#.artdonaldson

[castiwls]

please - a.d

Pairing; art x reader

Warnings; None

Notes; working on reqs rn :)

masterlist

"I know you told me three times already,” Art shifted slightly, his chin resting on your abdomen. “but can you say it one more time please?" His eyes were soft as he gazed up at you, a small frown pulling on the edges of his lips.

His words pulled your attention from the book in your hands and you hummed softly. He stared up at you expectantly as you watched him for a moment, you honestly thought he’d fallen asleep soon after you’d opened your book but apparently not. 

Art watched you for a moment, his face hardening ever so slightly before he reached over to take the book from you. He placed it on the bed before gently grasping your hand which now lay limp at your side and pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

His lips lingered for a moment, the smell of your perfume invading his senses. “Please.” He murmured dropping your hand. Your other hand found its way into his hair as your fingers gently ran through it. A tired smile grew on his lips as he continued to stare up at you, his eyes full of adoration. 

“I love you.” Your voice was barely a whisper yet his smile only seemed to grow as a hand squeezed at your waist. A warm feeling ran through his body as your words played over in his head. You loved him.

Content, Art hummed before leaning over to press a gentle kiss to your hip.

Maybe his wife didn’t love him in the way he wanted, but you did.

[yameoto]

COACH KNOWS BEST. ART, TASHI, PATRICK.

synopsis; you fucked up an important match. your punishment? a one-on-one match against patrick zweig. in your tiny tennis skirt. without your underwear. don't worry, baby. it's a private court.

✗ warnings ; coach!artashi, protégé!reader, dom!art/tashi/patrick, dubcon, foursome, double penetration, unhealthy power dynamics, large age-gap, slutshaming, exhibition, humiliation, sex on tennis courts, anal (you only have so many holes). this is NOT a classy party.

"DO i really have to wear this?" you hiss, indignant. fruitlessly attempting to tug your skirt down—if you could even call it that. a flimsy scrap of fabric, more like. (god, you think maybe it was tashi's when she was what—eleven?).

the hem just barely skims over your upper thighs. you can feel a goddamn breeze between your legs. you're eternally grateful for art and tashi, really, but this is fucking insane—

no— it's fine. it's fine. they’re your coaches, they know best.

"maybe if you hadn't fucked up that last volley." tashi scolds, harsh — her tough love familiar. though, there's a delighted glint to her eyes as you subconsciously squeeze your thighs together, trying your best to ignore the fact your ass is peeking out from under the bottom. your cheeks flare red.

“it’s a private tennis court.” art reassures, the warmth of his palm on your shoulder being far less comforting than normal. you scowl at the ground, knuckles clenching tight around your racket.

"oh, don't be so skittish. he's not that good." tashi coos, as if facing patrick zweig is the reason you're shifting your weight from foot to foot, hand squeezed determinedly at your crotch. tashi smiles. cradles your jaw, fingers swiping along your bottom lip—bitten raw and glossy. "just play your best." an hour later, and you’re not playing your best. you can’t play your fucking best—because with every movement, every hop, skip, and fucking jump; your skirt is fluttering upward and flashing your bare cunt to patrick motherfucking zweig.

this is hell. hell.

you're stiff as you move about the court, hyper-aware of the feeling of wind rushing between your legs. you’re sluggish in your pace—far too pre-occupied with yanking your skirt down every few seconds rather than actually focusing on the match.

how can you? especially when patrick's staring at you like he's trying to rip your thighs apart with his eyes. art and tashi are no better. you jump to return a ball, and your skirt flies up; displaying your ass spectacularly. you almost get whiplash with how fast you go rigid. “open up your form.” tashi chimes in. you shoot her a desperate, pleading look. she just arches a brow, expression impassive—though you don't miss the subtle quirk to her lips. she’s enjoying this. suppressing a whine, you broaden your stance obediently—legs sliding apart on the court. patrick's pupils dilate, and he not-so-subtly presses the hilt of his racket into his groin.

you swallow, hard. his eyes seem to follow that, too.

you're about to serve, before art’s voice cuts in from the sidelines—soft, low and yet—effortlessly authoritative.

"lower."

heat floods up to your ears. you bend down, feeling the fabric of your skirt hike even higher up your exposed asscheeks. you direct him a desperate glance, eyes wide—a bid for approval.

art smiles. "lower." a low whimper slips from your lips, but you obey because they're your coaches, of course you'll do what they say. patrick grunts in barely concealed disappointment as the front of your skirt drapes further over your cunt. your blush is violent. fuck, you look like the intro to a porno; back arched, ass perked so high the goddamn sun is warming your cheeks. you want to crawl into a hole and die.

though, when you finally risk a glance back; the feeling turns into a strangely pleasant heat, unfurling in your gut. tashi's eyes are lidded, sunglasses slid halfway down her nose. art's pupils are so dark his eyes have lost their blue. his thighs are quivering.

"good girl." tashi purrs. you shiver, and you almost drop your racket. "

"oh, fuck this." patrick growls, and then all of a sudden his racket has clattered to the ground and he's lunging for you—two hands clumsily seizing your hips and shoving you to the ground. he doesn't even have to hike up your skirt. his knee is shoved up between your legs, meaning he has full access to everything. he stares, greedy—and you stare back; specifically at the way the swollen tip of his cock hangs out from the side of his shorts. his slit drools, and a fat glob of pre-cum splats on your thigh.

he shrugs at the way your jaw drops—wry grin splitting his lips. "what? didn't want you to feel left out."

"patrick." art stands, voice low with rare warning. possessiveness. patrick only shoots back a broad smirk—lifting his hand up to give him the finger—before sticking up his index and wagging it in a stupidly lewd motion. if possible, it makes your cheeks glow even hotter than they already are—it's type of thing boys your age would do, not a grown-ass man.

"what, man? you can't tell me this isn't exactly what you wanted."

art scowls, though he doesn't say anything—the massive hard-on he's sporting speaks for itself. tashi's expression is unreadable from behind her shades; but nothing ever happens without tashi's say so.

"dude, she's so wet." patrick grins, and to your rising horror—you are. he spits on his palm before roughly thumbing the slick down your thighs, smearing, before popping it in his mouth. he swirls his tongue over the nub of his thumb, waggling his brows.

"of course she is." tashi hums, and a whine tears from your throat. shaking your head adamantly because for some reason tashi’s instantaneous, patronising nod of assent makes you feel more like a whore than patrick’s fingers sliding up your skirt. no, no. i don't. it's sweat. i swear, swear to god—

before the slew of protests can find its way out of your throat; three fingers are shoving themselves up your cunt and you gasp—back thrashing against hot concrete.

“oh, you didn't want this?” tashi’s voice drawls, low and slow and deliberate in your ear, hips rolling into yours. you whine, drawing a white-hot blank as her fingers slide deeper into your cunt, “because i don't see any tennis players on the court. just a couple of sluts.”

you barely even register patrick's aggrieved "hey!" from offside, the unfairness of it all bubbling up in your stomach and dizzying your head because what the fuck— that's not— you made me— but you can't force the words out; not when you can feel two hands wrest behind you by the shoulders. the feeling of callouses against your skin familiar—disarming. you whimper, a plea for salvation. "art—"

''shush." art hisses, roughly seizing the band of your tennis skirt and jerking it entirely up your mid-riff, so you're completely exposed waist-down. your eyes blow wide at the humid air that rushes against your crotch—back arching when his hand snakes under your top and pinches at your nipples.

"i'm surprised you even bothered with these." he remarks as he shoves your bra aside, not unkindly—but hardly considerate either, with the way his fingers squeeze and pinch and twist meanly. your knees almost buckle from under you.

not that they can, not with patrick holding you up by the backs of your thighs, shorts slid midway down his thighs. his cock throbs, swollen and needy as he pushes his groin up against yours. "m'shocked you even let me through the gates," patrick hums, and you don't have to look to know he's breathing down art's neck. "to break your little rookie in, no less." he's so cocky, spit flecking your pussy—talking like you aren't even there.

you squirm, but art is groping your tits and patrick is wrenching your legs apart and tashi has thrust a fourth finger up your pussy and fuuuuck—your limbs are reduced to jelly. thrust and tied up on a ridiculously hot torture wrack; tugged and pulled and twisted in three directions at once.

"not so fucking fast—the deal was if you won. you didn't fucking win." that's tashi. her fingers curl harshly, knuckles pressing against your walls. you take in a shuddering breath, eyes rolling back into your head.

"what the fuck? that's so unfair." patrick's voice is an indignant whine as tashi yanks him back by the hair. "i was winning! how the hell was i supposed to control myself—" you can feel his hands clamping over your ass, rough and domineering. his dick insistently wedges into the corner between your thigh and folds, as if trying to force entry.

"maybe if you had a little self-discipline, for once—"

"oh, that's fuckin' rich of you to say, making her come out here and—"

"shut up." art pants, low and hot in your ear, and you almost forgot he was there. you don't know how, with the way he's grinding his length furiously against your bare ass—damp in the way you know he's already creamed his pants already. his fingers wrest the nub of your nipple at the same time that patrick brute-forces his way inside your cunt. your body contorts between the three of them—a choked, rattled cry ripping from your throat and sending your vision dancing into spots. for a terrifying, blissful moment, your brain empties completely.

"god—" patrick grunts, shoving himself deeper, nails digging into the flesh of your ass as he pounds, with great effort. tashi's eyes flash with annoyance, though she doesn't physically wrench him off. not one to be one-upped; the next time art bucks his hips, you realise he's ditched the pants entirely—head of his cock dragging against the crease of your ass. it's a slick, slow friction—tender—dripping a glistening trail down your crack. and then, his hips snap back, and then he's plunging into your hole—the wet, slapping sound of his balls against your ass almost as loud as patrick's moans as he stuffs your pussy full. the two ram into you with vicious ferocity—like they're seeing who can come inside you first.

it hurts it hurts it hurts. as if the insides of your body have been set alight, limbs writhing uselessly—a bubbling, curdling heat deep in your belly. but it also feels good, somehow. when your head lolls forward, boneless and fuzzy; you can see the way your stomach distends with each of patrick and art’s brutal thrusts. the outlines of their cocks, cramming into you—fierce, desperate. tashi can see too, clearly. her free hand delicately runs over your abdomen—nails scraping. you can’t even gasp at the cool sensation. not when you’ve felt fuller than you ever have in your life.

it’s just like tennis. just like tennis. no pain, no gain—right?

art comes first, because of course he does. letting out a soft, keening hiss of his own as he slams his hips into you, palm squeezing your tits so hard you think you're about to burst. he shoots his load into you with a choked whine. he doesn't pull out—doesn't want to abandon the tight warmth of your hole, hugging his cock like the world’s prettiest little fleshlight. he simply fucks back into you with a blissful groan. slowly, painfully, knees quivering as his seed squirts out with every thrust.

patrick is louder when he does it; grunting with a guttural "mmf— fuck!" hips stuttering jerkily as a torrent of sticky warmth floods into you, oozing out from between his cock and tashi's fingers. it dribbles down your legs and spatters wet splotches against the tennis court. you can't even speak anymore, lips parting in wordless gulps of air.

that's when tashi yanks her fingers out from you—strings of cum trawling, stretching out of your pussy as she does so. you don't even have time to mourn the loss before art's stuffing you full of his dick again and tashi is cramming her warm, wet fingers in your mouth.

art is simply jerking in slow, torturous movements, and tashi is sliding her hand so far down your throat you almost choke. she smiles. "suck." it’s an order—not that she has to. you're already wrapping your tongue around her digits, mindless and drooling. patrick slumps between your knees, tongue greedily lapping at the spurts of his cum lazily dribbling from your pussy, in time with art's thrusts.

the concrete sizzles against your back, sun warming your limbs—dried cum smeared on your cheek. you feel dizzy, you feel good. warm. this is everything you've ever wanted—everything you‘ve ever needed.

(your coaches really do know best.)

[matchpointfaist]

it will come back - art donaldson

;; dark and obsessive art donaldson

cw; aggressive art, rough sexual content, drinking, manipulation, stalking??, obsessive behavior, gaslighting, kinda icky behavior??

you know better, babe, you know better, babe

than to smile at me, smile at me like that

you know better, babe, you know better, babe

than to hold me just, hold me just like that

things with art started off with a simple, well intentioned smile across the court. you were warming up, stretching your shoulders when you caught his eyes stuck on you, drinking in the tight tennis dress clinging to your skin. his bottom lip was pulled between his teeth, his gaze pin sharp and hair-raisingly intense. you had seen art before, at his matches or just around the court warming up. 

you weren’t nearly as well known, or competitive, as art. you weren’t even on the official team, you really only played as a hobby and as an excuse to get out of studying constantly. it seemed, to you, that his entire being revolved around tennis. if you saw him, it was typically on the court, or just leaving it. he always had his tennis bag slumped over his shoulder, his name ever-present like a brand. 

you brushed off his stare, trying your best to push it from your mind and continue your stretches. you were only able to relax when you saw him headed for the gate, following after his coach. your breathing calmed, and you turned to one of the other girls, gesturing to the net. “wanna hit with me? you asked her, “i only have half an hour.” she nodded, walking over to her side of the court. art’s stare was still at the forefront of your mind by the end of your 30 minutes. 

after you showered off the sweat from your practice, you headed to the library, hoping to cram in some last minute studying before your biology exam. you claimed your table, spreading out your books and walking to the vending machine in search of a red bull. 

when you returned, you were surprised, and unnerved, to see art donaldson himself seated at your table, your notebook open in front of him. “hey, uh, that’s my stuff,” you said awkwardly. his head snapped up, those blue eyes landing on you once again, “yeah, i know. sorry, shoulda asked first, i just needed the notes for bio.” his voice was confident and smooth, like he hadn’t at all been invading your privacy. “oh, didn’t know you had that class. well, i’d love to help out but i kinda need to study, so..” you trailed off, hoping he’d take the hint. “oh, no problem,” he smiled, standing up quickly, “see you around.”

you went back to your studying, but couldn’t shake the feeling of confusion finding art with your notes. you knew for a fact he was not in your class, which was only held once a week, when you knew he was more than likely practicing. you tried, and once again failed, to the push the thought from your mind. you told yourself there was no reason for him to lie, he could have just transferred into the class for an extra credit,  and went on with your reading. 

sure enough, as your bio professor handed out forms for the exam, art was nowhere to be found. you leaned to the boy on your right, your voice barely a whisper, “hey, is art donaldson in this class? i could’ve sworn he told me he was,” “nah, don’t think so. i’ve never seen him, anyway.” you nodded, going back to your own paper, mind a million miles away. 

after your exam, you went to the dining hall, hoping to enjoy a quick snack  between classes. you saw him  before he saw you, this time, and found yourself admiring the fluidity of his movement, the ease of his posture as he talked to one of the other boys you saw him with frequently. you felt crazy for ever thinking anything was off about him reading your notes. he probably took the class privately, considering his insane schedule. a few moments passed, with you continuing to watch him, and finally his eyes met yours, catching you. you smiled shyly, going back to your salad and scolding yourself for staring. 

