desire [ art donaldson x patrick AU ]

XI.

XI.

[fight]

.・。.・゜✭・.🔪

╰┈➤ ❝ [𝐈'𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭... 𝐲𝐨𝐮.] ❞

NOVEMBER || DAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING

<art>

THE NEXT MORNING, Art had woken up to an empty bed. He reached over for her, hoping his hand felt her soft, warm flesh, that of which he didn't. It felt nasty—nearly stomach-churning—the way he woke up so peacefully, his heart beating softly, until the cold realization that Mal wasn't beside him, exacerbated his heart rate tenfold. He'd just had more than a taste of what he'd been yearning for. And she was gone, and with her, taking his confessions, his heart even. And it sunk to depths he hadn't known possible. Brutal—this rejection had been. Worse than the others by far.

Where the fuck had she gone now?

She left him.

He sat up naked, body rather haggard and tingly with the leftover sensations of climax. The aftermath after a night like that always felt the same—light, airy, somehow warm and soothing. And yet... none of that mattered, neither felt nor cherished, as Mal had taken all that feeling with her. Instead of feeling downtrodden, riddled with an anxious swarm in his chest and belly, Art had been cross. Absolutely and completely infuriated.

This was the last straw.

The thought of having his face buried in her thighs, bringing her to finish off in his mouth a total of three times. And she'd had him in her mouth, as she gave her sweet assault. That tongue of hers. Those lips...

Fuck!

Art surveyed the room, and how awfully quiet it was. He searched for her clothes, perhaps they'd been left on the floor. But no. Her shorts and panties were amiss.

A click of his tongue, a growl of a sigh, then he flung his bedsheets off of him. He paced his small room, baring his nakedness. Hands on his waist, Art came to a halt. He opted to confront her now, demanding for an answer—why did you leave me? It's not like they'd committed a crime. It's not like he'd been horrible in bed! No, that's not it. But his worst fears came true. Art was worried that getting intimate with Mal in that manner would categorize him. Either he was just another dick or boyfriend material; this was confirmation that, maybe, he was simply another dick. And the worst part? His dick hadn't even been inside of her.

Crudely, he thought, maybe he should have fucked her. But everything about Mal hadn't been about being intimately physical; at least not like it once was before he came to know her. He pined for more. He thought it ridiculous, and a little juvenile of him to want Mal as... as a girlfriend. The thought occurred to him once, twice, several times actually, thinking him and Mal as a unit, as a team. Art nurtured the thought of a first date (without Patrick), and hitting it off the same they had during their one-on-one gym sessions. They'd have more dates, spend more time, be completely focused and enamored with each other... ah, wishful thinking. Stupid thinking. Because he'd just done the one thing you don't do with someone you want to be serious with—get in between their legs.

How could you take someone serious after that? thought Art.

Well, if he had flipped the question... how could
I take a pornstar seriously in general?