Latest Posts by lovefaist - Page 2
for anyone who hasn't seen this FANTASTIC concept yet, get on it!! right now!!
i really hope more people will request characters for the POP GIRL™ bot concept because i still have 5 slots left and i like it so much :(
more ftm!art x reader if you can this awakened something inside of me
summary: it’s a rainy night, and all you want to do is take your time to worship your boyfriend, Art. in the safety of your shared intimacy, you help him fully go—trembling, messy and beautiful.
pairing: ftm!art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.
cw: +18. mdni. 1k words. submissive art. praising. dirty-talk. messy makeout. fingering (art receiving).
taglist .ᐟ @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @idyllicdaydreams
Art’s hoodie is too big on you, but you don’t mind. You’re curled up in his lap on your bed, legs tangled, the TV flickering across his face — not that you’re watching it. His hands are warm under your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles. You shift to face him, brushing your nose along his jaw. He’s already flushed.
“You’re staring,” he mumbles, voice low and raspy, with that slight edge he gets when he’s trying not to get ahead of himself.
“Can’t help it,” you whisper back, eyes soft. “You’re hot like this. Blushing. Trying not to lose it.”
Art huffs out a breath — half a scoff, half a laugh — and looks down, but you catch his face in your hands. You kiss him slow. Open-mouthed. Your lips move like a question: Can I? And the way he breathes out against you says yes, yes, please.
The kiss deepens fast — messy, wet, tongues tangling with a kind of quiet hunger. You feel the tension in his thighs beneath you, feel his hand tightening on your hip. His hips twitch up before he catches himself. “You’re shaking,” you murmur against his lips.
“I’m not—” he cuts himself off with a sharp exhale as your hand sneaks under his hoodie, resting just beneath his scars; thumb brushing against his skin.. Art shivered at the touch.
“You are. It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.” You kiss the corner of his mouth, then down to his neck, sucking softly at his pulse. “Wanna make you feel good.”
Art swallows hard. “Y-you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you say, slow and deliberate, watching the way his pupils dilate. “Let me take care of you tonight. You always take care of me.”
His breath hitches. That gets him. You know it does. You kiss him again, deeper this time, your hand sliding down to cup him between his legs — gentle, reassuring pressure. He whimpers into your mouth, hips twitching again. “There you go,” you coo. “Already so sensitive for me.”
His hoodie comes off easy. Yours follows. You take your time, making out like you’ve got nowhere else to be. Like you’re addicted to the taste of his tongue and the way he gasps when you tug his lip between your teeth.
When you slide your hand into his boxers, he tenses for a second — but you’re slow, patient. You touch him how he’s taught you he likes. Not rough. Just enough pressure to drive him a little crazy.
The moment your fingers touch him, he flinches — not from discomfort, just sensitivity. He’s already so wet. Your hand is instantly slick, and you groan softly into his mouth.
“Jesus, baby,” you whisper against his lips, dragging your middle finger through his folds, slow and steady. “You’re soaked for me.”
He whimpers, biting his lip. “I can’t help it—”
“I want you like this.” You kiss down the side of his neck. “It’s so fucking hot, Art. You feel so good already.” Your fingers part him gently, and your thumb brushes against his clit — just barely — enough to make his whole body jerk beneath you. He gasps, eyes fluttering shut.
“There it is,” you murmur, kissing the flushed skin of his chest. “You’re so sensitive tonight.”
Your fingers stroke over him again, this time more deliberately — back and forth, gathering slick, teasing his clit in slow circles. He arches up into your hand without even meaning to, and the sound he makes is barely human — a needy, breathless whine.
“Such pretty noises,” you breathe. “Let me hear more, baby.”
When you press a finger inside, he lets out a broken moan. He’s warm, tight, and fluttering around you — his thighs tense on either side of your hips. You keep your movements slow and deep, curling your finger upward until his back arches and his mouth drops open in shock.
“Oh—fuck—right there, right—”
“I’ve got you.” You kiss his ribs, his stomach. “You’re taking me so well. Look at you.”