you saw his bright white nikes from your peripheral vision, just at the edge of your table. “hey, i just wanted to say sorry for stealing your notes like that,” he said lightly, “i’m in molecular bio lab, i thought you were too. just got confused,” “oh, it’s okay! no big deal,” you replied, feeling silly for not thinking of that before. “alright, cool. hey, while i’m over here, you play, don’t you?” “what, tennis?” he nodded, taking a bite of his apple. 

your breath faltered slightly as you watched the juice drip down his chin, entranced as he licked it off his bottom lip. “uh, yeah, i do,” you stammered, “not super well, i just play for fun mostly. why?” “to be honest, i need a hitter that’s not gonna scream at me about precision,” he laughed, “love my coach, but he’s intense, and sometimes i just need to let off some steam.” “oh, i get that. i could ask around for you!” you smiled. “oh, i was wondering if you’d be interested? it’d be nice to hit with someone who’s not super competitive, and i’ve seen you play. you’re good,” he said, leaning slightly closer, “if you have time, i mean.” “oh, yeah, that would be fun! i’m really only free in the afternoons, my last class is out by six everyday,” you tried not to let your confusion show in your voice or on your face. “cool, works for me,” he said, “i could meet you at the west court tomorrow at six thirty? it’s a little more secluded so you won’t have to worry about people critiquing or anything.” “yeah, sounds good to me, i’ll be there,” you smiled. 

on your walk  back to your dorm, you ran over the conversation in your mind, examining every sentence for any deeper meaning. what would art donaldson possibly want to do with you? sure, you were fine at tennis, but you weren’t a pro by any means. you told yourself he was right, he needed someone less intense, less competitive. you were ideal for that, considering you weren’t in a position of power, or a threat, to him. 

your classes went by quickly the next day, and by six you were ready to be on the court, to see if art was genuine with his intentions. you changed into a tank top and shorts, grabbing your racket bag and jogging to the west court. you stopped yourself from entering when you laid your eyes on him. he was shirtless, back muscles flexing as he stretched his arms above his head. he bent down, touching his toes, and you watched as his toned legs flexed along with his back and arms. you could’ve stood there all night, dumb look on your face and blush across your cheeks, until your footing slipped and you stepped on a stray branch. he stilled, turning to look at you slowly, and it struck you how much he looked like a predator stalking their prey in that moment. “well don’t just stand there,” he called, a smug grin on his face. you blushed darker, embarrassed of being caught, and entered the gate. “sorry, i was just making sure it was you before i came in,” you explained, knowing he could probably see through your lie. “oh, no problem,” he reassured, “you all stretched?”  you nodded, though you hadn’t stretched, but too aware of how tight your outfit truly was to stretch in front of him, “did you just want me to hit it back? or did you want like a match?” “we can just hit for now, let you get comfortable,” he said. you nodded again, heading to your side of the net and grabbing a tube of balls. “ready?” he called over the net, racket already in his position. “ready!”

you weren’t ready for the sheer speed of art’s serve, of the way he grunted slightly when the ball left his racket, the way his muscles visibly rippled with the impact of the hit. you just barely managed to hit it back, having to jump slightly to reach the ball, and felt a sense of accomplishment watching it fly back over the net. he looked like an entirely different person than the boy you’d seen in the dining hall the day prior. before, he was all easy, fluid movement, smooth words and lazy grins. now, he was rigid, hard lines, his light eyes set with a determination you had never seen in yourself. you wondered if he forgot who he was playing, forgot that he wasn’t in the french open he had won the year before. 

art was always intense like this, it was the only time he could be himself. he could be as aggressive, as loud, as he needed to be. he could let go, not having to pretend to be polite and easygoing any longer. people asked him frequently, if he felt the pressure to perform, and he wanted to tell them he felt more pressure to perform in a basic conversation than he ever had while playing tennis. until he met you, that is. talking to you came as easily to art as swinging a racket, and that was when he knew you were both in trouble. 

i know who I am when i’m alone

i’m something else when i see you

you don't understand, you should never know  

how easy you are to need

your little practices with art continued for three weeks, with you meeting him at the west court every other day at six thirty pm. you slowly began to look forward to them, and by the fourth week, you were desperate to get out of your last class each day. so desperate, really, that you texted art at four oclock, asking him if he’d want to meet you earlier. you emailed your professor, telling him that you’d come down with a migraine and you’d have to make up any notes next week, and went up to your dorm to wait on art. thirty minutes went by, and you hadn’t heard from him, so you went to change into your tennis skirt and brush your hair up into a ponytail. a knock on your door interrupted you, and you hesitantly opened it, not expecting anyone. art stood in the hallway, racket bag over his shoulder and disheveled hair. 

“hey, sorry i came as soon as i saw your text. sorry, i fell asleep after my match,” he said, and you took in his full appearance. his eyes were still hazy, and he had slight creases on his cheek from his pillow. you couldn’t help but think what a beautiful sight it must be to wake up next to him. “oh, you didn’t have to do that, i just got out of my last class and didn’t have anything else to do,” you said, attempting to downplay your desperation. “well we can go down to the court now, here i’ll carry your bag,” he smiled, and you reluctantly passed him your pink racket bag. “let’s go then,” 

the walk to the court was oddly quiet, with art seeming to be in a bad mood and you not wanting to speak up and irritate him farther. once on the court, as always, he seemed to transform. his hits were much more aggressive than usual, his typical quiet grunts turning into full on groans as he served. you noticed how tense he looked, almost uncomfortable, and after half an hour you dropped your racket. “what’s going on, art?” you asked him, approaching the net. “nothing,” he said dismissively, serving another ball just to send it flying against the fence. “i can tell something’s up, you can talk to me,” you said, tilting your head up at him. you weren’t used to this side of him, so short and borderline angry. “i said i’m fine, do you want to play fucking tennis or not?” he snapped, and your eyes teared up in shock. “i guess not,” you snapped back, picking up your racket and rushing off the court, “i was just trying to be nice.” 

you made it halfway back to your dorm before you heard art calling after you, his tone pleading even from a yard away. “please wait, i’m sorry,” he called, and you heard his steps bounding up to you. you kept walking, desperate to be back in the comfort of your bed, and felt his fingers circle around your wrist, pulling you to a stop. “i don’t want to talk about it, art. just don’t worry about it, i’ll see you around,” you said, your tone clipped. “i am worried about it, i want to apologize. i shouldn’t have snapped, you didn’t do anything wrong. i’m just really stressed out and i shouldn’t have taken that out on you. will i still see you tomorrow?” he rushed out, looking at you intently. “it’s fine, seriously. i get it, i know you’re stretched really thin. we don’t have to do this anymore, i’m sure you get more than enough hitting practice with your coach and in your matches. thank you for the experience, though,” you said, turning away from him once again. “you can’t just blow me off,” he said, his rough tone from earlier creeping back, “i’m trying to apologize, not cancel our practices. if that’s what you want, then fine, but don’t blame it on me.” 

you walked away quickly, ashamed at the tears now slowly rolling down your face from the confrontation. you didn’t want to call off your practices, but you also didn’t want to become his verbal punching bag because he was exhausted. he didn’t come after you this time, and you felt more hurt than relieved. your tears kept coming, even after you reached your dorm room. you were so upset, you never even stopped to wonder how art knew which dorm was yours. 

three days passed, and you didn’t hear from him at all. it took almost all of your self control not to send him a text, or stop by one of his matches, but you held yourself back. on day four, there were flowers outside of your door. you rolled your eyes, squatting down to read the attached note. ‘west court, six thirty. art.’ you opened your door, placing the bouquet on your desk and throwing yourself onto your bed. your mind raced, debating if you should meet him or not, wondering what he would possibly have to say. you felt completely out of control as you changed into your tennis dress from that very first day you saw him, grabbing your racket and locking up your dorm. 

you walked onto the court at six thirty on the dot, with no art in sight. you sighed, sitting on the cold pavement and stretching your legs. ten minutes went by, then twenty, no art. at seven, you rolled your eyes and left the court, pulling out your phone to text him. ‘really nice, art. thanks for the flowers.’ you sent it, turning off your ringer and going back to your dorm, wanting the day to be over. you showered, changing into your pajamas, when you noticed your top drawer was open.  you knitted your eyebrows, sorting through the drawer, but not noticing anything missing. you told yourself you just left it open, and put on a movie on your small tv before going to sleep. 

the next morning, you woke up to a text from art. ‘i’m so sorry, i meant to come but got caught up in one of my classes. can i make it up to you?’ you ignored it, going about your morning routine and turning your phone off once you got to your literature class. when you exited, someone grabbed your wrist, yanking you out of the door frame. you gasped, your heart rate spiking, but immediately relaxed when you saw his familiar head of blonde curls. “what the hell, art? scared me to death,” you scolded, putting your hand on your chest. “you didn’t reply to my text, i just wanted to see you,” he said softly, rubbing your wrist where he had grabbed you, “did you like the flowers?” “would’ve liked seeing you more, but yeah, they were pretty. what’s going on with you? you’re acting so weird,” “i told you, i’ve just been stressed out. do you wanna get dinner or something? i feel like we’ve spent all this time together and we barely talk,” your eyes softened, and you nodded, “yeah, i’d like that. don’t stand me up this time,” “i’m not, promise. i can pick you up at seven?” “what should i wear?” “i’ll have something sent up to your dorm. see you at seven,” he said, and left you standing dumbfounded in the crowded hallway. 

at six, you climbed the stairs to your room once again, this time finding a department store garment bag hung over your doorknob. you blushed to yourself, taking it off the knob and entering your room. art had sent you a beautiful dark red dress, a silver necklace hung around the neckline to pair with it. your face reddened even more, your mind going to how much money he must have spent on this. as you pulled the dress from the bag, you saw a small note tied to the hanger. ‘you’re gonna look gorgeous. art’ you giggled to yourself, feeling like a high schooler giddy in love, and held the dress up to your body. he had somehow picked your perfect size, and only after looking in the mirror did you recognize the signature stanford color. 

you quickly straightened your hair, putting on the new dress and digging into your closet for shoes to pair it with. you sighed loudly when you came up empty handed, pacing around the room barefoot, unsure of what to do. you heard a knock on your door and ran your hair through your hair anxiously as you went to answer it. art stood in the hall once again, this time in a white button down and pressed black dress pants. your breath caught in your throat, all thoughts of your shoes gone as you took in the way he filled out the thin white shirt. “i realized i forgot shoes, and i had some time to kill so i hope these are alright,” he said, holding out a black shoebox. “oh, thank you so much. i was just thinking i didn’t have any wear,” you breathed a sigh of relief, moving back to hold your door open, “you can come in, i’ll just put these on and be ready.” he nodded, his eyes darting all around your room as he entered. you sat on the edge of your bed, leaning over to open the box. your breath faltered once again as you saw the gorgeous black heels. “these are beautiful, art. thank you,” you said, taking them out carefully. you slid one on, fumbling with the clasp. “do you mind helping? sorry, i can’t get the clasp with my nails,” you said, blushing slightly. he shot up from his seat, nodding, “yeah, here,” 

he kneeled in front of you, taking your calf into his hands gently and clasping the shoe with ease. he gently took your other foot into his hands, his thumb rubbing circles on your ankle as he slid your foot into the heel. you could feel your pulse all through your body, heart racing at the simple feeling of his gentle hands on your legs. “hey, how’d you know what size to get me?” you asked suddenly, realizing you hadn’t thought of it before. his face reddened just barely, and he said, “oh, i must’ve just noticed when you were stretching or something. i probably just guessed.” you nodded, still questioning it in your mind but not pushing it further. you closed your eyes in pleasure as he ran his hand up your calf, before standing up and holding the same hand out for you. “shall we?” 

he took you to a dimly lit, obviously expensive italian restaurant just off campus. “this is beautiful, i’ve never been here,” you said, in awe of the detailing on the walls and the subtle beauty of the design. “i’ve been once, with my parents when they were in town for a match. it’s pretty nice, nice wine selection,” he said, pulling out your chair for you. you thanked him, smoothing your dress down and sitting down. he took his seat across from you, immediately opening the drink menu, his eyes raking over the options. “do you have a preference?” he asked, peering at you over the menu. “no, i’m not much of a drinker so whatever you recommend is great,” you told him. the server came over, and you noticed how he instinctively turned toward art first, like he commanded all the attention in the room. “what wine would you like, mr. donaldson?” the server asked, and the realization struck you that art wasn’t just famous on campus, but more than likely all throughout the country. “we’ll do the 2005 pinot noir, thank you,” art replied, handing him the menu, “and you can just leave the bottle.” “perfect, i’ll be back shortly with that,” you smiled at art across the table, your eyebrows raised, “so, mr. donaldson,” you giggled. “yeah, unfortunately. nineteen years old and getting called mr. just because i won a few games,” he laughed, but you could see the tension underlying his laughter. “well, i think its cool. you’re a big deal,” you said reassuringly.

the waiter returned quickly with your wine, pouring you both glasses and asking art what you’d both like for your main course. “i’ll do the eight ounce wagyu with a caesar salad,” he replied, then nodded to you, “and she’ll have whatever she wants,” “oh, i’ll just have the ricotta ravioli, thank you so much,” the server nodded, heading to put your orders in, and art grinned at you. “you’re so polite, it’s endearing,” he said, his eyes gleaming. you blushed slightly, “i was just raised that way,” you said. “tell me more about how you were raised, i wanna hear all of it,” 

there was not a quiet moment the entire evening. you talked all about your life, growing up in the south, while art told you all about his busy upbringing in palo alto. his life was all tennis lessons, private school and flashy cars, something you were not accustomed to. you found yourself wishing you could have known him when you were both young, before the world had shaped him into the hardened version of himself he was now. he seemed calmer through dinner, like you could see the tension melting from his body with every laugh that left your lips, or every brush of your hand against his over the table. 

with all your talking, you didn’t notice his one glass of wine to your four, didn’t notice how his jokes started to get much, much funnier, how the touch of his hand started to feel almost euphoric. when he said it was time for him to get you home, you protested, telling him he couldn’t drive yet. “oh, i’m alright,” he assured you, “i had one glass before our meal even came, i promise i’m fine to drive,” you pouted your lips, confused why he had stopped but let you keep downing glass after glass. a slight pang of anxiety formed in your chest at the thought that maybe it had been intentional, but you quickly pushed it away, telling yourself that art wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, or make you uncomfortable. 

the drive home was full of laughs and his hand was on your thigh, rubbing small circular motions. you sighed, leaning your head back against the seat. “tonight was really fun, art. thank you again, for the dress and the shoes and everything,” you said sweetly, adoration in your eyes as you watched his skilled hands around the steering wheel. “of course, it was my pleasure,” he said, glancing over at you. the streetlights made his blonde hair look like a halo. “we should do it again,” you said. “yeah, absolutely. whenever you want,” he smiled, “i’d love that.” 

