depressed to handle" as our token in a friend group, but like. idk. maybe if we weren't made to constantly feel so fucking alone & like nobody genuinely gives a shit abt us, we'd be able to At Least cope a bit better.

idek what to do or say anymore. like our persecutor gets on our ass for saying "nobody cares" like "oh well you're just being manipulative & fishing." bitch i GENUINELY fucking feel like nobody fucking cares about me & not a single goddamn person has tried to significantly fight that notion to any genuine degree.

it'll be fought with filler words in the moment, but again. nobody checks on us. nobody just randomly tells us they love us and care about us. nobody does the little things we've always done for our loved ones we know are going through rough times. even if we directly tell people it helps. so, what the fuck else am i sposed to say or think.

im tired of feeling like this. im tired of being lonely, and unloved, and uncared for, and like it's all fucking pointless. im tired.

i just feel like we're just forgotten about until we're needed. but when we are the ones who need someone else to help us? well, we can just fucking rot, then. i guess. we're just an annoying burden who's too depressing to be around. not worth any genuine effort. and we cannot keep fighting that notion when nobody gives a shit to stand with us against it.

[phantommarigold]

me when I want to say something and type out a whole long thing and then decide actually I'm not good enough to talk about this or no they don't want to hear it and ah but what if I'm wrong of course I'm talking from a place of privilege and ignorance and my worldviews are too black and white and

[vanibear]

we have now reached the stage of family vacation where i have a meltdown

[jacky-rubou]

one weird thing about me is that I kinda obsess a little over imagining my favorite characters dying/getting hurt and imagining how other characters would react to it. that kinda manifests in my angst fics about Ford getting hurt/dying, because of how my brain works with my favorite characters. it's like that cute aggression where you see a cute thing and want to squish it, except extreme. I've been like this for basically all of my favorite characters from when I was a kid, but have never gotten the chance to write fanfic about it that I could post until this past year. Maybe part of it might be trying to make one feel bad for Ford over Stan (ngl I do kinda get carried away with that idea nowadays) but most of it is just me expressing my thought process with my favorite character. And hey, not all of my hurting Ford fics kill him in the end. I know how boring it would be if I always killed him haha.

plus, when I hyperfix over a character, I really struggle to imagine writing about any other character to the point that I rarely have ideas for other characters unless they're part of the Ford Hyperfixation™ in the form of being important to the scenario in my mind. Like how in Dead On Arrival, it was Stan's point of view the whole time, but the scenario was about Ford's death before Stan got to the Shack. Maybe it would be good to try writing something about another character for diversity's sake, but for now, idk what I'd want to write for anyone else that doesn't connect to Ford in some way....

Anyway, rambling over how my mind works in order to ease my stress over that anon, since they'd attacked these things about my fics (and more). My autistic brain is just built different when it comes to my favorite characters. If that comes off as weird or 'wrong' to anyone else, so be it.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...