#art Donaldson x y/n

[allbark-no-bite]

good boy.

art donaldson x reader (wc: 2.9k)

summary: as Art’s personal physical therapist, it’s your job to fix what Tashi has torn apart, by whatever means necessary. or in which Art just needs some TLC

warnings: 18+ smut, it could be worse tbh, mentions of disordered eating

author’s note: i’m back ig?? im out of uni for the summer and challengers has me in a chokehold. Art Donaldson the man that you are

————————————————————————

You're standing just within earshot of the doorway, passing a sanitary wipe over one of the tables in the athlete treatment room when you hear the door abruptly open. Tashi storms in with a purpose and Art trails meekly behind her. Even if you had been clueless to how the match had gone rather than on the sidelines beside Tashi not even twenty minutes ago, you could have guessed by the hard line of her mouth that Art was in for it. Not that her displeased scowl was much different from her usual scowl, but you'd been around long enough to know the difference.

She stops abruptly, and Art heels obediently as Tashi turns around to face him. "I need you to tell me when you're going to fucking get it together so that I can stop wasting my time."

Weary and sweat soaked, Art just stares at her with that pitiful look on his face and says nothing in reply. His blue eyes solemnly take in her harsh disappointment as though beyond used to it. At this point it's not all that foreign to you either.

"You may as well be fucking asleep out there," she snaps.

This time his mouth opens. "I- I'm just tired-" he begins, although there's hardly any argue to his voice at all.

"No, I'm tired, Art," Tashi interjects. "Do you have any idea how much fucking work I've put into getting you back onto the court this past year?! I've done everything! The least you could do go out there and try to act like I've done anything for you at all!"

Art swallows, the slight frown on his face deepening. "I am. I just- I don't-"

Before he can even finish his sentence. The open palm of Tashi's hand connects with his cheek as she pops the left side of his face. Art closes his mouth. You pretend to concentrate on wiping down the table. It's not the first time you've witnessed one of these conversations but it still feels private, like you shouldn't be here. You keep wiping the table.

Understanding that anything else he says is only going to make Tashi angrier, Art resigns to once again watching her in silence. His blue eyes are sad. The usually fair skin of his cheek is tinted pink where she popped him. Although it wasn't very hard, you're sure it still hurt him all the same.

"Quit wasting my time," is all she says before she finally turns and leaves, walking right past you and out the other door. You hold your breath as she passes you. Art watches her go but makes no move to follow. You release an audible sigh. It's been a frustrating day for everyone. As Art's personal trainer, physical therapist, and close friend, you felt every loss, every ache and pain, every bad play. And there seemed to be a lot of those lately.

Art is still standing there, watching the closed door that Tashi left though.

Not knowing how to break the silence, you finally pat the freshly sanitized treatment table. "C'mon," you call gently, as though beckoning to a wounded dog.

It takes a moment for him to budge, but eventually he does, his disheartened spirit apparent in the way he walks over. Used to the usual routine, he tugs his damp shirt off over his head as he takes a seat, the lean muscles of his torso flexing as he does so. You allow yourself to ogle at him, only for a brief moment before stepping in between the bracket of his knees. Gently, you cradle his chin, tipping his head back to look up at you as your thumb smooths over the redness of his cheek. His blue eyes blink up at you, sad and dog-like.

"It wasn't terrible," you reassure him. "You had surgery six months ago. You're still getting your feet back underneath you. Most people wouldn't have come back." You're right. The still-pink scars on his shoulder are still fresh on your mind. The stitches weren't even out before Tashi had him in physical therapy. Even though his medical team had released him, it was still a bit early to start doing rehab so soon after surgery, Art's comfort being your biggest concern. But when Tashi wants something, she gets it.

Wordlessly, Art sighs, the weight of his head settling into your palm as he finally lets go of the tension he'd been carrying. It was always like this. You fixing what Tashi had torn apart. You understood where Tashi was coming from. Art needed a firm voice in his training, and you had a lot of respect for the way she put her foot down and never let up, not even once. But there was only so many times you could kick a dog while he was down.

So if Art needed someone to coddle him, you would coddle him.

He trusts you. He needs you, is what Tashi had told you when she asked you to stay on as his trainer full time. The three of you had been in the same year at Stanford all those years ago, Tashi and Art on the tennis team and you helping out as a student trainer as part of a class requirement. Three peas in a pod, the trio of you were. Of course then they both graduated, leaving you to finish up your schooling, meanwhile Art set off to go pro.

A few years later, once Tashi officially took on the position as Art's coach, she began building his team, and that's where you came in. You were hesitant at first.

'I already lost to you once, Tashi. I won't come in second to you again.'

She had paused on the other end of the line. Back in your Stanford days, it was obvious to anyone with eyes that you were head over heels in love with the blonde tennis player. But loving Art was like accepting the participation ribbon for a game you knew you weren't going to win in the first place. It was like standing next to the podium, just lucky enough to be included in the picture while Tashi and tennis took first and second place. And so you let him go.

'I'm not asking you to. This is different.'

Your hand slips from his face, and he forces his eyes open.

“Have you eaten?" you ask, stepping away in order to put some distance between the two of you and look for the granola bars that you keep especially for him. The gels were good sources of quick fuel in between sets, but they were hardly enough to even begin to make up for the calories he burned while playing.

Slowly, Art shakes his head, but he makes no move to take the snack from your hand when you offer it to him. Ever since his injury, nutrition became all the more important. So much to the point that every single thing that he consumed was mapped out to the exact calorie. Although he would never admit it, any sort of change in this routine made him incredibly anxious. Some days it was better not to cause him the anxiety than to force him.

Today, you insistently hold out the bar until he begrudgingly takes it from your hand. You don't move until you've seen him tear open the package and take a bite.

"Were you still feeling tight?" you ask as you walk around the table, stopping at the slouch of his turned back. You reach out to grasp at the joint of his neck and shoulder, your thumb smoothing over the kinesiology tape that's peeling away at the base of his neck.

He half turns his head to glance back at you. "You watched the match. You tell me."

His response is meant to be snippy, but it comes out more defeated than anything. To be fair, you've been his trainer long enough to know that if something was bothering him physically, you would have picked up on it.

"I want to hear it from you."

"I felt fine."

Your left hand follows suit on the other side of his neck, and you use both of your thumbs to apply pressure to what you assume will be a tense spot along the upper part of his traps. Predictably, Art groans at the attention. The muscles of his back contract as he fights the urge to shake you off. Relaxing the muscle hurts as much as it feels good. Besides his obvious discomfort, the rest of his body has gone lax under your touch. His shoulders have dropped at least an inch, and his chin has fallen to rest against his chest.

"Finish your granola bar," you reprimand him, your firm fingers working across his back until you find another spot that nearly has him jerking away. He releases a whine but obediently takes another bite of the bar. This time he finishes it before you have to remind him again.

You spend a few more minutes torturing him before you're satisfied that a majority of the tension has left his shoulders.

"Okay, good boy," you murmur, leaning forward so that your chest is close enough to brush against his back. One of your hands trails up to squeeze the back of his neck reassuringly.

You're close enough to hear him swallow at the name. The skin on the nape of his neck shivers despite how hot he still is from the match.

"Was I?" he asks timidly. "Good today?"

'I can be his coach. Or I can be the person he cries to after a bad day. But I can't be both. That's why he needs you."

Without removing your hand from his neck, you walk around the table so you're standing in front of him. Art widens the spread of his legs so that you can stand between them. His chin is still pressed to his chest, blue eyes focused on the ground.

"Art," is all you say, shifting your grip on his neck to tug lightly at his golden blonde hair. At your voice, he lifts his head just enough to look up at you through the pale wisps of his eyelashes. The irises of his blue eyes shine are wet with uncertainty.

Your fingers loosen their grip to allow your nails to scratch at his scalp. "You're good, Art. You'll always be good."

Art twists his head to nuzzle his cheek along the inside of  your outstretched arm. His lips kiss the crook of your elbow. He swallows again. "Even if I don't play tennis?"

You can tell the question's been bothering him, eating at his nerves, and messing up his game. You know him well enough to know that retirement isn't what he wants, not really. At least not right now. What he wants is the reassurance that it's going to be okay if he can't swing the comeback.

"Look at me."

He lingers a moment longer with his lips pressed lovingly against your skin before he reluctantly shifts his gaze up to you. His look is anticipatory but reserved, as if to preemptively conceal his disappointment should you choose to crush his heart with your answer.

His fear is understandable. Art's relationship with Tashi has always been entirely built off of his tennis career. By being the driving force behind his success, Tashi has vicariously lived out the life she would have had had her injury never happened. Without tennis, Art has nothing left to offer her. He knows that if he gives up tennis, he loses Tashi.

Your relationship with Art was a little less conditional. Hell, you'd been in love with him since the first time you'd laid eyes on him at Stanford. You can still picture him standing there on the court, barely nineteen, scrawny, nervous smile, backwards cap over his strawberry blonde hair. Before he was the Art Donaldson. But when Tashi had stepped into the picture, you figured that was where your fairytale ended.

"I don't love you because of tennis. I love you because you're kind, and thoughtful, and you're passionate about what you do." You smile a bit before adding, "And you're my good boy."

The name turns him bashful again, and he's quick to turn and hide his smiling face against your arm, only the flushed tips of his ears visible. "[Y/n]," he mumbles, likely meaning to be threatening, but it doesn't come out that way.

Art Donaldson lived to be praised.

You laugh, pulling him closer so that his face is held against your chest. The hand that you don't have threaded through his hair trails up the muscle of his defined quad. "You're my good boy. Aren't you, baby?"

Art whines, squirming when your hand reaches the apex of his thigh and hovers over the forming bugle of his shorts. He's not quite there yet, his dick only half chubbed up in interest, but given the day that he's had, you won't make him wait.

"Please?" he mumbles, his face still buried into your collarbone, as if attempting to curling into you, like a small child needing their parent to hold them for comfort.

You rake your nails lightly up the inside of his thigh. "What, baby?"

Not only did Art liked to be praised, but he was masochist even on his worst days.

"Want you to touch me," he mumbles, his voice muffled by your shirt. "Please."

Your hand still scratching through his hair, you press a kiss to the side of his head, unable to suppress your smile at his timid politeness and how it never seems to fail him. The only time he ever resembled anything remotely voracious was on the court.

Palm finding his tented shorts, you cup him through the fabric. Art responds immediately to your touch, his hips shifting further into your grasp. You continue to pet him through his shorts, appreciating the way you can feel him actively responding to your touch.