he walked you up to your dorm, holding onto your arm the whole way to keep you steady. “i think i’m a little drunk,” you finally admitted, halfway up the stairs. “yeah, i can tell,” he said, grinning down at you, “you gonna be alright in here alone?” “oh, yeah, i should be fine. you could stay for a little, if you wanted,” you said, focusing your eyes on his lips as his grin widened. “oh, i don’t know if that’s a good idea tonight,” he said, “but next time, of course,” you pouted slightly, but nodded, agreeing. “well here’s your door,” he said, gesturing to the doorway, “do you want me to unlock it for you?” you nodded again, handing him your keys, watching as his fingers wrapped around the key and twisted the lock. “thank you, art,” you giggled, “thank you for the whole night. no one’s ever taken me to dinner before. not a boy, anyway.” “i find that hard to believe, but i’m glad i could be the first,” he smiled, pushing a stray curl from your face, “you should get some rest. goodnight, love,” he leaned down, pressing a slow, gentle kiss to your cheek, and he was gone before the warmth of it had time to fade. 

you woke up the next day, head pounding, dress still on. you smiled to yourself as you remembered the events of the night, trailing your fingertips across your cheek where art had kissed you. you got dressed for classes with a skip in your step, unable to wipe the giddy smile off your face all the way through the day. you didn’t have practice with art that evening, so the thought to surprise him popped into your head. 

you approached one of his tennis friends, michael, in the dining hall. “hey, sorry if this sounds weird, but do you know art’s dorm number? i had something to give him, and-” he cut you off, smirking. “yeah, it’s 38. second floor, third door on your right. knock yourself out,” he said. you blushed, thanking him quickly and leaving. the embarrassment of his presumption stunted your confidence in your actions, but you proceeded to his dorm anyway, sure that he’d want to see you. 

when you approached room 38, you hesitated to knock, questioning yourself once again on if this was right or not. as you stepped closer to the door, you heard quiet moaning, so faint it was barely noticeable. it was definitely a man, all breathy grunts, but you couldn’t tell if it was art for sure. you told yourself he must have a roommate, surely he didn’t have a girl in his room, surely he wouldn’t do that to you. your mind raced, until all thoughts were halted by the clear moan of your name through the door. your heart skipped, and you dug your teeth into your bottom lip, confusion clouding your thoughts. you should just leave, you thought, just go and never speak a word of this to him. but curiosity got the best of you, and suddenly you were knocking on his door, cheeks red and eyebrows furrowed.

you heard some clambering inside, before moments later, a sweat sheened, pink cheeked art opened the door. “jesus, what are you doing here? you scared me,” he said, and you took note of how breathless he was. “oh, i just wanted to say hi, since we didn’t have any practice today,” you said, “can i come in?” “yeah, of course, come on in,” he said, quickly recovering his face and smiling down at you. you entered his room, taking in the tennis posters covering the walls, the dark comforter on the twin size bed. it was clean, cleaner than you’d expect a male dorm room to be, but smelled distinctly of art. “this is cozy,” you complimented. “it’s alright, about as good as one of these shitty dorms can be. i’m just waiting for my sophomore year so i can live off campus,” he said, shrugging, “i like yours much more. here, you can sit anywhere.” you sat on the corner of his bed, not wanting to make yourself too comfortable, “so, were you busy when i came? i’m sorry if it was a bad time,” you could’ve sworn his face reddened, but he quickly recovered, insisting that he hadn’t been busy at all. “did you want to do something? or were you just saying hello?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “just saying hello. i need to get home, i have a seven am lecture. i’ll see you at six thirty tomorrow?” you confirmed. “yeah, of course. i’ll see you then,” he smiled, and you gave the room one last scan before heading for the door. “well, goodnight art,” you smiled, walking out into the hallway. you couldn’t shake the feeling that the light pink panties shoved just under his bedframe had been yours.

two hours later, you were laying in bed, unable to sleep. all you could think about was what you had clearly seen in art’s floor hours prior, and your mind raced with the possibility that they were yours. he could’ve snagged them when he came in to give you your shoes, but you couldn’t understand why he would possibly do that. your imagination ran wild, filthy images of your panties wrapped around his cock, the sound of him groaning out your name as he fucked into fist, his cum all over the pink fabric. your thighs squeezed together, hot tension building between them. you wondered what it would feel like for him to touch you, for those long, skilled fingers to work their way into your core, to make you fall apart for him. you wondered if the sounds he made during tennis were anywhere near as alluring as the sounds he’d make while he fucked your throat. you couldn’t ignore the burning, intense desire anymore, and slipped your hands into your pajama shorts. you tried your hardest to suppress your moans as you circled your fingers around your clit, thinking about art, about his toned arms, his long fingers, his plush pink lips. how good it would feel to have those lips wrapped around your clit instead of your fingers, how beautiful he’d look pumping you full of his cum. you came quickly, art’s name shamelessly tumbling from your lips as you bucked your hips to meet your own hand. you fell asleep thinking of him holding you. 

don't let me in with no intention to keep me

jesus christ, don't be kind to me

honey, don't feed me, i will come back

the next day, you went to your classes, trying your best  not to let art completely consume your thoughts. hot shame burned the forefront of your mind from what you’d done, the things you’d thought about him. part of you was worried from the intensity, the suddenness of your closeness and attraction to art. part of you wondered if you should end things before they got to be too much. you weren’t used to this, to this all consuming need for another person. you told yourself this wasn’t like you, touching yourself to the thought of a man you’d only been on one date with. and you worried about why, and how, art had your things in his room. you were ashamed at how hot you’d found it, now acutely aware of how dangerous it could be, a man being that interested in you that he would stoop to stealing your panties from your room, to moaning your name behind closed doors. most of all, you were ashamed of how you didn’t care, how you wanted to fall into whatever this was with art, how you’d let him do whatever he wanted with you. 

at six thirty, you entered the court you’d become all too familiar with. art was serving to the fence again, beads of sweat already rolling off his back. “how long have you been out here?” you called, smiling when he turned to face you. “not too long, got bored waiting on you to get out of class,” he replied, crossing the court to stand before you, “maybe we could do something else, instead of practicing. i’ve worn myself out,” you found this hard to believe, but didn’t protest. “like what?” “whatever you want, we could go to dinner or see a movie or you could come to my room. whatever sounds best to you,” he said, already putting away his racket. “maybe we could go for a walk? if you’re not too tired, of course. i’ve been cooped up in classrooms all day,” “yeah, of course. a walk sounds great,” 

the two of you walked all around campus, talking about your days and how exhausted you both were. “i don’t know how i’ve never asked you this, but are you staying off campus next year too?” he asked you suddenly. “uh, no,” you said honestly, “i can’t really afford to move out of the dorms, to be honest. i’ve got my tuition and housing covered, and i really don’t mind the dorms, they’re comfy,” “you could always stay with me,” he said, and you stopped in your tracks. “i actually wanted to talk to you about that, well something like that,” you said, your anxiety almost tripping up your words, “do you think maybe we’re, well whatever we’re doing, is moving a little fast? i know we were practicing together for a while, but we’ve only just started really talking, and i’m just not used to this kind of thing,” his expression hardened quickly, his eyes darting everywhere but you. “yeah, that’s fine, it’s not really a big deal to me,” he said dismissively, “i was just being nice.” “oh, yeah of course. i feel silly now,” you rambled, laughing awkwardly, “it’s just, you know the date was really lovely and i’d love to do it again, but i didn’t want you to get the wrong idea,” “and what idea would that be, specifically?” “just, y’know, didn’t want us to get ahead of ourselves. didn’t want you to get the idea that it was more than it was or anything,” “and what is it exactly?” “oh, i don’t know. we’re friends, and i really like you, and i like getting to know you-” he cut you off, his jaw tight, “friends? that’s what you think we are? friends?” 

your brows furrowed, confused, “well yeah, i thought we were friends. are we not friends?” “i didn’t know that’s all this was, no. but that’s fine, if that’s what you want,” he backed away from you slowly, looking like he had the night he yelled at you. “art, wait, i didn’t mean-” “no, i get it completely. i’ll see you in a couple days, yeah? have a good night,” “wait, don’t go,” you protested, but he was already quickly walking away from you. you tried to ignore the irony in your position, how you had left him standing there in your previous fight. you tried to ignore the flashes of pain in his eyes when you said you were friends, the look of betrayal across his face. you focused on coming up with a plan to make it up to him, as he had with you, and this occupied your mind your entire walk home. 

art spent the next few days miserable, throwing rackets during matches, snapping at his coaches, straining his muscles to the point that he spent each afternoon with the team’s physical therapist. he couldn’t believe the audacity, the stupidity of you to say you were just friends. you had to have known, had to have felt the intensity in his feelings for you. he told himself you didn’t mean it, but each time he pictured the certainty on your face, his anger made his concern for your feelings on the situation dissolve entirely. it was like you did it on purpose, talking to him so sweetly on your date, showing up at his fucking dorm, just to claim you were friends. friends didn’t touch themselves to the thought of the other, didn’t moan friends names as they came, alone in their dorm room. granted, you didn’t know that he had seen, didn’t know that he had almost came at the high pitched moans you let out. he was sure, now, that he’d never get to hear them for himself. 

a week after your fight, you worked up the courage to send art a text. ‘hey, miss you. i’ve been trying to plan some grand gesture, but they all feel wrong after the date you planned. meet me at the court tonight? we can talk, or we can play. whatever you want, just come please,’ you sent it, biting your lip with anxiety awaiting his response. 

it can't be unlearned

i’ve known the warmth of your doorways

through the cold, i'll find my way back to you

oh, please, give me mercy no more

that's a kindness you can't afford

i warn you, baby, each night, as sure as you're born

you'll hear me howling outside your door

he responded to your text an hour later, a simple, ‘i’ll be there,’ but it was good enough for you. you once again put on the tennis dress you’d worn the first time art had noticed you, putting your hair into a neat ponytail and lacing up your nikes. at six thirty, you waited anxiously for his arrival, reapplying your chapstick to busy your hands. he walked in, a careless, lazy expression on his face, but you could see the squareness of his shoulders, the hardness of his jaw. “thank you for coming,” you said, your voice timid. “of course i came,” he said, his voice as tense as his muscles. “i thought maybe you wouldn’t want to see me, after what i said. i need to apologize, i don’t think we’re just friends, i just didn’t know what else to say. i don’t know what this is, but i really like you, and it scares me,” you rambled, your face hot. he quickly crossed the distance between you, his gaze intense. “and?” he bit out. “and what? and i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, art. i don’t want to just be your friend, i never wanted that. it’s just, you make me feel all these things so strongly and it really is scary-”

 “you don’t think it’s scary for me? all my life, i’ve only been good at tennis, at shutting the fuck up and playing the game, and that was fine with me. i didn’t care about having a fucking girlfriend, didn’t need real friends, didn’t want to spend my time hearing someone else tell me their bullshit problems, nothing. i just played the fucking game, minded my business, if i needed to get off i’d fuck some randmon fan, i didn’t care. and then i saw you, and fuck, you’re just so pretty, and you looked so oblivious, so fucking sweet. i just had to have you. do you know how that felt? all my fucking thoughts, everything, just you. i waited, i was so good and i waited but then i had you, right on the tips of my fucking fingers i had you. then you look me in my face and tell me we’re just friends? fuck that, i’m not your fucking friend. i have sat by and been patient and i’ve kept it to myself but i won’t wait anymore, i won’t fucking do it. i need you, goddamn it, i think about it all the fucking time,” 

before you could say anything, he tilted your jaw up to face him roughly, crashing his lips into yours. you were taken back by the force, your feet stumbling slightly, but his hand on your low back righted your posture. the kiss was rough, teeth clashing and his tongue searching desperately for yours. you moaned into the kiss as he sank his teeth into your bottom lip, the taste of your blood filling both of your mouths. he pulled away, his bloody lips kissing down your neck, biting roughly as you just gasped above him. his hand held your jaw still, his thumb digging into your pulse point, choking you slightly. “you don’t know how long i’ve waited for this,” he growled, kissing back up to the shell of your ear. he raked his teeth over the sensitive skin, his breath echoing in your eardrum, “wanted to fucking bruise you and bite you and make you cry for me.” he pulled away from you suddenly, pulling you over to the edge of the court, right against the fence. “art, wait,” you protested weakly, your hands coming to his chest.

“i’m done fucking waiting,” he snarled, his hands roughly grabbing your ass, “not gonna wait anymore. gonna make you all mine, see if you ever try that friends shit again. if you don’t want this, you tell me to stop,” his fingers came between your thighs, pressing into your cunt through your dress, “but i don’t believe you want me to stop, i can feel you through your slutty little dress.” you moaned as his fingers curled against you, grinding your hips into his hand desperately. he turned you around suddenly, your face pressed against the chain link of the fence. the cold air surprised you as he flipped the skirt of your dress over your ass, yanking your panties to the side. “we can’t do this here,” you protested, trying to straighten out your back, “someone will see.” “why do you think i always bring you here, baby? nobody’s gonna see a fucking thing,” he said, his tone smug, “nobody’s gonna hear you moaning under me, hear you cumming on my cock. we’re all alone out here.” 

you gasped loudly as he kneeled beneath you, his tongue sliding between the folds of your pussy. your legs immediately began to shake, your knees nearly buckling. his tongue slid inside of you, fucking you with the tip of it as his fingers came around to rub at your clit. “art, fuck, please,” you moaned, grinding against his face roughly. he pulled away, his fingers continuing their motions, “please what? you want me to fuck you against this fence like the fucking whore you are, hm? is that you want?” when you just moaned in response, his free hand smacked your ass roughly, digging his nails into the sensitive skin, “fucking answer me.” “yes, please, want you to fuck me so bad, i’m sorry just please,” you begged, your voice nearly breaking into a sob. he was behind you in an instant, his clothed hips rubbing against you, his breath on your neck. “gonna fuck you so hard, you’re gonna forget why you ever told me we’re just friends,” he said, biting down on your neck roughly. you knew you’d have marks the next day, could feel blood bubbling to the surface of your barely broken skin. 

his joggers came down, and your breath hissed as he teased your entrance, rubbing his cock between your folds teasingly. “tell me again you want me to fuck you,” he spat, gripping your hip with one hand. “need you to fuck me, art, please,” you pleaded, trying your hardest to rub your hips against him, gain some friction. without warning, he slid into you, both hands on your hips roughly now. “fuck, oh my god,” you all but screamed, hands clinging to the chain link desperately. he fucked into you at a vicious pace, one hand on your hip, one underneath your stomach holding up. “you look so fucking pretty taking my cock,” he groaned, leaning over to you to press hasty kisses down your back, “feel so fucking good,” “feels so good, thank you,” you moaned, near tears from the intense pleasure. “thought about this for so long, you have no idea what i’ve done, what i’ll do to you if you ever try to leave me,” he growled, his thrusts getting even rougher. his balls slapped against your clit, the added stimulation sending you even closer to the edge. “want you to cum on my dick and fucking suck it off,” he moaned,  and you could tell from the stutter of his hips he was close too. he changed his position, fucking into you faster, and you nearly screamed at the new sensation. “art, gonna cum, fuck,” you moaned out, your walls constricting around him tightly. his hand came down to your clit, rubbing harshly, desperately, and you let go. 

your orgasm hit you roughly, crying out and your knees giving way completely. he fucked you through it, holding back his own orgasm until he was sure you were through. when the spasms around him slowed, he pulled out of you roughly, forcing you to your knees in front of him. “open your fucking mouth,” he moaned, holding your jaw tightly. you opened for him, sticking your tongue out as far as you could manage, and he slid his cock into your mouth, groaning loudly as he did. you could’ve cum again just from the taste of you and him, all mixed together, a filthy reminder of what you’d just done. he fucked into your mouth roughly, hands holding your ponytail tightly. “gonna cum down your throat,” he moaned, his hips stuttering once again, “so fucking close, you’re doing so good,” as soon as you cast your eyes up to make contact with his beautiful blue ones, he lost it. he came straight down your throat, hips bucking wildly and profanities flying from his mouth. you swallowed as it came, and his hips slowed eventually, until he pulled out of your mouth entirely. “did so fucking good,” he panted, pulling you to your feet, “kiss me,” and you did, your mouth still tasting of his cum. he groaned into the kiss, his hand going to your hair once again. 

you pulled away to catch your breath, leaning your forehead against his chin. “that was so good, baby. are you okay?” he asked you, his voice softer than you’d heard it in days. you nodded, still catching your breath, and he tilted your chin up to face him. “don’t ever do that again, okay? don’t want you to ever question what we have. you’re all mine, and i’m all yours, and nothing else matters, yeah? isn’t that right?” “mhm, you’re right. i’m sorry again, art, didn’t mean it,” you said, resigned to anything but him in this moment. “it’s alright now, baby. you know better now,” 

he had you right where he wanted you.

