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tiffysdeath · 2 months ago

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love me harder | art donaldson x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, divorced!art, divorced!reader

Art Donaldson stands by the rusted chain-link fence like he's guarding something no one’s tried to steal in years. His arms cross over his chest like armor, like restraint, like he’s holding himself back from crumbling—or combusting. You catch him in profile first, that cruelly perfect jaw flexing, sunburnt in gold and indifference, the light making a liar out of him. Because he looks gentle like this. Tired in a way only grief can teach. Tired in a way you know too well.

There’s a crushed juice box under his shoe. Lily’s laughter cuts across the playground, sweet and sharp as citrus, as she chases your son through the grass. She doesn’t know that her father doesn’t sleep. That he burns everything he touches and calls it parenting. She doesn’t know that the woman who promised forever left without blinking.

But you do know. You’ve felt it too—been the one left with the boxes, the questions, the quiet. The one who stayed after the door closed.

You lean against the passenger side of your car, keys cold in your palm. There’s an ache blooming low in your back, the kind that comes from a week of too many things left unsaid and too many lunches packed with shaky hands. You don’t expect him to notice you. He never does.

Not since the divorce. Not since Tashi.

You’ve heard whispers at the school gate, soft-spoken stories traded like gum wrappers between mothers waiting for the bell. Tashi left. Just walked out one morning and didn’t look back. No one talks about why. No one asks him. But everyone watches. Because when a woman leaves a man like Art Donaldson—a man with that kind of jaw, that kind of history—they all want to know what broke beneath the surface.

You know a little something about that. About breakage. About the slow, bone-deep ache of building a life only to watch it collapse under someone else’s silence.

You signed your papers last summer. After a year of pretending. After a year of trying to be everything to a man who forgot how to see you. Your ex-husband lives in another city now. He calls once a week. Your son stopped waiting by the phone months ago.

There’s a strange kind of grief in being freed from someone who made you feel invisible.

And Art—Art isn’t someone you let yourself think about too often. Not out loud. Not when you're packing lunchboxes or folding miniature socks or wiping down the bathroom sink after a long day. Not when you’re scraping peanut butter out of the jar at midnight, exhausted and aching in places love never quite reached.

You don’t let yourself think about the way he moves, even now. The stillness of him. The gravity. Like he was built from something heavier than the rest of you. Like he’s been carved out of loss and left in the sun to set.

Sometimes you wonder what his hands would feel like—if they’d be as rough as they look, if they’d hold or hurt. Sometimes you hate yourself for wondering.

Because he’s not for you. He’s not even for himself. He’s ruin walking around with a tired smile and a daughter who deserves more. Just like yours does. Just like your son does.

And yet—

There’s something about the way he looks at Lily. Like she’s the last thing anchoring him to this world. Like everything he never got right is something he’s trying to make up for in a single braid, a scraped knee, a lunchbox note.

You tell yourself that’s all it is. Empathy. A recognition of ache.

But when he looks at you—and he does, sometimes, when he thinks you aren’t paying attention—it’s not empathy you feel.

It’s fire.

But then—

His head turns. Just slightly. Just enough.

Your eyes catch.

And it holds. Just long enough for the air to shift.

He blinks. You look away first. He always makes you look away first.

It should be nothing. It should always be nothing.

But it isn’t. Not this time.

"They’re good together," you say, quietly, when he ends up near your side of the parking lot. The words land awkwardly between you, like they’re not the ones you meant to say.

Art shrugs. "Kids usually are. Before we teach them not to be."

It’s the most he’s said to you since September. And it’s mid-March now.

You glance toward the field again, where your son is climbing the jungle gym and Lily’s already halfway up behind him, fearless. Art’s watching too, but his hands are in his pockets now, fists clenched like he’s bracing for something. Or maybe fighting the urge to feel anything at all.

"Do you—" you start, but stop yourself. It’s not your place.

He glances sideways. "What?"

You shake your head. “Nothing. I just…” You bite your cheek, taste the copper of hesitation. “She seems happy. Lily.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not right away. Just breathes out slow, like the admission might strangle him if it comes too fast.

"She misses her mom." He says it flat. No bitterness. No grace. Just fact.

You nod. You don’t ask if he does.

The silence after isn’t heavy. It’s honest. Raw. Something like mutual recognition. Like bruises you don’t need to compare to know they match.

“See you tomorrow,” you say, even though you don’t have to. Even though he knows you will.

Art nods once. Doesn’t look at you when he says, “Yeah.”

But he stays standing there long after you’ve driven away.

The fundraiser is a month later.