His nails dig into the padding of the treatment table when you give his now fully hard dick a less than sympathetic squeeze. His breath is hot as he pants against your collarbone, alternating between laving open mouthed kisses to your skin and whining when you pause fondling him just to feel his hips rut up into your palm.

Art was so in control on the tennis court, that often after a match, putting the control into someone else's hands was just what he needed.

When his hips start to stutter, you ease up but continue to stroke him through his shorts. The front of his shorts are damp with the musk of residual sweat and precum.

His breath is shallow—anticipatory.

"Gunna come?" you ask softly, speaking into the blonde mess of his hair, cradling him. He right there, you can tell by the lackluster buck of his hips, his building fatigue, and the change in his breathing.

"Can I? —Please?" Art asks breathily. He hiccups out the last part, his voice catching.

"You know you don't have to ask."

There's a brief pause, as if coming to the realization, before he meekly murmurs, "I know.

It should be sad really, his unwavering obedience, but there are two sides to Art, two polar extremes. On the court, every match, every set, every debilitating second is up to him. No one else can help him out there, and up until about a year ago, he played like it. That was the side of Art Donaldson that Tashi wanted. After the match is a different story. In private, Art needed someone to do the thinking for him, to pull him into a reality where he could believe that it didn't matter whether he won or lost. Tashi had not the sympathy nor the patience for that kind of fragility.

Art comes with a brief cry into your chest, his body arching into yours. Your hand palms at his pulsing dick until he's oversensitive and pulling away. When you relent, the front of his shorts are sticky and wet.

Finally, Art lifts his face from the safety of your chest. His blue eyes are glossed over, but it's an improvement from the detached look they held ten minutes ago. His cheeks are flushed, a mixture of his own embarrassment and satisfaction. 

You can't help the soft smile that creeps onto your face at the look of him, and immediately Art is abashedly trying to hide his face again, his own smile starting to appear. Before he can, you bring your hands back up to cradle his face, thumbs wiping away the wetness from under his eyes. This time he lets you.

His eyes study your face for a second, admiring you, appreciating the love he has for you.

“I don’t want to play tennis anymore.”

You can’t tell if it’s more of a statement or a confession. Either way, you know he’s telling you the absolute truth.

“Okay,” you reply softly, not hint of judgement in your voice. Maybe some disappointment, but that was understandable.

Retirement would be a kindness. Art would finally put back on some healthy weight, start smiling again, put on a real, actual smile. You could already see it, a nice house for the two of you to settle down in, with a picket fence and a dog in the backyard, the kind of things the two of you would have never had time for on tour.

Tennis had brought the two of you together, but it wouldn’t end you.

[artsangell]

[kryptonitejelly]

art donaldson x childhood friend reader who he hasn’t seen in a long time (whose had a crazy glow up) visits him at stanford at the same time as patrick and patrick starts hitting on her (him and tashi are in an open relationship) and art gets jealous.

(maybe she tells patrick she knows he’s in a relationship and he tells her tashi wouldn’t mind and she would probably be down to join idk)

art donaldson x reader // challengers // fluff; happy ending

a/n: i did not hit the prompt on the head 100%, but i’m not mad at it. this ended up turning into a monster i had no control off and ended up being alot longer than i expected (i haven’t done a word count, and did not mean for it to spiral into this but i enjoyed writing this very much). i am an art donaldson defender and this is my way of giving him everything he deserves (i hope you guys can see what i subtly tried to do in places - please leave comments/reblog if you see them, it would mean the world). also i typed this entirely on my phone without proofreading - you’ve been warned.

edit - as a disclaimer, i do not purport to comment on the victim/villain/any dynamic in the challengers universe. this space is purely for delusional thoughts and fiction only (see also)

-

Good luck.

Art shoots the text off to you before taking a swig out of cup of diet coke he has in hand. He leans forward, his forearms on his knees, teeth crunching on ice cubes as lets his gaze sweep across the court in front of him. It is devoid of players but already has the umpire and linesmen ready and waiting.

You’ll buy dinner if I win?

Art doesn’t expect to get a text back, so he checks his phone absently, but his face breaks into a tiny grin as he sees your reply. Most other players would have been hyper focused in the moments before a match but you, in the breezy light hearted way you always were, still had it in you to joke around.

Yes, but if you lose…

Art sends his response, the tiny grin still on his face.

I’ll feed you.

Your reply is fast and it makes art shake his head lightly a quiet chuckle dropping from his lips. He is just about to type another reply but is interrupted by the loud cheers that erupt from around him. Art looks up from his phone to see Anna Davies walk out on court in the same colour red as he had on. He claps politely with the rest of the men’s team who he was sitting amongst in the stands, in a show of support.

Art catches sight of Tashi and Patrick, both perched a few rows down from him with the rest of the women’s team both clapping and hollering in support. He notices the turn of Patrick’s head, no doubt to check in on Art but he doesn’t tilt his head or smile back in acknowledgement as he usually would - he is far too distracted by you.

Art can feel his jaw slacken slightly as you walk on court. He knows what you look like, but you in the flesh - Art thinks you are breathtaking. Your top is in a shade of your college’s colour, paired with a white tennis skirt that shows off a pair of toned, long legs. He catches a glint of metal just above your ankle, and he finds himself squinting in a feeble attempt to make out the look of the ankle bracelet that you have on. Art moves his gaze your face, taking in what he can see from his perch on the stands as you walk out towards your designated bench on the court, bright neon green bottle in hand, your tennis bag slung on a shoulder.

You had been close back home for most of your childhood and more formative teen years, and the both had kept in touch since he left for Stanford and you to your own school of choice, but too infrequently - the occasional text, more frequent reaction or comment on each other’s social media and the small conversations that spiralled from those interactions - like two planets orbiting in the same solar system, but not close enough. Life had overtaken, the excitement of moving your separate ways to a new environment, of college - tennis, academics, people, parties, it had overwhelmed you both, individually and together - made you just about forget that you had each other.

Art is transfixed. You are, lithe, glowing and with a hop in your step - Art finds himself questioning why he had never made more effort to keep you closer since you had both gone on your separate paths. He watches as you settle your bag on the bench, turning your gaze to the stands, eyes narrowing from the glare of the sun as you search the stands, only for your gaze to fix on his. Art sees you smile, lips turning up as you wink directly at him. It makes a series of heads turn to look back at him - your fellow team mates, the small group of supporters from your college who had come along, and the Stanford women’s team plus Patrick, half curious, half puzzled. Art can only raise a hand beside his chest in greeting as he remembers to breathe, letting the air he had been holding in his chest out.

He sees turn away while reaching for your phone which you had wedged in between the band of your tennis skirt and skin. Your fingers flying over the keypad briefly before you toss the phone into your tennis bag, hand fishing out your racket. Art feels his phone buzz in his hand and he looks down at the text that had come through.

Stanford still hasn’t taught you the right way to wear a cap huh.

Your text, a reference to his penchant for securing his cap on backwards, makes Art laugh, out loud, the sudden sound causing his team mates to crane their necks in attempt to look at his phone. Art swats them away as he refocuses his attention back on you, watching as you do a few hops, shifting your body weight from side to side before walking to your position on court, racket in hand. You lose the coin toss, and Anna choose to serve and yet your demeanour is one of ease, something Art can’t help but think is so stark in contrast to Tashi before a match. You aren’t smiling anymore, and yet in an unexplainable fashion, Art can feel you smiling as you bend to ready position, your hands flipping the handle of the racket around, poised to receive. He sees Anna toss the ball, her back arching, hand shooting up, before she connects her serve, and he watches you receive it with ease, your body moving in a smooth motion as you hit it back. Your strokes have their own weight and intention behind them, they are careful, thought out - but what surprises Art is he sees little calculation behind each. Instead, he watches as you let yourself feel each shot, as you let your instinct take control with each step. Art sees himself moving pieces of chess across the court when he watches replays of his game, but with your game, - Art manages to see colour, life, ease. He sees something he hasn’t seen in his tennis since he had last played with you, Art sees fun.

-

The match isn’t long drawn out, you win - effortlessly, just as each of your strokes and movement are. It frustrates Anna, as is evident from the increasing number of unforced errors she makes on her art which leads to her swearing loudly as you easily hit the last heavy, driving it quick and to the opposite corner of the court from where she is positioned. Art finds himself clapping enthusiastically along with the crowd as the umpire calls the game.

-

“You never told me you had such good looking friends,” Art feels an arm sling itself around his neck, pulling him close as he stands outside the court, waiting for you to finish your match debrief with the rest of the team.

“Shouldn’t you be with Tashi?” Art questions as he tugs himself out and under, away from Patrick’s hold. His eyes remain focused on the door of the tennis court, waiting for you to emerge.

“Some strategy meeting,” Patrick offers as explanation, “refocusing or something like that.”

Art starts to say something in response only to be stopped by the view of you walking out from the courts. You both lock eyes, not too similar from how you had with you on the court and him on the stand. Art thinks that your smile is more brilliant up close.

Neither of you say a word, as you walk up to him, hands reaching up to tug his cap off his head only for you to pop it promptly on your own head, the right way around.

“The right way,” you say in greeting, pointing towards his cap which is now sitting on your head, the Stanford red a confusing contrast to your your top, now a loose fitting tshirt in your college colours, as Art chuckles while running a hand through his hair, attempting to shake out any flatness.

“The red looks good on you.”

“Perhaps I should transfer.”

“Didn’t peg you for a traitor,” Art teases which makes you laugh.

“Do I get a hug,” you ask, both of you oblivious to Patrick who is just watching.

“C’mere,” Art says, his words inviting, but just almost slightly shy as he opens his arms to you. You step into his embrace, arms slipping around his body as Art brings his arms around your shoulders, hands bumping into the tennis bag you have on your shoulders. His embrace is familiar, and you let yourself relax into his hold.

“Could I get a hug?” you hear a different male voice chime in and you pull away to look curiously at the brunette who is standing just beside you both.

“Fuck off Patrick,” you hear Art say with no bite, but notice as he steps just that one inch in front of you in an attempt to place himself as some sort of barrier between you and the brunette.

“Patrick Zweig,” the boy says, ignoring Art as he proffers a hand to you which you shake to be polite while introducing yourself.

“Do you go to Stanford as well?” You take in his attire of jeans and a white tee, the lack of red - you would guess not but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“I’m just visiting,” he says, “I’m actually playing on tour.”

“Losing on tour,” Art corrects.

“Your tennis is insane,” Patrick comments, ignoring Art, “when will I see you on tour?”

“I don’t intend on turning pro,” you respond with the flash of a smile.