[tinytennisskirt]

𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭'𝐬 m𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

MINORS DNI w/ RED HEART FICS ALMOST ALL FICS CONTAIN SUGGESTIVE CONTENT thank youuuu

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬:

𝐀𝐫𝐭 𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐧:

The Card and The Heart (x ZweigTwin!Reader) ♡

A Chaotic Reunion Pt1 (childhood bestfriend art! x reader- reuniting and rekindling)

A Chaotic Reunion Pt2 (childhood bestfriend art! x reader- rekindling and new romance)

Rumours (x fem!reader- miscommunication trope)

More Than Anything (childhood bestfriend art! x reader- slowburn? angsty? fluffy romantic ending)

Cottage Culture (childhood bestfriend art! x reader - ft. patrick, slowburn, close friends, cottage getaway, fluff)

Good Luck Charm (x gf!reader- sad to fluff, proposal)

Kisses (x gf!reader- hurt/comfort)

The Motions (x girlfriend/wife!reader- wedding, honeymoon, pregnancy) ♡

A Slippery Slope (x exgirlfriend!reader- apologies, rekindling, hurt/comfort if you squint)

Fresh Laundry and Other Things (x reader- flirting, fluff, laundry and coffee and music)

The Couch (x pregnantwife!reader- fluff, a little smut, pregnancy) ♡

Small Victories (x tennisplayer!reader- fluff, angst, recovery and slowburn friends to lovers)

Never (art x girlfriend!reader- breakup, angst, bittersweet)

Kiss Me (art x bestfriend!reader- fake dating trope with a twist, slowburn, super sweet)

Let It Linger (dual timeline- MRTA! art x bestfriend! reader / post divorce! art x estranged best friend reader- pining, yearning, slowburn)

From Pain To Promise (x bestfriend!reader- pining, yearning, angst, MAJOR TW, happy ending)

Wounds and Words (x bestfriend!reader- pining, taking care of wounds, drunk confession)

Chrysalism (x fiancée!reader- rainy day, shower sex, domestic love) ♡

No Consequences (x bestfriend!reader- stoned sex) ♡

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐙𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠:

Hall Pass (x Art'sGirlfriend!Reader) ♡

Angel Pt1 (x singlemom!reader - slowburn/age gap)

Angel Pt2 (x singlemom!reader - slowburn/age gap/tension and wanting)

Angel Pt3 (x singlemom!reader - slow burn, age gap) ♡

Rematch (ex-situationship!reader- enemies to lovers, smut)♡

Tease (x fem!reader- tease, hidden fluff, friends to lovers) ♡

Patrick and His Pattern (x girlfriend!reader- angst, mean!patrick, breakup) ♡

Sweetheart (x babysitter!reader- age gap, girl dad! patrick, smut) ♡

Those Three Words (friend turned lover! reader x player turned loverboy! patrick- fun, sweet, am ‘i love you’ confession, and hurt/comfort)

Sweet Tooth (x bakery owner! reader- post-canon player turned bf! patrick, flirting, the motions, falling in love, fluff)

Toast To Nothing (x girlfriend! reader- meeting his parents, smut!) ♡

𝐁𝐨𝐭𝐡:

The Gymnast (x gymnast!reader- tension, threesome, smut!) ♡

𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬:

- patrick taking your virginity (blurb) ♡

- best friend!patrick who is totally not in love with you (headcanons with a plot)

- boyfriend!art who knows you like the back of his hand (headcanons)

- art giving you a tummy bulgeee (requested blurb) ♡

- you, art and pat singing some trashy song in the car (headcanon)

- Q: who is more likely to develop a crush for stupid reasons?

- Mark Rebellato Era headcanons

- vampire boyfriend! art (headcanons with a plot) ♡

- meet the donaldsons (almost-fic blurb)

- telling fwb! patrick zweig that you’re pregnant.

[diaryofaprettyprincess]

cute home videos with obsessed!mushy!art who films his little girlfriend in the morning in just her cute little bunny panties as she snoozes away n art records her on his camcorder—a loving smile plastered across his face as she cuddles closer to her stuffie he got her—a little bunny rabbit because you’re his sweet little bunny baby :((( the sheets are pulled down to her calves-messily thrown about the bed as he records her from his seat on the bed. He films her and studies her. Watches the way her nose twitches slightly and the way she whines a little when the golden sun that filters through the white curtains shines on her face. She shifts slightly and art runs his hand down her arm as she turns a bit, her breasts pressed against her arms until she shifts again, her pebbled nipples showing in the camera. Art whispers from behind the camera as he smooths over her body, massaging her gently as she stirs. “So beautiful.” He pulls the camera to the side to lean down and press a soft and tender kiss to her cheek, peppering light kisses until he reaches her soft lips. :,((( <333 I CANT!!! He’ll sit back up and bring her hand to his lips as he kisses your palm and you giggle cuz it tickles and he just watches you completely entranced as he whispers how much he loves you. <3333

[icarusfaiis]

only challengers tumblr would be able to truly understand the depth of this tactic by my bf to get me to keep pushing through

[tiethenott]

I fucking love challengers

[virtie333]

Trick or treat ✨🎃

Thank you, Lorena! (I had another ask when I logged on. Guess what it was?)

Anyway, here's a short bit from Monday's chapter of Ask For the Moon (which is nearing 100 kudos!!!!!).

She looked over at him, only to see him standing wide-eyed, his hands in front of him, playing with his fingers. He swallowed. “You’re Marc’s wife,” he said breathily. “You love him. He loves you. Oh, so much.”

[jess248]

art donaldson my cutesy little angel 🩷🩷

spent an hour making a cutesy little art donaldson collage 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ which means 1 picture of art and a million other pink colored elements

[castiwls]

my world - a.d

Paring; dad!art x mum!reader

Requested; anon

Synopsis; domestic mornings were all he'd ever dreamed off

Warnings; none

Notes;he is the definition of a girl dad. Also kinda canon diverent I guess I never named the daughter so you can pretend its his daughter from the film if u want :) reqs and inbox are open !

Masterlist

The feeling of a weight landing on your chest woke you from your sleep. A small giggle broke through the silence of the room and you felt a smile grow on your lips as the sound reached your ears.

“What do you think you're doing?” Art grinned reaching over to hook an arm around the toddler's waist. Another giggle erupted from her as he pulled her over to his chest. “I’m hungry.” She nestled her face into her father's neck as he ran a hand gently up and down her back. 

“You're hungry?” He repeated watching as she raised her head with an enthusiastic nod. “Pancakes.” She grinned.

“You had pancakes yesterday missy.” You turned to face the two, pushing yourself up on your elbow. Your daughter smiled picking absently mindedly at Art’s top.

Your husband turned his head to look at you, a tired smile on his face. “But you can never have enough pancakes.” He joked using his free arm to pull you closer.

You hummed softly leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips before laying your head against his shoulder. Art settled further into the pillows, a content smile growing on his lips as he watched you go back and forth with your daughter for a moment. 

After a moment you turned your attention to him leaning in and using a hand to cover your mouth. “What do you think.” Your eyes darted to the little girl who grinned bouncing slightly on his chest. 

Art huffed slightly using the hand which had previously been rubbing her back to stop her from bouncing. “Does she get pancakes?” 

Art hummed pretending to think for a moment. “I don’t know.” He grinned pressing his lips to your cheek for a moment. “Only kids who clean up their toys get pancakes.”

A small gasp left the child on his chest before she scrambled off the bed running off to her own room. “Smart.” You grinned as he turned on his side, now fully facing you. 

You both knew her room would most likely be a mess of toys and blankets after she’d begged Art to build her a fort last night so she and her teddys could have a sleepover and part of you was dreading going anywhere near her room.

“Someone had to clean it.” Art pressed his lips to yours for a moment. “Plus now we have at least 10 more minutes.” He brushed his nose against yours before capturing your lips again. 

This was all he’d ever wanted in life. Sure he loved tennis but he loved this so much more. A small sigh left your lips as you felt him move to press kisses along your jawline. With a gentle push to your shoulder, you rolled onto your back and Art was quick to fill the space between your legs.

After a moment he pulled back before laying his head on your chest. Art stared up at you, his eyes softening with adoration as you gently racked a hand through his hair.

“I love you.” He whispered turning his head to press a kiss to your arm, he let his lips linger for a moment before pressing another kiss and laying his head back. 

“I love you more.” You smiled watching as he shook his head. “That’s impossible.”

[andwordsarefutiledevicess]

press relations

stanford!artdonaldson x sportsjournalist!reader

summary: assigned to write a profile of stanford's rising tennis star, you get to know art better. much better.

warnings: smut, dry humping, b0ner alert, implied consent

a/n: this does have a *hint* of art x patrick x reader undertones at the end! any (constructive) feedback is appreciated :)

you get the message as you exit the lecture hall and head to the cafeteria for lunch. “other writers are busy. can you take the art donaldson profile?” reads the text from your editor. having written for the stanford daily as a sports reporter for the past year, you’re no stranger to turning a dull interview with a rather dim-witted football player into an oh-so-riveting piece. however, this is out of your comfort zone.

tennis is…boring. sure, you’d happily tagged along to a couple of tashi duncan’s matches, unwilling to pass up the opportunity to see an olympic-bound athlete in her prime, but it isn’t your ideal way to spend a saturday afternoon. 

and yet, that is exactly what you are doing. the donaldson interview is lined up for directly after his match with a ucla player. “he’s got a tight schedule, so we need to accommodate him,” said your editor when you questioned why you had to sit through a match and then manage to cram in an interview in the men’s fucking lockerroom. 

art donaldson is a year above you, living in the same dorm. you recognize most athletes at this point—in part because they’re constantly (obnoxiously) sporting team merch, and because of your job—but art is known by most for his friendship with tashi duncan. neither are particularly social, keeping their circle tight amongst fellow tennis players, both at stanford and professionals. 

it’s difficult not to stick out in the bleachers. while other players, including a brown-haired boy cheering quite loudly, observe the game, it’s by no means packed. as donaldson pauses for water after the first set, he catches your gaze, giving an awkward wave in acknowledgement as he wipes the sweat from his face. you silently pray that he knows you’re the reporter he’s supposed to speak to, and doesn’t just think you’re some crazed tashi duncan fangirl. 

his playing is statuesque, long limbs sweeping across the court (but not entirely stripped of the boyish energy that defined his success as a high school student). after beating his opponent 2-0, donaldson steps off the court, dramatically embraced by the brown-haired spectator, who you have since realized is his former doubles partner, patrick zweig, and you take this as a signal to get this interview started before he becomes swept up in celebrations. 

climbing down the bleachers, you see art duck down into the hallway, making his way into the locker rooms. in all your time as a sports reporter, you hadn’t had such an…unconventional… interview location, and you feel a bit sick as the sound of the shower draws closer. 

“art donaldson?” you say, standing just outside the open door of the locker room. 

“yeah” he calls back, as though he was expecting you, but not entirely welcoming the intrusion. the shower turns off, and the soft sound of his steps on the tiles echo. “well, come in,” he calls again. 

you step into the steam-filled space with your eyes directed down. “i understand you have physical therapy shortly, so i’ll try to keep this quick—,” you say, taken aback as you finally draw your eyes upward. he’s managed to pull on a pair of checkered boxers, fabric sticking to his still-damp body. 

you can’t imagine you look particularly composed, hair sticking to your face from the steam with a burning blush spread across your cheeks. you watch as art bites his cheek and awkwardly motions for you to sit on the bench across from him as he methodically changes the overgrip on his racket. 

“so,” you say, clearing your throat, “how did you first become interested in tennis?” he glances up from his task. “my parents needed someone to watch me, and my grandma was busy, so they stuck me in a local tennis camp. i doubt they realized that they were signing up for over a decade of tennis running my—and their—lives.”

you hum in agreement. “and what specific areas of your game are you hoping to improve on this season?” you follow up. his gaze becomes more intent—more focused. setting the racket to his side, art stands, before quickly realizing he’s still only boxer-clad. you stare at the opposite wall, hoping to save him the embarrassment, and you see him fumble to slip on shorts out of the corner of your eye. he clears his throat. “ – um – yeah, i’m trying to get faster on my feet. sorry, i—” he says, before you cut him off in protest. “no, no, i should have given you a moment to clean up after your match, it’s my fault,” you say, rising off of the bench awkwardly, avoiding his gaze. 

but with the lingering steam, and your downward gaze, your fumble to exit the locker room instead lands you into direct contact with his chest. “shit! sorry,” you exclaim, drawing your chin up. a wash of heat cascades from your head, nipples taut, despite the warmth of the room, as your body reacts to the sudden proximity. art is equally flushed, pink lips slightly parted and chest rocking as he concentrates on breathing deeply, trying to lower his racing heart. you can smell him, fresh with a hint of that post-game sweat, a droplet of water falling from a blonde curl. 

he brings a calloused hand to your hair, brushing it behind your shoulder, as if to ask permission. the slight nod and glaze of your tongue over your lips is enough for him to understand, his breath heavy against your face as your noses are close enough to touch. that final centimeter is finally closed, and it’s as though air rushes back into you while inhibition is tossed out. without thinking, your hair tangles into his mess of damp hair, and you feel his soft moan against your lips. you gasp as his hand grabs your ass, drawing you into contact with his erection (for how much of that interview was he hard?). 