It’s in the school gym, too brightly lit, with folding tables draped in dollar-store cloths and rows of cheap raffle prizes lined up like sacrifices to appease exhausted parents. You’re wearing lipstick for the first time in weeks. Not for anyone. Not for him.

And yet—

You feel it when he walks in. Like gravity has shifted. Like the air itself turns to face him.

Art looks like he’s slept less than ever. His button-down is half tucked. His jaw is dark with stubble. Lily clings to his side like a satellite, wide-eyed and unsure, her hand curled around his fingers like she’s afraid he’ll disappear too.

He scans the room and your body betrays you—straightens, stills, braces. You tell yourself he’s not looking for you. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

But he finds you anyway.

You see it in flashes.

The slow lift of his gaze across the crowd. The barest twitch of recognition when he sees you talking to another parent. The flicker in his throat as he swallows hard and looks away.

You catch him watching you twice more. Once when you kneel beside your son to fix his shoelaces, the back of your dress tugged just slightly by the movement. And again when you laugh at something—too loudly, maybe, too freely—and his eyes stay on your mouth like it’s a bruise he wants to press.

You don’t let yourself look back. Not always. But when you do, he’s there. Holding a paper cup of lemonade like it might spill if he breathes too fast.

The air between you isn’t conversation. It’s current. And every time you move, you swear you feel it break around you.

Later, when the lights dim for the slideshow, your chair ends up just a little too close to his. Neither of you speaks.

But you feel his knee brush yours once.

And he doesn’t move away.

Three days pass without a word. And then—like most things that matter—it happens softly. Without warning. It happens the way all real things do—quietly, suddenly, without warning.

You’re both walking your kids into the school, backpacks bouncing and shoes scuffing against the sidewalk. The morning light is too bright. You’re halfway through saying something to your son when Art’s voice cuts in, low and clipped.

“Hey,” he says, catching up beside you. “Would you—could you take Lily home after school today?”

You blink. Turn slightly toward him.

“I’ve got a work thing,” he adds, fast. “I wouldn’t ask, but…”

But. The rest goes unsaid. Because he knows you’ll say yes.

“Of course,” you say. “That’s fine.”

He nods once, the barest tilt of his head, jaw tense. “I’ll come by before dinner.”

The kids run ahead. He lingers a second longer than he needs to. Then he’s gone.

Lily slides into your car like she’s done it a thousand times. She kicks off her shoes in the back seat and starts telling your son about a video they watched in class, her voice rising and falling like birdsong. She doesn’t ask where her dad is. She doesn’t need to. She trusts he’ll come.

You make them grilled cheese. Cut the crusts off. They eat cross-legged on the floor with a movie on too loud. At some point, Lily leans her head against your shoulder like she belongs there. And for a second, you let yourself believe she does.

Art knocks just after sunset.

You open the door and he’s there, hoodie pulled low over his hair, like he’s trying to hide from something. Maybe the world. Maybe you.

“Thanks,” he says, voice low, rough. “I owe you.”

You shake your head. “You don’t.” You hesitate. Then—“Do you want to come in? Just for a minute?”

It’s said like an afterthought, like an offer you don’t expect him to take. But he does.

He steps inside like it might break him. Like your hallway is a place he's not sure he deserves to be.

The kids are still giggling in the living room, a tangle of blankets and tiny hands reaching for popcorn.

“Drink?” you ask. You already know the answer. You pour two anyway.

You sit across from each other at your kitchen table. The overhead light is too warm, too kind. He keeps looking at the glass in front of him like it holds all the things he can’t say.

He doesn’t talk about Tashi. You don’t talk about your ex. But the silence between you is full of the ghosts you’ve both buried.

At some point, your fingers brush across the table.

He doesn’t pull away.

"You’re good with her," he says after a long pause. His voice is careful, like he’s afraid the words might come out wrong.

You smile faintly. “She makes it easy.”

“No,” he says. “She doesn’t. Not lately.”

He doesn’t elaborate. You don’t press.

You take a sip of your drink and let the warmth rise in your chest before asking, gently, “Are you okay?”

He looks at you like the question is foreign. Then lets out a slow, humorless laugh. “No. But I’m surviving. I guess that counts for something.”

You nod. “It does.”

Another silence. Softer now. Less like a wall, more like a blanket pulled over shared fatigue.

“She talks about your son a lot,” Art says, voice low. “She says he makes her laugh. Says he makes her feel safe.”

“That’s funny,” you say. “He says the same thing about her.”

Art lets out a breath. It’s almost a laugh. Not quite. “Guess they’ve got better instincts than we do.”

You look at him then. Really look.

“I think they just haven’t learned to be afraid yet,” you say. “Of being close. Of needing people.”