“Why?” Patrick continues the conversation, now slightly befuddled, “you’re a natural.”

You shrug with a laugh, not answering and simply brushing off his question.

“Why don’t I take you to dinner and you can tell me why.” Patrick’s statement makes Art roll his eyes.

“Aren’t you taking your girlfriend our for dinner?” Art chips to which Patrick simply shrugs not phased in the slightest and answers with a no.

“Thanks, but I already have a dinner to cash in on,” you offer Patrick a smile, before glancing at Art.

“I’m sure Art wo-”

“Nope, fuck off Patrick,” is what Art says again, not even giving the other man a chance to finish his sentence. It makes you laugh, but you follow as Art grabs your hand, tugging you off in a direction away from Patrick.

“It was nice meeting you Patrick,” you call out, turning your head towards him giving him a wave with your free hand, “good luck on the tour!”

You walk for a minute or two more until the tennis courts are out of range before Art stops. He lets go off your hand, but reaches instead to grasp the top of the tennis bag on your shoulder. You raise a brow questioningly only to have him tug again with a slight tilt of his head. You relinquish the bag to him and he hoists it on his shoulder instead.

“What a gentleman,” you joke, but with a smile on your face.

Art does a mock bow with a flourish of his hand which makes you laugh with a shake of your head.

“Your chariot awaits my lady,” he extends a hand to you, waist still tilted in a bow, but his head up and looking at you.

“Lead the way,” you place your hand on top of his again.

“My car is that way,” he says jerking a thumb towards his right as he intertwines his fingers with yours. Its the second time in the day where he’s holding onto your hand but you don’t think too much of it and neither does Art. It feels right, comforting, familiar and like it’s supposed to be - and you go with it.

-

“Sorry about Patrick,” Art says as he fiddles with the paper casing of the straw. You are both sitting in a booth, plates cleared, your drinks left in front of you. Art is leaning back but being across him you can feel his knees knocking into yours. Dinner had gone by way too fast for Art’s liking. There had been both plenty to catch up on, as well as new information to learn and yet - it had felt like no time had passed between you both.

“He’s a bit of an ass isn’t he,” you say as you lean back, a mirror of Art. Your comment elicits a bark of laughter from him.

“Girls don’t usually say that about him.”

“What do they say?”

“Well not say, but they usually fall at his feet or into his bed,”

“No,” it makes you crinkle your nose while you shake your head.

“His girlfriend Tashi,” Art says, fingers still fiddling with the wrapper, “we played tennis for her number, she chose him.” Art said referencing the tennis match between him and Patrick. His sentence is blunt, to the point, and yet manages to be vulnerable at the same time. Art surprises himself as the words slip out from his lips so easily but it feels easy to tell you, safe to let himself be vulnerable, fine to let you view him for who he truly is.

You both sit in silence for a beat or two, the only sound between you both being the rustle of paper in Art’s fingers.

“Well,” you begin, “if she made you play for her number, maybe its for the better you didn’t win.”

Art’s fingers give pause and he looks up at you. His expression is unreadable, but you don’t feel like you’ve said anything wrong - just the obvious.

“I guess you are right,” he says after a few seconds of silence, before raising his head to look at you. There is a small smile on his face that you can’t quite place.

“When have I been wrong Donaldson?” You challenge in jest as you lift a leg under the table to jostle one of his lightly. Art leans forward, managing to capture one of your legs, your calf in the warmth of his palm.

“You really want me to start?” Art questions as you wriggle your leg in attempt to get away but no no avail.

“No.”

“Let’s see, the time we were six and you thought that the way to get strawberry milk was to dump pink food colouring in normal milk.”

“Stop,” you protest, but with a laugh on your lips.

“Or the time we were ten and you were convinced that the park we passed by on the way home from school was haunted and we had to sprint past that stretch of sidewalk for 3 whole months.”

“It was creepy!”

“How could we forget the one time we were thirteen and you thought that the way babies were made wa-”

“Arthur Donaldson,” you protest, managing to wrestle your leg out of his grasp which has grown looser with each anecdote. It allows you to set your foot on the ground, body shooting up to lean across the table, your palm coming to cover Art’s mouth to prevent him from announcing any further recollections from your youth.

You can feel his breath hot against the palm of your hand as his muffled laugher fills the space of your booth.

“Art,” you huff, relinquishing his full name for his nickname again. You move to drop your hand from his face, but Art catches a hold of your wrist. You sit back down, butt hitting the seat again, but with your hand still stretched across the table, wrist still loosely wrapped in one Art Donaldson’s hand. His shoulders are still shaking, now with a silent laughter.

“Art,” you try again.

“I’m sorry, it’s just so funny,” Art exhales, trying to collect himself as best as he can. He doesn’t remember the last time he laughed like this, freely and with such reckless abandon over something so innocent.

“Your dedicated court jester, always here to serve,” you mock with a roll of your eyes.

“You’ve been derelict in your duties,” Art says, now calm, but his eyes still twinkling under a mop of strawberry blonde hair. He keeps his tone light but what he really means to say is that it has been too long. You chuckle, not really having an answer for him.

“It’s been a while,” you finally admit, both your hands now resting on the table between you, you wrist now lying upturned in Art’s open palm. You had always been close

“It has, hasn’t it,” it isn’t really a question. Art has missed you - something he hasn’t realised until today. He had let himself be distracted by the complex, focused toxicity that was tennis, Patrick and Tashi, letting himself get sucked into the whirlpool, that he had forgotten to hold on to the things that grounded him.

“Maybe we should change that.”

“We should change that,” Art corrects you and you can feel the tips of your ears burning, and the skin across your cheek bones tingling for some reason.

-

You aren’t quite sure how ended up here, but one thing had lead to another as you both made your way out of the restaurant and back to Art’s car, and the next thing you knew you were heading back to his dorm to watch reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer for some reason.

“How do you not find her hot?” You ask again for the tenth time as you both focus on the screen of Art’s laptop which is perched half on his thigh and half on yours. You are both sitting on his bed, shoulder to shoulder, both of your heads damp from (separate) showers in Art’s ensuite, and you smelling quite like him from having used his toiletries and borrowing a short and shirt set, both of which which were a baggy fit for you.

“I don’t know, I just don’t.”

“You’re rubbish Donaldson,” you snort, nudging your elbow lightly into his ribs with a simultaneous yawn.

“Tired?” Art asks, as you stifle another yawn.

“Yeah,” you accept, seeing little point in trying to hide it. You had after all, played a match today.

“I should really get back to the hotel,” you mumble, the back of your head leaning against the wall beside Art’s bed, eyes closing.

“You could just stay here,” there is a hint of hesitation in his voice because he isn’t sure if you’ll stay.

“Here?”

“My bed’s a double,” Art shrugs, “it would also be quicker for you to get to the matches tomorrow.” You aren’t playing but Art knows you would be expected to show up as a supporter for the series of matches between your two schools that continued tomorrow.

“Are you sure?” You don’t mind, after all - it’s Art, the boy you had known growing up, shared milkshakes and apple slices with after school, but you wanted to be sure he was truly fine with it.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Art moves to shit his laptop, lifting himself to bend over the edge of the bed to place the laptop on the floor, “you can take the inside.”

He flops down on the outside of the bed that is further from the wall too easily, his right hand going behind his head. Him moving forces you to move in tandem as you flop down on Art’s left, legs scrambling under the covers which Art has somehow managed to worm his way under in the flurry of movement.

Art reaches a hand over, his arm extending over you in the process to hit the light switch that he has beside his bed. It plunges you both into darkness, the only light the faint glow from the street lamps creeping in from below his curtains, and the glow of his digital clock.

You flip onto your right side, eyes closed, missing the turn of Art’s head as he observes yours features, closed eyes, lashes, nose, lips, finding his gaze lingering a moment too long on your lips.

“Stop staring Art.”

“Am not.”

“I can feel it,” you respond, lips curving into a smirk. It was a habit he had developed from the sleepovers you both had either in his living room or yours when you were both younger. You would close your eyes, just about to doze off, only to hear the faint shifting of a head against a pillow while Art turned to stare at you, his blue-brown eyes boring into you.

“Am not.”

“Go to sleep Art.”

-

“So I guess I’ll see you around,” You are standing just a distance off the side of the bus which is supposed to take you back to campus. The matches for the day had ended, with your school having won by one match.

“Yeah,” Art replies, drawing out his words as he takes you in, he finds himself think that he had very much preferred you in his clothes despite them being oversized and not as well fitted as your own. You had managed to change into a fresh set of school colours before the matches started earlier that morning, having pleaded with your angel of a roommate to help you lug your overnight bag, which you hadn’t even had the chance to unpack the night before, over to the courts before the matches had begun. She had taken one look at you in Art’s tshirt, shorts with his hoodie thrown over, and had given you the widest smirk known to man despite your insistence that nothing had happened.

“I think you are scheduled to come play next month,” you refer to the Stanford men’s team, “I’ll see you then?”

“Or I could see you next week?” Art says almost shyly as he raises a hand to rub the back of his head. Art was a walking oxymoron, easily grabbing your hand, asking you to sleep in his bed, and yet somewhat bashful in the moments in between, “the drive over is an hour, max.”

“I would like that,” your response earns you a mega watt smile, his eyes twinkling at you. You both hear voices calling Art away from the bus, one male, one female - but Art ignores them both.

-

“Yeah and I told her-” your sentence is cut off by a nudge to your shoulder.

“Stanford” you friend explains with slightly too much glee in her voice. She had seen the smile on your face after returning from your away game last weekend, and the way you had been constantly glued to your phone, grin on your face, laughter peppering your days, the name Art Donaldson a constant fixture in your notifications.

Your head swivels up and to your left to spot Art leaning against his black jeep, hands crossed loosely across his chest. He smiles when he sees you, and your face mimics his expression.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” you friend calls out as she pushes you in Art’s direction. You pull a face at her while rolling your eyes, but letting your legs carry you towards Art.

“Are you stalking me Donaldson?” You ask in jest. Art had texted you half an hour earlier, asking which part of campus your last class of the Friday was in and where he should pick you up from.

“Hundred percent,” he says as he opens his arms; you step into his embrace for a brief hug, before he turns to open the car door for you. You unload your bag from your arm, dropping it onto the floor of the passenger’s seat before climbing in. You move to close the door, but Art is in between you and the door, reaching over to click your seatbelt into place.

“Ready?” He asks, and you nod, gazing into bright blue-brown eyes.

-

“Positivism,” Art says simply at your question of what theory of jurisprudence he found himself most inclined towards. You think for a moment, the side of your face propped up with a hand, elbow on the counter of the bar you both are seated at, your body turned towards Art who is likewise, facing you.