“you—ah—you have physical th-therapy,” you say, breathless as he works his mouth down your jaw and neck. “just…five more minutes,” he says in between kisses, like a teenager wishing to sleep in, causing you to chuckle. bringing your left knee up, your hips are suddenly flush against his, and the new contact sends you both reeling, his cock twitching in his shorts. you tentatively rock, again, against his groin, and you both seem to realize that that hit the spot. pushing your back against a locker, art draws his groin against yours again, and again, his soft pants becoming near whimpers as your lips meet for a desperate, sloppy kiss. 

you’re lost in the rhythm the two of you have found, ignoring the rattle of the lockers with each thrust. fuck you’re embarrassingly close (that’s what a two month dry spell will do for you) but before you have to worry about coming too early, you hear his strangled voice in your ear. “ – f-fuck, s-sorry i’m close, was so pent up.” before you’re able to reply, your body has taken this as permission to let the orgasm wash over you at last. still reeling from your own orgasm, you feel the warm spread of art’s cum seep through the thin fabric of his shorts, as he continues to rut against you. 

bringing your arms up to hurriedly fix your now-tangled hair, you draw away from art. a fresh blush comes to your cheeks at the realization of how silly you feel, grinding like a pubescent teen. art seems tired, yes, but not embarrassed, slipping off his pants and boxers and replacing them with clean ones. before he’s got his wits back, you’re out the door, praying no one managed to overhear the encounter. to your dismay, patrick zweig, smug as ever, sits outside the locker room.

[matchpointfaist]

twilight - art donaldson

;; tashi always had everything, including art. 

cw; infidelity, emotional abuse, sexual content, lots of angst, mentions of suicide, injury, tashi is evil hehe

word count; 9.1k

stanford, 2007    -

“did patrick tell you he’s coming to my match next week?” 

your voice pulled art out of his thoughts, bringing him back to your lunch together. 

it had been this way for weeks now. same exact spot, same conversation, but nothing ever changes. art still found himself waiting, searching desperately for a change, just a slight break in the usual conversation, the usual emotions. the same jealousy rose within him at your every mention of patrick zweig. the two of them had been inseparable since childhood, though an invisible string of competition had always run through their friendship. competition over girls, over tennis, over grades. 

girls had always favored patrick, with his cocky grins and unpredictable attitude. art wondered, bitterly, if he’d ever manage to make it out of patrick’s shadow. when they met you, six months prior, the shadow swallowed art whole, all your light shining on patrick. a bitter reminder of all the pent up resentment art had formed over the decade.

art brings himself back to the present, sighing at your question. he feels the pathetic, yearning look in his eyes as he focuses on you once again, feels how sad he must look. if the sports commentators could see him now; art donaldson, stanford star, crying over his best friend’s girlfriend. “no, he didn’t, but that’s great,” he says unenthusiastically, “i’m kinda surprised you two are still seeing each other,” he regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth, biting his lip forcefully. guilt bubbles in his stomach, but he forces it down, as always. relationships are like tennis, at times, he reminds himself. and art always plays to win. 

your brows furrow, your posture straightening defensively, “why are you surprised? i thought you’d be happy for us, art,” he almost laughs, but stops himself, picturing the hurt on your face if he did. he pauses, feeling like he’s backed himself into a corner, and finally says, “you know i want you to be happy,” “and what about patrick?” you ask, surprised at his hesitation to include his best friend. 

“patrick’s happy, i guess,” art says spitefully, hoping you can’t detect it in his voice, “he’s on tour, traveling the world, playing tennis, all things he loves. what more could he want?” “and he has me,” you say, hurt lacing your words at his lack of acknowledgement. the words strike him as if you had reached across the table and slapped him. 

“yeah, he has you,” he says, the bitterness impossible to ignore now, “i couldn’t forget that,” “art, what is going on with you?” you ask, leaning further towards him. he just stares blankly at you, unsure of how to even start. he flinches as you place your hand on his across the table, his heart rate increasing pathetically. your gentle, heartfelt touch snaps something inside of him. 

“you really want to know what’s wrong?” he asks, and you flinch in return at the harshness of his tone. “please,” “i’m jealous of patrick, okay? you got me, found out my big secret,” he snaps, taking an unsteady breath. his eye twitches as he looks at your hand laying over his, resentment like acid on his tongue. “jealous?” you ask, confusion lacing your voice, “of his touring? i thought you didn’t want to go pro until after school,” art scoffs, shaking his head, “i’m not jealous of the touring and you know that, come on,""of what then? i don’t get it,” you tell him, desperate to understand what’s bothering him.

“he has something i want, it’s nothing new,” he says, fighting to keep his voice calm, “i’ll grow up and get over it, you don’t have to worry about it,” “something you want?” you’re even more confused now, “what, art? you play, too, arguably better than he does. you have money, you have excellent grades, your girlfriend is fucking tashi duncan,” he can’t tell if he imagines the poision in your tone as you spit out her name. “yeah, i have all of that, so i’ll be fine,” he says, his breathing growing more erratic. “what is it, then? really, i just want to understand. i promise you i won’t tell patrick,” you assure him, your tone low. he studies your face, accepting this could be the last time he has you like this, all to himself. 

“it’s you, okay? it’s you, it’s been you,” he pushes up from the table, not sure if he’ll be able to control himself when he sees your reaction, whatever it may be, “and i’m so, so deeply sorry to tell you that. you have no idea how sorry i am,” your eyebrows pull together, your head clouded, “art, wait, sit down. you cannot be serious,” “i can’t sit here and listen to you tell me it’s a horrible thing to do, or i’m a horrible friend, or you don’t feel the same. i won’t subject myself to it. please, please don’t tell patrick,” he says, his jaw set, “he’d never look at me the same, and i can’t lose you both,” 

he stalks out of the dining hall, and you follow him like a lost puppy, trying your very best to hold in tears. “art, stop,” you plead, catching up to him just outside, “does tashi know this?” he scoffs, looking at you like you’re completely insane, “absolutely not. tashi would ruin my fucking career,” he laughs sadly, “there’s nothing to come of it, so i’m keeping my mouth shut,” “how long has it been?” you ask softly. “jesus, now you want details,” he says, rubbing his eyes, “it’s been six months,” he says, cringing at how pathetic he knows he sounds. “art, it’s been six months since we met,” “yeah, i know, alright? i might as well get it all out now. i knew when i saw you, i just could tell, you’re so,” he makes a sound like he’s being strangled quietly, “patrick wanted you, alright? he’s my best friend,” your chest tightens as his voice breaks, guilt and regret welling up into tears in your eyes. 

“i wish you’d told me,” you said softly, “i really, really wish i’d known,” “it wouldn’t have changed anything. you’re with patrick, i’m with tashi, i’ll grow out of it,” he insists, disregarding the pain obvious in his voice. “i won’t,” you all but whisper. “won’t what?” he asks, eyes finally meeting yours. “i won’t grow out of it, art,” you tell him, heart breaking all over again as his eyes open wider. “what are you saying?” he says, his voice suddenly hoarse, “please, i can’t do this if you’re not serious,” “if you’d told me, i would have turned him down,” you admit, shame burning in your stomach, “you were always so set on tashi, i thought,” “i only asked tashi out because i couldn’t handle seeing patrick parading you around anymore,” he sighs, “i don’t love her, i respect her so much as a tennis player, as a friend, but i have never been in love with tashi,” 

“we can’t talk about this here,” you say, only now taking the time to notice the hoard of fellow students walking past you, “come to my room?” he glances at his watch, running his hands through his hair roughly when he sees the time, “i have training in fifteen minutes. tonight?” you nod, hope filling your thoughts, “tonight.” he hugs you tightly, hoping it appears as a friendly gesture to anyone around you, and you nearly sob as you feel his tears in your hair. “we’ll sort it all out tonight,” 

you waited for hours for art to show up, to make it all alright. by midnight, you’d given up, a hollow sort of pain forming in your chest at the realization that he probably regretted his admission. patrick would be arriving for your match in eight hours, and all you could do was cry over his best friend. you thought about texting him, asking if he just got caught up at practice, asking why he didn’t come to you. the fear of tashi seeing the message, of thinking you’d arranged something to hurt her, of her telling patrick and ruining their friendship, stopped you in your tracks. you were asleep by two am, and art’s knock on your door never came. 

the next day, you woke up to patrick’s rough knock on your door, disturbing you from your restless sleep. “coming,” you called, willing yourself not to cry at the sight of him, and opened the door slowly. he stood there, goofy grin on his face, duffel bag in his hand. “good morning, sleepyhead,” he said teasingly, entering your dorm, “guess who i saw this morning,” you rubbed your eyes, caught off guard by his sudden energy, “who?” “art! it was so funny, i pulled into the visitors lot and he was there, running laps,” your heart contracted, and you forced a casual smile onto your face, laughing halfheartedly, “you know how art likes to condition,” you just prayed it sounded natural. 

you prepared for your match, averting your eyes when you passed tashi on her walk to the men's locker room, undoubtedly to coach art on his game. ever since her injury, she was intensive in her treatment of him. she spent thirty minutes before the match hyping him up, reviewing strategy, scolding him. if he lost the match, he was met with hours of cold shoulders, berating, and complete neglect of his exhaustion. if he won, he was allowed a short reprieve, only to be met with reviewing what he could have hypothetically done better. you pitied him endlessly. 

you sat in the locker room for the entirety of the men’s matches, desperately trying to avoid art. when your set started, you stupidly looked into the crowd, hoping for your normal routine of waving to art, tashi, and patrick. you were met with an intense, judgemental stare from tashi, a brief thumbs up from patrick, and an earth shattering, pitiful gaze from art. you lost your first match of the season. 

after your match, you avoided them at all costs. you headed straight to the locker room, taking your time showering off and redressing, gathering all your things. after half an hour, tashi enters the room, stopping your breath instantly. “patrick sent me to see what was taking so long,” she says, and you’re taken back, like always, at the smooth confidence of her voice. “just taking my time getting everything together since i don’t have anymore matches this week,” you lie easily, swinging your bag over your shoulder, “i’ll be out in five,” she nods, starting out of the room, before turning back to eye you. “not everything is a game,” she says, her voice tighter than you’ve ever heard it. “i’m sorry?” you say, face flushed completely. she just shakes her head and leaves you alone with your thoughts.

you silently pray art and tashi have left, that you’ll only find patrick left in the stands when you exit the locker room, nearly sighing in relief when your prayers are answered. patrick sits alone, observing the next match that’s gone on, smiling as he sees you. “good match,” he praises, but you know it’s a total lie. “yeah, not good enough to win it,” you say bitterly, avoiding his hands when he reaches for you. “still, you played well. first lose of the season, i’ll take it,” he smiles, and your heart aches at his support, knowing you were confessing your love for art only one day prior. 

“art and tash are meeting us off campus for dinner,” he tells you. you stop in your tracks, turning to look at him with wide eyes, “patrick, i really don’t feel up to it,” he rolls his eyes, throwing his arm over your shoulder, “you’ll be fine, you’re just feeling bad because you lost. i’m only in town tonight, i’d like to see my friends and my girlfriend,” his use of the term makes you cringe, but you just nod, accepting it. 

your entire afternoon leading up to the dinner is spent filled with anxiety, trying to dodge patrick’s attempts at affection, and desperately trying to figure out what you’ll even say to art. at six pm, patrick tells you to hurry and get ready, irritating you even further. you put on a simple black dress, more concerned for your facial expressions than your outfit, and agree to meet the other couple at art’s car. 

patrick, almost immediately upon getting into the car, enters an irritatingly fast paced conversation with tashi about strategy, leaving you to sit awkwardly listening to their debate. it was like this, most times, when they really got going about tennis. it wasn’t that patrick was particularly passionate about strategy or rules, you swore he just enjoyed riling her up, and she enjoyed yelling at him without fear of having to deal with his emotions. it worked out perfectly, almost like they were the ones made for each other. 

at dinner, you try not to snap as art pulls out tashi’s chair, the perfect, sweet boyfriend. he sits across from you, avoiding your eyes, and tashi casts sideways glances at you, confusing you further. had you imagined it all? had art never announced his love for you, never promised to come to your room, to fix it all? you tell yourself you must have, the blatant lie easier to admit than the glaring truth. “baby, i was telling tash that i’m gonna be touring again next year,” patrick’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, “and i was wondering if she’d coach me. that’s what this dinner was for, honestly,” you pause, turning towards him, “tashi coach you on tour? where did that come from?” you were genuinely shocked, neither of them had ever mentioned anything about this. 

“we’ve been texting about it,” she replied for him, fixing her cool eyes on you, “it would be a good move for patrick’s career. i’ll be taking over as his travel coach, effective in two months,” you subconsciously look at art, wondering how he’s taking this, only to find his gaze fixed on patrick, betrayal evident in his eyes. “pat, you said you were taking a break from touring,” you said, turning back to your boyfriend, “what happened to that?” “tash thinks it’s best for my career if i keep the momentum up, people lose interest if you take a year off,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “well art, are you excited to tour?” you ask, braving the dreaded moment of speaking to him directly. he looks up, startled, “i’m not touring, what do you mean?” “i figured since your girlfriend was going with patrick, you’d just leave school. wasn’t the plan always to go pro after college, anyway?” 

for the second time that night, tashi answered for the boys, almost challenging you with her glare, “art’s not ready to go pro. his footing needs work, as well as his serve. he’s winning against college kids, but that doesn’t mean anything in the real world,” “the real world? i’m sorry, tashi, did art not win the junior US open, same as patrick?”  you snap, feeling your face get hot. “patrick is showing more promise than art at this time,” she said, her calm, condescending tone furthering your anger. “last i checked, art’s stats are more consistent than patrick’s. you push art to his limits, and then punish him when he doesn’t perform,” “i don’t want to hear this shit from someone losing matches to a fucking freshman,” she seethes. “oh, whatever, tashi. i lost one fucking match. sorry we can’t all be the duncinator,” you scoff, standing from your chair with shaky legs, “fuck this, i’m calling a cab back to campus. patrick, i’ll put your bag in the hall,”

not one of them tries to stop you from leaving, no one chases you from the restaurant, no one even calls your name. your hands shake with anger as you dial a taxi, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk as you wait. your phone screen lights up, and your pulse rises even higher as art’s contact photo is displayed on the screen. “hello?” you answer, confused by his phone call. “i couldn’t come after you, i’m in the bathroom, i left them at the table,” he says quietly, his voice thin, “i didn’t know about the tour. i promise i would’ve told you,” “i waited for you all night,” you tell him weakly, trying to hold it together, “i don’t give a fuck about the tour, i don’t care what either of them do. i care about you, art, she’s so fucking mean to you,” “i’m so sorry i didn’t come. i can’t explain now, but i will, i promise. i have to go, please be safe,” and he hangs up before you could even say goodnight.

you’re restless when you get back to your dorm, too busy rolling over your brief phone call to sleep. 

it crossed your mind on the short taxi ride home that maybe there was something more going on with patrick and tashi, besides coaching. you wished, bitterly, that they’d fall in love on the tour, leave you and art alone, right all the wrongs made by the four of you. that was never tashi’s style, though, to fall in love with anything but tennis. least of all a man she couldn’t control. 

in the back of your mind, you thought of the pain on art’s face when he heard the news, and your anger only burned hotter. ten years of friendship, and patrick still didn’t have the consideration to tell art anything. your ever present resentment for tashi only grew. the things you would do for art, the way you’d be so good to him, completely wasted on her. eventually, you slept, another restless night taking you. 

you woke to three texts from patrick, ‘i thought you were kidding about putting my bag in the hall. what the fuck, babe?’ then, ‘you didn’t have to freak out about the tour, honestly. tash knows what she’s doing, and it’s being wasted on art, you know that.’, and finally, ‘we should talk in the morning. tash thinks you’re a distraction, with you acting like this about my career and all. just call me’. 

you seethe, almost laughing at the irony of the situation. surely she sees how ridiculous it is, to need to have this hold on both of them. ‘nothing to talk about, then. if your “coach” thinks i’m a distraction, you should probably get rid of me, yeah? she’ll make you do it eventually, anyway, when she gets bored of art completely. have fun on tour, zweig.’ you hit send before you can talk yourself out of it, before you find out that he extended his trip, that he’s downstairs in the dining hall reading your texts to art. 

you went downstairs, skipping breakfast and going straight for the court, your appetite diminished by your anger. it was seven am, and thankfully you had the court to yourself, serving practice shots into the fence in an attempt to channel your still climbing emotions. you thought again of art’s face, his stricken expression, of tashi’s calm, methodological expression. the taut wire in your mind snapped, and you threw your racket down roughly, nearly screaming with frustration. you sat there, sunk to your knees, your thought too loud to hear footsteps approaching on the pavement. 

