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sugarfaist · 2 months ago

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no one locks in faster than tumblr writers iktr

hair | art donaldson x reader

a/n: this is not rpf guys i promise this is about art donaldson haha i would never even think about rpf ahahah ahaha ha okay

warnings: SMUT 18+, this was just an excuse for me to write about hair pulling. literally the premise of this entire thing. retired!art x younger!reader, semi-public ish, not proofread at all sorry, horny hours in tacobacotown

The party had spilled out onto the upper deck long before sunset, golden hour stretched across expensive suits and sequined gowns. The yacht was all gleaming white metal and polished teak, railings slick with sea spray and champagne flutes perched carelessly on every ledge. Beneath your heels, the deck vibrated faintly with the low hum of the engine, just enough to feel in your bones.

Above, strings of golden lights swayed gently in the breeze, catching on wind-tousled hair and casting halos around the guests. Laughter rang out sharp and shrill, half-drowned by music pulsing from hidden speakers. Somewhere, someone was smoking a cigar. Somewhere else, a deal was being made over oysters.

And Art Donaldson stood dead center in it all—older, broader, built like he’d never retired. He looked like he belonged to the yacht more than any guest did, like the kind of man who didn’t just charter boats—he owned them. The kind of man who’d carved out a whole life after fame and filled it with quiet, unapologetic control. Grey threaded through the edges of his beard, sun caught in the lines around his eyes. His shirt clung to his chest, open enough to flash dark hair and collarbones that could still break hearts.

He looked like a man. And you? You looked like trouble—and everyone knew it.

You were younger. Noticeably. Dressed in something short and slinky, heels biting into the deck, champagne glass sweating in your hand. You were the kind of girlfriend men whispered about and women appraised. But Art didn’t treat you like a trophy. He didn’t show you off like a status symbol.

He just looked at you. He didn't have to keep you on his arm to know you wouldn't leave him.

And you were watching him right back.

You’d barely touched your champagne. Your gaze kept drifting.

Art looked like he’d stepped out of a cologne ad—curls tousled from the breeze, his striped Dior shirt half-unbuttoned, clinging to his chest in the humidity. You could see just enough to know there was hair beneath, curling dark and soft. His sleeves were rolled. His jaw was set. He wasn’t even trying to look good. He just was.

Every time your eyes caught, something twisted low in your stomach.

He watched you with a kind of smug awareness, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Like he could feel the heat building between your thighs from halfway across the deck.

At one point, he ran a hand through his curls, jaw flexing under golden light—and you clenched your champagne flute so tight you almost cracked it.

You excused yourself a few minutes later, murmuring something about fresh air. You didn’t even have to look over your shoulder to know he was following. You could feel him.

He caught up to you halfway down the stairs, hand warm against the small of your back, voice pitched low beside your ear: “Couldn’t stop staring, could you?”

“You were the one making a show of it,” you shot back, your voice tight, breath short.

His smirk was criminal. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Exactly.”

He chuckled, rough and quiet, and steered you down the hallway. Past a door. Another. Then another. Until the lights dimmed and you were far enough below deck that the sounds of the party dissolved. The corridor below deck was dark and narrow, lit only by the spill of warm light from above and the faint sound of waves knocking against the hull.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, dress bunched at your hips, thighs parted, breath snagging in your throat.

Art dropped to his knees. His hands slid under your dress, gripping your thighs with just enough pressure to make you gasp. He pushed one leg up and over his shoulder, crowding close, and looked at you like a man starving.

Then he buried his face in your pussy.

There was nothing tentative about it—just heat, tongue, and hunger. He licked you open like it was instinct, like he’d been thinking about this all night. His tongue dragged through your folds with slow, possessive pressure, then circled back to your clit, where he sucked gently—then harder—like he wanted to coax every sound out of your mouth.

You didn’t even notice when he pulled your panties off. You just remember how you felt the absence, and then, a flicker of movement—a balled scrap of lace tucked into his shirt pocket like a trophy.

He groaned the moment he tasted you, low and filthy, the sound vibrating through your cunt and into your spine. His beard scraped along your skin with every movement, raw and electric, each stroke rougher than the last. You could already feel the burn setting in. It made you tremble.