“Positivism,” you roll the words around your tongue, “I guess it tracks,” you shrug, before raising a brow slightly, “but how does an engineering undergraduate so much about jurisprudence?”

“I read.”

“On jurisprudence?” You frown nose wrinkling as you reach your hand out to place the back of it against Art’s forehead as if to check if he had a fever, “are you alright?”

“You mean you don’t read engineering daily in between sets?” Art questions you with mock horror as he reaches up to tug your hand down from his forehead. Your hand ends up, yet again, in Art’s, which is resting on his knee.

“Why engineering, and not something with a lighter course load?” The underlying question is clear - Art had every intent of going the pro track post-Stanford, and it wasn’t that he would be making full use of his degree anyway.

“I don’t want the only skill I have to be hitting a ball with a racket,” he shrugs, “it feels good to know I can do something else.”

You hum in bother understanding and agreement as you feel Art’s thumb begin to stroke the back of your hand. It distracts you, his calloused thumb sliding across your skin.

“In another life I’m sure you would have made a darn good engineer Art Donaldson.”

Your words make Art laugh, something he found himself doing a lot with you.

-

“So, this is me,” you point towards the dormitory buildings up in front and Art slows his car to a stop, pulling the gear into park. He kills the engine before hopping out of his seat. Your hand is on the handle of the door, ready to open it for yourself but Art is faster, his hand on the outside lever, pulling the door open for you.

Art offers you a hand as you hop out of the jeep before he shuts the door behind you.

“I had fun tonight,” you find yourself saying, suddenly feeling slightly shy for reasons you cannot fathom.

“Me too,” is what Art says in response, his hands stuck on the pockets of his jeans, heels rocking in a back and forth motion. You see his gaze on you, locking with yours before flickering to your lips. It makes you bite down one on side of your lip, an action which causes Art to gulp, making the Adam’s apple on his throat bob.

“We should do-”

“Can I kiss you?” Art blurts out his question in a burst and you can see his face flush slightly as he asks, a surprising and yet apt contrast to the Art who had no qualms about holding your hand in his. You feel your heart quickening, and with the silence between you both - you almost feel as if you can hear each beat.

“Yes,” you breathe out, a small nod accompanying your response. You see Art’s gaze flicker to your lips again, but you would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about this.

Art takes a step forward, pulling his hands out of his pockets. You feel him cupping your face gently, and you tilt your head towards him. Your eyes flutter close and your lips meet.

Art’s lips are softer than you imagined. You feel his hands move, slipping down the sides of your body, circling your waist and pulling you closer. You drop your bag off your shoulder onto the floor as your hands move up, one to cradle the side of his face, and the other reaching behind, fingers weaving into soft curls as you tug him closer towards you. First kisses with someone new had always been awkward for you - teeth, lips, noses, as you each try to figure out the grooves and crannies of each other, but with Art - there was no such thing. It felt as if you both had learnt each other long ago, each in and out, the curve of his neck, and the the planes of your body.

You break the kiss first, pulling away, eyes still closed, feeling as if the breath had been knocked out of you in the best way. Your forehead pressed against Art’s, body held firmly against his.

“I hope you aren’t going to send me packing after that.” Your eyes flutter open at his words.

“You packed an overnight bag didn’t you?”

“I might have,” Art pulls you even closer, his arms wound tight around you.

“Presumptuous much?” You run a hand through the front of his hair, pushing his fringe back.

“Just good at reading the room.”

-

12 years later

The skin across your knuckles are visibly tight, your hands clenched into fists, the only sign of the nerves that have taken over and riddled your body. Your eyes are shielded by dark oversized glasses, but your pupils are darting left and right as the final point of the match plays before you. The stadium is silent, save for the pop of the ball and the grunts from the two players on court. You hear an exceptionally loud grunt, the whizzing of a racket whipping through the air, and then you hear it before it hits you - the roar of the crowd, the thundering claps, and you feel your body freeze as even the announcer goes wild.

“Art Donaldson, ladies and gentleman, our new US Open champion.”

You remain glued to your seat despite the commotion around you - family, Art’s team, cheering, jumping, excited hugs being passed around. Your eyes watch as Art runs towards the center of the net, hand raised as he waves to the crowd around. He shakes his opponents hand, before waving to each section of the stadium in thanks of their support and there he is, jogging towards you. His hair is dripping with sweat, plastered to his head, shirt clinging to his body. He extends a hand to you even before he reaches the sideline and your body reacts from habit, standing, your hand extending back towards him. A warm hand, the back of it still slick from sweat grasps yours, tugging you forward lightly.

“Hi,” is all he says as Art’s lips meet yours. Art enjoys the tennis, but he doesn’t need it - doesn’t need the tennis, the fame, the money, or the trophies - all he needs is you.

You hear the crowd go wild at the display of affection, the announcer’s voice booming over the sound system with something about Art Donaldson and his wife, but it all fades - the commotion, the sound, the people, the tennis, because all you see is Art.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

[emiphemeral]

18+, dom!art drabble

art. soft, needy, sweet art. you love the worship, you really do, but as he sinks his cock into you, you crave more. he's gentle, he always is, whimpering and rutting into your dripping cunt.

"art."

he snaps his head up from where he had nuzzled into your neck.

"yeah? are you alright?" he's visibly concerned, wondering if he had somehow hurt you, despite being as soft as possible. you grab his chin between two fingers and rest your forehead against his.

"don't fuck me like your girlfriend. fuck me like your whore."

you can see art's eyes darken, before he grabs your waist and flips you onto your stomach. he slams into you, as if a switch had been flipped with your words.

"fuck- you want to be treated like a slut? ill treat you like a fucking slut. use your pussy like the wet hole it is," he growls between groans.

art takes one hand off your waist to grab a fistfull of your hair, forcing you into an arch. you're a whimpering, drooling, mess beneath him, overwhelmed with pleasure.

"please- fuck please, art please-"

you're not even sure what you're begging for, so cockdrunk that you cant form proper sentences.

"such a fucking whore for me, huh? letting me use you like a toy. is that what you want to be? an object to get me off?" art grunts into your ear.

"yes, yes, im your toy- shit, anything for you- please-" you whine, tears pricking in your eyes from his relentless thrusting. you fall over the edge when art reaches down to rub your clit between two fingers, eyes rolling back into your head and saliva pooling onto the sheets.

"im almost there- you can take it-" art practically whimpers, too fucked out to compose himself.

with one final thrust, art spills his load inside of you, filling you up to the brim. he collapses onto you, head resting on your shoulder.

"was that too much?" he whispers, running his fingers through your now tangled hair.

"no. not at all," you giggle, turning your head to face him. "you were perfect."

im so down bad for hard dom!art i KNOW its in there u just gotta coax it out

[bruisedboys]

art donaldson x fem!reader

suggestive 16+ !!

art donaldson is literally a puppy of a man .. allow me to elaborate

he really likes to be petted .. and doesn’t do a very good job at hiding it. you’re out for drinks and he’s ended up with his head against your chest, getting heavier by the minute. you know he’s tired and probably just wants to go home but you’re stuck chatting with an old friend of yours who doesn’t seem to want to stop talking. so your hand finds it’s way to art’s hair as you talk. tucking a curl behind his ear, fingers smoothing his hair and dragging down his neck then back up again, over and over. art melts, like really melts, his entire body goes lax on top of yours and you actually have to slot your other hand under his chin and tilt his head up for him, because it gets so heavy you’re worried it’ll fall right off. & then you start scratching at his neck and the spot behind his ear very lightly with your nails and art decides that the both of you need to go home immediately or he’ll melt into a puddle in front of everyone. he drags you away with hurried goodbyes and takes you straight home where he plonks his head in your lap, guides your hands to his hair and asks you to “do that thing you do with your hands please baby.”

also. he licks you all the time for no reason … you’ll be cuddling on the couch watching a movie, your back to his chest, and he’ll just randomly dip down and lick your shoulder? and you’re like, “art, did you just lick me?” and he acts like he didn’t even though he literally just did. when he gives you hickeys (which he does a lot, and everywhere on your body) he’ll almost always lick them after he’s done .. like, he’ll leave a patch of them in the juncture between your neck and shoulder then swipe his tongue over them as if he’s sealing the deal. speaking of hickeys, his favourite to give you are chest hickeys!! (they’re your favourite to receive, too). he’ll pull your bra down to suck and nip at the fleshy, warm skin of your breasts until patches of purply red bloom up like flowers and you’re breathless underneath him. then of course he’ll finish ‘em off with a good lick. sometimes he’ll lick all the way from your sternum and up your neck and then plant a kiss on your mouth. he’s kinda gross but you love it.

also, art makes some verrry questionable noises when he’s extra needy or when something feels really good (like your hands in his hair and your nails scratching at his scalp, as we established he enjoys a lot). I’m talking purring, whimpering, borderline growling. literal dog noises and it’s a little bit pathetic but it only makes you want him more. <3

please reblog if u enjoyed! I’d really appreciate it x

[castiwls]

tense .ᐟ

Paring; art x reader

Synopsis; literally based on babygirl 😭 i saw it yesterday and had brain worms

Requested; no

Notes; reqs and inbox are open !

Masterlist

If he hadn’t been fucked before he definitely was now. He loved his wife more than anything in this world - his family was his world but you? You’d flipped that all upside down.

When Tashi mentioned hiring a new assistant he hadn’t blinked twice. She’d claimed it would be a good idea to help give someone young experience in the world of sport who is better than his wife to learn from.

He’d half expected some meek teenager to be standing there when he’d opened the door - someone who would stutter over their words and be half terrified of his wife (like so many people had been) but that couldn’t have been far from the truth.

From the minute you’d first smiled at him and introduced yourself he knew he was in trouble. The way your eyes had lit up like a kid in a candy shop almost as he’d let you in, the way your gaze had almost pierced right through him as he’d left you both alone on Tashi’s request.

Art knew he should have pushed you away. He should have built a wall - his wife was your boss and technically so was he. Tashi thought you were nothing short of an angel, this bright-eyed girl who was ready to do whatever she asked and she’d quickly grown to enjoy your company.

You had a backbone and she liked that.

That was why you’d started spending more and more time and theirs. Staying for lunch became staying for dinner which led to the situation he found himself in currently.

His hands gripped the wheel tighter as you watched him from the corner of your eye. The nerves were practically rolling off him in waves as he drove. Sure you’d spent time alone together before but there’d always been distance. He’d made sure of that.