“if you’d channel that into your game, you wouldn’t lose again,” tashi’s voice cut through the breeze, and you snapped your eyes up to meet hers. “what the fuck are you doing here, tashi? last night wasn’t enough?” “jesus, you’re dramatic. i saw you hitting to the fence, i brought my racket so i could get in some practice since you’re already down here. hate me too much to serve to me?” a terrible thought crossed your mind, the secret joy you’d get from serving to her when last you checked, she couldn’t even go after the ball, “sure, i’ll serve,” 

as it turns out, tashi had healed up much better than she was letting on. she was able to keep up with most of your swings, grunting quietly when she put too much weight on her leg, but keeping up nonetheless. it only fueled your anger, seeing her persevere like this, just to prove a point. you let your anger get the best of you, swinging particularly hard, subconsciously aiming for her knee, but she somehow managed to deflect it, hurling the ball back to you. you jumped for it, desperate to win now, so caught up in your intensity that your footing faltered. for the first time in your tennis career, you tripped over your own feet, falling from your jump directly onto your right wrist. 

you hit the ground with a startling snap, immediately screaming, feeling the delicate bones give way to the weight of your fall. you hear yourself screaming like it’s through someone else’s ears, not recognizing the carnal agony coming from your chest. “tashi,” you gasp, “please call someone, it’s broken,” you force your eyes open from their squeezed shut position, your vision spotty from pain, just to see her smug face, standing right over you. she smirks, even as she calls for the campus medic, even as you sob. 

she squats down, kneeling by your head, stroking your hair soothingly. her tone is cloyingly sweet, and she leans ever closer, “i saw you aim for my fucking leg. i told you, not everything’s a game,” she strokes your arm, her smirk widening slightly, “you can have art. i’ll be nice, since your career’s over,” in one quick, fluid motion, she presses all of her weight onto your broken wrist, pushing herself into a standing position. a guttural scream tears its way from your throat and your vision gets almost entirely white, “tashi, please,” you sob. she cuts you off, “the medics will be here in just a minute. get yourself together, you know how spectators like to flock when they see commotion,” 

you lay on the cold court, sobs racking your body as the emt asks you what happened, as they help you stand, as they slide you into a wheelchair, pushing you to the medical building. you think of the look in tashi’s eyes, in the pure hatred on her face. you cry for what she must have felt like when she suffered her own injury, for the loss of her career, her passion. you nearly scream for the loss of your own, your life’s work, over in one stumble. you’d never be able to play with your left hand, far too late in your life to teach yourself to be ambidextrous. you can do nothing but brace yourself for the x-rays, for the final say on your recovery time. 

the doctor on staff gives you a mild sedative to keep you calm, and soon you find yourself dozing off on the table as you wait for them to return with your imaging. a doctor comes in after a long, dragging hour, smiling softly at you. 

you stare at the manila folder he holds, almost laughing at this stranger holding your fate in his hands. “are you gonna tell me there’s good news and bad news?” you joke dryly, your throat raw from your prior screams. “i’m afraid there’s not much good news here,” he tells you, his tone gentle, “you shattered your radius, ulna, and completely tore your dorsal ligaments. we’re sending you out for surgery within the hour, at palo alto regional medicine. they’ll place two rods for your radius and ulna, you’ll get stitched up, and you’ll have a stint and brace for, ideally, six months,” your face falls at his words, “then what?” “well, i can’t say for sure. after six months, you should be able to return to low motion, gentle activities, like writing and brushing your hair. after a year, most patients see roughly half of their previous dexterity,” “and my tennis?” he looks at you, his eyes full of pity, “the full recovery rate for an injury this severe is less than twenty percent. with the intense, repeated motion of your sport, i don’t see you being able to make a full return. it’s just a question of your range of motion at the time of your recovery, and how well the rods and pins set in your wrist. if you exacerbate it, you run a high risk of doing much more damage in the  long run,” 

you lean your head back against the wall, closing your eyes. you think of the feeling when you won your first game, a juniors match when you were only six. you think of your first tennis coach, of your first trophy, of your first loss. you think of tashi’s screams when she broke her leg, of your own when she further broke your wrist. you think of the first time you saw art and patrick, fire and ice, of the way they played, the way art came alive on the court. you think, finally, of the way you’ll never feel alive, in that way, again. 

the doctor’s voice pulls you from your reverie, “there’s people here to see you, just outside. would you like me to invite them in?” “who?” you ask, voice weak. “art donaldson and a patrick zweig,” you just nod in response, figuring now is as good a time as any. “you’ll make a great recovery,” the doctor tells you, heading for the door, “i’ll be back within the hour to help move you to the ambulance. it’s outpatient, so be sure to have someone ready to drive you home,” 

he opens the door, and you suck in a breath as you hear both the boys’ voices. you close your eyes once again, unable to look at them, to see the inevitable pity they must have all over their faces. art is the first to your side, and you flinch as he places his hand on your leg gently, “are you okay? tashi told patrick what happened, got here as soon as i heard but they wouldn’t let us in,” he rushes out, your heart clenching with every crack in his voice. “dude, obviously she’s not okay, she broke her fucking wrist,” patrick’s voice startles you, your eyes snapping open, all the anger from the previous night rushing back. “get out,” you bite, glaring at him. his eyes haze over with confusion, “me?” “yes, patrick, get out,” you repeat, your teeth gritting subconsciously, “i thought you were already gone.” 

“i stayed to say bye to art, and to go over some things with tashi,” your breath falters at her name, “patrick, get the fuck out,” “i just wanted to check on you-” “patrick, she said get the fuck out!” art yells, his face red, surprising the both of you. patrick throws his hands up defensively, shaking his head, “whatever, i don’t need this,” 

you sigh with relief when he walks out the door, your body relaxing as much as you can manage. “what did the doctor say?” art asked timidly, eyes focused sharply on your contorted wrist. you haven’t been able to look at it, to survey the damage for yourself, this entire time. “i won’t play again,” you tell him, eyes straight ahead, “they’ll take me in for outpatient surgery, i’ll have a stint and brace for six months. there’s less than a twenty percent chance of full recovery,” “i’m so sorry,” he whispers, his tone so soft it hurts, “what happened? i’ve never seen you fall,” 

your mind raced, the events replaying rapidly, “i lost my footing on a lunge, it was my fault. me and tashi were just hitting casually, and i just missed it somehow,” “you and tashi? she told me she was just walking by and saw you,” your eyes snap to him, eyebrows raised, “she said that?” “yeah, said she went for a walk this morning and heard you scream and saw you. she said you were in the court alone?” “huh. well, okay,” you laugh bitterly, “whatever she says, then,” “did she do this?” “no, she didn’t fucking do this,” you snap, guilt immediately burning in your chest, “i did it to myself, she just happened to be there.” he nods, flinching only slightly at your tone, and trains his gaze on your wrist once again. “did you look?” he asks quietly. 

your face burns, eyes welling with tears, “no, can’t make myself,” “you’re gonna have to look eventually,” he said,  the hand he’d placed on your leg rubbing small circular motions now, as if to soothe you. you nod, knowing realistically he’s right. “can you go over there? i can’t look in front of you,” you admit, humiliation burning in your stomach. “yeah, of course,” he nods, crossing the room quickly. 

you hold your breath as you force your eyes down to your wrist, gasping as you take in just how mangled it is. your bones are visible, jutting out under your thin skin, and the inside of your palm is completely raw and skinned from the impact of your fall. “oh my god,” you sob, your chest heaving. art rushes back to your side, concern ever present in his face, “what? is the medication wearing off? what is it?” “it’s so ugly,” you sob, your uninjured hand clinging to his shirt, “it’s over, art, i’m never gonna play again,” his hands come down to your hair, running his hands through it soothingly, “it’s gonna be okay, i promise, even if you don’t play again, you’ll be alright,” 

the weight of the last three days collapses onto you, art’s confession, patrick’s betrayal, tashi’s smirk. the sound of your wrist snapping replays in your ears, and you bury your head into art’s shirt, desperately searching for an escape. your entire body shakes with the forcefulness of your cries, and you will it to stop, feeling pathetic enough as it is. you remember the shame you felt when art didn’t show up, the feeling of waiting for him, and almost laugh at how much worse this is. 

you pull away from his chest, looking up at him and wiping your tears roughly, “you never came,” you manage to choke out. he cringes at the memory, his eyes going to the floor instead of resting on your own. “i couldn’t,” he said quietly, “tashi found out, one of her friends overheard us arguing, she said if i left her, embarrassed her, she’d ruin both of our careers. i feel like such an idiot now, my career doesn’t fucking matter, i should’ve let her. she says i won’t make it without her as my coach, anyway, so her stunt with patrick was her way of getting back at me regardless. i thought i could buy us more time, make her see that i wasn’t happy, that this was the right thing. she just had me so convinced, she said she’d coach someone to compete against you,” you laugh angrily, your breath heaving, “even if she did, it wouldn’t have ruined my career. she forgets i beat her when she was still competing. art, you should’ve told me, i don’t care about that shit. she was going to leave with patrick anyway,” “i didn’t know that,” he said desperately, “i didn’t know until that dinner, i had no idea or i would’ve-” you cut him off, pressing your lips to his in a moment of frenzied weakness. 

you can taste your own tears on his lips, salt and heat and his mint gum, and a choked sob leaves you even as you kiss him. the realization that you’ve wasted six months, spent six months in love with him, six months settling, six months afraid of tashi. he pulls away from you, eyebrows knit, cheeks red, “please don’t kiss me to get over him,” you flinch, rejection slapping you in the face, confusion following, “get over him? art, i’m not, there’s nothing to get over,” “you broke up with him, he told me,” he said, his eyes welling up with tears now. “i broke up with him because i’m fucking in love with you, art,” you sob, “please don’t do this, don’t turn me away,” his hands come to the side of your face, wiping your tears with the pad of his thumb as they fall, “i’m not turning you away, please don’t take it that way, i just need to be sure,” you press your lips to his again, rougher this time, trying desperately to make him understand. 

before he has the chance to pull away, the doctor re-enters the room, startling the two of you apart. “i’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, laughing briefly, “i’m just here to take you out to the ambulance, they’ll take you to the surgery center,” you nod, mentally preparing yourself as best you could. he looks to art, whose face is blushed fully, “you wanna ride with her? they’ll let one person in the back,” art looks at you, eyebrows raised. “i need someone to drive me home from the procedure,” you recall, “you might have to meet us there?” “i’ll call a taxi,” he said, shaking his head, “i’m not leaving you,” 

the doctor rolls you out to the ambulance, and you nearly cry again at the sight of it, at the hopelessness you feel. you sit in the back, art holding your good hand soothingly, the entire way to the surgical center. neither of you speak, except for art’s constant check ins, but you feel so much more soothed knowing he’s right here, that he didn’t leave. 

the surgery is fairly quick, the doctors expertly working to insert the rods and tightening the pins. you keep your eyes focused on a stain on the wall the entire time, trying your best to escape inside your mind, to anywhere but here. you think of how different everything would be now if you’d just told art how you felt, about your blossoming, childlike crush you’d developed, if you’d rejected patrick. you think again of tashi’s pain, of her devastating injury, of the parallels of your lives now. her words echo in your head, ‘not everything is a game.’ you wonder what she’s doing now, if she’s hearing her sobs echo through her head, too. you wonder, most of all, if she really believes you would’ve stolen art from her, if she really ever thought he was hers. 

when they finish the surgery, setting your brace and writing your pain prescription, they tell you to come back in six weeks for an exam. you agree warily, exhaustion overtaking you. art keeps his word, having a taxi ready when you’re discharged, and holds your good hand the entire way back to your dorm. he helps you get settled in bed, your eyes half lidded already, and his eyes linger on your lips. “the doctor said someone should stay with you tonight, make sure the medication doesn’t put you asleep too deeply or something like that,” he said, sitting at the edge of your bed, “do you want me to ask one of the girls on your hall or something?” you shake your head quickly, “can you stay?” his eyes soften, and he nods, “i’ll sleep on the floor. just wake me up if you need me, i’ll check on you every little while,” you agree meekly, too exhausted to argue that he could just sleep in your bed with you, and let yourself fall into sleep. 

you wake up with a gasp, your room pitch black, panic gripping you, heart pounding. art’s at your side within seconds, concern in his eyes, “are you hurt? what happened?” he whispers. “just a bad dream, i’m okay,” you tell him, calming down slowly, “can you maybe stay here? in my bed?”  his eyes soften and he nods, “i’ll be right here,” you fell back asleep to the sound of his breathing. 

you woke up several hours later, your heart dropping when you find art gone from your bed. you get up shakily, wrist aching, and search for your phone. you found it on your nightstand, with a text from art saying he went to get you breakfast and he’d be back as soon as he could. to pass time, you open your laptop, going to the stanford news page from habit. the first article is about your fall, and your heart dropped. ‘record breaking sophomore out indefinitely following major wrist injury’. tears pricked your eyes, and you scrolled on, your cheeks heating when you see an article about tashi. ‘stanford’s own, tashi duncan, announces plan to drop out and pursue coaching full time.’ you click read more, anger already simmering, and continue reading. ‘duncan was set to leave in november, but has announced she will now be joining up and coming pro player, patrick zweig of fire and ice, effective immediately. duncan previously coached stanford’s art donaldson, the other half of the aforementioned duo, but they have officially gone their separate ways.’

you slammed your laptop closed, going to take a shower, wash off the stress and the pain and the tension. you waterproofed your brace, allowing a few tears before forcing them down, stepping into the hot water. you scrubbed your skin, frustration building at the limited use of your left hand, and washed your hair, nearly moaning at the feeling of the water on your scalp. as you closed your eyes, rinsing out your shampoo, your bathroom door opened and you gasped, anxiety spiked.

“fuck, i’m so sorry,” art said, closing the door quickly, “i didn’t hear the shower and i couldn’t find you,” your face heated, but your heart rate slowed with relief of it just being art. “it’s okay,” you told him, “could you actually maybe help me? i’ll cover up, i’m just having a really hard time washing my hair,” “yeah, just tell me when to come in,” art replied, his voice muffled through the door. you sat down in the bathtub, pulling your knees up to your chest, “you can come in,” he entered slowly, and you heard his breath hitch when he saw you, his pupils dilated. “what do you need me to do?” he asked softly. “just need you to grab the showerhead and rinse my hair, and put in my conditioner and rinse that. i’m sorry, i was just having a hard time,” he kneeled down beside the tub, his sudden proximity making you suck in a breath, and grabbed the still running showerhead, letting the water fall over your hair. 

