art’s falling apart. finals, tennis, pressure building like a bruise under the skin. he comes to you in the middle of the night, quiet and fraying. he doesn’t ask, just curls into your chest and trembles. when you touch him, it isn’t just to get him off—it’s to hold him together.
cw: soft dom!reader, emotional vulnerability, explicit sexual content, handjob, crying during sex, light dacryphilia, academic burnout, stress relief, begging, praise kink, sub!art, maternal undertones, aftercare, verbal grounding, intense intimacy
it was just past twelve-forty when you heard the door handle shift—quiet, delicate, like maybe he thought the sound alone could shatter something. the click as it opened was barely audible beneath the hum of the heater and the distant shuffle of rain outside the dorm window, but still, your body stilled before your brain even caught up. you knew that kind of silence, the kind that was too careful. too heavy. too full.
you glanced up from your phone, still dimly lit in your hand, and your heart tugged the second your eyes found him. art donaldson stood in the doorway like he didn’t want to exist. hood pulled up over messy curls, jaw clenched tight, that familiar tension humming off him like static. he didn’t look at you. didn’t even move for a beat. just stood there like he was trying to find the strength to come inside and wasn’t sure he had it.
the string lights around your bed cast him in soft gold, catching in the wet shine around his eyes. you spoke first, gentle and quiet, like you were trying not to scare a stray animal. “oh. oh, art. c’mere, baby. c’mere.”
his shoulders jumped a little. not like a flinch, exactly, but something close. like your voice cracked something open in him. he hovered there for a second longer, jaw working like he wanted to say something sharp and bitter but couldn’t get it out. then he dropped his bag by the desk with a dull thump, kicked the door shut behind him, and crossed the room in a few long, slouching steps.
he didn’t say anything as he climbed up onto the mattress. didn’t ask, didn’t explain. he just crawled into your lap with a kind of collapsing grace, limbs folding in on themselves, his cheek settling right over your belly like he’d done it a hundred times before. like it was instinct. like he was home.
“couldn’t sleep,” he muttered after a long pause, voice hoarse and thick, warm against the thin fabric of your sweatshirt. “too much in my fuckin’ head. too loud.”
you exhaled softly and carded your fingers through his curls, working slow from the base of his neck up, letting your nails scrape just enough to soothe. he nuzzled closer with a little whimper, one hand curling up under the hem of your shirt, fingers splayed wide against the bare skin of your waist like he was trying to remind himself you were real. “i know, baby,” you whispered, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “i know it’s a lot.”
he shifted then, burrowing even deeper into your middle, dragging his hood down one-handed and breathing harder now, like everything was pressing in on him and the only safe place left was under your ribs. “practice was shit,” he mumbled. “couldn’t land a serve, kept double-faultin’ like a fuckin’ amateur. coach was givin’ me that look all afternoon like he’d already written me off.”
you hummed, fingers still moving, gentle and steady. “you’ve been pushing too hard.”
“feels like everything’s fallin’ apart,” he went on, voice breaking around the edges. “gotta paper due tomorrow, group project i haven’t touched, two tests next week. and i still haven’t eaten dinner ‘cause i got stuck at the training center tryin’ to fix my fuckin’ swing. i—fuck, i feel like i haven’t exhaled in four days.”
you wrapped your arms around him tighter, cradling him like he was something precious. “oh, artie,” you breathed into his hair. “you’re so burnt out, baby. your brain’s fried. that doesn’t mean you’re failing—it means you need rest.”
he went quiet again, but you felt the way he clung tighter. the little shake in his shoulders. his voice when it came next was raw and small, muffled against your belly. “i don’t know how to stop. if i rest… i don’t know. it feels like everything’ll just break. like—like it’s all holdin’ together by one thread and if i let go, it’s over.”
you cupped the back of his neck, lips brushing his temple. “nothing’s gonna fall apart, baby. i’ve got you. i’ll hold it with you. just breathe.”
for a long while, he didn’t speak. just breathed—shallow and ragged at first, then a little deeper, a little slower, your fingers smoothing the tension from his scalp. and when he finally moved, it was soft. tentative. his mouth found the bare skin above your waistband, pressing a featherlight kiss there. then another. then he rubbed his cheek against you like a sleepy puppy, curling into himself, whining quietly under his breath.
your hands stilled. “art,” you said gently. “what’s goin’ on, baby? you want something?”
he didn’t lift his head, didn’t look at you. just gave a tiny nod and said, quiet as a secret, “m’not tryna be a perv. don’t make me say it. just… please.”
your hand moved instinctively to his cheek, guiding him up until he looked at you, glassy-eyed and flushed, every inch of him open and desperate in that particular art way that cracked your chest wide. “tell me what you need, puppy.”
he sucked in a shaky breath, already moving, catching your hand and guiding it down under the hem of his shorts. he didn’t even hesitate—just pressed your palm flush over the bulge in his briefs and shivered. “fuck—yeah. yeah, there. please.”
you blinked, stunned for a second at the sheer heat of him through the fabric. the way it twitched against your hand, damp with precum, throbbing under your touch like it had been waiting all night. “jesus christ,” you whispered, fingers closing gently around the outline of him. “you’re so hard, artie.”
