#Art Donaldson x Reader

[girliism]

Art accidentally hurting Reader during sex (too rough,fast,deep,etc.) and he feels sooo bad (aftercareeeeee)

the second art heard your safe word all motions stopped. he gently slid out of you turning you to lay on your back. your face was wet with tears, and the quiver of your chin told him they weren’t from pleasure.

“baby?”

he whispered, his hands cupped your cheeks wiping away the wetness. “what happened, what’s wrong? tell me.” you couldn’t get your words out right away, but after a few deep breaths you mutter on about how his thrust were too hard, too fast for what you need at the moment. and art’s kicking himself in the face for not noticing sooner. not picking up on your body language earlier. you try to extend some of the comfort he’s giving you, but art blocks it, focusing completely on you.

the nights previous activities are abandoned. art’s wiping you down with warm wash cloths, covering you up in one of his oversized shirts, tucking you under the cover, and shoving a cold water bottle and a bag of trail mix into your hands. “i’m so sorry.” he slide in next to you under the covers, his arms wrapping around you. “it’s ok, i’m ok.” you mutter sleepily, letting art’s fingers trace along your scalp.

[dinerdweller]

dating art donaldson headcannons

Notes: Sigh hope these aren't too bad, I love him sm

Wc: 298 Cw: no use of y/n

✽ Is always listening to you. Like you could mutter under you breath about something random and he's already giving you the best answer possible.

✽ He is so into everything you do. Any career you have, any hobby you pick up or any interest you have he might as well have it as well. Its how he shows he cares in a way, that he will give every part of you over 100%.

✽ Always know how you're feeling. You need some space? He will be more than willing to do so, anything for you. You are stressed? He is already over wiling to walkabout it. Basically, he just always knows what you need.

✽ Even though he knows you will be there (he invited you), seeing you at his tennis games fills him with even more drive to win for you.

✽ Biggest gossiper ever!! like tell this man anything and he probably not only knew it, but has more details to add.

✽ If you don't already play tennis, he would love to teach you. Taking you out onto the court and getting you in position. Him joking that you could take his position and no one would notice, even if you were terrible.

✽ BUT he'd love if you had no care for tennis and never wanted to play again. Honestly a break from the sport would be such a relief for him.

✽ Biggest nerd ever and will geek out if you take interest in his passions.

✽ Loves touching you in some way. Holding hands, his arm around you waist and yours around his shoulders. Laying in his arms in bed or while watching tv, touching knees while at the table. No matter what having you near him is something he cherishes.

[littlesoulshine]

intro

for being a good boy, you decided to give arty a little treat. you set the table—linen, crystal, and a single candle lit, flickering low; around it roast chicken, green beans, and a perfect glass of red wine, his favorite. you wear something sheer with no bra or panties on. art walks in, wearing his gym clothes, and freezes like a deer in headlights.

“shorts off,” you say, without looking up. he obeys instantly, dropping like he’s allergic to disobedience. you tilt your head just slightly, pointing to the chair at the head of the table. “sit.”

he moves fast, you straddle him before he’s fully settled, one slow grind of your hips as you guide his cock inside you—bare, of course. no prep or foreplay. he gasps, hands flying to your thighs like he might hold on—

“no,” you say, catching his wrists. “hands in your lap. or i stop.”

he obeys, trembling already. you can feel every twitch of him deep inside you, stuffed full, throbbing against your walls. 

you pick up a bite of steaming hot chicken, blow on it, and bring it to his mouth. “open, baby.”

he does—lips parting, tongue just barely peeking out. you feed him. as you stare at him, he chews slow and swallows hard (moaning as you softly tighten around him.)

you moan low in your throat—not from pleasure, but from power he’s giving you. he’s shaking under you, hips pressed against the chair, your cunt keeping his cock soaked and tight. he wants to thrust, wants to fuck up into you. but he knows he can’t (only on his birthday, new years, or any time you tell him to).

he gets a bite of green beans next. his lips brush your fingertips and he moans.

“you love this, don’t you?” you murmur, picking up your own fork. “sitting still like a good boy, stuffed full of my cunt, while i feed you like the dumb little pet you are.”

“yes, ma’am,” he breathes. “i love it. love being inside you—so warm—so tight—fuck, i can’t—”

“you can.” your voice cuts sharp. “and you will.”

he bites his lip. his cock twitches inside you. you feel it—so fucking desperate, pulsing with every heartbeat. you take a sip of wine. press the glass to his lips next. he drinks, soft whimpers caught in his throat, neck flushed and glossy with sweat.

the sight makes you clench and he choke from the pleasure. “mommie—please—please just let me move, just once, just a little, i’ll beg—i’ll do anything—”

you cut a piece of meat. feed it to him. “no.”

his eyes flutter, while he continues to pant with his cheeks red and balls tightening.

you lean in, lips brushing his ear, giving him little kisses. he makes a incoherent sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan. his hands tremble in his lap, making him cry all soft and wet, with pretty glassy eyes.

you press your hips down just a little. his hips jerk up and you instantly slap his thigh. “sit still, baby.”

he nods as you feed him again, but he’s so far gone by the time you’ve finished your meal, his cock was soaked, balls super heavy and lips shining with spit, wine, and your praise.

you set down your fork and look down at him. “you want to come?”

“God—yes—please—i’ve been so good—”

you rise off his pretty cock before slamming down again, and lifting up again that being his breaking point. he screams, high-pitched and all. his cum spurts painting his belly, chest, even his chin. he jerks, sobs, full-body trembles, hands still clasped in his lap. you bend down, scooping a little with your fingers, feeding it to him while trying it for yourself, moaning at how good he tastes. “mhm, this is good.”

special tags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa

inspiration ➳ my lovey @rafesplaymate

[bonniesbluee]

stanford!art

who... is (kinda) new to the dating game so when he gives you attention he overwhelms you by the amount of affection that he gives you.

who... rubs his face against yours, his arm is constantly around your shoulders, his forehead pressed against the meat of your cheek despite the height difference.

who... is constantly asking for kisses or for your fingers to be in his hair. he loves the feeling of your hands in his curls, and he's definitely the type of guy to use the "baby voice" on you despite being around people.

who... waits for you to be ready before finally fucking. and when it happens its wonderful, he's slow and gentle. but also so clumsy that he ends up almost cumming on you. luckily he pulls out in time.

who... loves eating you out. loves how you get wet so easily, how his mouth and jaw get sticky and soaked with your wetness and his spit. he specially loves how your hands tug at his hair, his ego boosting up each time you moan louder and louder.

who... doesn't mind if you dont give him head, but when you do he's so vocal. constantly telling you how good your mouth feels, how perfect you are. he does sometimes pushes your head down, but that's only when he's so desperate! and when he comes, he always makes sure to ask you first. he doesn't want to dirty your face, but he also loves the way his seed looks splattered around your plump lips.

who... almost always ends up knocked out after sex. whether its only him eating you out or just you giving him head. he always finds solace in your neck, his arms wrapped tightly around you as if he's scared you run away. and you dont complain because you love the feeling of his curls tickling your cheek.

who... doesn't know how or why you got with him, and who knows there are better men out there. but he plans and is confident in keeping you in his life as long as you allow him to.