“please don’t apologize,” he choked out, “i’d help you with anything,” your face flushed, “i don’t want to have to depend on someone to wash my hair,” you told him, “not you or anyone. though i’m glad it’s you,” “i know it’s hard, but it’s not forever, i promise. i’ll be here to help as long as you need me,” he ran your conditioner through the ends of your hair gently, and you shivered at the feeling of his hands ghosting over your back. 

“tashi’s gone,” he said quietly, still combing his fingers through your hair, “she left this morning with patrick,” “i saw, i’m so sorry, art,” “it’s alright. she wasn't that great of a coach, she was a bad friend, and barely my girlfriend at all. and me and zweig are done. well, i guess all of us are done,” he laughed bitterly, his breath tickling your neck as he did. “it’s for the best, i’m sure,” you reassured, “you and patrick will make up eventually. he loves her, yknow? he’d do anything for her, i’m sure it was her idea. he settled for me because she was out of his league, and i can’t even be mad because i did the same thing,” his hands stilled in your hair, his breath hitching, “i should go,” you turned your neck to look at him, rejecting once again stinging you, “why?” “it’s too much, being in here like this, i can’t do it,” he said, averting his eyes from your gaze, “i’ll help you rinse, i just need to breathe for a second,” he turned to leave but stopped in his tracks when he heard you sniff, fresh tears falling to your cheeks. “please don’t cry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. 

“we’ll never get it right, will we? is there too much history, too much damage?” you asked him, turning back to face the shower wall. he sunk back to his knees beside the tub, his hand coming to your shoulder, “i can’t stay in here because the sight of you, and the smell of your shampoo in this room and being so close to you, i can’t-” he made a sort of strangled noise, reminding you of the day he confessed his feelings, “you’re hurting and i have to pull myself together and i’m trying so hard but i just have all this need for you and it’s choking me,” 

you blushed, turning back to face him, “i’m not going to break, art. you don’t have to keep it all to yourself,” “this isn’t the time for me to be having thoughts like this,” he said, still not looking directly at you, “i’m being so selfish and i’m so sorry,” “art,” you reached your uninjured hand out to touch his face gently, “i’ve wanted this for so long, for you to have any kind of thoughts about me at all, and now you’re here in my bathroom and you have me, and you could take me if you wanted,”  he hissed out a breath, “please, please don’t say that. i’m barely holding myself together, this isn’t the right time,” “i’m the one who’s injured and i’m telling you it’s the right time, there’s never been a time, i’m here and i’m willing and i’m hopeful and i’ve been in love with you for six months and they finally left, art, it’s just us here alone and i’m telling you, please, just be with me,” 

something seemed to snap in him, his eyes darkening and his breath getting slightly rougher, “let me help you up,” he said, his tone gentle despite the obvious need all over his expression. you nodded, turning off the water and relaxing into him as he pulled you up by your arm, careful not to let you slip. you blushed at the stark difference between the two of you, your still naked body compared to him fully clothed. he looked away, still ever the gentlemen, and wrapped you in a towel, walking you back to your bedroom. 

you laid down slowly, careful to avoid your wrist, your towel draped over your torso. “you look like a painting,” art said quietly, eyeing you from three feet away. you laugh softly, rolling your eyes, “you don’t have to lay it on extra thick because i’m injured,” he crossed the room to join you on the bed, resting a hand on your calf, “i’m not laying it on. you’re so beautiful,”  “art,” you say, attempting to capture a million emotions in one word. “you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever laid eyes on,” he trailed his finger along your calf muscle, edging closer to your thigh, “you’re so strong, so inspired,” you nearly moan at his feather light touch, combined with the soft intensity of his words, “come here,” 

“i’m taking my time,” he said, massaging your thigh gently, “i want to take all the time in the world with you, make up for all we lost,” you let out a shaky breath, watching his hand work the tension from your muscles, “all we have is time now,” “doesn’t stop me from wanting to savor this. do you know how long i’ve thought of this? how many nights i spent tossing and turning in bed, your voice clouding my thoughts,  picturing touching you, making you understand just how much i care for you,” his breath shutters, “how much i think of you, how much i love you. i could spend the rest of my life telling you, showing you, how i’ve felt. you don’t understand, but you will,” 

you watched him through heavy eyes, biting your lip as he slowly parted your thighs, leaning closer to you. your towel was pushed in the floor by art’s roaming hands, which made a temporary home on your hips, pulling you down the bed, even closer to him. his breath fanned against you, your thighs parting farther, opening up for him. “you’re so fucking beautiful,” he groaned quietly, and you gasped as he leaned in, licking a stripe up your clit. “art, oh my god,” you sighed, your hands desperately searching for hold of his hair. he held onto your hips, holding you still as his tongue dove into you, lapping at you frenziedly. 

your back arched into his touch, loud pants leaving your mouth. “you taste so fucking good,” he moaned into your skin, his nails digging softly into your thighs. “art, please come kiss me,” you begged, dizzy from the pleasure and needy for his lips on your own. he complied hesitantly, pulling himself away from you and pressing wet kisses up your stomach until he found his lips on yours. you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer, moaning into the kiss at the taste of your own cunt on his lips. 

he ran his hands up and down your sides, desperate, like he thought you’d disappear if he stopped touching you for even a second. he slowly pulled away from your kiss, placing small, gentle bites down the side of your neck. “can feel your heartbeat,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, “do i make you that excited?” he didn’t sound cocky, more genuinely curious, flattered even. “yes,” you whimper, “want you so badly, art. want you to be a part of me,” 

he groaned, from deep in his chest, pausing his kisses only to pull off his own shorts. “are you sure this is what you want, right now?” he asked, looking into your eyes with a slightly concerned expression. “yes, i promise i’m sure,” you nodded without hesitation, reaching for him again. he leaned into your touch, kissing you roughly, passionately, like he was starving for it. 

without breaking away from you, he lined himself up between your thighs with shaky hands, hesitating before he made any movements. “gonna go slow,” he said softly, kissing your jawline and running his free hand through your hair, “can’t, don’t know how long i’ll last,” you titled your head back to look at him, taking in his disheveled state. he looked like he was barely holding himself together, pushing at the edge of his restraint. “i’m not gonna break, art,” you reassured him, your left hand sliding between the two of you, positioning his leaking tip just on the edge of your cunt, “give it to me,” he moaned at the slight touch of your hand, obeying and sliding into you in one fluid motion. 

you nearly screamed, kissing him to shut yourself up, to occupy your mouth that so desperately wanted to let go and scream his name. his pace was erratic, six months of longing, of fantasizing about this. he leaned back, his forehead against yours as he thrust into you, “tell me it wasn’t like this with patrick,” he choked out, “please, need to hear you say it,” “it wasn’t like this with him, art, only you,” you moaned, his possessiveness adding to your pleasure, basking in how fraught he was at the thought of you with patrick. “never fucked tashi like this,” he groaned, pounding into you, “never felt this good, always pictured your face,” you buried your face in his shoulder, biting down gently, muffling your moans. 

“not gonna last,” he breathed, leaning down to wrap his lips around one of your nipples, sucking needily. “want you to cum for me, wanna keep you inside,” you told him, even closer at the thought of him spilling out of you. he grabbed your hips, positioning himself even deeper. his thrusts grew sloppier, more desperate, his moans turning into whines of your name as he twitched inside you, spilling into you. 

“fuck, fuck it’s so good,” he mewled, slowing down as he rode out his orgasm, his eyes on the two of you joined together, “so good, oh my god,” he panted against you, your chests heaving, and pulled out slowly, leaving you gasping at the sudden feeling of emptiness. “did you cum?” he asked, his fingers tracing your clit. “no, almost did, but it’s okay, just lay-” 

before you could finish, tell him you didn’t even need to, his mouth was on your cunt again. you could feel his cum seeping out of you, into his open, wanting mouth, and you came almost immediately just from the feeling of it paired with his slow laps against your clit. “oh my god,” you breathed, pulling him back up to you hastily, pulling him down into a kiss. 

you could taste the both of you on his mouth, growing dizzy at the taste, at the thought of what he’d done for you, at his devotion to your pleasure. he rolled onto his side, his arm slung over your hips, catching his breath. “was that everything you dreamed of?” you asked, half teasingly, half curious. “i could’ve never dreamed of just how good it would feel,” he sighed, kissing your shoulder, “i don’t have words. like you were made for me,” 

“maybe i was,” you smiled, kissing his cheek, “we just got a little lost on the way,” he smiled sleepily, nodding and pulling you up onto his lap. you laid your head on his chest, just above his heart, closing your eyes blissfully at the feeling of his warm skin against your cheek. “not gonna know what to do now, having you all to myself like this,” he told you. “mm, i think we should just enjoy it, god knows we earned it,” you laughed sadly, “i wanted to talk to you, not now, but sometime, just go over everything that’s happened, i guess,” 

“we can talk now, might as well get it all out in the open. what’d you want to know?” “what was going on with you and tashi? and you and patrick, even. i don’t understand the dynamics,” his breath hitched, but he kept his hand on your back reassuringly as he answered you, “me and tashi were just, i don’t even know what to call it. we weren’t in love, weren’t even really friends, i guess. it started out just casual, but then her injury, and she wanted to coach me. she ran me ragged pretty quickly, just constant practicing and conditioning, and there were times when i was so tired, i just wanted to end it,” your eyes welled up at his words, “i don’t want to blame it all on her, but it was hell. it was just constant, and if i needed a break she’d just tell me what a fucking loser i was. i guess in a way, that was the only thing i loved about her. she told me what i already knew,” 

you sat up, staring down at him, confused, “what you already knew? art, you’re fucking incredible at tennis, come on now. you know you are,” “i’m not as good as patrick, never have been. i don’t mind it as much now, now that he’s pro and i’m here in my own bubble, but i know it in the back of my mind. why do you think i came to stanford? college was the one place i could escape competing against him,” “oh, art,” you said sadly, “you’re so talented, everyone can see it but you,” 

“patrick and i, i don’t know, he was my best friend, and then something changed, the competition got to be too much. he’d hold these over me, you, my emotions, my losses, whatever. he kissed me once, and when i kissed him back, he told me i was pathetic,” he laughed bitterly, “i didn’t even want to kiss him, i just didn’t want to disappoint him,” he stopped, the cracks in his voice becoming more frequent. 

“i’m so sorry,” you said, your chest aching at the sight of this beautiful boy, so eager to please, so misused, “they never should have put you through that, neither of them. they’re not real people, they’re just tennis players, just mean and spiteful and they’ll use people up, art. it’s not your fault,” “i know it’s not my fault they did it, but i let it happen, i guess. i’ll be fine, i’ll get past it, i promise. that’s it, though, all the complicated bits at least. i don’t want to think about that shit anymore,” 

“we don’t have to,” you promised him, cupping your face in your hands, “we’re past it, we’ll be alright, okay?” he nodded, pulling you down to him and kissing you softly. you stayed like that for a few minutes, slow, gentle kisses between the two of you, your hands still resting on his cheeks. 

he pulled himself away hesitantly, eyes going to your wrist, the bulky brace around it. “you’re gonna heal up, and i’m gonna spend all my free time helping you get your motion back, alright? if you want to play, i’ll help you play. if you don’t, i’ll support you, but i’m not giving up on you, injury or not. you’re the most passionate player i’ve ever seen, and this won’t put an end to it, i won’t sit by and let it, alright?”

you teared up, nodding and trying your best to hold your sob in. “thank you,” you whispered, overwhelmed with the gratitude and love you felt for him in this moment. “i’d do anything for you,” he promised, pulling you to his chest, stroking your hair until you fell into a restful sleep for the first time in days. 

[jess248]

i have never been normal or casual about anything challengers related ever

my failmarriage parents

[tinytennisskirt]

art x pregnant reader plzzz!! i just want like wholesome marriage and having babies w sweet art and maybe some tasteful smut

The Couch

Art x Pregnant Wife! Reader

Summary: So many ‘I love you’s and so many moments all tied to the couch in the living room. Just Art being a loving husband to his absolutely perfect wife and soon-to-be mother of his babyyy <3

Warnings: handjob, thigh grinding, kissing, pregnancy, flufffffff and obviously a babyyy

Your husband Art came home with exactly what you were craving. He came in the door with two bags of groceries, things you needed, and the Nutella and pretzels you wanted so bad since the second you woke up. You woke up forty minutes ago.

“Oh my god I love you,” you gushed, meeting him as he came in the door, not caring that his hands were full, cupping his face and kissing him hard before pulling away and snatching one of the grocery bags. You mostly unpacked them before finding the things you craved and finding Art had bought the things you’d craved yesterday in case you wanted it again. “You are so lovely.”

Art chuckled, coming up behind you and kissing your cheek and neck. “I love you too.” He said as you ripped open the Nutella. Art was loving the excuse to snack with you so early in the morning, he dipped a pretzel in with you, tapping it against yours before eating it. He was sweet and so was the snack. “That’s really good, that’s a lot better than pickles and ice cream.” He grinned.

“You’re not pregnant, you wouldn’t get it,” you waved him off giggling. “No cravings for you.”

“Aside from you?” He mumbled, going right back to kissing your neck.

“Uh huh?” You laughed, tilting your neck back. He kissed up your neck. Since you’d gotten pregnant Art had been just a little extra obsessed with you. “Let me eat my snack.” You smiled.

“Mmm fine,” he said, kissing you on the cheek again before a tasteful little tap on the ass before putting the rest of the groceries away.

You finished your snack, satisfied, “Thank you for going out so early,” you said when you had both sat back on the couch, settling in his arms. It was a slow Sunday and the light through the dainty curtains was perfect and warm. Art kissed your forehead. “Do you want to hit the farmers market today, maybe?”

“That sounds nice,” he said. “I have a tennis massage booked at three and practice at four, but I’ll leave early to make dinner. Farmer’s market in an hour?”

“Sounds good,” you said, placing your hand on your lower stomach. “But I’ll cook tonight if you wanted to get some extra practice in.”

He shook his head, “I wanted to make steak and I know you’re afraid to not cook it properly.” He kissed your head again. “And I needed the excuse to come home early.”

You smiled, “You’re too cute.” You sat up and kissed him properly. He grinned between fervent and quick kisses to his lips, cheeks, nose, and forehead. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love pregnancy hormones,” he said between kisses. The words were quite broken up with every kiss you planted on his face. “And you.” He beamed. “You cook vegetables and I cook steak how does that sound?”

“Perfect,” you kissed him one more time on the lips and this time he didn’t let you escape, kissing you passionately, silencing the giggles that came from your mouth as he pulled you on top of him. You both smiled into every kiss and grinned in every break for a breath. His hands travelled up your thighs to your hips, then your waist.

His lips strayed from your mouth, tilting your chin up to kiss down your cheek, jaw, neck again. You giggled but he just hummed against your neck, kissing gently down… Your hand slid up the back of his neck and into his hair. “Art…”

“Mhm?” He answered, kisses grazing over your collarbone, not answering.