Now though, now you were less than an arms reach away and like always you seemed to be analysing him - like you knew something he didn’t. “You look tense?” Your voice broke through the silence as you turned to look at him. You watched him for a moment, your teeth digging into your lip. 

“Is it me?”

Art’s breath caught at your words. He shook his head turning to face you as the car stopped at a red light. “The open’s a few days. You know how Tashi gets.” He lied through his teeth praying that you’d simply take the excuse and move on.

You hummed, your eyes drifting down to where his hands gripped the wheel. 

“You're lying.” 

Your words cut like a knife as you shifted in the seat, your hand braced on the console as you all but leaned into his space. Your lips pulled up into a slow smile as his own parted. 

“Why are you lying.”

“I’m not. Tashi’s been at me all week.”

“She has but that's not the reason you’re tense.”

“It is. It’s not really any of your business.” He’d put his foot down - well at least he was trying to. You knew that tone, the one he used when you’d push your luck a little to far.

“Art,” You sighed your hand moving to brush against his leg as you lent ever closer, your lips a breath away from his. He’d half expected you to do it, to kiss him. He’d wanted you to do it.

He felt like a love-struck teen again as your hand shifted to rest over his thigh. You leaned slightly closer, your lips brushing his and suddenly he didn’t care. He moved trying to finally get the one thing he’d subconsciously been craving.

But suddenly your warmth was gone. 

His vision seemed to clear as he registered that you’d moved back ever so slightly, a glint in your eye at the small needy noise that left his lips. A red blush covered his cheeks as he realised he’d made that sound. That he’d just tried to kiss a girl half his age and he’d actually been disappointed that you’d pulled back.

“The lights green.” You smiled sitting back in your chair like nothing had ever happened.

Art stared at you for a moment. He was fucked.

[bookshelf-dust]

no trace of skin left unkissed

art donaldson x fem!reader

gif by @jennacrtega

word count: 2,072

warnings: swearing, flirting, a little suggestiveness/allusions to intimacy/sexy stuff, but otherwise this is pure fluff

synopsis: art wants you to play tennis with him. and when you do, it only cements how whipped for him you really are. only in competition with how whipped he is for you, of course.

a/n: hello!!! i’ve been sitting on this idea for at least a month now, simply because i just couldn’t get my fingers to do the typing and my brain to do the storming! but alas, i have finished it, and i’m super super soooo happy with how it turned out. this is the first thing i’ve written for art, but i think i got a good handle on his mannerisms. i’m all giddy just because i enjoyed writing this so much. i hope you enjoy reading it!! <33

————

“What are you doing? Why are you blushing? Stop blushing. You are not into this.”

Your boyfriend removes his hat from where it sat perched the wrong way round on his head. He shoves it on yours instead, his warm fingers brushing your forehead as he tightens the strap for you. 

His grin is downright sinister. “You’re into it when it’s me. I don’t look nearly as good in a skirt.”

Your hand shoots out, on a mission to slap the shit out of your boyfriend’s arm, but he senses the rift in space and time, catching your wrist before it makes contact with him. Art uses that leverage to pull you forward, his lips crushing against yours. 

“Mm!” you yelp, suddenly way too interested in his mouth to fuss over his choice in distraction technique. 

Art has this way of kissing where it’s like he needs you to consume him, like he needs to press all of his affection for you directly into each slot of his lips over yours. He needs you to know you’re the only person in the world, and when he kisses, he’s determined to lose sight of anything other than you. 

The only downside to this is that each time he pulls away, you’re forced to recalibrate. 

“But seriously, does it fit okay? ‘Cause I looked at the labels for some of your leggings and stuff and then had Tashi help me pick it out,” Art breathes.

You look down, smoothing your hands over the pleats of your skort. “The fact that Tashi supervised makes me feel a lot better.”

Art’s expression shifts, his brows scrunching and his lips taking a downward turn. “What, you don’t trust me?” The lilt in his voice is nothing short of teasing. 

“I trust Tashi’s ability to pick out something practical for the tennis lessons you’ve decided to give me.” 

You shoulder your bag, push your sunglasses up your nose so they settle right into that little sweet spot. You smell like sunscreen and vanilla shampoo, and Art can’t even process the fact that you're giggling your way out the front door. 

That and his eyes are glued to the way your skirt bounces with each of your steps. Tashi picked out a lightweight, baby pink tennis dress for you. It has shorts built in, and the sweetest little ruffled hem. 

“Wait, you think I’m gonna put you in something all flouncy, a-and,” he snaps his fingers, “what’s the word for it?”

“Slutty? Yes, Art. You see something short and scandalous and your eyes bug out of your head.” Your hands shoot out in little bursts like baby fireworks. “See? They’re doing it right now,” you laugh. 

Art pouts. Literally. His plump bottom lip juts out and you have the urge to bite it. “Hey. Don’t be mean to your tennis coach. I’m a gentleman.”

You snort. “Then open the door and lead the way, Mr. Donaldson.”

————

“You know, I think I like watching you play tennis a whole lot more than I enjoy actually being on the court.”

Art catches the ball you’ve just smacked in his direction. Your brows furrow, confused as to why he’s stopping. 

“Hold this for a sec,” Art says, a suspicious lilt to his voice. The tacky grip on his racket is damp from his sweaty palms. You almost want to make a joke about how you're holding the Art Donaldson’s tennis racket. Almost.

But then the man in question pulls off his shirt. It takes a little effort, considering the heat of the day. You watch as he peels it away from his sweat-slickback, revealing the prettiest spattering of freckles across his skin. 

The sunlight reflects off of his pale complexion, making him look almost…ethereal. You’re starting to understand why Icarus flew directly into the sun. 

Art flips his hat so that it’s backwards and tosses his damp shirt on top of your bag perched sweetly in the corner. The smile he gives you is sick. 

He looks down, nodding at his own bare chest. “This help, baby? A little motivation for you?”

Art picks up another ball, bouncing it up and down as he struts your way. He grabs hold of the net separating the two of you and leans into your space. His blonde hair sticks out in little tufts around his ears and forehead. 

You fan yourself with your hand. “Hmm. Maybe. Gives me motivation to kick your pretty ass.”

He laughs, pearly white teeth reflecting the bright afternoon sun. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You press your lips to Art’s in a quick fashion. You can taste the sweat on his upper lip, smell his deodorant when he raises his arm to cup your jaw. “It’s not fair that you get to be pretty and good at tennis.”

Art feels your clammy fingers brush his as you take the ball out of his hand. He backs up, grinning endlessly. 

“Remember what I told you. Put the ball against the racket like that. Feel it out. You gotta figure out which serve feels best for you. What works for me won’t be the same for you.”

It feels so strange to hold the ball in your non-dominant hand, knowing if you even want the ball to reach Art’s side of the court you’ll have to toss it high enough that you can successfully hit it. 

Your hand-eye coordination surely isn’t winning you any awards, but your first toss isn’t horrible. A little low and definitely not a straight shot, but it’s high enough that you manage to both hit it and have it reach Art. 

He doesn’t say anything, not when he recognizes that look in your eye. This is something he wanted to try with you, something you could do together without any of the stress or socializing that usually accompanies tennis. 

Your tongue pokes out from between your lips, the skin much more swollen and plump than usual due to the heat. They look like they do early in the morning, when you’ve coaxed each other awake and he kisses you until you can’t breathe. Full and slick and enticing. 

Art goes decidedly easy on you, but you’re having fun. 

The longer you play, each time a breeze hits the backs of your knees and Art lets out one of those noises you love to tease him about, you start to see why he and Tashi and Patrick love this so much. 

There’s a solid ten minutes where neither of you lose the ball, lose your rhythm. You’re completely focused on making sure that ball hits your racket. It’s almost liberating, being somewhat mediocre at this. 

Art, on the other hand, isn’t focused at all. He’s doing his best to keep up with you, but he can’t get over how good you look right now. 

The pleats of your skirt bounce with each of your steps, each of your little hops when he hits it just too high. There’s a sheen of sweat glistening on your neck and collarbones, making you look like a fucking goddess. 

Not to mention how pretty you look in his hat. In clothes he bought for you. And he can’t help himself each time you bend to pick up the ball or get a sip of water, because he gets to see the slightest bit of skin at the tops of your thighs, the little creases left permanently in your skin where the fat of your ass meets the slope of your leg.

You catch on after a while, seeing his eyes drag over your bare legs, your chest, your neck. You smack the ball particularly hard, a hit Art should’ve taken in stride, but instead, he misses. The ball makes a pinging sound as it hits the chain link fence and bounces down the court. 

You toss your head back and laugh. 

That’s all it takes for Art to drop everything and grab hold of your legs, tossing you over his shoulder. You’ve been poking at his ribs, telling him how you can’t concentrate when he’s looking at you, but he was insane to think he’d be fine to play tennis with you. 

He can’t concentrate worth a shit. Not when you look like that and are looking at him like that and you’re smacking his ass and laughing so hard and fuck—he could marry you right now. 

————

A wet towel slaps against Art’s ass. “You look like a slut in those underwear, Donaldson.”

He looks at you over his shoulder, hands in the dresser drawer. “Are you complaining?” he asks. 

You splay out across the mattress, feeling the cool comforter against the soft of your belly where your shirt has ridden up. 

“Me? Oh no, just complimenting you,” you quip.

Art lets out a small snort, pulling a pair of plain cotton pajama pants up his legs. You watch as his fingers tie a quick knot at the waist. 

His eyes are on you, blue irises unforgiving, but there’s the tiniest lift at the corner of his mouth. It’s not something you’d notice if you hadn’t spent so much time learning his mannerisms. 

“I like your slutty underwear,” you say. 

Art moves toward the edge of the bed, lowering himself onto his knees so that he’s level with your face. You watch his collarbones shift under his skin as he reaches up to cup your cheeks. 

“I like your slutty underwear too, princess.” He reaches one arm behind you to smack the swell of your ass. Your panties aren’t really slutty. Just dainty. Lace and whatnot. Art’s hand lingers on your bum just long enough for him to give it one good squeeze. 

His chest is directly in your face. You take the chance to lean forward, nipping at the skin over his ribs. His hips are soft beneath your hands, freckles covering almost every inch. 

Art’s brow furrows as he looks down at you. “Hey, hey. Why are we so bitey tonight?” he asks, lowering himself back onto the rug in front of you. He starts peppering your face with kisses. They’re gentle and sweet, yeah. But the way he paces them, the way he makes sure you can feel the drag of his nose, his lashes, against your face makes them sensual. They give you goosebumps. 

When he kisses your lips, you make sure to gently pinch his bottom one between your teeth. “They’re called love bites for a reason, lovey.”

