#art donalson x reader

[stanart4clearskin]

art talks you through it. patrick degrades the shit out of you.

[wormswurld]

need to grope him! sorry! like it’s not may fault he has beautiful tits that need to be tended to….. his body would go crazy in a victoria secret set like 😵‍💫 the tip of his cock just sticking out of the lacy panties…leaking since he’s so hard. guys.

[realangelahernandez]

I’m so sad… time for an x reader fan fiction

[hyperballart]

thinking…. thinking about being on art’s lap but refusing to let him fuck up into you. he’s so hard and leaking and has been for so long but you can’t give in so easily. he’s mindlessly babbling stupid shit because he genuinely has nothing in his head but the feel of your hot cunt teasingly sliding over his cock keeps him coherent enough for a fuck me please baby, just sit on it please. and then youre laughing at him and pressing his tip to your clit and rubbing it around, slapping it on your pussy a little bit and he begs you to stop. you play with his tip and pull it back to open his little slit up and it has him mewling, a breathless oh my fucking god please leaving his mouth. you’re minutes away from finally sinking down on him and offer him relief but then one particular jerk has your swollen clit catching in his slit and he glances down at the sight and just explodes… making a mess all over you with his dick jumping like it has a mind of its own and him nearly passing out after :((

[zweiginator]

art fucking me while wearing nothing but his backwards cap would have me like 😵‍💫😵‍💫 i would do anything for that slutty blonde man and his slutty backwards cap.

frat boy!art …. oh god…. he’s sweet art and he’s a gentleman but the fraternity has given him an ego. when he started college he was shy, timid, didn’t know how to talk to girls. and then he rushed to get more friends and girls started throwing themselves at him faster than he could keep up. he went from a shaky make out session in august to a body count of seven by halloween and that didn’t count the girls he wasn’t interested in.

and you like art; he’s smarter than he lets on even though he tells people he isn’t, that he’s only at stanford because of athletics. but you don’t want to fuck him because you know his type. the guy who realizes now that he’s hot and has a good body and he doesn’t wanna be held down by a whiny girl. it just screamed problematic to you. so you let him down politely.

but there’s something about how fucking charming he is. how he takes the rejection with grace. still invites you to the parties his fraternity is throwing, tells you and your friends to find him if there’s any trouble.

art sees it before you do. a creep from another frat who somehow snuck in the door and was about to grope your ass before art socked him in the face.

you hated to be so easy but watching him punch a guy with zero hesitation, shaking his hand and sucking his blood from the cut on his knuckles—made your previous rejection nullify.

because now you’re in his room asking him if his hand is okay but you’re pushed against his door and his mouth is opening so you can push your tongue inside. you do. his hands roam down your back and he carries you to his bed and then his shirt is off, his shorts, his tiny briefs.

his body is fucking perfect and you don’t want to ogle but jesus christ.

your hand quickly wraps around his cock and it’s so hard already. his moans and mewls tumble into your mouth as you milk him with both hands. head lolling back so you can kiss his throat, his bobbing adam’s apple.

but he wants to be in control. he wants your pussy wrapped around his cock—he’s been thinking about it since he met you two months ago.

you realize his hat is still on; it’s backwards and his curls poke out from the bottom, drops of sweat plopping onto your stomach as he pushes into you in missionary and god his cock is fucking perfect. why did you ever say no?

he pushes your knees back to get so deep that you’re arching your back and begging for more than he can even dream of giving you.

“it’s all in baby, you want me to fuck you hard?” he asks, thrusting in sharp, precise motions, a staccato. “or do you want me to fuck you deep?” he slows down, and that’s what makes you want to cum right then and there, the feeling of every inch of him. in and out so fucking slow and deliberate.

but then he wants you to ride him and you do, clawing at his pretty pale chest, marking him up. reveling in how his big hands feel on your tits, your ass, the small of your back.

it’s uncomfortable for him to lay down with his hat still on so he puts it on you instead. you’re not sure why it turns you on. you ride him hard and fast.

“fuck—you’re so big—“ you hiss, throwing your head back.

art pulls you into him so your stomach is flush against his, your tits pressed against him. he palms your ass and fucks into you and you’re squeezing him harder and harder. you’re about to cum, and so is he.

“yeah? want me to fill this little fucking pussy up?”

you’ve never heard art be so vulgar.

[artsangell]

[artlovebot]

clingy! art blurb

nsfw!