[matchpointfaist]

super rich kids with nothing but loose ends

art donaldson x pr relationship! reader

tw for drinking, drug usage, smut, might split into two parts

art donaldson had a tiny image problem. okay, maybe tiny wasn’t the right word. according to his team, and grandmother, he was on a downward spiral headed nowhere. he was at the height of his career, fresh out of stanford and in with the pros, perpetually gearing up for his next tournament, always running on as little sleep as possible. he had more than he knew how to handle; more money, more alcohol, more parties, more people offering him coke and more of a reason to finally try it. when he was younger, 16 or 17, he’d preached about his body being a temple, he’d never have dreamed of putting anything harmful into it. but now? now, he was living in a free for all, and he just kept coming out on top.

you, on the other hand? the media loved you. you were riding a high from your US open win straight out of college, on a winning streak that was finally being recognized as more to do with skill than luck. your team was a tight ship, constantly keeping tags on you, making sure nothing undesirable slipped through. it wasn’t just about winning, for you. it was about being the best, and that meant every aspect of your life revolving around getting people to like you. behind closed doors, though? that was a whole different story.

you could, and often did, keep up with art and all of his friends. you weren’t close, really, but you ran in the same circles, always running into each other at parties, occasionally flirting. he’d run into you once at some magazine launch, making small talk, already half drunk. “how do you do it?” he’d let slip through, watching you with hazy eyes. “do what?” you’d laughed, brows knit. “keep it together. you’re always more fucked up than i am, but you go out and win the next day like nothing happened,” he’d sounded frustrated, like he was holding it against you. “i just do it,” you’d shrugged, knowing fully well it was a blatant lie. every moment of your life was choreographed and orchestrated- you never just did anything. “bullshit,” he’d said under his breath, turning away before you could ask him what he meant. he’d avoided you after that, watching from afar as you drank the other girls under the table, as you stayed out even later than he did despite having a 8am match. he didn’t need to know how you did it. he could figure it out himself.

six months later, he found himself sitting in his manager's glass office, getting scolded for what felt like hours, lectured endlessly about his problematic behavior. "we need to rehab your image," his manager told him, leaned over his desk, "you need a girlfriend, someone to soften your appearance, make you more favorable to brands," "i'm a tennis player," art sighed, sinking down in the crinkling plastic seat, "i didn't sign up for all this shit, honestly, and i'm certainly not gonna go date some random girl just so a brand will sponsor me," "you don't need a random girl," his manager smiled, paging his assistant, and before art could ask him to clarify, you were strolling through the door. "oh, fuck no," he shook his head, standing without hesitation, "no. i don't need tennis' golden girl to tidy up my image, okay? this is bullshit," "if you want to stay signed on here, you'll sit down,"

art sat back down with an agitated huff, crossing his legs, trying to keep his eyes off of you as you sat down in the chair just beside his. "you need to understand that the two of you are not just tennis players anymore, alright? you're celebrities. my firm represents both of you, and i have zero intention of letting my investment go to waste because you can't get a grip, donaldson. we've drawn up contracts-" the man slid two folders across his desk, rigid with tension, "the two of you will maintain a stable, healthy relationship for a minimum of six months, until the buzz about art's recent escapades dies down. if, for any reason, this relationship ends before the six month term, both of your contracts with this firm will be terminated. got it?" a handful of mumbled expletives and messy signatures later, you were following art out of the office, the tension palpable.

"i think this is all bullshit, for the record," he told you as the elevator doors closed behind the two of you, "i don't need this. i'm doing perfectly fine for myself," "you're an alcoholic who sleeps his way through whichever city he finds himself competing in, don't be stupid. i know you, art. or were you too fucked up to remember all the times you hit on me at parties?" "i'm not an alcoholic," he scoffed, running a hand through his hair, "and that's rich, coming from you. you drink more than half the guys there," "and yet i still show up and don't make an ass out of myself!" you laughed incredulously, "face it, art, really. you need this,"

the elevator dinged and he watched as you stepped off, hesitating before following after you. “we might as well make the best of it,” he finally sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, “we need to be seen out together,” “just call me when you set something up,” you told him, smoothing out your skirt, “see you around, art,” and then you were gone, slipped out the door and into the back of some dark suv, just casual enough to get under his skin. he waited a week before calling you, finally deciding just to take you to dinner, try to at least be friends if you were stuck together for 6 months. he picked the restaurant, insisting on picking you up himself- he had a new sports car he was itching to drive- and sent you the details. he pulled into your driveway 5 minutes late, debating if he should get out and come to the door before changing his mind. this wasn’t a real date, after all.

you walked out after a moment, a vision of long legs and a sleek dress, your hair falling in loose curls down your back. “rude to make a lady come to the car alone,” you told him as you slid into the passenger seat, “i’d prefer if you didn’t do it again,” “do forgive me,” he rolled his eyes, raising his hands in mock surrender before putting the car back in drive, pulling out of your driveway, “you look nice,” “hm, you do too,” you smiled just slightly, eyes raking over his blazer and slacks, the shining watch on his wrist. he reached over to turn the music up, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “we need to talk about how we want to come across," you said over the song, "like what do we want the public to think about our relationship?"

"i couldn't give a fuck less," he laughed, shrugging one shoulder, "as long as they think we're together, who cares about specifics?" "well you can't be seen with anyone else," you frowned slightly, irritated by his nonchalance, "you know that, right?" "getting jealous already?" he flashed you a grin, one hand coming to rest on your thigh. you jerked away immediately, glaring at him from the corner of your eye, but he just waved it off, pulling you back towards him. "relax, i'm just getting in character," he smiled, more like smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief, "you want it to come natural, don't you?" you tried to relax, ignoring the way his thumb rubbed circles on the skin of your thigh, the way his hand felt warm against you. it wasn't real, so it didn't matter that the simple touch had your heart racing.

the dinner went smoothly, the two of you falling into practiced touches easily, your hand lingering on his arm and his eyes lingering on your lips. by the end of the night, you had a near perfect rhythm. "you're good at this," he mumbled as he walked you down the crowded sidewalk back to his car, his hand on your low back, "guess you get used to that, being the golden girl of american tennis," "that's funny coming from you," you laughed slightly, "you're number one in the country, damn near in the world. you should be used to it by now," "never get used to having a beautiful woman on my arm," his voice was dangerously slow, suspiciously genuine. "bet you say that to all the girls," you rolled your eyes, attempting to brush off the way goosebumps dotted along your skin. "you're naive if you think i care about the other girls enough to flatter them," it sounds too easy to be a lie, "they throw themselves at me, i don't really have time to try and impress them,"

"you're an asshole," you laughed, shocked at his bluntness, "i thought you were nice, you're always so soft at parties," "soft?" he repeated, like he'd been scorned, "i am not soft, i just try not to be as aggressive as some of the other guys," "well i'm glad to discover you're actually exactly the same as they are," you rolled your eyes, "frat boys are all the same anyway, i'm not surprised," "i'm not a frat boy!" he argued, "i graduated last year, thank you very much," "once a frat boy, always a frat boy," you grinned, looking up at his flushed face. he looked down at you, the tension melting away as a boyish smile spread across his lips, "god, should've known you were just fucking with me," he laughed, nudging your shoulder. "i have no room to talk," you laughed, running a hand through your hair before letting it fall to his shoulder, looping your arm through his as you walked, "guess we're not too different,"

the drive home was quiet, his playlist playing idly in the background as he drove, your eyes glued to your phone so you wouldn't look at him for too long. he walked you to the door when you got there, smiling apologetically, "hopefully this makes up for earlier," "i guess so," you grinned, leaning against your doorway. "so we won't see anyone else," he said after a moment, "what about affection? i know we have to sell it, but are you okay with kissing in public? i don't want to take it too far," "wow, a frat boy who cares about consent," you teased, "why don't you come inside? we can sit down and talk about everything,"

you shouldn't have invited him in. you knew it as soon as you actually saw him in your space, sitting on your couch like he belonged there, his dress shoes by the door right next to your discarded heels. it made it all too real, his sobering presence casting a light on your home. "your place is so nice," he said, standing from the couch to run his fingers along the frame of a painting, "i'm surprised you don't have all your trophies out on display," "oh, they're out, just not in here," you assured him, "i have a room for that," "can i see?" he sounded genuinely curious, bordering on excited, and you cursed yourself for being so stupid before pushing it down and leading him through the house.