You let your arms stretch out in front of you, your chest hitting the mattress. Your hands smooth over Art’s shoulders and up to his neck. You pretend not to notice the flush your chosen pet name has given him. Patrick would have his ass if he heard that. 

You raise your gaze to meet his. “And you deserve so many of those sweet bites for giving me such a fun day today.”

Art’s nails scratch over your neck and you stifle a moan. “Yeah? You enjoyed it?”

You nod, biting on the inside of your cheek. Art taps his thumb on your jaw, signaling for you to quit before you hurt yourself. 

“Maybe we could do it in one of those air-conditioned places next time? It’s too fucking hot for that.”

He chuckles, slotting his lips over yours once again. His brow furrows, and you can practically feel him pressing his affection into you. When he pulls away, he wipes the dampness from the corner of your mouth. 

“You know we can,” he starts. “It’s always better in the fall, too.”

Your stomach flips with the urgent need for him. He’s too perfect, and he’s too far away from you. He should never be that far.

You put your hands on his sides and add the slightest bit of pressure, as if you’re going to hoist him up. He gets the memo and stands. 

For a moment, the image of him towering over you, looking at you with those doe eyes, makes you forget every thought that was previously in your head. Art’s hands fall to your sides, mimicking your moves from seconds before, and you allow him to maneuver you onto your back so he can settle on top of you. 

“And next time, princess?”

You hum, preoccupied with the weight of him above you. His hand cups your chin, encouraging you to make eye contact with him. 

“Next time, that cute skirt stays on when we get home.”

————

note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!

rb banner by @steph-speaks

[t1ts-4-donaldson]

Mutual masterbation with Stanford Art

It’s a scorching Saturday afternoon when you find yourself laid half naked in Art's bed, the AC unit in your dorm had broke Thursday morning and you’d been doing what you could to stave off the heat, spending most of your day in the library or cafeteria between classes but you always had to go back to your god forsaken room at the end of the day.

Art had noticed your condition the past few days sweating through lounge clothes that fit a bit to tight for comfort short enough to show a little more skin, he understood your discomfort but fuck you looked so good each forced to excuse himself after each encounter around hard as a rock. It was confusing to you not noticing how hard he was or his obvious infatuation towards you but you paid no mind.

Art been in love with you for ages pining pathetically for years. Patrick mocked him comparing him to a dog utterly devoted yet all of his attempts were in vain, someone else always caught your eye or you’d write off any of his compliments as friendly banter. He was on the verge of giving up but the summer heat finally gave way to the possibility of anything happening between you two.

you hit your boiling point unable to handle the exasperating heat

so now you're here at his front door pleading for some relief.

“Art it’s too hot I need air please" you stammer the words completely jumbled together, he’s taken aback a bit but steps aside letting you in

 “can I strip please I’m begging you" clammy hands tugging at the hem of your shirt

“of course yeah.” Art acquiesces voice cracking as he turns away respecting your privacy utterly shocked, his best friend here almost nude. You strip grateful in too much distress to notice his unease.

“lay in the bed” he offers still staring at the wall, you squint the blatant shyness but don’t care stumbling forward falling back exhaling deeply the breeze from the air-con finally hitting your body the cold calming you down

"Art lie down" you hum patting the space next to you, the boy shuffles over landing next to your body making sure there’s miles of space between you both

You frown shoving your shoulder against his, gripping his arm and pulling him closer "why are you freaking out you've seen me in a bikini before" you ask puzzled.

"this is different" he shrugs "underwear" he gulps, he hates himself for acting this way clamming up like a child it’s pitiful.

"Art it's just me, your best friend" you grin cupping his face tilting his head meeting his worried gaze.

Best friend he winces but wills that strain away shutting his eyes giving in tugging his shirt off as well. “I guess I need fresh air too” he sighs settling against his pillow not before peeking at your chest, nipples pebbling through your lace bra. He averts his gaze quickly when you pinch his arm coughing awkwardly knowing he’d been caught.

“Artie.. something you like?” You joke scooting a bit closer to him

“you wish” he sneers but shifts uncomfortably tugging his shorts trying to tamper down his growing boner, you follow his movements, realizing of what’s happening hitting you. 

“want me to help?” you ask.

“Shut up” he whines embarrassed “you’re fucking with me” he rolls his eyes with disdain 

you try to sound sincere “I will..” you nod, hand slowly shifting over his stomach towards his crotch “only if you want” you stammer sitting up on one elbow.

 “yes, yeah go for it” he chokes out eagerly in disbelief

You settle back down palming his hard on, “fuck” he throws his head back you smirk ego slightly inflated, hand slowly tugs the waistband of his boxers down mouth salivating at the sight erect tip flushed pink leaking, it makes you feel sorry for him. “So needy” you pout running your fingers up and down his member squeezing his balls lightly

“Tease” he chokes out gripping the sheets firmly, you give in feeling bad once his chin starts to wobble, you spit in your palm looking into his eyes as you do so his reaction priceless, mouth slack eyes blinking languidly

you tug his spit slathered dick slowly up and down, rolling his balls between your hand roaming up again running your thumb over his tip smearing pre cum over it, holding back a giggle when a whimper escapes his lips twisting your wrist with each pump.

“Fuck I’m close” sweat beading on his forehead enough of an indication, you lean forward and suck his neck nipping a bit before rising your mouth barely touching his “cum for me.” 

He shudders beneath you panting softly one hand gripping your thigh with a vice surely leaving red indents on your flesh. 

You attempt make his high last as longer milking him dry until he grabs your wrist, “too much” he heaves chest flushed red just like his cheeks.“Didn’t know you’d be that good” he laughs. 

“Doubting my skills? that hurts” you mock lifting your hand observing the thin creamy substance on your skin bringing your fingers to your lips sucking them out of curiosity. Art gulps eyes fixated dick beginning to harden again.

You sigh in contentment, leaning back against the headboard staring up at the ceiling “hope that was nice” you smile knowing it was. 

You stiffen as Art unexpectedly grips your waist. “Can I do you” he pleads meekly.

“no need to return the favor” you laugh ruffling his curls but he shakes his head desperately. “Please.. let me make you feel good” his body vibrates “been wanting to for a while-” he admits eyes watery “please-” 

“alright..” you whisper caressing his cheek wondering where his eagerness is coming from.

what really takes you back is him kissing you, immediately latching his mouth on yours without warning biting at your bottom lip, demanding to open up. You cave tongues lashing together as spit dribbles down your chin. His hand snakes down stopping right over your mound running his fingers up and down your slit over your underwear the cotton rubbing against your clit just right

 you gasp mouth dropping at the sensation he smirks fingers slipping into pussy gathering juices from your hole smothering it over your clit tracing he circles around it

“shit” you groan feeling his fingers slip inside you lost in your own pleasure nails digging into his arm body rolling in time with his hand. 

An idea pops up, finish at the same time

 you sneak a hand between his boxers knowing you can pull another orgasm out of him, Art hisses at contact involuntarily slowing his ministrations cursing trying to concentrate on his movements, “together come on” you urge pecking his lips gently

He nods both of your bodies trembling in tandem, exchanging moans between open mouths, gripping skin trying to find some semblance of control.

“Art I’m close” you squeal eyes shut tight chest rising and falling rapidly 

“come on fucking cum” he grunts sinking his teeth into your shoulder your legs clench together as pleasure rips through you like lightning, a sudden gushing sensation releases between your thighs you gape at his soaked palm 

“I didn’t know I could do that” you pant trying to catch your breath

“doubting my skills?” He whispers pecking a sloppy kiss on your cheek

[artstennisracket]

nsfw (18+)

Dilf!Art who you met at a tennis gala as the plus one to one of your friends who plays college tennis

Dilf!Art who you almost spits out his drink once you tell him how old you are, saying “you seem very mature for your age, I just wouldn’t of guessed”

Dilf!Art who says he can’t be with someone that much younger than him, he’s not a cradle robber

Dilf!Art who somehow someway still ends up on his knees with his head under your dress. This is how you realize his affinity for giving head

Dilf!Art who gives in and starts seeing you more. taking you on expensive restaurant dates, work trips, vacations, shopping trips. You feel bad but he says, “who else am I gonna spend my money on? if you don’t use it you lose it”

Dilf!Art who’s only ever interested in pleasing you. the first few times you see him always end the same way, with you finishing on his tongue or his fingers

Dilf!Art who you ask to give him a blowjob several times only for him to reject and offer to eat you out instead

Dilf!Art who says “I just wanna please you that’s all,” after you ask him why he doesn’t want you to reciprocate. But you push and push until he gives you the real answer of, “I just can’t—get hard.”

Dilf!Art who gets embarrassed about his ED but you’re always patient with him until eventually he does get hard. He just needed a little coaching

Dilf!Art who always fucks you like it’s the last time, savoring every sound, every feeling, fucking you like his life depends on it

Dilf!Art who gets on viagra just for you saying that, “I don’t want you to feel like you’re wasting your time with me. Guys your age can fuck you multiple times a day, I can’t compete with that on my own.” You assure him he doesn’t need to do that just for you so he replies, “It’s not just for you, it’s for me too. I mean who wouldn’t want to fuck you multiple times a day.”

Dilf!Art who gets a little insecure after he retires, seeing his physique change, but you continue to reassure him that he looks handsome and sexy as ever

Dilf!Art who loves being the big spoon so he can feel you pressed up against him, but he also likes being little spoon sometimes too, just needing you to hold him until he falls asleep

Dilf!Art who introduces you to Lily only after you two have been dating for a full year. You and Lily bond right away, having a barbie movie marathon

Dilf!Art who swore he’d never get married again but you are seriously derailing his plans

taglist: @tacobacoyeet @newrochellechallenger2019 @antxnxlla @marimacaroni @hanneh69

wanna be tagged when I post? click here :)

[glimmeri1ng]

how can a man be THIS pretty ?!?!? need to cup his cheeks in my hands and spread kisses all over his face, while i ride him nice and slow <3

[xoxovanillq]

i wanna be dilf!art donaldson’s controversially young partner who makes him all the food he couldn’t eat while he was playing.

[bouncybongfairy]

Recreatinal Fun

Art Donaldson x Fem Reader Smut

Summary: You work at the sporting good's store where you first meet Art. He casually flirts with you while buying a tenis racket. You close the store early to hook up with him in the back.

Word Count: 1.0k+

TW: Female Recieving Head, Sex At Work, Semi Public Sex, Cumshot On Belly.