“been like that since dinner,” he said, red-faced, trying to bury himself in your stomach again. “tried to ignore it, tried jackin’ off in the shower but it didn’t help. it just—made it worse. i just keep thinkin’ about you. about your hands. your voice. i dunno. i just—i need it.”
you slid your hand slow over the heat of him, still over the cotton, and his breath hitched like you’d knocked the wind out of him. he whined again, high and helpless, and curled into you like he was trying to disappear.
you felt him tremble under your palm, hips twitching, his whole body wound tight like a rubber band about to snap. his voice was thin and trembling—“ohh fuck, yeah, that’s—that’s good—don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
“you poor thing,” you murmured, leaning down to kiss his temple, your strokes still slow and light. “walkin’ around all day like this, baby? hard and achy and no one takin’ care of you?”
“n-no,” he breathed, voice shaking, curling his fingers tighter into your sweatshirt. “just—fuck, just you. only you. no one else gets to. s’only ever you.”
you slid your hand down, hooked your fingers into his waistband and tugged his shorts low, just enough for his cock to spring free. it slapped against his lower belly, flushed dark and leaking, thick and twitching in the warm air between you. he whined at the exposure, soft and sharp—nnnhhhh, fffuck, i—it’s so much—but he didn’t pull away.
“oh, baby,” you cooed, wrapping your hand around him properly now, feeling the weight and pulse of him, the way he jumped at the first touch. “you’re leaking all over yourself.”
he whimpered, cheeks flushed and shiny-eyed, jaw slack and lips parted. “hurts,” he gasped. “been hurtin’ all day. m’balls ache. couldn’t focus on anything, i—fuck, i feel crazy.”
you started stroking him slow, twisting your wrist just slightly on the upstroke, your thumb dragging through the wet sheen at his tip. his thighs twitched around you, his breath coming faster, soft and broken—hahh, hnnhhh, fuhhhck—his hips rolling up like instinct, chasing the friction with needy little shoves.
“you’re okay,” you whispered, holding him close with your other arm. “you’re okay now, puppy. just let mama take care of it.”
“don’t say that,” he choked out, voice strained. “gonna make me cry.”
“you can cry,” you told him, soft and firm, kissing behind his ear. “you can do anything, baby. i’ve got you.”
his whole body was vibrating now, shaking, every muscle tense like he was trying to hold himself together with sheer will. your hand moved slow and steady, dragging slick sounds out of his cock—shhhlick, shhlickk, shhlick—each stroke making him twitch harder, his abs flexing, toes curling under the blanket.
“tell me what you need, artie,” you murmured, lips at his temple, your hand never stopping. “you can say it. i’ll give you anything.”
his voice broke on the next breath—“dunno. fuck. just—don’t stop. please, just keep—need you to—fuhhhck—need you to hold me.”
“i’m not goin’ anywhere, baby. let go. come for me.”
he let out a strangled noise—ahhhhhnnnngghh fuhhhckfuckfuck—and his whole body snapped taut, his cock jerking in your grip as he came hard, thick streams spilling across his stomach and your knuckles. he was sobbing before the last spurt even landed, clinging to you like he’d break apart without your arms around him. his face buried in your neck, hot and wet, breath catching in tiny hiccups.
you didn’t stop touching him. just slowed your strokes, milked him through the comedown, your other hand cradling the back of his head, rocking him gently against your chest. his cum was still warm on your skin, sticky where it smeared on your sweatshirt, but you didn’t care.
you kissed the side of his head, soft and lingering. “you did so good, puppy. such a good boy.”
he hiccupped, breath stuttering, and you could feel the tears finally giving way to little shivering sighs, his body sagging boneless in your lap. you reached for a tissue and wiped him up slow, cleaned him careful, like he was something delicate. when he sniffled, you stroked his hair. when he sighed, you kissed his brow.
he looked up at you eventually, eyes red and glazed and soft like wet clay. like he’d melted entirely.
“thank you,” he whispered, voice barely there. “dunno what i’d do without you.”
you smiled, brushing the sweat-damp curls off his forehead. “you don’t gotta think about that, baby. i’m always here.”
and he believed you. in that moment, he believed every word. because for the first time all week, his lungs didn’t feel like they were on fire. because you were warm and real and safe, and he could finally breathe.