He looks at you like he hears that too clearly. Like he’s been thinking the same thing.

And still, he doesn’t let go of your fingers.

You don’t see each other for five days after that.

Not because of avoidance. Not because of fear. Just... life. Schedules. Exhaustion.

But when Friday comes, and the sun’s slipping low behind the trees, and your son is already asking for Lily to come over for another movie night, you find yourself reaching for your phone before you can second-guess it.

And this time, when Art shows up with Lily’s overnight bag slung over his shoulder, he doesn't just linger at the door.

He steps inside without needing an invitation.

And this time, you don’t pour the drinks to be polite.

This time, you pour them because you want to feel warm. Because you want to hear his voice soften when he talks about bedtime stories and Lily’s dreams. Because you want to know what happens when the tension doesn’t break—but bends.

Because you’re ready for something that holds, not just burns.

For hunger that lingers after it’s been fed.

The kids fall asleep in the living room again, curled beneath the same blanket, their breathing soft and even, the low hum of the credits filling the space between rooms.

Art's glass is empty. Yours is half-full. And the distance between you feels smaller now—like it’s been shrinking for weeks and you just didn’t notice until this moment.

You’re both sitting on the edge of the couch. Not touching. Not yet.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not... I’m not good at this.”

You don’t ask what this means. You know. You’ve lived in that uncertainty too long not to recognize it.

“Neither am I,” you murmur. “But maybe we don’t have to be good at it. Maybe we just have to... show up.”

His hand is on his knee, fingers curling in and out like he’s working through the urge to reach for something. Or someone.

“Are you afraid?” you ask.

He looks at you. Really looks. There’s something cracked open behind his eyes now, something tender and raw and real.

“I’m terrified.”

You nod. “Me too.”

And then you reach for him.

Your fingers skim along his, soft and slow, not asking, not assuming. Just offering. He takes them like a lifeline. Like if he holds tight enough, the rest of him won’t fall apart.

You shift closer. Shoulders brushing. Knees aligned. The air around you thickens, settles, holds.

He turns to you—hesitant, questioning—and you can feel the moment stretch. Stretch until it aches. Until it begs.

And still, neither of you moves to kiss.

Not yet.

Because this is the part where you wait. Where you breathe each other in.

Where you let the tension rise—not like a wave, but like a need you’re too afraid to name.

The want is there. So is the ache.

And if you let it, it could swallow you whole.

But tonight, you stay soft.

And for now, that’s enough.

The next time it happens, it’s raining.

Not the gentle kind. The kind that pounds the roof and seeps into the bones. The kind that turns the street outside your house into a blur of headlights and rushing water. The kind that makes the walls feel smaller. Closer. Warmer.

He’s late picking Lily up.

You hear the knock just after eight. When you open the door, he’s soaked to the skin, hoodie clinging to him, hair plastered against his forehead.

“I—sorry,” he says. “There was traffic. And work. And I...”

You reach for his wrist before you think about it. “Come in.”

He hesitates. But only for a second.

The moment he steps over the threshold, something shifts.

You hand him a towel. He doesn’t take it right away. His eyes linger on yours, just a second too long. Just enough to say: Are we still pretending this doesn’t mean something?

The kids are asleep again. You both check, separately. Quietly. Like ritual.

When you find each other in the hallway outside your son’s room, it’s like gravity takes over.

There’s no music. No dialogue. No soft fade-in.

Just hands—yours, gripping the front of his hoodie.

Just mouths—his, brushing yours with a hunger that feels like apology and ache and finally.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rehearsed. It’s all teeth and breath and hands under shirts and backs against walls. It’s desperation clothed in need, pulled tight by all the weeks you didn’t let yourselves ask for this.

You end up on the couch again, but it’s different this time. It’s bodies moving like they already know the rhythm. Like they’ve been aching for this song without ever hearing it played.

He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your regret—like he’s tracing every bruise, every unfinished sentence left inside your skin. Like it’s something he could carry for you, if only he could hold it right. Like he wants to taste everything you didn’t say the last time he was here.

And when it’s over—when you’re both breathing like you’ve run ten miles toward something that might not even be safe—you don’t speak.

You just lie there.

He touches your cheek.

And you let him.

But in the morning, he’s already up before the kids.

You find him in the kitchen, pouring coffee like nothing happened. Like your body wasn’t pressed against his twelve hours ago. Like he didn’t whisper your name like a confession.

You lean against the doorway. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

“Thanks for the towel,” he says finally, without looking at you.

You nod. Your throat feels too tight to speak.

He doesn’t kiss you goodbye. You don’t ask him to.

But that night—you both let it happen again.

And again after that.

Not because it’s love.

Because it isn’t.