He looked up once, eyes hooded and dark, curls already sticking to his forehead with sweat. And then he dove back in—messier now, sloppier, tongue moving in fast, practiced motions, mouth hot and greedy.

When you whimpered and grabbed his hair, he moaned again. Like he liked being held there. Like he wanted you to control it. That shirt—the one half-unbuttoned upstairs—was plastered to his back now, damp with heat. His curls were already damp with sweat. His tongue was relentless.

You gasped as he sucked your clit into his mouth. Moaned as he flattened his tongue and dragged it slow. Everything in your body arched. Tightened.

You tugged his curls. Softly at first—just enough to get his attention, to remind him you were still in control. His groan vibrated through you, needy and thick.

You grinned and tightened your grip, nails scraping against his scalp.

“Yeah?” you panted. “You like that?”

He moaned in answer, knees shifting against the floor, rutting the air like he couldn’t help himself.

“Of course you do,” you rasped. “Look at you—so fucking good with your mouth, and all it takes is a little tug to make you whimper.”

And then you yanked.

His hips jerked. A choked, high whimper escaped him—sharp, sudden, raw.

You held him there, heel digging into his back, cunt flush against his mouth as he moaned and licked and gasped.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you hissed. “You want to be good for me? Then prove it.”

He moaned again—needy, desperate—and dove back in like he’d never even considered doing otherwise. You were going to come. You were seconds away. Your thighs were shaking. The wall wasn’t enough to hold you up.

And then—he pulled away.

You cried out, frustration sharp and wet in your voice.

He stood slowly, smug and wrecked and flushed, licking his lips like he’d just tasted something forbidden.

“Don’t give me that look,” he said, rough and pleased. “You’ll thank me.”

Then he leaned in close. Too close. His hand found your hair. His fingers sifted through the strands with care that made your knees weak. He plucked a single bobby pin from behind your ear.

Not one that held your whole style. Just one. Deliberate. Gentle.

“You don’t need all of them,” he murmured, voice low, lips brushing your temple.

It should’ve pissed you off. Instead, your thighs clenched together.

He crouched in front of a nearby cabin door. Worked with clean, practiced precision, curls falling into his face, sweat beading at his temple.

“Are you seriously picking a lock right now?” you asked, dazed.

“Patrick taught me,” he said, focused. “Thought it was the dumbest party trick I’d ever seen—until now.”

The lock clicked.

You didn’t wait. You grabbed his wrist, shoved him inside, and kicked the door shut behind you.

Then you shoved him down onto the bed.

The second his back hit the mattress, you were on top of him—hands on his chest, tongue already dragging across the damp skin between the open panels of his shirt. You licked through the chest hair, up to the sweat gathering in the hollow of his throat, greedy like you couldn’t get enough.

“Taking your sweet time, Donaldson,” you muttered, voice wrecked. “Let’s see how smug you are when I’m on top.”

He moaned—actual, helpless moan—and his hands gripped your thighs as you straddled him, grinding down against the bulge in his slacks.

You tore at the buttons of his shirt, yanked it open, bit into his shoulder as he groaned beneath you. You reached between your bodies, pulled his cock free—thick, flushed, leaking—and slid down onto it with a noise so guttural it echoed.

You rode him like a grudge.

Every thrust was a punishment. Every slap of skin, a reward. Sweat smeared between you, his chest hair damp beneath your palms. He gasped under you, hands scrambling for purchase, his mouth falling open with every drag of your hips.

You tangled your fingers in his curls again.

Then you pulled.

He bucked. Moaned. Whimpered.

“You sound so sweet when I hurt you,” you rasped. “Such a fucking man, and still so easy to ruin.”

“Please,” he gasped. “Please don’t stop. Fuck—please, baby—”

You leaned down, breath hot on his neck. “Beg me.”

“I am,” he panted, eyes wild. “Please, I need it. Need you—please—”

But your thighs were trembling. Your rhythm broke. You were close, and it was slipping through your fingers.

He felt it.

He grinned, a glint of mischief behind the sweat and wreckage. “You’re so cute,” he murmured.

Then he flipped you.