you opened a door along the main hallway, hesitating before letting him step inside after you, the only person you'd ever allowed inside besides your parents. "jesus," he said under his breath, glancing around. you knew you must look insane to a normal person- there were trophies and medals littering the shelves, plaques displayed, framed photos of winning shots or of you posing with coaches. there was a small tv against the wall, only used to watch back matches, and a loveseat for when you spent hours locked in the room, examining your every played back movement. you watched as he studied each trophy, his eyes lingering on the US Junior Open cup, the first one you'd ever won. "you were 15," he finally said, his fingers tracing the inscription in the copper, "weren't you?" "yeah, i was," you nodded, surprised that he even knew that, "why?" "that's fucking incredible," he continued on over the awards, "this is all fucking incredible,"

"i thought you'd think i was crazy," you admitted, "like this was some kinda shrine or something," "i think this is the hottest thing i've ever seen," his voice was hoarse, his eyes on the photo of you just after your most recent win, kissing your trophy. "what?" you almost laughed, to diffuse the tension if nothing else. "you're so fucking talented," he turned to face you, and your breath left you, your cheeks flushing. he looked undone, pupils dilated and cheeks tinged pink, "do you just sit in here and look at all you've done?" "i only come in here to watch matches," you felt suddenly embarrassed, like you were admitting some weakness, baring some part of your soul to him, "that's really all," "oh, god," he ran a hand through his hair, "you're so intense," "is that a bad thing?" you asked defensively, crossing your arms over your chest. "no, god no," he said quickly, shaking his head, "this whole thing is just- you're just insanely talented,"

a mental alarm goes off as he crosses the room, standing just in front of you, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “you make all those other girls look like a fucking joke,” he murmured, “you know that? wouldn’t even bother playing against you if i were them,” that does it- ignore the voice in your head telling you this is wrong, that this isn’t real- and kiss him, feverish and hot, rough and quick. he grabs hold of your hips, tight and greedy, with an intensity you’d only ever seen on the court. “we shouldn’t,” it comes out in a pant between kisses, your voice heady, “art, wait-“ “fuck waiting,” he mumbles, pulling you back to kiss you again, your back hitting the wall behind you. he tastes like vodka and redbull and mint gum, your lips tingling against his. a startled gasp leaves you as he halfway picks you up, your shoulder knocking a trophy from the wall with a clang. “shit, i’m sorry-“ “bedroom,” you cut him off, sliding out of his arms to pull him down the hallway, stumbling steps taken between messy kisses.

he laid you back on your bed, his kisses getting sloppier the needier he got, his hands anywhere he could reach. “these fucking legs,” he choked out, his hands grabbing at your thighs, lips trailing down your neck, “gonna be the death of me,” “shut up and fuck me,” you pulled his lips back to yours, eager for more. your body was taut with need by the time he finally rolled on a condom, ignoring your chastising remark when he pulled it from his wallet, and fucked into you, stretching you out more than you’d expected. “art, fuck,” you moaned against his lips, back arching. “oh,” he pulled away just enough that you could see the moment his eyes rolled back, his lips swollen and red, all blissed out as he rolled his hips. “oh, fuck me, that feels good,” his hands came to your thighs as his thrusts grew faster, his fingers leaving little marks across your skin, roaming pointlessly until he stretched your legs up, holding them above you, the new angle making you squeeze him even tighter. “oh, right there,” you were breathless, reaching between your parted thighs to circle your clit, desperate for your high. “you like that?” he panted, pressing a kiss to your calf, “tell me, baby,” in any other situation, you’d have rolled your eyes at his cockiness, but it only served to bring you closer. “yes, feels so fucking good,” you nodded, shameless and eager, “oh! oh, art, right fuckin there-“ he fucked you even harder, your muscles burning as he held your legs higher, a scream nearly leaving your throat as you came, trembling beneath him. “oh, jesus-“ he followed you almost immediately, filling the condom with a moan, his hips stilling slowly, “god, that was good,”

he slowly pulled your legs back down, pulling out of you and disposing of the condom as he caught his breath. your eyes were heavy with exhaustion, a serene feeling enveloping you as you curled up into bed, yawning quietly. “you can stay over,” you offered- something you never did- “if you want,” “yeah, okay,” he nodded, curling up behind you, his hands resting on your waist, “g’night, then,” “mm, night art,” you hummed, eyes closing.

you woke up only a couple of hours later, blinking into the darkness of your room, the spot beside you cold. your brows furrowed as you sat up, glancing around, only to find art gone, as well as the pile of clothes he’d shed earlier that evening. “what the fuck?” you mumbled to yourself, checking the time on your phone, rubbing your eyes. just under the 3:14am, there was a text from art. ‘sorry i dipped. don’t think we should do that again, wasn’t in the contract and all that. night!’ your face stung, anger and humiliation filling your veins. you slammed your phone down on the nightstand, pulling the pillow over your head and trying your best to get some sleep. he was right, you thought. it wasn’t real, so why pretend? only five months and 29 days to go, anyway.

[jesuistrestriste]

sorry another gooner!art thought... gooner!art would beg you with tears rolling down his cheeks to make a pocketpussy based on your pussy lmaoo even if you're not long distance he just can't stand not having access to you even for 1 second after he's had you. AND TRUST HE'D MAKE OUT WITH IT FIRST THING!!

i absolutely see him asking this of you. i totally see it. he doesn’t care if it’s gimicky or stupid or pointless (because he sees you nearly everyday anyway), but he wants it so bad.

the second he gets gifted it and is alone, he’s holding it in his two hands and laying flat on his belly, inspecting the outside and tracing the silicone folds with his fingertips like he’s scared he could break it. sucks his fingers to slick them up and then slides them deep inside. he can’t help but moan and tremble when he realizes how accurate it is. it’s fucking perfect—it’s everything he hoped it would be.

he pulls his digits out and then immediately starts to lap over the rubbery flesh, closing his eyes and pretending he can actually taste you on his tongue. fuck, fuck, fuck. little whimpers tumble from his occupied mouth as he instinctively starts to roll his hips down into his mattress.

“s’good, s’wet.. aahm.. s’good, need more..”

doesn’t take long before he’s gracelessly tugging down his boxers and shoving the toy underneath him. he curses when he pushes his leaking tip in, and he smears his precome all over the inside of your artificial walls.

feels just like you. he thinks he might die, right then and there. he wants to call you and hear your voice, but youre busy, so he settles for hearing the wet squelching that comes with his pumping hips.

“take it, take it, take it,” he whines out in the same way the guys in his favorite porn vids do, “g-god, you’re so tight, i love you, please don’t ever leave me.. can’t live without you, can’t live without this, i need t’fuck you harder, please—“

he pictures you under him, giving him permission to go faster—deeper, so he pushes his face into his bedding and holds the cylinder like he holds your hips when he gets desperate and close. white-knuckled, shaky, begging to not be torn away.

���ohhh, yeah—! oh, im.. i think im gonna.. AH—! im coming, im coming—!”

it’s more of a wail when he says it all, but that’s as much as he can do when he slams his length as far inside as it can go and promptly fills the custom toy with his load. his pelvis bucks with each wave, each rope of it spilling out, and he drools over his sheets. lazily fucks it until he’s hypersensitive and can hardly keep moving. the silicone makes the most obscenely wet noise when he pulls his cock out, and it almost sounds like when he does it for real with you. it’s almost enough to get him swelling and aching again, but not quite.

he’ll save the rest of himself for when he sees you tomorrow.