Because if it were, it would be too dangerous. Too consuming. Too real.

Because it’s easier to pretend you’re both just lonely.

Because it’s easier to call it need.

But some nights—

Some nights, he holds you too long after.

And some mornings, you catch yourself saving the way he smells on your pillow.

And you both know you can’t keep pretending forever.

It starts unraveling the night you cry.

Not loud. Not messy. Just a single sound—barely a breath—that escapes your throat when his mouth is on your shoulder and the world feels too quiet for pretending.

He stills. His hand against your hip stops moving. You brace for distance, for retreat.

But instead, he lifts his head and whispers, “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, eyes glassy in the dark. “No. That’s the problem.”

The silence after that is a different kind of heavy. Not awkward. Not cold.

Just full.

You should get up. You should make coffee. You should do anything but what you do next.

But instead, you say it.

“I don’t know how to do this without wanting more.”

Art doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you like you’ve just opened a door he’s been too scared to knock on.

“I don’t know how to give more,” he says quietly. “But I keep trying to anyway.”

You shift, knees brushing, fingers curling together on instinct.

And then he’s kissing you. Not like before. Not like escape.

This one is slower. Deeper. It trembles.

You sink into him like it’s the only way to stay whole. You move together like it’s the only language left. No frenzy. No rush. Just a slow exhale of everything that’s been buried too long.

He traces his thumb along your jaw like a question. Like a promise.

You whisper his name like it means something again.

And when your bodies find each other, it’s not about release.

It’s about staying.

It’s about letting go without leaving.

It’s about letting yourself be held.

His hands are everywhere. Gentle at first, reverent even—like he doesn’t quite believe he’s allowed to touch you this way. Like he’s afraid if he pushes too far, you’ll vanish.

But you don’t. You stay.

You let his mouth trail down your collarbone, open-mouthed and aching. You let him press into the softest parts of you with a care that feels almost unbearable. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

You gasp when he finally settles between your thighs. Not from the sensation—but from the intimacy. From the way his eyes stay locked on yours like he needs your permission over and over again.

When he’s inside you, it’s not fast. It’s not rough. It’s felt.

Every inch. Every thrust. Every breath.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, your forehead pressing to his, and it’s not about rhythm—it’s about anchoring.

He murmurs your name like it’s holy. Like it’s the only word that still fits in his mouth.

You’re crying again by the time you come.

But this time it’s not pain. It’s not fear.

It’s release. It’s being seen.

And when he follows after you, body trembling, breath scattered, he doesn’t let go.

He just wraps himself around you like he wants to stay there. Like he needs to.

Like he’s finally figured out how.

After, he doesn’t roll away. He doesn’t fix his hoodie or check the time.

He just breathes with you.

And you, for the first time in what feels like forever, don’t feel like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You just breathe too.

And for once—it feels like maybe something is beginning.

Even if you’re both still scared of the name.

The morning is quieter than usual.

You wake before him. Not because you meant to, but because some part of you—some feral, frightened part—doesn’t know how to sleep through softness.

His arm is still around your waist. His breath brushes the back of your neck. You let yourself lie there for a moment longer, eyes wide open, heart fluttering too close to your throat.

You want to stay in this. You want to let it be enough.

But your mind’s already racing.

What happens next? What if this is the only time it ever feels like this? What if it doesn’t survive the daylight?

When he stirs, it’s slow. Heavy with sleep. He presses closer, almost unconsciously, murmurs something against your skin that might be your name.

You turn to face him.

His eyes open, slow and unsure. But then they land on yours.

And he smiles.

It’s small. Sleep-warm. Unpolished.

But it’s real.

“Morning,” he says, voice like gravel and honey.

You could say a hundred things.

But instead, you just whisper back, “Hi.”

And somehow, that’s enough—for now.

But it doesn’t stay enough.

Because when he’s getting dressed, there’s a pause. A flicker. A moment where he holds his hoodie in his hands and doesn’t move.

You watch him from the edge of the bed, blanket gathered around your waist, trying not to speak first.

He glances at you. Then away. Then back.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks.

It’s not sarcastic. It’s not resigned.

It’s scared.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I think I do.”

He sits on the bed again, elbows on knees. Doesn’t look at you yet.

“I’ve been pretending this is just... easy,” he says. “Casual. But it’s not. Not for me.”

Your throat tightens.

“Me either,” you admit. “I didn’t think I had room for anything real. But then you kept showing up.”

“I don’t know if I can give you what you deserve,” he says. “But I know what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

He finally looks at you then, and it’s the kind of look that makes your chest ache.

“You. All of it. Even the hard parts.”