Clingy Art who searches for you in the stands of every match he plays, and blows you kisses from the court. Who finds you directly after the match and gives you sweaty bear hugs. Sometimes letting a few tears fall into your shoulder if the match didn't turn out how he wanted. Clingy Art who lays on your chest as you do school work. He’ll come up behind you while you're cooking in the kitchen, resting his hands on your curves and his warm breath just feels so good down your neck… 

He loves to go places with you, in fact he will whine and pout if you go somewhere without him. Making it a habit to include him in your excursions. When you go shopping to treat yourself every once and a while he will insist on coming with you and practically ends up buying you half the store because how could he let his sweet girl spend her own money? You’ll take clothes to the fitting room and give him mini fashion shows as you try on the clothes.

He’ll take you to Victoria's Secret next, you insist on making him wait outside because you want to pick something special for him. After a bit of convincing he leaves you to roam free in the store with his card. You pick out a lacy pink set that perfectly matches you. 

Clingy Art, who cannot keep his hands off of you when he sees you in your new set. Palming your breasts and kissing your neck leaving marks for you to deal with later. He’ll lay you down and roam his hands over your whole body (as if he doesn't already know every inch of you) As he aligns himself with your slick folds he’ll take your hands in his and hold them above your head, letting him have full control over you.

When you both reach your peak he will run a warm bubble bath and lay you on his chest until you're fully clean and calmed down. Then you’ll put your matching pajamas on and cuddle into bed together, his hand slowly peeking up your shirt to rest on your upper back as you fall asleep in his arms. <3

a/n: first post feeling nervous!! feel free to give any writing requests in my ask box! also this was barely proof read so lmk if there are any mistakes!

[rayhalloffame]

!NSFW! Minors DNI***

Older boyfriend art picking you up from the bar when you’re drunk mhm mhm

He’s watching you stumble toward the parking lot, head tucked into your phone in what looks like following directions to where his phone is pinging his location. Normally he’d scold you for not being aware of your surroundings, but he’s got his eye on you and is amused, so he’ll let it slide.

He’s leaning against the hood of his truck, arms crossed over his chest and mouth tilted in a grin. When you can see the proximity on your screen you look up, about to scan your surroundings but he’s right in front of you. Your face breaks out into a large smile and art is helpless but to reciprocate.

You shuffle the rest of the distance, falling against him when his arms unfold and come around you. “Hi, baby,” you greet, looking up at him through your heavy lids. You pucker your lips up at him, humming against his mouth when he leans down to meet you.

He moves a hand to push your hair back from your face. “Hi, angel. Did you have fun?” He chuckles when you ignore him, leaning up on your tippy toes insisting he give you more kisses. He indulges you, as he always does, until you’re pushing your hips against him. He halts your movements with a squeeze to your waist. “Behave,” he chides, inches from your face. It makes you want to challenge him but he’s already steering you towards the passenger door.

He buckles your seat belt when you’re in the car, kissing the side of your neck when he leans. His hand is on your thigh the minute he has himself buckled into the driver’s seat and shifts into gear. The warmness of his palm on your bare thigh makes you squeeze your legs together.

You gaze over at him while he drives, the perfect angles of his face, the tightness of the gray sweatshirt over his chest, the veins protruding from his hand gripping the wheel. You become overwhelmed. “You’re so beautiful,” you say dreamily. You reach out to trace across his jaw with your fingers.

It makes the corner of his mouth twitch. He moves his hand from your thigh to grasp yours, pulls your intwined fingers to his lips and presses a soft kiss. “Thank you, baby,” he says, words drawn out and saccharine sweet. The rest of the ride home you’re squirming in your seat, the effects of the alcohol making it almost impossible to keep your hands to yourself. Your hand is so close to his mouth, you have to stop yourself from sticking your fingers inside to rest against his tongue.

You do, however, follow those impulses the minute you’re through the front door. Art is surprised to have the pads of two of your fingers exploring the inside of his mouth, but he allows it, licks and sucks.

You draw in a drunken breath, whisper almost so quiet that he strains to hear. “Need your tongue.” He pulls your wrist so your fingers pop out of his mouth and he seeks for your lips. He has a hand on your ass pressing you against him. You’re kissing him so sloppily he has to chase your tongue that seems to run outside the boundaries of his lips. A hand at the back of your skull keeps you where he wants you.