Pinned you beneath him, heavy and hot and still inside you. He didn’t hesitate—just started fucking you hard, deep, with a pace that felt like it rattled your bones. The slap of skin on skin was relentless, echoing off the narrow walls with every thrust. The headboard slammed into the wall behind you again and again, rhythmic and brutal, matching the sharp creak of the mattress beneath.

He grinned down at you, breath heaving, lips slick with sweat. “Too big for your britches, huh?” he panted, fucking into you harder. “You ride me like you’ve got something to prove, then fall apart the second you actually seem to be taking it.”

Your mouth opened—but no sound came out.

He watched you unravel, one hand gripping your thigh high against his ribs, the other sliding up to your face. His fingers pressed to your lips. Then into your mouth. Two of them, wet and rough, pressing down on your tongue while he fucked the air out of your lungs. “All bark,” he whispered, “and not a single word now.”

You moaned around his fingers.

He leaned in closer, curls sticking to his forehead, sweat dripping onto your collarbone. His hips never slowed. The pressure was unrelenting, merciless, filthy.

And then he pulled his fingers from your mouth, slick and hot, and brought them straight to your clit.

You cried out—loud, desperate, wrecked.

Art smirked. “Shh,” he murmured, rubbing slow, tight circles that made your thighs shake. “You’ve gotta be quiet, baby. Don’t want the whole boat knowing how good I’m fucking you.”

But his fingers didn’t stop. If anything, they got rougher. Meaner. Working your clit like he wanted you to scream. Like he wanted everyone to hear.

“You’re not making this easy,” you choked.

“That’s the point,” he rasped, still fucking into you. “You’re so fucking loud when you’re close. And I love it.”

Your attempts to listen to him are futile, too lost in the pleasure to do anything but whine and writhe beneath his ministrations.

“You just need someone to take care of you, huh?” he murmured with mock sweetness, pressing his hips even deeper, making you cry out around his fingers. “Little thing like you, playing at being in charge... but you want a good man to fuck you properly, don’t you?”

His thrusts hit deeper, rougher, shaking the headboard against the wall again. “I’m a gentleman, baby. You know that. I open your doors, I order your drinks, I pull your chair out. But when I fuck you—” he moaned as you clenched around him, “—I give you what you really need. What no boy ever could.”

He smiled down at you, sweet and filthy. “You just have to ask. I know you love it. Getting fucked dumb by someone who knows exactly what you need.”

Your body spasmed—too much, not enough. Everything at once.

“Come on,” he hissed. “Be good. Let go for me.”

You came with a stuttered sob, walls clenching hard around him, whole body trembling. He groaned deep, voice breaking as he followed—thrusting through it, pushing as deep as he could get, cock twitching as he spilled inside you.

And even then, you didn’t let go of his hair.

Not for a second.

He collapsed over you, breath heavy against your throat, chest heaving. For a few moments, the only sounds were the creak of the bed, the distant churn of waves against the hull, and the twin heartbeats thundering in your ears.

You trailed your fingers through the curls at his nape—now damp and thoroughly wrecked. “You whimper when I tug your hair,” you murmured, teasing, breath still shaky from aftershocks. “And you begged, Art. Thought you were supposed to be in charge.”

He laughed—low, rough, unbothered—as he nuzzled into your shoulder. “I am,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love letting you ruin me a little.”

You raised a brow. “Sure didn’t sound like it.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, grinning. “Doesn’t take away from the fact that I’m still the one holding your legs open and finishing you off when it really counts, does it?”

You flushed—scoffed—then let him pull you closer, chest hair warm under your cheek. “But you like when I run the show, don’t you?” you added, voice a little smug.

His response was immediate. “Fuck yes, I do. I love it when you get mean. Love when you ride me like you own me. I’d let you do it every damn night if it meant I got to watch you fall apart on top of me. I’m yours. Always. Just don’t expect me to stop flipping you over when you need it.”

You snicker into him, his unashamed admission filling you with warmth. There's a beat.

Then, softer, he speaks up again: “You okay?”

You nodded, already sinking into the warmth of him. “You?”

“I’m perfect.” He shifted to the side, pulling you into his chest, arm curling protectively around your waist. “But I should clean you up. Gentleman, remember?”

You hummed, cheek pressed to his damp chest hair. “Later. Just stay here a minute.”

“Anything you want,” he whispered, already kissing your hair.

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