You blink, trying not to let it spill too fast. But it does anyway.

“I want that too.”

He breathes in like he’s afraid to believe it.

But when you reach for his hand again—he doesn’t hesitate.

There’s no big decision that morning. No promises made. No declarations hung like picture frames on blank walls.

Just coffee. And dishes clinking in the sink. And the sound of Lily and your son laughing in the other room like the world has never broken them.

And maybe that’s what starts to feel like enough.

Because it’s not about defining it. Not yet. It’s about the space that opens up between you when he smiles without flinching, when you touch his wrist and he leans into it without looking for an exit.

The morning spills out quietly. He stays too long. You don’t ask him to go. No one says what this is—but neither of you tries to pretend it’s nothing anymore.

You walk him to the door.

He pauses there like he might say something. Doesn’t.

Instead, he kisses you. Soft. Grounded. Like it’s a start, not an end.

And when the door closes, it doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like something unfolding.

Later, when you’re alone, you sit in the stillness he left behind and realize you’re not afraid.

Not in the way you were.

You know it’ll be hard. That there will be nights when he pulls away before he means to, mornings when your fear outweighs your hope.

But you also know this: he reached back.

You both did.

And maybe that’s what love starts as—not fireworks. Not certainty.

Just two people reaching, again and again, across the soft terror of vulnerability—quietly. Like the children do. Before the world teaches them not to.

You look out the window and watch the light shift across the street, pale gold pouring over sidewalks like something sacred. Like a promise waiting to be kept.

You don’t know what comes next.

But for the first time, you want to find out.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s everything.

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tagging: @kimmyneutron@babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow

#oh #my #god #thats actually all i have to say #PLEASE read this its so good holy shit😭#art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #tiffys fic recs!!

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tiffysdeath · 2 months ago

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this is my pet rat, he just nearly drowned but it's okay you can pat him if you want. he bites tho :(

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tiffysdeath · 2 months ago

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y'all i saw sinners yesterday and all i have to say is.. michael b jordan🤤🤤

#the whole cast was so fine tho honestly #okay but SERIOUSLY go see it if u can it's an absolutely phenomenal movie #LIKE GENUINELY #the acting was amazing and the whole thing has me on the edge of my seat #pls go see it!!

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tiffysdeath · 2 months ago

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GOTH CLUB .ᐟ

summary: art is all bright colors, pop and rap music, but he is also super curious. so when his friends brings him to the goth club and he meets you, all dark and mysterious, he can’t help but be attracted to what he doesn’t know. and maybe… you bring something new to him like submission.

pairing: golden retriever art donaldson x gothic fem reader.

cw: +18. mdni. 2.1k words. submissive art. praising. degrading. oral s!x fem receiving. might be some typos please ignore them. support a writer by reblogging!

taglist .ᐟ @strfallz @jordiemeow @222col @lvve-talks (to be added) ★

Art Donaldson didn’t belong here.

It was written all over his soft blue flannel, his tousled blond hair, the open way he smiled too much, too brightly. The line to get into the club had looked like a coven gathering: spikes, fishnets, leather, lace, all in unrelenting shades of black and violet. His friends had joked about it being goth night, and somehow Art had said yes. Just to try something new. Just to see.

Now he stood under low red lights, surrounded by shadows that danced along the smoke-drenched walls. Everything pulsed—bodies, basslines, the flicker of candles in skull-shaped holders—and the club smelled faintly of incense, sweat, and something sweetly floral he couldn’t place.

Then Goo Goo Muck started playing.

He recognized it. From somewhere—an old movie, maybe? Or some random playlist he’d fallen into once when he was feeling curious. It was wild and strange, with a beat that curled into your chest and made it hard to stay still. But everyone around him moved with it, like they were possessed by the music. Like the song belonged to them.

Art grinned nervously, shifting where he stood near the bar, sipping something that was mostly cranberry juice. “God, I look like a substitute teacher at a vampire wedding,” he muttered to himself.

"You're not that bad." The voice was dark velvet—cool, confident, edged with amusement. Art turned and nearly choked on his drink.

You were leaning against the bar, one gloved hand wrapped loosely around a glass of something dark. Your black lipstick caught the faint glimmer of candlelight, your eyes rimmed in smoked obsidian. A corset hugged your frame, sharp silver detailing catching the light, and your skirt flowed like spilled ink around you. You looked like a portrait someone had painted in a dream—bold, surreal, beautiful.

And entirely out of his league. “I—uh. Thanks?” he said, smiling in that helpless, golden-retriever way. “Still feel a little like I wandered into someone else’s fantasy.”