[jordiemeow]

PLS elaborate on pride and prejudice! art??? my shayla???

shoutout to whoever sent the original req i love you. writing this in car very rushed i fear just Thinking

mr. donaldson who moved into the estate of netherfield park next to your family's. an eligible bachelor according to your mother, the sole male heir to his family's fortune. an entire £5,000 a year!

mr. donaldson who you officially met at the ball in meryton, alongside his closest friend, mr zweig, and his two sisters. well-mannered but a little awkward in his own charming sort of way, and very handsome.

mr. donaldson who couldn't wait to ask you to dance, despite his family's disapproval. he steps on your toes a few times, but the bashful smile he offers as an apology each time makes the pain worth it.

mr. donaldson who invited you to tea with his sisters so that he could see you again without coming off as too eager. when you catch a cold from the rain on the ride over, he spends the next few days at your bedside to nurse you back to health, brushing off your complaints that you don't want to spread your illness.

mr. donaldson who brings you flowers each day you're sick (sometimes a little crushed from being in his satchel) and insists he should hold your teacup while you drink. "your hands are shaking. allow me, my lady," but it's really just an excuse to sit on the edge of your bed with you.

mr. donaldson who writes you letters despite the fact longbourn is only a few miles from his own home. he delivers them in person to your door, but never stays to chat. he hasn't worked up the courage to ask your father for permission to court you.

mr. donaldson who lights up every time he catches a glimpse of you at high society events, whether it is a luncheon or a ball. he always looks rather flustered when asking to fill your dance card, but as soon as you're moving through the crowds together and you're smiling up at him so sweetly, the tension leaves his shoulders.

mr. donaldson who is absolutely heartbroken when patrick and his sisters tell him you have no interest in him and he should find a young lady with a better fortune. he spends several months back in london, and none of the letters he attempts to write you ever make it to you.

mr. donaldson who finally sees you again following a long spring and summer of fruitless pining. you're just as beautiful as he remembers, and he has to resist the urge not to pull out the heirloom ring he's carried in his pocket ever since your first meeting at meryton.

mr. donaldson who finally declares his intentions to court you to your parents. your mother's approval is a given due to her longing to climb the social ladder, but it's your father who gave him sweaty palms. following a long discussion about how he absolutely worships the ground you walk on and would be honoured to call himself your husband, your father agrees.

mr. donaldson who brushes off any mention of a dowry. he has more than enough incentive to make you his wife already, and he does everything by the book. chaperones present where required, tea with your families, and bringing you little gifts ranging from jewellery to a new stationery box to keep exchanging letters.

mr. donaldson who flushes scarlet when you begin to affectionately dub him as "artie" the closer the pair of you get. he doesn't even bat an eye when patrick makes fun of him for the nickname. he just thinks everything you say is lovely.

mr. donaldson who asks for your hand in marriage less than two months later. it's not the most romantic proposal ever, just during a walk on his estate during which he couldn't keep it bottled in anymore. but the impassioned speech he gave you, and the way he dropped to one knee and took your hands in his, was enough of a gesture in itself.

mr. donaldson who marries you in a joint ceremony alongside mr zweig and your younger sister. despite being surrounded by your families and every nobleperson your mother could think of inviting, he's focused entirely on you. gazing at you as if the sun rises and sets solely for you, even as his friend delivers his speech.

mr. donaldson who insists on writing his own vows just to tell you how much he loves you. he rambles on for so long that someone has to cut him off. despite blushing furiously, he doesn't regret his display of adoration in the slightest.

mr. donaldson who is very happy to consummate the marriage with you, and is surprisingly well-built under all those tailored suits. he spends the night nestled between your thighs, showing you exactly what else that romantic tongue of his is capable of.

[ghostgirl-22]

this is unfortunately very self indulgent but currently thinking about art and reader losing their virginities to each other and it’s all just soft and sweet and gentle and clumsy and giggly and so so full of love :’(

sorry so delayed— this is kind of a fun and much less daunting format for x reader. I hope you enjoy it <3

Stanford! Art who couldn’t keep his eyes off of you when he spotted you in the audience at one of Tashi’s tennis games. He waved at you and at first you thought he meant your friend. you think there’s no way this cute blond white guy would be interested in you. Until he shuffled across the stands to awkwardly introduce himself to you. 

Stanford!Art who asks if you’ll go on a date with him, not knowing it’s your first ever date. He wants it to be a surprise and when he takes you to a rock climbing gym, you both giggle when he discovers that you’re so afraid of heights you can’t get off the ground.  

Stanford!Art who falls in love with you right away but doesn’t want to admit it because he doesn’t want you to think there’s something wrong with him. 

Stanford!Art who seeks you out and waves at you from the court during all his matches from that point on. 

Stanford! Art who’s actually your first real boyfriend. Though you’re kind of afraid to admit that to him. You’re both 21 and you’ve always been shy and felt overlooked by boys until him. And you really don’t want him to think there’s something wrong with you (there isn’t).  

Stanford! Art who’s also your first real kiss. The only other time you’ve done it was on stage as Beatrice in your high school’s production of Much Ado About Nothing. He says you have the softest lips he’s ever kissed. And asks if you’re okay after because you can’t stop grinning. you just nod, still finding it hard to believe that any of this is happening to you.

Stanford!Art who’s too shy to initiate the conversation about sex. He’s never done it before, he admits. Face going red. And you’re incredibly relieved admitting you’ve never done it before either.  

Stanford!Art who wants to make it really special. He goes all out, cleaning his dorm room from top to bottom. Asking Patrick and Tashi what he should do… if he should play music… which leads to him burning a sex mixtape with all your favourite songs and then scrapping it because it feels a little icky.  He overdoes it on condoms because he has a membership at one of those bulk stores. Probably sprays too much febreeze all over his room especially over the tennis shoes Patrick left there. 

Stanford!Art who takes you to dinner at some extremely fancy restaurant with tiny portions where all the people are old and stuffy and rich and the food isn’t even that good. The two of you stop at McDonald’s on the way back to the dorm.

Stanford!Art who gets hard the moment you undo the tie on your wrap dress. You didn’t know what to wear so your friend took you to Victorias Secret to help you buy something cute and comfortable, not that it makes you any less anxious when you undress. 

Stanford!Art who gets so excited kissing you and getting to touch your boobs and your ass. He gets so overwhelmed by how tight and warm you feel as he’s gently attempting to breach you that he comes when he’s barely halfway inside. He’s so embarrassed but you think it’s kind of adorable and honestly it makes you feel less self conscious about being so exposed in front of him. You tell him it’s okay and get him to stop beating himself up for not being perfect. Both of you eventually relax and giggle about how seriously you’ve been taking this whole thing. 

Stanford!Art who still really wants to make you feel good. He did a lot of research and asks if you’re okay with him going down on you. 

Stanford!Art who gives you your first ever orgasm by spelling his name over and over, his tongue slipping in and out of your cunt. He feels you lose it the second time he gets to the ‘S.’ And it secretly makes him feel so proud of himself.

Stanford!Art who gently pets your hair as you fall asleep on his chest. He feels so lucky to get to have this experience with you and he can’t wait to do it again.   