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

It was pretty slow today, a father and son duo coming in looking for cleats. An older woman looking for a swim cap for her water aerobics class. You were cleaning the register counter, trying to pass the time when Art walked in. He was wearing a hoodie and shorts, it was raining so his hair was wet and in his face. He came up to you with a smile, asking where the rackets were. You set your rag down to direct him to the display. 

“Normally I would recommend one but I don’t think I need to for a pro,” you said. 

“Well, this will only be for recreational fun. I can’t take my lucky one into the gym, it’ll be tainted with desperation,” he laughed, grabbing one of them. 

“Are you in town for the fundraiser tournament?” you asked. 

“I am, are you?” he asks. 

“No, I grew up here. I just graduated and I’m working here till I start college this spring,” you explain, playing with your necklace. 

“Hopefully I’ll see you there,” he said as the two of you walked towards the register. What a day to go commando you thought to yourself. The entire time you talked, you couldn’t stop staring at his lips. So pink; they were practically red. He handed you a credit card, his fingertips brushing against your hand as you grabbed it. Looking up at the T.V while you finished ringing him up, making his jaw line dangerously sharp. You handed the bag over, expecting that to be the end of it. 

“Do you mind if I look around for a while?” he asked. 

“Knock yourself out,” you laughed, going back to work and stalking the shelves. 

It was hard to keep your eyes off him, continuously catching each other in a glance before looking away. He would squeeze past you in a particularly small aisle. You were starting to feel like he was trying to get your attention. Constantly coming up and asking questions that he should know the answer to as a pro athlete. After playing this little game for a while you determined he was trying to get your attention.  Having enough, you decided to break the ice and approach him again. 

“Are you doing anything right now? Like, are you free for the next couple hours?” you ask. 

“No, why?” he asked, setting down the merchandise he had in hand. 

“Do you wanna hook up in the back?” you asked, clasping your hands behind your back. 

His eyes widened and a smirk creeped onto his face. You walked over towards the front of the store; changing the open sign to closed and locking the door. Grabbing him by the index finger and leading him towards the back of the store. You opened the wooden door and led him to the small hallway where the inventory was. 

Turning around and gazing up at him, the look in his eye immediately making your sex feel warm and achy. He grabbed your face and pressed his bottom lip against yours; like he was feeling out the territory. You sucked his bottom lip into your mouth. Swiping your tongue along his soft, warm lip.

He deepened the kiss, now becoming more comfortable and sloppy. Picking you up and setting you on the small table pressed against the wall. He got between your legs that were dangling, pressing his body against yours. Working your lips together while melting your body’s to each other. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, gently pulling him closer. Running your fingers through his soft hair as he tried his best to feel up every inch of your body. You reached down and started to unbutton your jeans, kicking off your shoes in the process. He pulled away and unexpectedly got on his knees. Grabbing your ankles and positioning your feet on the desk and holding them there. You have a feeling what’s coming next so you pull your panties to the side so he doesn’t have to. 

He buries his face in your folds, licking and lapping desperately. Your head falls back against the cement wall. Gasping every time his tongue flicked over your clit, sending jolts of pleasure throughout your entire body. His hands eventually moved from your ankles to your inner thighs; his thumbs caressing your flesh that was prickled with goosebumps. He couldn’t get enough of you, feeling how hot and swollen your sex was against his lip made him shudder with pleasure. 

You were pulling and yanking at his hair; drowning in pleasure while he ate you out. 

After a while of this, he stood up; chin dripping with drool and your wetness. Smashing his mouth against yours, sloppily working your lips together. His dick throbbed while he thought about how you were tasting yourself. Pulling back and leaving a trail of saliva that connected your lips. He brought his hand to his mouth and wiped the drool off, using it as lubricant to stroke himself easier. Lining himself up with your entrance and slowly pushing inside you. 

Your warmth envelops him completely in the most overwhelming way. Feeling his length pulse once he was fully bottomed out. He rested his forehead against yours as he slowly started pulling out and fucking back in. One arm wrapped around your waist and the other holding onto your ass. Pulling you into each of his thrusts. Hearing the wet noises along with the sound of skin slapping skin made your blood buzz. The slight sting paired with the pure pleasure every time his tip slid against your walls was a euphoric combination.

 He was letting out raspy breaths, thrust becoming harder. Like he was losing care about your pleasure; too focused on chasing his own high. You mewled as his tip started hitting your g-spot, racking your nails down his back. Letting your mind go empty as a wave of overwhelming pleasure ripped through your body.

He pressed his hips against you, burying himself as deep as possible for a couple seconds just before cumming. Wanting to enjoy your heat a little longer before pulling out and cumming on your belly. Rubbing his tip around in the mess before pulling away and getting dressed. You followed suit, after using a paper towel to clean up the mess. 

[artsangell]

YUCK!

"Yuck, now you got me blushin'

Cheeks so red when the blood starts rushing

Yuck, that boy's so mushy

Sending me flowers, I'm just tryna get lucky"

(Loosely inspired by yuck, by Charli xcx)

Includes: Friends w benefits, smut(mdni), fluff, pining,idiots in love, hint of angst, slight Dom Art if you squint.

You're not exactly sure how it all even started. The routine you guys set up feels so natural, it's almost as if you guys were always meant be attatched to one another. To make the other person feel wanted and needed. Art is lying next to you right now, fast asleep with his blond curls mashed up against his pillow. You watch him for a bit, I mean it's so fucking hard not to, he's just so pretty. You're both naked. Though he's entirely stolen the cover from you in his sleep (not that you mind much). You watch his chest rise and fall for a few more moments before you decide to get up.

You get dressed and clean your face up a bit, when you return to the room Art’s has an arm over his eyes. He grumbles at the light surrounding the room, shifting for a moment before he removes his arm from his eyes. Pretty blue eyes watching you he says,

“ you sure you don't wanna stay the night? My bed has enough room. Promise.” It’s a struggle not to laugh at how groggy he sounds, it's also a struggle when you think about how you wish you could hear it every morning. the look he's giving you makes something inside you stir. It makes the idea of laying back in bed with him incredibly tempting.

“Yeah? I'm not sure about all that Art.” A laugh escapes you as you speak. “You have a twin. you barely even fit in your bed.” A chuckle that makes your chest ache leaves him, he sighs and looks at you like you're something special. like you're made of gold.

“You sure you don't want me to walk you back to your dorm? It's getting kinda late.” That puts a smile on your face, you lean forward to pat his cheek in mock affection. He melts into your touch, your hand stays there as you speak to him.

“I'm a big girl, but thanks. sleep tight Arthur.” A giggle, a high sound that makes you cringe leaves you at the look on his face.

An annoyed groan leaves him, “nevermind leave. You're evil.” The way he says it is unconvincing, it makes you feel fuzzy all over.

“Oh wow you weren't joking”

“Shut up.” you grumble.

Mostly annoyed, but a bit embarrassed.

You had invited Art over to your dorm so he could help you study, but it feels like all the information is going in one ear and out the other.

“Sorry, it's just you're like the smartest person I know. How am I of all people doing better than you.”

A frown etches on your face, college has been a bit hard on you. There's so much to do and rarely enough time, and when you do have time you just can't seem to focus. It feels like everyone knows how to manage everything, but you just can't seem to grasp how to even do slightly better than average. You know it's not true. You know college is tough at first for everyone and blah blah blah, But it's hard to feel like everyone goes through what you're going through, when you're adjusting to it worse than any of your friends are.

It feels as if Art can read your mind or something. You almost immediately see a crease between his brows, a look he gives you when he feels bad for you. When he wants to make it all better.You hate how it makes you chest ache. “How about we make this into a game?” His voice is soft in a way that makes your insides twist.

“A game?” You tilt your head to the side in confusion, trying to figure out what exactly he's up to.

“Yeah, like if you get this next question right-” at that he slides a hand on your thigh, rubbing his thumb on the expanse of your upper thigh. “I’ll help you out. Would you be okay with that?” He looks into your eyes as he asks, you can't help but stare at the bit of brown he has in the left one. So pretty. You blink and you know you've been caught when you see a hint of a lopsided grin on his face.

“Yeah- yeah, I'd be okay with that.” you hate how shaky your voice is, it's not like you at all, but he just has a quality that brings it out of you.

“Good.”Art gives you a soft smile and lightly pats your thigh and it makes you want to scream.

“Ok. So what's the difference between descriptive and inferential statistics?” A frown appears on your face, you can't remember the answer.

“Um.. I don't know?” Art pinches your thigh at that, not hard enough to hurt but to correct you. It makes you let out a Soft gasp, you can't help but be a little turned on by it.(he doesn't need to know that.)

“That's not an answer. You know this come on, stop second guessing yourself. This is a really easy question you're overthinking.”

You take a breath in and try to think about what you've gone over , “descriptive gives a summary of the dataset and inferential is based on making predictions from a random sample.”

Art grins at you and shakes your shoulders playfully. “Good job! You got it right!” You can't help the laugh that escapes you, he grabs your face and plants kisses All over it. The attention only making you laugh more. “Knew. you. could. do. it.” Each word punctuated by a kiss, this time on your lips.

“Thought you were gonna reward me” it's basically a whine, you run a hand through his hair like it’ll get him to touch you faster, it will.

“Patience.” he laughs and slides to his knees beside you, clearly not being very patient himself. Art turns you in your swivel chair in his direction, he slowly glides his hands from your thighs to your hips. Quickly the blond before you glides your shorts and panties down. with the help of you lifting your hips for him. Slow kisses are pressed against your thighs, he's holding your upper thigh so you can stay still for him. Art makes sure to take extra time kissing the inside of your thighs, knowing it'll be torture for you. He peppers kisses there until you start to squirm. Finally he licks a stripe along your slit, he moans into you. Like he gets off on the taste alone.

“Taste so fucking good” the vibration of his words compels you to put your hand on top of his head, he immeaditly takes your hand off the top of his head to link his fingers with yours. A few more damn near torturous licks and you can't take it anymore. you need more so you tell him so, just like he taught you to.

“Art, please. Go faster.” You're out of breath, it's clear you can barely get those words out.

Art looks up at you and grins, pulling away from your cunt to do so. “Aww she does have manners, who would've thought.” It's like a switch flips when he touches you,he can't help but tease you a bit. Before you can rebuttal he dives back into you, sucking your clit with dedication to make you cum all over him. Its like he fucking craves it, well you can tell he does by the bulge in his jeans.

You cry out at the sensation. “Fuck- thank you, thank you, thank you.” Art squeezes your hand, he continues sloppily fucking you with his tounge. Your hips are already shaking, everything combined with the way he messily kisses your cunt makes you buck your hips into his face. Moans from the both of are filling the air.