“Maybe you did,” you replied, sipping your drink with a half-smirk. “But it’s not a bad one.” Art blinked. His ears were definitely red. “You, uh, come here often?” he asked, then grimaced. “Wow, that sounded better in my head.”

You chuckled. “Relax, sunshine. Everyone tries to flirt in the dark. It’s tradition.” Sunshine. No one had ever called him that in a club before. Not even jokingly.

“I’m Art,” he said, holding out his hand like he was still at a backyard barbecue instead of a den of sin and velvet. You eyed it for a beat, then slipped your gloved fingers into his, your grip firm. “You don’t look like an Art.”

“Yeah?” His smile widened. “What do I look like?”

“Like the kind of boy who should be wearing sweaters and baking cookies, not standing under a pentagram chandelier.” Art glanced up. Sure enough, there was a chandelier shaped like a twisted iron pentagram hanging just above them, slowly spinning. “Okay, fair. But for the record, I do bake cookies. Killer oatmeal chocolate chip.” He replied.

You gave him a slow once-over, then leaned just a touch closer, the scent of sandalwood and something darker curling around him. “Dangerous.”

Art swallowed. “You, uh… you live around here?” Your brow lifted like you could smell the small talk, but you went with it. “A few blocks down. I like to walk. Clears the head.”

“That makes sense.” He nodded, too fast. “I bike sometimes. Unless it’s raining.”

“Adorable,” you teased, then sipped your drink again. “And brave. Most people wouldn’t come in here without at least a pair of black jeans.” Your eyes looked up and down at him, almost surprised that he had been allowed in.

“I thought about it,” he said earnestly. “But I didn’t want to be that guy who tries too hard.”

“And instead you’re this guy,” you said, stepping in just a little closer, tilting your head to the side. “The soft one in the land of sharp teeth.” Art felt something twist in his stomach. He didn’t know if it was fear or excitement. Maybe both. “That sound like a bad thing?” His heart skipped a beat at the thought.

“No,” you said slowly. “Just rare. Most men come in here trying to prove something. You came in just to see.” He laughed, low and awkward. “Yeah. Curiosity, mostly. And I’m not great at saying no to my friends.”

“Well.” You ran your tongue across the edge of your lip, slow enough for him to notice. “A little curiosity can be fun.” The lights shifted—cool purple to crimson—and the crowd behind you surged as the song changed, but you stood your ground, eyes still locked on him. Art wasn’t sure if his feet were touching the floor anymore. “I’ve got a question, though,” you said, voice lowering like a secret slipping through smoke.

“Shoot.”

“Why haven’t you asked me to dance?” His eyebrows shot up. “You wanna dance with me?”

“I don’t invite just anyone,” you said, your tone smooth. “But you’re interesting.” Art hesitated for a split second, then set his drink down, suddenly emboldened. “Then yeah. Absolutely.”

You took his hand again, cool fingers curling into his warm ones, and led him through the crowd. The music shifted again—deeper now, almost industrial—and he moved without thinking, letting you guide him. You didn’t dance like anyone he’d ever seen. You moved like a shadow come alive, every twist and step deliberate, sensual, entrancing. And yet, when he followed—awkward at first, then freer—you didn’t laugh at him. You just smiled, slow and approving.

“You’ve got rhythm,” you murmured, loud enough for him to hear over the music. “Thanks. I, uh… played drums in high school.” That earned a real smile. “Of course you did.”

Art grinned, still catching up to the fact that you were dancing with him. In this world that felt like a vampire’s daydream, you were the queen—and for some reason, you’d chosen him. When the music dipped into a slower, darker beat, you closed the distance between you, your hands slipping to his shoulders. Art caught your waist with just enough pressure to keep you close, not control you.

You leaned up, brushing your lips just barely past his ear. “Still feeling out of place, Art?” He laughed under his breath, his skin tingling. “Not so much.”

“Good.” Your lips lingered a little too long before pulling back, your gaze flicking down his chest. “You might be softer than most, but you’re not weak.” That compliment—unexpected, rich with layered meaning—hit harder than it should’ve. Art looked down at you, some boldness rising in his chest he didn’t even know he had.

“I think I could get used to this place,” he said, voice low. You smirked. “Or maybe just to me.” He laughed again, softer this time. “Yeah. Maybe.” Your gloved hand tugged onto Art’s one as soon as Goo Goo Muck was done; a smirk, eyes meeting, his face flushing like he understood the silent words and he nodded.

The bathroom smelled like metal and incense.

Low red light flickered from a dying bulb above, casting warped shadows across the cracked tiles and graffiti-tagged stalls. The bass from the dance floor pulsed through the walls like a heartbeat just beneath the skin, and the now distorted echoes of Zombina and the Skeletones made the whole place feel like a haunted funhouse—kitschy, wrong, perfect.