[stanart4clearskin]

queen i need more of ur stanford!art and best friend!reader from ur post on march eighth. i think abt it everyday it’s so good

it was hard watching your best friend ex-best friend have it all. he was the golden boy at stanford and everyone loved him. everyone wanted to be his friend, wanted to be something to him. it was so hard because you used to be everything to him and now you were nothing. you watched as art cycled through new best friends every few months and couldn’t help but smile. you knew it was awful to be happy when his friendships fell through, but it was what he deserved after what he did to you.

art had quickly learned that real friends were hard to come by. when you’re sought after, people will do whatever they need to do in order to get you to like them. countless people—who art thought could be real friends—showed their true colors after knowing him for a few months. they got comfortable and stopped putting up the facade that art first fell for. after his first three friendships went to shit, he sort of just stopped trying.

between class, tennis practice, and the occasional party, art stopped going out. he didn’t have anyone who he could just hangout with, so he stayed in his dorm bored out of his mind. during these mine numbing hours, art couldn’t help but think about you. when you had been friends, he’d usually be at your dorm watching a movie and taking shots every time a character said a specific word. art felt awful about the shitty things he’d said when he last saw you, but it was easier than being honest.

if art could back in time he would’ve told you the truth. he’d say that he knows he’s awful for never keeping up his end of his friend ship. he’d say that he got insecure when you started making new friends so in his mind the easiest way to cope was by making his own new friends and ignoring you. he’d say that not a day goes by where he misses you and that sometimes he goes to parties just to watch you across the room.

but art knows he’ll never say those things to you.

—

after midterms were over, all you wanted to do was lock yourself in your dorm and sleep all day, but your friends had other plans. after much convincing and some threatening, your friends had persuaded you to put on a hot outfit and come with them to a local frat party. although you’d never admit it out loud, you hoped that art would be there so that he could apologize for the things he’d done and said. or maybe so you could stare at him across the room. either was fine for you.

the party was sweaty and loud, much like any frat party. students were either making out with each other on any surface they could or downing alcohol like there was no tomorrow. your friends dragged you into the kitchen and poured shots which you all downed. a few rounds of beer pong later, you eventually ended up alone. some of your friends were whisked away by their partners or found someone to hook up with upstairs.

as you awkwardly held a half full solo cup and people watched from your spot on a couch, you noticed a familiar head of blond hair. it was hard to miss art in a party like this. he was tall and his hair always seemed to be glowing in a way that drew your eyes to it. you watched as he stood around on a circle, laughing with his friends. your heart clenched at the sight because once upon a time that had been you.

after downing your drink, you headed back to the kitchen for a refill, only to come face to face with your ex-best friend. his blue eyes were wide in shock as he stared at you. he’d wanted to talk to you sometime during this party, but he had yet to mentally prepare for the moment.

“h-hi,” he stammered, nervously licking his lips. his face was already red but you didn’t know if it was from the alcohol or from seeing you. you hoped it was the latter.

you gave him a tight lipped smile. sure he’d screwed you over, but it was nice to be polite to everyone—even to the people you were mad at. “hi.”

art glanced over your shoulder, as if expecting someone to have been with you. “where are your friends?” he asked, both hands clutching his solo cup like a lifeline.

“not here,” you answered shortly, turning your attention away from art and to the drinks. art frowned slightly as you topped your cup off. he wasn’t used to you giving him one-word answers or your deadpan expression.

he nodded. “so you’re just by yourself then?” he watched as you stiffened slightly at his question. “you could hangout with me,” he offered.

you couldn’t help but scoff at his audacity—you relished in the way he winced. “no thanks,” you said, turning on your heels and storming out of the kitchen.

—

after that interaction, art couldn’t get you off his mind. countless times he drafted up a long apology text, but he could never get himself to send it. he desperately wanted you back in his life and one night after one too many drinks, he was determined to get you back.

it was around three in the morning when you woke up from a text from art. your heart raced at the notification because it was something you hadn’t seen in years.

i know i was a shitty awful friend to you. i know i don’t deserve your forgiveness, but i just wanted to tell you that i’m sorry. i’m sorry that i stopped responding to your texts or never tried to make plans with you. i know this sounds so stupid, but i was insecure and afraid. i saw that you were making new friends and i was afraid that you’d leave me for them so i figured to ease the heartbreak by leaving you first. in hindsight i was stupid and idiotic and dumb and i wish i’d never done that. i wish i’d just held on to you a little tighter so that we’d still be friends today. you’re still my best friend and i love you, i’m sorry.

by the time you were two sentences in, you had already started crying. you had missed art so much and it was a relief to see that he had missed you two. you knew that starting your friendship again wasn’t going to be easy, but you missed your best friend.

there were so many times were i tried to hate you but i couldn’t. even after everything you put me through i could never hate you because you’re my best friend. i don’t think any amount of time apart could ever change that. i wish you had known that i’d never leave you for any other friend. you’ve been with me through thick and thing and i love you. no other friendship could even come close to that. i miss you.

[t1ts-4-donaldson]

NSFW: Stanford Artrick x Reader blowjobs

Sucking Stanford Art and Patrick off at the same time. Taking turns with their dicks sucking one while pumping the other.

Both men know they'll stop when you want, they can tell your limits anyways and when not to push them most if not all times you'll let them be rough, you liked the way they controlled you and they loved how malleable you were in all aspects of life especially during sex.

Patrick keeps a steady pace bobbing your head up and down his flushed dick, he stops and keeps your head in place halfway down his shaft holding you still.

“you look so fucking cute” he jerks your head down once making you gag drool coats his shaft down to his balls you pull back gasping for air wiping tears slipping down the apples of your cheeks.

“she’s gorgeous” Art whimpers eyes wide ogling down at your limp form, feeling bad that you'd been on your knees for so long overlooking it when you suck his tip, rolling his eyes in pleasure when you suck his pink head withdrawing with a pop, he squirms groaning loudly, quickly clutching your motionless wrist pumping his weeping cock again

“Hold still” Patrick takes his phone tugging your head back in place fingers tangled in your hair taking pictures of you posing with his cock in your mouth, red lipstick painted over your mouth, mascara dripping down your lash-line, eyes glazed over and throat sore from how hard Art skull fucked you.

Patrick and Art set it as their home screens, they love to match ♥️

[jiimeniita]

need him baaadd omfg

[tacobacoyeet]

Hello it’s me again

ART X READER

so basically it’s when they’re at boarding school and reader is kinda awkward but friendly but kinda an outcast, art is in like the popular group and stuff with Patrick and reader is ‘friends’ with the group but they all kinda bully reader but like don’t but they do but they don’t, anyways so art doesn’t really bully reader but he always laughs along and stuff ANYWHO one day they’re all lounging around in one of the community room and one of the girls in their friend group goes, “omg did you see her play today at practice, it was so bad” and one of them makes a joke that she was too busy drooling over art and they all tease art and then one of them has an idea that art should ‘entertain’ reader until a certain tournament so they have a better chance of winning, and art reluctantly agrees to it, kinda weirded out by reader in general. So he hangs out with her and then goes back to his friend group everyday to tell them everything and they all laugh about it and now she tries to flirt with him but as time goes on art actually starts to like reader, and really falls for her. Then when the tournament comes around maybe the team looses still because of her and everyone is pissed and then when she walks into the community room it goes quiet cause everyone is talking about it and she just goes into the corner to study while everyone glares at her. One of the girls on the team that are also in arts friendgroup rushes up to art with the rest of his friends behind her and yells at him because he was supposed to butter reader up in order to win and then reader runs out crying because she heard everything and then art reprimands the group for blaming her and him because all they do at practice is ignore her and she can’t get any better if she’s neglected and how they pushed this onto him when she’s really just a really cool girl. Then he rushes out to find reader and then they get into a screaming match but then they kiss and happily ever after cause this is #spring and a #fairytale

I’m sorry this is like my 4th request 😔 I just love your writing style sm

until the tournament | art donaldson x reader

a/n: thank you angel! hope this does your wonderful request justice!!

warnings: bullying, not proofread

The first time you cried at Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy, it was over a dropped sandwich and a shoeprint in your lunchbox.