You had no answer for him as his teeth grazed back over your neck and his hand slid up to gently squeeze over your chest. You let a heavy sigh leave through parted lips, feeling the strap of your nightgown slip down over your shoulder.

Him in his sweats, you felt him shift just a little and move you to straddle just one of his thighs, which mixed with the neck kisses felt close to something you liked. And though you might have wanted him to use his hand, the feeling of one on your waist and the other on your chest was all you needed. You felt him push you down on his thigh just a little, helping with the rock of your hips. You knew what he wanted and you wanted it, not wanting to give into full blown anything an hour before heading out. That would call for showers and more so you just rocked gently against his thigh.

The hands on your waist helped you with guiding and with friction as he pressed you against him better. The friction was hot, but felt so good as he kept kissing softly, little kisses that spread goosebumps down your arms. You couldn’t help the noise you made when he pulled you down just a little harder, grinding against him. His lips met yours quickly, hungrily and your pace got more desperate, small moans slipping out between kisses. He was enjoying every second of this, enjoying how you fought to keep going until you finished. You kissed him breathily and he just grinned, holding you as you rested against him for a moment.

“You’re evil,” you sighed.

“Maybe,” he shrugged, running a gentle hand up and down your upper arm. “Couldn’t get through my day without it, sorry.”

You pulled away, still sitting straddled on his lap. “And to think I was going to put out tonight. Guess you don’t need it, guess that sufficed.” You teased, getting off his lap and darting out of his grasp.

“That’s not fair!” he chased you to the bedroom.

A month or two later, you were sitting on the couch in your tank top and pajama pants when Art came in through the door just a little late from tennis. You tucked your hair behind your ears, moving to get off the couch, but it was a little harder to have such a comfortable couch when you were increasingly more pregnant with every day that passed. “I can’t get off the couch,” you whined, reaching over the back of it like you were reaching for help. Art chuckled as he took off his shoes. “It’s your fault you know.” You said.

He laughed out loud as he set his things down, jogging the rest of the living room to come to you, immediately dropping down to kiss your stomach, your baby, then crawling up to kiss you. “It is my fault, I’m sorry.” He grinned. “I’m not sorry.” He followed up, kissing you again and sitting next to you on the couch. He pulled your legs up onto his lap, immediately taking your calf and ankle between his hands, massaging gently.

“Baby,” you laughed. “You don’t need to do that, you’ve been playing tennis all day.”

“And you’ve been growing a whole other person for how long now?” He retorted. You shook your head and smiled. He was cheeky and you loved him for it. “Exactly. So I was thinking we order pizza tonight.”

“Mushrooms?”

“Oh yeah,” he nodded, fingers working into your sore and swollen ankles like magic as you grabbed the phone off the hook and called. It turned into a movie night with pizza, watching three separate rom coms that Art pretended to hate, but really didn’t. Art and his metabolism ate almost an entire pizza himself.

He got up to get you water at least twice and helped you get up about five separate times to go to the bathroom. You were getting a bit tired searching for a fourth movie and Art sensed it. He looked at you, seeing your eyes a bit half-lidded, your hand on the remote slipping gently. He smiled gently, taking the remote. “Bedtime,” he said, getting up off the couch.

“Hm?” You said, looking at him with wide eyes that you were forcing to look more awake. He knew better, grinning knowingly. “I’m not tired.”

“Well the baby is,” he said, helping you up but keeping you close.

“The baby sleeps all the time the baby can’t be tired,” you said tiredly, yawning. You were just about the cutest thing he’d ever seen in his life. “Maybe I’m just a little tired though.”

Art pushed your hair behind your ears for you, gentle hands cupping you under your ears and you shut your eyes in his touch. He kissed your nose, then your lips, gently, as if meaning to lull you. He pulled away to admire your perfect eyelashes that rested with your closed eyes. “Maybe just a little tired,” he repeated. You smiled. “You are so beautiful. Let’s get you to bed, though?”

“Mmmm,” is all you could reply with. He helped you get ready for bed, readying himself just the same, brushing your teeth together, washing your face together, moisturizing and Art himself putting on his pajamas.

“Mmm, lose the shirt.” You said, sitting on the edge of your bed. Art laughed. “I’m serious!” You said.

Art obliged obviously unable to say no to his perfect wife, taking off his plain white sleep shirt, gesturing to his upper body. You nodded, eyeing him up and down and giving a thumbs up. “Thumbs up?” he laughed, getting into bed on his side. “Really?”

“I think it’s deserving,” you said, scooting closer to him.

“Not even two thumbs up?” He said, opening his arm to let you lay on his chest and you gave him two thumbs up. He gave them right back, not letting you lay on him, but rather kissing you. Your hand happily slid over his bare stomach and chest, kissing back with the same passion. You wished you could get closer, but the bump in the way made it a little difficult.

He held your face when he kissed you, keeping you as close as he could. You wished you could melt into him, the mix of happiness, sweetness, hot skin, and making out like teenagers so intoxicating you were worried for your baby. His kisses shortened. “You need your rest.”

“Not as much as I need you.” You replied. Art chuckled, ready to be all over you the second you asked. “You know, you could do with a little less clothes?” You said. Art chuckled.

“I could say the same for you,” he tugged at your tank top, faces inches from each other. You gladly took it off, matching him and immediately the kissing resumed, hot and heavy, slipping tongue just slightly. Sometimes you were so glad you’re married your best friend and super hot tennis boyfriend, it made for a really hot husband and father-to-be. And he was absolutely in love with you, more everyday.

That love dripped off his lips as your hand slid down his boxers, gripping him. His mouth fell just a little open. “Fuck,” he said. He’d been thinking about it from the moment he woke up next to you, he wouldn’t admit that but he did. You stroked him up and down, tight-handed. “No, baby, you’re tired.” He protested, caring all too much.

“Not too tired.” You said, speeding up. He groaned into your mouth, his hand on the back of your neck as he kissed you again. When he finished it was a string of compliments, even in his highest moments it was praise for you.

After a quick cleanup you laid right back on his chest, his hand immediately stroking your back. You enjoyed the skin to skin. Art kissed the top of your head. “I love you.” He said. “You know that?”

You nodded, “I feel it. And I love you too.” You traced the words over his bare skin with your fingernail. “So much.”

“I’m so lucky,” he whispered. “I have the perfect wife, the perfect mother to our baby.”

You sat up just a bit to look at him. “You have to be so careful or you’ll make me cry.” You said, eyes filling with tears. “Hormones.”

He grinned a big grin, you could see it in the dim of the dark bedroom, his face illuminated only by the moon. “It’s not any less true, but I’d rather no tears. I love you so very much.”

“I love you more than anything,” you replied.

A few months later you were back on that same couch in the living room, Art planting little kisses on your bump, which was becoming a bit too much at this point. You tsked, looking at the ceiling. “I don’t want to keep the sex of the baby a surprise anymore. I know we agreed on it, but it’s been eating at me.” You admit. Art looked up from your stomach, taking a proper seat.

“Is it because you’ve been watching those gender reveal party videos?” He asked with a small smile. “Tell my grandma you want one she will be all over it and have it planned in a day, she’s been dying to know.”

“Maybe the videos,” you smiled. “But don’t you want to be prepared? Don’t you want to know if it’s a baby boy or a baby girl?”

Art nodded, “I’d love to know, but it’s up to you.” He took your hand in his. “If you wanted we could go get the envelope from upstairs right now.”

You tried to sit up, needing his help. “Really?” You said. “You’d be okay with just… knowing? No fuss?”

“I want to know if you want to know,” he shrugged, big smile on his face giving away that he really did want to know.

You took a deep breath, matching his smile. “Okay. Get the envelope.” He was off the couch faster than you’d ever seen him run, even in tennis, bolting up the stairs. He knew exactly where it was because he returned with it in seconds. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“I’m excited, are you excited?” He asked, handing the envelope to you. He was adorable.

“Too excited,” you said, handing the envelope right back. “No fuss. Just open it and we look at it together.”

Art nodded, ripping open the envelope and unfolding the paper. You looked him in the eyes, unbridled excitement showing in both of you. It was too late to turn back now.

“No matter what the sex is, I’m proud of you and I’m so happy.”

You narrowed your eyes, “You’re trying to make me cry.”

“Just a little.” He grinned. “Doesn’t make it less true.”

“You are just mean,” you smiled, kissing him gently. “But I love you. On three?” He nodded and squeezed your hand. You counted down and at the same time, you and Art read over the word ‘female’. You were having a girl. “Oh my god.” You gasped, looking at Art. He was overjoyed, kissing you hard before wrapping you in one of the tightest hugs he could manage around the bump.

“Oh my god, I love you.” He grinned. “I’m going to be a dad to a daughter, that’s crazy.”

“You’ll be the best.” You said. “Oh my god, a girl.” You couldn’t let go of him. You didn’t want to. You couldn’t. “A baby girl, Art.”

“I love you.” He gushed. “I love you, oh my god.”

“I love you too.” You kissed him again and the paper fell on the floors. It didn’t matter. You both couldn’t stop smiling.

Art was so in love with you both. You, messy, hair up, t-shirt off the shoulder and yoga pants on, cradling your perfect baby girl. You were the most beautiful sight he’d ever laid his eyes on, sitting on the couch amongst the pump, a few blankets, and a baby bottle.

“I think she knows you’re home,” you smiled, looking up at him. “She’s all bubbly and awake. I think she missed you.”

“I missed her too,” Art said, putting down his rackets to come sit next to you. “And you.” He planted a kiss on your lips and a small kiss on your perfect baby’s forehead. Her small hands reached up, her mouth trying to latch onto his nose.

“How was tennis?”

“Terrible. Couldn’t focus. Only thought in my mind was you two.” He said. You looked at him with only love in your eyes. One thing Art promised himself when he met you is he would always come home to you. But now he was coming home to his perfect wife and daughter as early as he could. He only smiled back. “You are so gorgeous.” He said.

“So are you,” you said. “Do you want to hold her while I get started on dinner?”

“I’d love to hold her but you are not cooking. You’ve done enough for me,” he grinned.

You handed over the perfect baby and stood up off the couch, “I’m sure I can manage something easy. Can’t stop me with the baby in your arms.” You laughed and wandered into the kitchen.

“Says who?” Art said, following, baby in one arm and grabbing your arm with the other, spinning you back into the circle with him and your daughter. He kissed you over her, his free hand on your cheek. “How did I get so lucky? And you’re not cooking.”

“Fine.” You said, kissing him again, then kissing your baby on the forehead. “I make her, you make dinner.”

“Sounds even,” he shrugged, passing her back to you. “But I get to hold her after dinner.”

“Only if you hold me after that,” you teased, poking him in the chest. “Deal?”

“Deal,” he said. And he couldn’t keep himself from kissing you again, watching you twirl out of the kitchen with your perfect baby in his perfect wife’s arms. He got started on dinner with his stomach empty but his heart full. And you sat right back on that couch, cradling the beautiful mix of you and Art.

[coolgrl111]

dating art donaldson (social media au)

a/n: wanted to try something new! if you like it, request more and i’ll make whatever 😘😘 reblog appreciated!!!!

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yourusername i’m pooped

❤️ 301 💬 18 ➡️ 2

view comments:

@artdonaldson you look a little pooped

↳ @yourusername you’re not meant to agree!

↳ @artdonaldson kidding! love you 😘

@patrickzweig girl get off the floor we got a game to play 😭😭😭😭😭

liked by @yourusername

@tashiduncan the prettiest 😍

| show more

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yourusername posted on their story !

replies:

@artdonaldson THATS ME!!!!!!

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@patrickzweig where’s my bloody shout out

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artdonaldson yeah we fancy like 😭 stanford prom w the best 💙

❤️ 740 💬 97 ➡️ 4

view comments:

@yourusername I LOVE YOU❤️

↳ @artdonaldson I LOVE YOU MORE❤️

@yourusername had the best night

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@user awww😭

| show more

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yourusername we’re versatile 🤷‍♀️

❤️ 456 💬 34 ➡️ 7

view comments:

@artdonaldson don’t lie

↳ @yourusername speak for yourself, i’m a great pianist

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↳ @yourusername so handsome😊

@patrickzweig IM CRYINGG😭😭😭😭😭

@tashiduncan done dirty as fuck😭

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yourusername yes 💍

❤️ 1,208 💬 105 ➡️ 52

view comments:

@artdonaldson SHE SAID YES 🤗

↳ @yourusername SHE DID!!!!

@patrickzweig art donaldson y/n l/n proposal *NOT CLICKBAIT* 😱 congrats fr tho guys ❤️

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@yourmother Yay! So happy💍🤗 Congrats!

↳ @yourusername thanks mama!

[kendyzzlewp]

We’ll Keep Trying

pairing: art donaldson x fem!reader

tags: husband!artdonaldson, angst, domestic, married life, failed pregnancy

____________________________________________

You sat there defeated.

The negative pregnancy test seemed to mock you and your dream of starting a family. With a heavy sigh you tossed the plastic wand into the bin.

You wanted this so bad, not only for yourself but for Art as well. He finally slowed down his career, retiring from playing competitively, focusing on coaching and commentating on a couple of sports channels. The time seemed right. You both discussed it and were ready.

You’ve waited so long for this moment. The time to finally get pregnant and have a baby with the love of your life. Especially after supporting his career. for the better part of a decade. Joining him on tour when you were able to, never missing a game, eating the same diet as him in solidarity, working out together…you did everything a good wife was supposed to do.

God, you’ve waited enough and now that the time is right, your body won’t cooperate.

It had been months of constant disappointments for the both of you. One negative test after the other, one cycle after the other. Sex wasn’t even fun anymore. It was a job that had to be done in a specific window.

You missed the spontaneity. Having Art bend you over the kitchen counter, or over the dining table, or a chair or even a balcony railing. He loved bending you over anywhere he could but now, most of the time, sex consists of laying on your back with your legs raised

It’s still good. Art has always been generous with your pleasure but you miss the fun. The hair pulling, the ass smacking, the choking, the public rendezvous.

“Negative,” you announced as you walked into the primary bedroom. “Again.”

He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. His biceps bulged from the sleeves of his gray shirt. His brown eyes were filled with concern but you still saw the disappointment flash through them.

“We’ll keep trying,” he promised, his tone determined. “It’ll happen.”

You smile sadly, climbing into bed with a heavy heart. “I don’t think I can keep doing this,” you admitted.

Art crossed the room and sat beside you on the edge of the bed, his presence a reassuring anchor in your turmoil. He reached for your hand, squeezing it gently.

"I know it's hard, sweetheart," he said softly. "But we’re in this together. Remember that."

You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. "I just feel so...tired. Like I'm failing you."

He lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "You're not failing me. This isn't your fault. We have to believe it will happen when the time is right."

You took a deep breath, trying to draw strength from his words. "What if it never happens, Art? What then?"

"We'll cross that bridge if we come to it," he replied, brushing a tear from your cheek. "For now, we’ll keep trying naturally. Then we can explore every option. IVF, adoption—whatever it takes. We'll be parents someday."

His unwavering support warmed you, easing a bit of the heaviness in your chest. "Thank you," you whispered.

He leaned in, kissing your forehead tenderly. "We'll get through this. Together."