You didn’t bother locking the stall door. Anyone bold enough to try their luck could enjoy the show.

Art was already on his knees when the hem of your skirt hit the backs of his hands. His soft eyes looked up at you like he’d been dreaming about this since the first time he saw you, and you had no doubt he had. He was the kind of man who fantasized in high resolution—golden retriever loyal, all flushed cheeks and quiet desperation.

The kind you could bend into something beautiful. “You’re not nervous,” you murmured, tilting your head down to study him. Your voice was low, smooth as velvet. His voice came softer, breath caught in his throat. “Not with you.”

“Good.” You reached down and ran your gloved fingers through his hair, just behind his ear, scratching lightly at his scalp as you pulled him closer. He exhaled hard through his nose, eyelids fluttering. “You know how to listen?” you asked, voice still calm, still teasing. He nodded instantly. “Use your words, Art.”

“Yes. I’ll listen. I promise.” He replied immediately. The skirt rode up as you hiked one leg onto the toilet lid behind you, exposing dark lace, garters, and the curve of your thigh. Art’s pupils dilated. His hands stayed pressed to the sides of his jeans, obedient, but his jaw was tense with restraint. You leaned in and whispered against his cheek, “No hands. Just that mouth.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed, and you felt it everywhere. When his mouth found you—warm, reverent—it was slow. Not clumsy. Not overeager. Devoted. His lips pressed against the lace first, breathing you in like he needed the scent of you just to stay grounded. He traced the edge of the fabric with his nose, and you let your head tip back against the stall door with a soft thud.

You didn’t rush him. Let him explore you, taste the anticipation between your thighs, until you finally pulled the lace aside with one thumb and murmured, “Go ahead, sweetheart.”

He groaned at the sight of you, eyes going heavy-lidded before diving in—tongue soft at first, then firmer, more purposeful as you shifted your weight and arched slightly into his face. His tongue moved in slow strokes that built you up piece by piece, his mouth hot, lips plush, every kiss like he was thanking you for the chance to worship.

Your fingers tightened in his hair as he sucked softly on your clit, then eased off, licking back into you in slow, careful circles. You gasped, nails gently dragging against his scalp, hips rolling in rhythm to the distant, tinny music still pounding outside the stall.

“Nobody likes you when you’re dead…” the song could be heard just beyond the walls. You smiled to yourself. Funny. I like him just fine right where he is.

Art moaned softly when you rocked harder into his mouth. He wasn’t in a hurry—he wanted to make you fall apart. You could tell by the way he kept pausing to lap up your slick, to hum against you, to make sure he was doing exactly what you needed.

“You like this?” you asked, breath sharp as your thigh trembled. His answer was a needy whimper into your core, his tongue pushing in deeper, his mouth messier now. You ground your hips against him with a little more pressure, testing his limits, and he let you. Welcomed it.

“You taste fucking divine,” he murmured, just barely pulling back for air. You reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, tugging until he looked up at you. His lips were swollen, slick with your arousal, and he looked like he’d just been pulled out of some sacred ritual.

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye. “Such a pretty mouth,” you said, letting the praise drip slowly between you. “Made for this.” Art moaned again, half-mad with how turned on he was. “Please… let me keep going.”

“Are you begging me now?” You smiled, tilting his face back toward your thigh. “Good boys get what they beg for.” He dove in again, more intense now. Desperate. You widened your stance and let the rhythm build between you, one hand on the stall wall, the other still buried in his hair. Your moans spilled out soft and steady, mouth parted, eyes half-lidded as your stomach began to tighten.

You were so close, and he knew it.

His nose pressed against your skin, tongue flicking with firmer pressure as you started to tremble, hips bucking against his mouth. You gasped his name—just once, but it cracked in the middle, and he groaned at the sound of it, locking his lips around your clit and sucking you through it.

You came hard, thighs shaking, head knocking gently against the stall door again as you whispered, “Fuck, yes—right there, Art. Don’t you fucking stop.” He didn’t. Not until your grip loosened and your body relaxed, your breath a little ragged, heartbeat wild in your ears. Not until you pulled him back by the hair with a soft, approving tug.

Art looked up at you, flushed and dazed, mouth and chin slick. He looked blissed-out. High on you. You leaned down and kissed him—messy, deep, tasting yourself on his tongue. He kissed you back like he needed it to breathe. When you finally pulled back, you whispered, “You’re mine now, sunshine.”

He nodded, eyes still locked on yours. “I will be.”