You hadn’t even liked the sandwich that much—turkey, the wrong kind of mustard, bread already going stale—but the weight of someone’s heel crushing through the plastic lid had been enough to set something loose in your chest. It was only your second week, and you hadn’t figured out yet where to sit at lunch or how to tie your shoelaces fast enough after practice or what to say when the other girls laughed about something that wasn’t funny.

So you cried. Quietly. In the farthest corner of the outdoor benches, head ducked like a kid in a storm. The bench was cold, even through your uniform skirt. The wind carried someone else’s laughter like it was meant for you and missed. Somewhere, a whistle blew—sharp and shrill—and it felt like it echoed down the center of your chest.

Art Donaldson saw you, but he didn’t stop. Just looked for a second longer than he probably meant to, then turned away to where Patrick was already shouting something about backhands and protein bars.

That was four years ago.

Now you’re sixteen and you’ve learned not to cry over sandwich boxes.

Now when they laugh, you laugh too.

Even if it’s about you.

Especially if it’s about you.

Now you know where to sit, even if no one ever saves you a seat. You know how to tie your laces faster than anyone else, double-knotted with the frayed ends tucked tight. You know how to nod when someone makes a joke at your expense—just enough to seem in on it, never enough to seem hurt.

You’re not friends with them. Not really. But you orbit the group like a borrowed moon—glowing just enough to be useful, just close enough to be kept. Never quite belonging to their sky, but still tethered by the invisible gravity of routine, of silence, of needing to be somewhere. You know that pulling away would leave a bruise too deep for anyone else to see.

Patrick talks the loudest. The other girls smile with their teeth and pass you looks like notes you’re not allowed to open. Once, one of them asked where you got your skirt, and when you said your mom mailed it from home, they shared a look like they’d just unwrapped a secret. Another gave you a granola bar after drills and said it looked like you needed it—smiling, syrup-sweet, like it was kindness instead of a blade.

And Art? Art laughs along. Always a second behind the punchline. Like he knows he should, even when he doesn’t want to.

Sometimes, when he thinks no one’s looking, he glances your way. Not long enough to mean anything. But not short enough to mean nothing, either.

You pretend not to notice.

And you pretend not to care.

Because at Mark Rebellato, you survive best when you feel nothing at all.

The community room always smells like chlorine and reheated pasta. The couches are sagging, the carpet is worn, and the ceiling fan clicks with every third spin, but no one seems to care. It’s where everyone goes after practice—sweaty, loud, half-asleep with their shoes kicked off and protein shakes melting on the floor.

You sit on the edge of the room like always, notebook open, textbook in your lap, headphones snug over your ears—your walkman clipped to your waistband, rewinding the same scratched cassette you always turn to when the world gets too loud. You pretend to study while your eyes flick across the page, but your ears stay tuned to the noise anyway, letting the music blur the edges of their laughter.

Patrick’s sprawled across the couch like he owns it. Art is next to him, one arm thrown over the back cushion, legs stretched long in front of him. The rest of the group is scattered—elbows and ponytails and empty water bottles.

“Did you see her at practice today?” one of the girls says, too loud. You don’t have to look up to know she’s talking about you, but you tune her out. She either thinks you can't hear her, or she doesn't care if you do.

“She totally biffed that volley,” another chimes in. “Like, cartoon-level wipeout.”

Someone snorts. "She was too busy watching Art."

Laughter breaks out like a ripple. That's when you turn your music up loud enough to drown them out. You don't care to hear them anymore.

“Should’ve asked for his autograph,” someone adds.

“Oh please,” the first girl says, “she’s obsessed with him. It’s actually kind of sad.”

“Hey,” someone else says suddenly, mischief curling around her voice. “I have an idea.”

There’s a pause, the kind that means trouble.

“What if Art hung out with her a little? You know, keep her happy until the tournament. Give us a better shot.”

Art laughs, a short breath through his nose. “What, like—entertain her?”

“Exactly,” Patrick says. “Kill her with kindness. Or whatever it is you do.”

More laughter. A rustle of agreement.

Art doesn’t answer right away.

But he doesn’t say no, either.

The next afternoon, he finds you on the benches near the courts—same spot you always go when practice ends early and the sun still feels warm enough to chase the ache out of your legs.

You’ve got your notebook open, pen resting between your fingers, headphones on again. You don’t notice him at first.

He clears his throat, exaggerated. Twice.

You flinch when you finally look up, pulling one side of your headphones off. “Oh. Hi?”

Art shifts his weight. Leans one shoulder against the fence. “Hey. Just, uh… figured I’d say hi. See what you’re working on.”

You blink. “Homework.”

“Cool. I love homework.” He pauses. “That’s a lie.”

You nod slowly, brows knitting. He’s never talked to you like this before. Not without the rest of them.

“I didn’t know you liked sitting out here,” he says, squinting at the horizon like it's part of the assignment.

You shrug. “It’s quiet.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

The silence stretches. He scratches the back of his neck.

You wait. Patient, polite. Wondering if he’s lost a bet or something.

Because it sure doesn’t feel like he came here for you.

Art clears his throat again. “You, uh… played well yesterday.”

You look at him like he’s just said the sky is green.

“I fell. Twice.”

He shrugs. “Happens.”

You tilt your head. “Are you okay?”

The question seems to catch him off guard. “What?”

“You’re acting kind of weird. Like… unusually nice. No offense.”

A muscle in his jaw jumps. “None taken.”

You wait a second longer. Then, like flipping a switch: “Do you want to sit?”

He does. Hesitantly. Like the bench might bite him.

You both stare out at the empty courts. The sun makes everything a little too bright.

“I like your headphones,” he says eventually.

“They’re from 1997.”

“Vintage, then.”

You smile, small and surprised.

He doesn’t expect it.

And he doesn’t know why it feels like he just passed a test he didn’t study for.

That night, in the boys' dorm lounge, Art sits half-slouched on the couch while Patrick paces the room with a tennis ball in hand, bouncing it off the wall and catching it with one palm like he’s conducting a very casual interrogation.

“Well?” Patrick prods. “Did she bite? Did she fall in love with your soulful silence?”

Art shrugs. “We talked. She’s… weird. In a good way, I guess. She’s kind of funny.”

Patrick snorts. “Funny how? Like, funny haha or funny sad?”

“I don’t know, man. She made this joke about vintage headphones.”

The other guys laugh like that’s the punchline.

One of them flops onto the floor dramatically. “Dude, if you end up catching feelings for the homework gremlin, I swear.”

Art rolls his eyes. “Relax. I’m just doing what you guys asked. Keeping her happy until the tournament.”

But when he says it, it feels wrong in his mouth. Like he’s repeating someone else’s line.

Still, he leans back and lets the noise of the lounge carry him, pretending it doesn’t matter.

Pretending it won’t.

The next few days start to fold around a rhythm.

He finds you near the vending machines after practice, offers you the last red Gatorade without asking if it’s your favorite—somehow already knowing it is.

You let him walk you back to the dorms. You make fun of the way he tapes his grip, the dramatic way he groans after drills. He teases you for your annotated notebook margins and the way your socks never match.

It’s easy. Easier than he thought it’d be.

Until you start flirting.

Soft, blink-and-you-miss-it things at first—like brushing your hand against his when you pass him a pen, or bumping your shoulder into his on purpose, laughter tucked behind your teeth.

One afternoon, he catches you watching him stretch from across the court. You don’t look away fast enough.