You add a second finger slowly, watching his face the whole time. He gasps again, his nails digging into your shoulder, hips rolling helplessly into your palm. You curl your fingers just right, dragging them in and out at a steady rhythm, each stroke making him clench and shake.
Your thumb returns to his clit — this time with more pressure, circling in time with your thrusts. Art cries out, trying to muffle himself against your shoulder, but you pull back.
“No hiding,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”
He moans again, louder this time — hips bucking, thighs trembling. His eyes are glassy, lips wet, sweat beading at his temples. You speed up your pace just slightly, fingers sliding deeper, thumb tighter on his clit, and his whole body starts to stutter.
“That’s it. Just like that,” you whisper hot against his cheek. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?”
“I—fuck—yes, yes, I’m—”
“Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Let go.”
His orgasm crashes through him like a wave — thighs shaking, breath catching, hips grinding into your hand as he comes with a loud, raw moan. You don’t stop until he’s whimpering, twitching, so sensitive he’s pushing at your hand even as he rocks through the aftershocks.
You ease your fingers out gently, cupping him one last time as he pants beneath you, eyes glazed and lips parted. You kiss him slow and deep, one hand brushing the damp hair from his forehead.
You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his mouth — still messy and hungry, but softer now. “That was so good,” you whisper against his lips. “You’re so good for me.” Art blinks up at you, dazed and red-faced, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.
“Say it again,” he murmurs.
You grin. “You’re so fucking good for me.”
And you kiss him again until the room fades around you and all that’s left is the warmth between you, the slow drag of breath, the softness of afterglow.
art donaldson pop boy please please please 🙏😟😟😟
POP GIRL™ After-Sale Service 💾
Request received. Heart Logged.
The Art Donaldson POP BOY™ is currently in fabrication—coded with restraint, loyalty, and the kind of softness that only reveals itself when you’re not looking. He won’t come on strong. He’ll sit with you in the quiet.
This unit is made for users who want to be chosen slowly. Who crave steady eyes, clean hands and a devotion that linger like echo.
You’ve been approved for early sync.
💽 With quiet devotion,
POP GIRL™ After-Sale Service
“He doesn’t rush. He remembers.”™
i absolutely love this community because everybody here is SO talented. i'm not trying to idolize anybody but genuinely i'm in such awe of everybody here :( i love reading fics with such amazing quality and i love interacting with you guys because you're all SO NICE
thanks to these sillies for bringing us all together xoxo
a little shoutout list because i love you all:
@voidsuites @diyasgarden @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @happenssweet @222col @x0teric & so many more <3
i have literally NEVER felt this way about a man before ever
one day at a time.
if he really focused, art could still hear his dearest grandma say those words to him. one day at a time. for he must never allow for his racing thoughts to consume him with ambition. it wasn’t easy for him to keep those words in mind, because he was always so determined to be great.
it came to the point where he’d run himself dry, his sacred routine eventually burning him out. it was days like those, when he was in bed staring up at the ceiling with all the muscles in his body aching like a reminder of his incompetence, when he wished he could ask his grandma for one last hug. one last summer in her small, cozy house, no, home, one last time to be her favorite boy.
with the hot tears pricking in his eyes, he chastises himself for letting his youth pass by him so rapidly. his dorm room lingers with a scent that feels foreign, so unlike the sweet aroma of his grandma’s baking that always seemed to hang in the house much too short for art’s liking.
he had not given himself much time to grieve. after she passed, art had not allowed himself to think about her for too long because it would force him to feel and he did not have time for feeling. however, now that his body has forced him into an inability to do anything but stare at his white ceiling, he cannot help the soft sobs that break the silence. her words ring through his mind like a siren. one day at a time. if he had taken that advice, would he have been spared from this sickening guilt he feels about barely visiting her in her late stages of life? would he feel like he had loved her more wholeheartedly if he had not taken her presence for granted?
art cried himself to sleep that night, forced in a spiral of despair that he wasn’t strong enough to take himself out of. the feeling was all-encompassing and so overwhelming that his chest still burned the following morning, a reminder of how he heaved and cried and begged for life to stop passing him by.
tashi duncan needed a girlfriend