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tiffysdeath · 2 months ago

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me trying to read a 200 page book vs me when reading fics with multiple chapters and each chapter has a 10-20k word count

#i stay locked tf IN #it just hits different idk #sometimes i feel like id rather walk on molten lava with nails in my feet then read a book for more than like an hour #but i can literally read fanfiction for HOURS #i be scrolling then realize it's been like 2 hrs and ive just been readinf fanfiction the whole time like what the fuck😭😭#but this is all probably cuz my focus is absolute shit

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tiffysdeath · 2 months ago

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SEDATE MEEEEE

#HIIIISSS VOICEEE #oh my LAWD #i think im gonna pass out #mike faist

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tiffysdeath · 3 months ago

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sending a formal apology to anyone i’ve ever interacted with on tumblr for being so off-putting

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tiffysdeath · 3 months ago

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tattoo artist!art donaldson x reader

you weren't even sure why you had booked an appointment to get a tattoo. you hated willingly inflicting any pain on yourself and were always been weary around needles. your friend had mentioned that the new tattoo artist at her work was cute and you wanted to see what he looked like. booking a session with him may not have been the smartest idea to put a face to the mysterious figure but you had already checked in and were nervously waiting to be called into the back.

it had taken you a little over a week to finally decided what you wanted to get, but eventually you settled on getting a small star by your collarbone. sure it was basic and incredibly simple but you were really only getting it just to get a glimpse of the artist himself.

you were quickly snapped out of your train of thought when a voice called out your name. you looked up and were met with a face of a man who wasn't just cute. he was probably the most attractive guy you'd seen in a long time. instantly you felt your face go pink when he held eye contact. you quickly stood up and awkwardly shuffled behind him as he lead you to the bench where you'd be laying.

"so you wanted a star, right?" he asked, sliding on some black latex gloves as you laid down on the bench.

you nodded but quickly realized he couldn't see you since he was busy looking through his cart of supplies. "yeah," you said, cringing at how uncasual you managed to say a single word. you cleared your throat. "just a star."

"i'm art by the way," he said, turning back to face you. he was smiling and you couldn't help but turn even more red—even his smile was ridiculously attractive.

"it's nice to meet you, art." you said, awkwardly holding out your hand for him to shake. his grip was firm but not too strong and you couldn't help but wonder what it would be like for those hands to be grabbing you.

"have you ever gotten a tattoo before?" he asked as he finished preparing all of his supplied.

you shook your head. "this is my first."

art smiled, "i guess I'll be taking your virginity then." a beat passed before art realized just how wrong that had come out. his face heated up and he averted his gaze. "i did not mean it like that," he stammered, hands shaking as he poured some ink into an ink cap.

you laughed softly and shook your head. "i get what you meant."

“how come you don’t have any tattoos of your own?” you asked as art started to work on the star you wanted.

he shrugged, “i want one but i’m not a huge fan on needles. plus my nanna would throw a fit if i got one.”

you nodded in understanding. “i mean the pain isn’t that bad. i hate needles but i’m doing okay.”

art paused his work and looked up at you with a smirk. “you’ve whimpered like five times in the past two minutes and have already asked for a break. i really don’t think you’re doing okay.”

you flushed in embarrassment, “okay but at least i’m brave enough to get a tattoo,” you muttered, halfheartedly glaring at him.

in response he laughed, setting his pen down. “that’s your best attempt at a glare?”

“will you just continue tattooing?”

he shook his head, “i can’t. i’m laughing too much and my hand will probably slip if i continue working.”

a tattoo that should’ve taken less than 10 minutes ended up taking a whopping hour to complete. you didn’t mind because you got to spend more time talking to art. during your session you found out how he got into the business of being a tattoo artist, his favorite color, what college he went to, and his dog’s name. you weren’t sure whether he was flirting or just being friendly but you didn’t mind. simply having his attention was more than enough for you.

after art had explained to you the procedure for caring for you new tattoo, you were reluctant to leave. you knew that once you stepped foot out of the shop, you’d had no other way of contacting him besides booking another session.

“do you think i could get your number?” you blurted as art handed back your credit card. he blinked in surprise, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to find the words to respond.

“you- you want my number?” he asked incredulously. in his years of working he’d had many girls ask for his number but this was the first time that he’d actually wanted to give it to a customer. as soon as you nodded he was scrambling to find a piece of paper to put down his number.

he ended up tearing off a corner from the design booklet so that he could scrawl down his phone number. “here,” he said, almost breathlessly.

“thanks.” you smiled, taking the paper and tucking it safely into your wallet. “i’ll text soon,” you said and then headed out of the shop. art watched with wide eyes as you left—he couldn’t help but let out a small holler of celebration.

#SO CUTE I LOVEEE #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #mike faist

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