The next day, he lingers beside your desk in the study room a few beats longer than necessary. You ask if he wants help with algebra. He says no but pulls up a chair anyway.

You compliment his backhand form. He forgets how to respond.

He doesn’t go back to the lounge that night. Or the next.

By the third day, you’re under the bleachers together, sneakers kicked off and the backs of your hands brushing on accident and then not so accidentally. The courts glow in the late sun, soft and hazy.

You’ve been trading favorite songs and cafeteria horror stories when your voice gets quiet. Too quiet.

“It’s weird,” you say, fingers picking at the rubber edge of your notebook. “Being seen.”

He doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head slightly, waiting.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever… tried. Not really.” You let out a half-laugh that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Maybe it’s easier when you’re the joke.”

He watches you a beat too long.

Then nudges your shoulder.

“They shouldn’t get to make you feel like that,” he says, and it’s not loud but it’s sure.

You look at him like you’re not sure how to believe it. Like it’s something you’ve never been told before. Like it's something he shouldn't be allowed to say.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

And it’s the first time he forgets why he started this.

The softness keeps unfolding like pages he never meant to read.

You share your music with him—one earbud each, knees brushing, both of you pretending not to notice how your shoulders keep inching closer. He hates your taste in music. He doesn’t tell you.

One night, he finds you asleep on your notebook in the library. You’ve underlined every third word in pink. He watches you breathe for a minute longer than necessary, then tucks a hoodie over your shoulders and walks away before you wake up.

He starts bringing you extra granola bars. Pretends he “accidentally” grabbed too many. You pretend to believe him.

He starts looking for you on the court before every practice, just to see where you are. Just to see if you're looking for him too.

You always are.

And then the week of the tournament arrives.

Everything at Mark Rebellato gets sharper when the stakes are high. Voices carry farther. Shoes squeak louder. Coaches bark orders like their lives depend on it. Even the sun feels more blinding.

There are extra drills. Extra laps. Extra eyes watching everything you do.

You try to focus—on your serves, your footwork, your posture. You try not to notice how quiet Art’s become.

He doesn’t meet your eyes as often. Doesn’t joke as much. There’s a kind of electricity humming under his skin like he’s stuck between wanting to win and wanting to tell someone he doesn't care.

You ask if he’s okay. He says he’s just tired.

You believe him. Because you want to.

And when you miss a shot during the second round of practice matches, you hear the scoff from one of the girls behind you. You don’t look. But you feel it.

Art doesn’t say anything.

That hurts worse.

You lose in the third round of the tournament. Not spectacularly. Just enough to sting. A wide shot here, a misread ball there. You try to hold it together through the match, through the post-game shake, through the claps on the back that don't feel like they mean it.

No one says anything as you walk off the court.

But you feel it in the way no one looks at you.

By the time you walk into the community room that night, it’s already started. The hush. The way laughter cuts off mid-sentence.

You make your way to the farthest corner with your books. Your hands shake when you unzip your bag. You try not to drop anything.

It doesn’t matter. They’re all watching you. Even when they pretend not to be.

You can hear them whispering. You don’t even need the words.

Then one voice rises above the others.

“You were supposed to keep her together, Art!”

You freeze.

It’s one of the girls—one of the ones who’d laughed the loudest that first day.

“You were supposed to butter her up or something! We said keep her calm so we could actually win this thing.”

And that’s when you hear it. Like the floor drops out from under you. Like every laugh, every kindness, every afternoon on the benches has been rewound and played back with the volume off. You hear it, and suddenly your hands won’t stop shaking.

What it was. What you were.

What it meant.

You don’t look at him. You don’t want to know if he’s surprised or sorry or silent.

You just run.

And when the door slams behind you, Art doesn’t hesitate. He turns to the group, fire catching behind his eyes.

Something inside him snaps—something he didn’t even know was still holding on. Maybe it’s the way she didn’t look at him before running. Maybe it’s how quiet the room went, like they all knew exactly what they’d done and didn’t care. He hears his own voice rise and doesn’t try to stop it. For the first time, it feels good to speak up. It feels like truth clawing its way out of his chest.

“She didn’t lose it for us,” he snaps. “You did. You ignore her in practice, you treat her like a joke, and then you expect her to pull off miracles?”

No one speaks.

“She’s better than any of you even see. And yeah, I talked to her because you told me to. But I stayed because I wanted to. Because she’s smart and kind and actually tries. Which is more than I can say for the rest of you.”

He leaves before they can answer. Before they can say anything that might make him stay.

He runs out after you.

You’re already halfway down the hill behind the dorms, gravel crunching under your shoes, your lungs burning like they’ve turned inside out. You don’t care where you’re going—just away. Away from the stares and the silence and the sound of your own heartbeat trying to climb out of your chest.

He calls your name once.

You keep walking.

He calls it again. Louder.

And then his hand wraps gently around your wrist, not tight, just enough to stop you.

“Let go,” you snap, voice shaking.

“Just—please. Please listen—”

“To what? To more lies? To more of you pretending I ever mattered?”

Your voice cracks, loud and raw and too real in the dark.

“I never mattered. Not to them. Not to you. I was a joke to you, Art.”

“You weren’t,” he breathes. “You weren’t. I didn’t mean for it to start like that—God, I didn’t even want to be part of it—but then you—”

“Then I what?”

“You mattered. To me.”

You laugh. Harsh. It feels like it tears your throat on the way out. “So what? I was your project? Your personal charity case? Did you write about me in your group chats? Compare notes?”

“No.”

“Did you tell them how stupid I sounded when I tried to flirt with you?”

“No.”

“Did you pity me?”

“No!”

The word echoes, punches between you.

He looks wrecked. Hair a mess. Chest rising and falling too fast.

“I liked you,” he says, so softly you almost miss it. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t mean to. But I did. I do.”

Silence rings.

He takes a step closer.

“You made it easy to be real. And I didn’t know how to handle that. I was stupid and scared and—”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I know,” he says again. His voice is breaking.

“I thought you saw me,” you whisper.

“I did,” he says. “I do.”

And then he kisses you.

Not soft. Not delicate.

It’s desperate. It’s messy. It’s the kind of kiss that only comes after too much silence and too many lies and everything finally, finally snapping.

And somehow, it’s the only thing that feels like the truth.

You don't pull away.

Not when his hand cups your cheek. Not when his forehead rests against yours, breathless and trembling. Not even when he says your name like it’s something he’s still learning how to say right.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The quiet wraps around you both like the dusk settling in.

Then, softly:

“I meant it,” he says. “All of it.”

You nod, but it still takes a minute for your voice to come back. “You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

“But I’m really glad you chased me.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips. “I’d do it again.”

You link your pinky with his without thinking. It feels small. It feels steady.

And under the stars, beside the gravel path behind the dorms, with hearts pounding and eyes still red—you let yourself believe in something soft again.

Just this once.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @kharwreck @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl

[castiwls]

Sugar mommy!Tashi, who vowed that she would never let anything come between her and getting Art his US Open title, but then you appeared, and she had to have you to herself.

You'd barely babysat three times before she's offering to drive you home, convincing you to let her into your tiny apartment her lips pulling into a frown.

That wont do.

"You don't really want to live here?" She'd coo, backing you against the worn-down counter. "I could make your life so much easier, give you anything you want." Her fingers slowly trailing across your stomach before dipping under your waistband.

A grin pulled at her lips as you all but melted at the first touch of her fingers. "Just think about it..." Her lips brushed your ear as your eyes fluttered pleasure bubbling in your stomach.

"Anything you want..."

She'd had you caught in her web by the time you'd fallen apart, hand gripping her shoulder as you'd agreed blindly to whatever she was saying.