Art’s tongue is merciless and all you can do is moan and whine and take what he gives to you.

“Shit, Art. I'm close please” you sound so whiny, in a way that would embarrass you if were in your right mind.

Wordlessly art sucks your clit with vigor, he gives your hand another squeeze, as if to calm you. You start to spasm around his tongue, body tense, legs shaking.

“Fuck.” you're breath hitches as you cum all over his face, letting out one last loud moan.

Art sits up on his knees to kiss you, you can taste yourself on him.

“You're so perfect.”

those words make you feel things you don’t that you should be, they make you think about how he'd never want to be with you outside of just sex. Its purely biological, he can't fully mean it when he says shit like that.

You pull away from him, his eyes are half lidded and his mouth slightly agape. You Standup abruptly. His eyes follow you in confusion, he's not quite sure what just happend.

“I’m sorry you should probably leave, thanks for… this.” You chew the inside of your lip.

Your words are awkward as they escape you, he knows you're clearly upset by something.

Art gets a furrow between his brows again and you can't help but want to kiss it away.

“You okay? I didn't do anything wrong did I?”

You quickly shake your head, “no, that was perfect. this was perfect,I just need to go do something.” Clearly lying through your teeth but he doesn't push any further.

Wide concerned eyes stare up at you, Art stands from his position on his knees using the arms of the seat as leverage. He’s in front of you now, giving your shoulder a squeeze as he leaves the room with a soft ‘goodbye’.

Suddenly, you don't think you can handle it. Pretending that having sex with him doesn't change how you feel about him in any way. When it does,

you wish things could go back the way that they were before.

[kryptonitejelly]

Can you do a newly wed Art x Y/N smut where they can’t seem to keep their hands off of each other. Like every day they just can’t resist ripping each others clothes off. They know they’re in the honeymoon faze, but they are so sure it will continue throughout their marriage

art donaldson x reader // challengers. nsfw - minors DNI

-

“Art,” you caution with no real bite as you feel his fingers slipping under the hem of your dress.

He hums back at you, in acknowledgment rather than in question as you feel his fingers move up higher, pushing the hem of your dress a few more inches up.

“Art,” you say again as he leans forward to capture your lips in a kiss which you meet willingly. You feel his fingers now brushing the lace of your underwear, and you can feel him groan in appreciation as his fingertips skim across barely there lace which he easily pushes aside. Your legs part involuntarily, as Art finds you already slick.

“You’re wet,” he says as he breaks the kiss to bring his lips up to your ears. He shouldn’t have been surprised, because your body’s reaction to him has always been the same, and always quick, but Art always is.

“Mhm,” it’s now your turn to hum in response as he drops his lips to your neck, sucking lightly on the spot of flesh that he knows will get you even wetter while his fingers begin massaging your clit in gentle, barely there circles which leave you wanting more. You can feel your eye lids fluttering close and you’ve never been more thankful for the secluded, private booth in the otherwise packed restaurant.

“I want to fuck you,” you hear Art say against your skin, as he withdraws his fingers, causing you to whimper at the lost of contact. His voice is soft, almost gentle, a stark contrast to his words. He brings his fingers up, which are shiny with your slick, only to pop his index finger into his mouth.

“Then fuck me,” you breathe out, watching as he tastes you, catching sight of his wedding band, a relatively new addition to his hand and yours, glinting.

-

You both barely make it past the threshold of your apartment before your hands are undoing his jeans, his hands pulling down your top of your dress. Art bends his head, tongue swirling around one of your nipples, an act which causes you to arch into his mouth, a loud moan falling from your lips as the electronic lock on your apartment door whirls shut.

“I need you,” you say, a desperate quality to your voice as you make quick work of unzipping his jeans, pushing them down with his underwear.

“Jump,” Art says against your lips, both your mouths moving against each other, and you do. He catches you easily, his years of tennis working to both your advantage. You hands work their way around his neck, legs winding around his body as your back presses into the wall behind, the door which you had both come in from still just mere steps away. Art can feel the stem of your right heel pressing into his butt cheek as he lines himself up against your entrance with his right hand, his left supporting you. He had gotten rid of your underwear before you had even left the restaurant, making you tug it off before he paid the bill, and slipping it into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Ready?” He asks.

“Always,” you manage to pant out, your hips bucking forward as you feel the tip of him nudge you. Art pushes his hips forward, bottoming out in one fluid motion. You’re practically dripping but the stretch still makes you gasp, half in pleasure and half in pain as you adjust to him. You throw your head back against the wall, and Art takes the opportunity to bring his lips to your neck as he gives you a few seconds to adjust to him.

“Move,” you implore him, as you attempt to press your hips into his, “please.”

Art begins to move, his hips snapping into yours at an unmatched pace. You throw one of your hands back, palm flat against the wall your other hand finding its way to the back of his neck, nails sinking into his skin. Art can feel the cool metal of your ring stack, wedding and engagement, against his skin. He turns to kiss the inside of your forearm.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters against your skin, the words falling from his mouth like a litany as he continues to thrust into you, “my wife is so fucking beautiful.”

“I want to cum,” the words escape you like a whine, but also a command as your hands inch up the back of Art’s neck to grasp the hair on the back of his head. It earns you a growl from him, not dissimilar to the sounds which he makes on the tennis court, as his strokes become more intention filled, his hips pressing further into you with each movement; Art aims to please. You feel Art’s teeth sink down onto your shoulder as the familiar pressure begins to coil in your middle.

You come with a cry, your orgasm washing over you, and you lose control of your body in the moment, your hips jerking uncontrollably between Art and the wall. Your pleasure drives him over the edge, and he cums with a groan, his hips on auto pilot as they continue to push into yours, but now at a languid pace as he fucks himself through his own high.

“You okay to stand?” He asks, forehead against yours, your back still pressed against the wall, legs still wrapped around him, but more loosely.

“No,” you respond, your eyes fluttering open, looking into Art’s blue-brown eyes. You can feel him softening inside you, but Art doesn’t pull himself out. He manages to shuffle deeper into your apartment, into the guest toilet nearest to the entrance with you still wrapped around him, his jeans and underwear still hooked around knee height.

Art sets you down on the bathroom counter, your skin meeting cool marble before he pulls out of you.

“We’re no better than a couple of horny teenagers,” you muse as you move to tug your dress over your head before letting it drop on the counter beside you, “how long do you think it’ll last.”

You feel Art run a finger up your slit as his cum starts to drip out of you, your still sensitive body shuddering slightly at the contact. You both had always had trouble keeping your hands off each other but since the wedding, something about knowing that you were husband and wife had made it so much worse.

“Do you want it not to last?” He asks, his tone light, but with a flash of insecurity that you know its there.

“I want it to last,” you say firmly as you reach for his hand, your lips going over his finger, tongue swirling around the digit as you taste both yourself and his cum on him, before releasing his finger with a pop. You see Art’s eyes darken with lust, his hand coming to grasp your jaw lightly tilting your head up so his lips can meet yours.

[emiphemeral]

like sexy dynamite — a.donaldson

pairings; 2019 art donaldson x fem!reader

warnings; 18+ smut, mean!art, dom!art, sub!reader, semi-public sex, p in v

a/n; twas feeling festive... everyone thank @martiansodas-blog for convincing me to write this

you were, by some peoples standards, art donaldson's "controversially young" girlfriend. of course, you didn't find it controversial at all. clearly neither did he, since he was the one who approached you first anyway. the main perk of having a wealthy older boyfriend however, was access to his big beautiful house.

art had asked you to move in with him months prior, so it wasn't difficult to get him to throw a fourth of july party. it wasn't difficult to get anything with art, not when it's you. you simply had to bat your eyes and he would melt.

so there you were, sipping on some probably spiked punch and giggling with a few friends. trashy pop music played over a speaker, provided by some shitty college dj you had hired. it wasn't meant to be a good party, it was meant to be a fun party.

you and your friends names get called from across the room;

"guys, come on, they're setting off fireworks soon!"

your group starts to eagerly head to the backyard, until a grip on your arm stops you.

"hey baby. mind if i steal you for a minute?" art mutters in your ear.

he begins to pull you away before you can respond, barely having time to mouth 'ill be there soon' before you get dragged around the corner. he brings you to a stop in the luckily empty kitchen.

"are you oka-"

art interrupts you with a sloppy and desperate kiss, hands tightly gripping your waist.

"do you have any idea what you've been doing to me all night? running around in that whoreish dress?" he growls pressing you against the countertop.

"shit- art- someone could see-" you pant as he mouths at your neck.

"everyone's out watching the fireworks. like we would be, if you weren't such a fucking tease."

you gasp as art flips you around, pressing your torso into the cold marble countertop. he reaches under your dress, lightly rubbing your soaking wet cunt.

"this is what you wanted, isn't it? for me to bend you over where anyone could see? so wet over the thought of being seen as what you are, a slut."

you whimper as the blonde pushes your dress up, just enough for him to get a good look at your pussy. he curses under his breath at the sight, unzipping his pants and pulling out his already leaking cock as fast as possible.

he rubs his tip through your folds for just a moment before slamming into you. you let out a loud moan, muffled by his hand clamping over your mouth.

"c'mon baby, wouldn't want to ruin their party with your trampiness, would you?" art grunts, not letting up for a second.

the hand thats not covering your mouth is on your waist, holding you firmly against the countertop. your eyes roll back into your head as he hits the perfect spot inside of you, drooling like a mutt all over him. you can't help but let out pathetic whimpers and whines, so overwhelmed that you couldn't keep your mouth shut.

as if it was planned, the fireworks go off. its a loud show, just loud enough that art can take his hand off your face. he uses his now free hand to reach in between the two of you, rubbing fast circles onto your clit.

without support from art, your face slumps against the cool marble. you're putty in his arms, him fucking you so good you can't even think. with a particularly rough snap of his hips, you come undone, cunt spilling all over his cock.

"fuck- almost there baby- you can take it like the whore you are-"

art's rambles have practically turned mindless, now only chasing his own orgasm. he releases his hot load into you when you turn to face him, looking up at him through your eyelashes. like a hypocrite, he lets out his own vulgar groan as he finishes.

"fuck.." art mutters pulling out and smoothing your dress back down.

"go on. see your friends, knowing you're dripping with my cum", he grins cockily, giving your ass a playful slap. you push off the counter to walk outside, but your legs immediately give out.

"oops." art shrugs, with the most unapologetic smirk known to man.

[artiedonaldson]

these are so "what if he's written 'mine' on my upper thigh" coded but in an "i hope i never lose you" kind of way