Tashi was quick, efficent as always. The next day she's calling. "We want you to move in." Having a live-in nanny was easier anyway for them - mainly her.

New credit cards found their way into your purse, and expensive gifts and dinners became a new norm.

Any chance she got to shower you with gifts and affection, she would. It was like a drug, the way you'd flush and stumble over your own words as she'd spoil you before taking you apart on the bed she'd given you.

And it's not like Art particularly cared...not when she was happy to share.

[littlesoulshine]

meet art's new wife જ⁀➴

𖠁   housewife!reader who wears sheer satin robes, kitten heels, and a constant look of disapproval. art trails behind you like an obedient puppy, always trying to earn your praise. you never raise your voice—you don’t need to....all it takes is a disappointed sigh and he’s on his knees, begging for another chance to make you happy.

𖠁   housewife!reader who gives art the cold shoulder when he forgets something small, like taking the trash out or fluffing your pillows right. he sulks around the house, trailing you, murmuring “i’m sorry, baby” like a prayer. you finally give in and let him crawl between your legs with a smug little, “are you ready to be useful again?” and his eyes get all glassy.

𖠁   housewife!reader who makes art sit in on your weekly girl lunches just so he can carry your purse and refill your wine. the other wives giggle behind their glasses, whispering about how “whipped” he is—but he doesn’t care. you let him rest his head on your thigh under the table and stroke his hair while talking over him. you’re his whole world. he just likes being near.

𖠁   housewife!reader who dresses like a dream and argues like a demon. pink nails tapping on the counter, voice like poisoned honey. art doesn’t even flinch—he thrives in the submission. you call him an idiot, and he smiles. you roll your eyes at his affection, and he kisses your cheek anyway. he likes being your punching bag, especially when he knows you’ll reward him after.

𖠁   housewife!reader who makes art wait at the door like a sad little puppy when he comes home late. you don’t even yell. you just raise an eyebrow, fold your arms, and he immediately starts rambling—“i swear, baby, traffic was—please don’t be mad—i missed you—i love you—” and you just hum, already walking away. he follows like the lovesick fool he is.

𖠁   housewife!reader who loves him, but refuses to let him forget who’s in charge. and he doesn’t want to. he likes being reminded. he likes the leash. likes how you tug it gently with your tone, your look, your hands in his hair. tashi made him feel small in the wrong ways. you make him feel small in the right ones. safe. loved. and completely yours.

𖠁   housewife!reader who lets lily paint her nails and put curlers in her hair while art makes you both lunch. she babbles about school, and when she says, “i wanna be a wife just like you,” you glance at art—who’s smiling like he’s won the lottery—and say, “then pick someone who knows how to serve a woman, honey.”

special tags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa

notes: thank you to my love @rafesplaymate for inspiring me to write this!

[love-quinn]

THE GOOD WITCH

[coming soon!]

featuring . . . ! patrick zweig, art donaldson, remus lupin, rafe cameron, steve harrington, spencer reid, aaron hotchner, tasm!peter parker, dodge mason, dave lizewski

─── hello hello how are we ??? i’ve been a huge maisie peters fan for a few years now, and since she’s been teasing her next album i thought i’d do something fun to kind of commemorate the good witch before we move on to MP3. i’ve also been experiencing some major writers block :/// so! to combat that, here are some fics that are VERY VERY loosely inspired by some of the songs from the album <333 i hope you enjoy !!

TRACK ONE : THE GOOD WITCH [patrick zweig x reader]

when all i do is think about the past, create a universe that you can live in

you’ve done a lot of growing in the 4 years you and patrick have been broken up. you’re hoping he has as well because you’re still desperately in love with him.

TRACK TWO : COMING OF AGE [dave lizewski x reader]

baby i am the iliad, of course you couldn’t read me. so i’ll leave you behind but that don’t mean it’s easy

dave’s had a crush on you since he could remember, but he’d driven you away with his superhero duties. you’re the TA of his class and he’s determined to get it right this time.

TRACK THREE : WATCH [spencer reid x reader]

nobody actually happy and healthy has ever felt so desperate to prove it

you’re trying to show the team that you’re fine after spencer’s return from prison. if you were coping well, you probably wouldn’t have to try so hard.

TRACK FOUR : BODY BETTER [art donaldson x reader]

i can’t help thinking has she got a better body? has she got a body better than mine?

your boyfriend patrick is convinced that you have a thing for tennis players. you say the same about him. it doesn’t help that you’re both sleeping with one.

TRACK FIVE : WANT YOU BACK [remus lupin x reader]

and what was cheap to you, to me was all i had. the issue is i know all of this and i still want you back

remus was punishing you for something that wasn’t your fault. you should hate him. unfortunately, you can’t bring yourself to.

TRACK SIX : THE BAND AND I [dodge mason x reader]

told her you were just a friend, told her i was homesick. i hadn’t thought of home twice

after moving across the country to go live with your aunt and participate in panic, you’re wary of the boy who works at the diner she owns. he’s wary of you too.

TRACK SEVEN : YOU’RE JUST A BOY (AIKTM) [aaron hotchner x reader]

don't you see what i'm giving up and you can't even text? don't be surprised now i'm giving up, god, what did you expect?

aaron isn't a bad boyfriend, he just tends to get caught up in his job. you wouldn't mind his constant abandonment so much if he didn't always forget to tell you.

TRACK EIGHT : LOST THE BREAKUP [tasm!peter parker x reader]

so, i'm feeling and i'm dealing with the heart you broke, while you do press-ups and repress us and take off her clothes.

for peter parker, you're it: the one that got away, the best thing that ever happened to him. now that you're broken up, he expects that you hate him. he could be right; you can hate someone and still need them to save your life.

TRACK NINE : WENDY [rafe cameron x reader]

then you're evasive on the phone until you're sorry on the floor. so i'm throwing you a bone cause you want me and you're sure. if i'm not careful i'll wake up and we'll be married and i'll still flinch at the sound of a door.

it's been unspoken and set in stone for as long as you'd known each other: you and rafe were in it for the long haul. you've loved rafe since you were young. now that you've grown up, your feelings haven't changed, you're just waiting for him to grow up as well.

TRACK TEN : BSC [steve harrington x reader]

i'm gonna throw you down the river, your mom can watch it over dinner, golden boy you've dropped the ball. i am annie fucking hall. if you don't love me, what was april?

steve thought breaking up with you after his experience with the upside down would be his best bet of keeping you safe. unfortunately for him, you don't know how to keep your nose out of his business.

these will come out every so often depending on how well they do lmao i hope u like them ik this is different than the stuff i’ve done so far :]]] ty to @robinsgrl and @xxepherr for letting me yap abt these as much as i like :]

[jesuistrestriste]

bunny art… please… i need him so bad… 🤍

bunny!art who always needs to be close to you, burying his face in your neck or your chest or your thighs to maintain that precious skin-to-skin contact.

bunny!art who goes red in the face when embarrassed.. the bridge of his nose flushes the darkest, like the shade of a ripe strawberry, and it spreads out across his soft cheeks.

bunny!art who's always ready to touch and be touched. constantly grabbing at your hips and whimpering. he gets hard just from the sight of you, so it's to be expected that he regularly begs for your hand down his pants or his mouth on your arousal.

bunny!art who fucks you hard and fast as soon as he's able get himself buried inside you. hunching over you from behind and pummeling your aching core as his hips go a mile a minute. the rapid slapping of skin-on-skin mixing with his broken moans and his pleas for you to let him keep going. "can't slow down, ohh, please let me stay like this.. i cant hold it much longer, i just n-need you, just like that, please keep taking me, yes yes yes-!"

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