He guides you back until the backs of your knees brush the couch, falling into a sit. Art gets on his knees in front of you, pulls your heels off and kisses each ankle. He kisses a path up your calves, knees, inner thighs. He licks the flat of his hot tongue up your sopping center, right over your thong.

“Naughty,” he says, pressing a thumb to your clothed clit and you whine. “Your skirt is so short I bet everyone in that bar was trying to get a look at you under here.” He pulls your panties to the side, strokes his thumb between your folds. You whimper about wanting him, needing him, and he dives in.

His large hands are holding your thighs apart while he eats you. His tongue circles your clit, fucks into your opening right where you need him. He adds a finger and then two, pumping into your cunt rapidly. You’re keening, rambling, making no sense. He flicks his tongue rapidly against you, looking up at the way your eyes scrunch with the focus of reaching your release.

It takes him a second to hear you begging to kiss him. You’re so loud now, you could be blubbering. He keeps pace with his fingers but he does come to a tall kneel in front of you. Your mascara has started to run. “C’mere, pretty girl,” he beckons. You push yourself toward him, hunching forward so you can lick into his mouth in desperation.

You hold your foreheads together when focusing on the coordination of your tongue becomes too tedious. You have a grip on the back of his neck. You’re grunting into his face with the rhythm of his fingers. He’s pumping one, two, three more times before you let go. Art talks your through it, all “yeah, give it to me” and “gone all dumb on my fingers”. He kisses your slack mouth, then pulls himself from your grasp to dip down and taste you. He smirks in satisfaction when you hiss at the overstimulation.

Then he’s standing, sitting next to you and unbuckling his pants. He’s going to have you ride him until your legs grow exhausted, already weak from dancing and cumming on his fingers. And then he’s going to make you cum again.

[222col]

i love your writing sm. You're literally one of my fav writers on this app. Can we please get something about drunk sex with drunk loser boyfriend Art who can't get his hands off you while he's confessing his undying love and devotion for you ater he came back from a night out with his boys

ur so sweet !!!!! thank u so so much !!!!! 18+ obvs, cw: breeding

"you're so drunk." you laugh at your boyfriend stumbling into your room. "drunk in loooove, maybe," you roll your eyes at art, propping yourself up on your elbows as you lay on your bed. "shut up, art," you laugh again as he slips his t-shirt over his head. "you're so perfect baby, i missed you." he tells you, kissing his way up your body. "you were only gone a few hours." you joke with him, playing with his hair as his face reaches yours. "too long, need to take you everywhere with me so i don't have to miss you." his lips plant themselves on you, sloppily covering you in kisses. "you taste like beer," you laugh against his skin. "and you taste like perfection." his hands roam your body as his lips don't once leave your skin. "c'mon, let's get you some water and into some pjs."

he groans against your neck. "no, need you." his hands slipping under your tank top, smiling as his hands caress your bare chest. "what you need some water and maybe some food." shaking his head in response, his lips kissing your earlobe. "need to feel you, need to fuck you." he whispers against your ear. unable to stop the moan that leaves your lips at his words, melting underneath him. his hand reaching down your sweats, under your panties to draw a line through your folds. "you want it too baby girl, you're so wet for me." his fingers drawing circles on your clit as his mouth suckles on the skin of your neck. "let me fuck that perfect pussy baby, please, need to feel you on my cock." your chest is rising, struggling to resist him any further. unable to deny him of his needs. "yes-"

your sweats and underwear are down your ankles, art's jeans and boxers discarded, your tank bunching around your collarbones. pushing your bottoms down the rest of the way, art straddles your hips, spitting in his hand and stroking his hard-on. "god, you're so beautiful, i can't believe you're mine." blushing up to your boyfriend, as he runs his tip down from your clit to your entrance. "mine forever, never letting anyone take my gorgeous girl." his tip teasing you. "baby, please, just fuck me." you can't take the suspense anymore. "your wish is my command, princess."

pushing into you fully, his body coming down to wrap his arms around you, his head nuzzled into your shoulder, his hips rocking back and forth into you. "my perfect girl, fuck, you feel so good baby." his hand moving to grab a handful of your chest. kissing and tonguing your neck, sweat forming on his forehead as he fucks you with pace. unwrapping his arms to grab hold of your ankles, moving your legs to rest on his shoulders. moaning louder than before at the deeper angle he's fucking you at. "fuck, you're so hot-" he mumbles against your feet, kissing over your ankles. your hands grasping the back of his thighs, fingernails digging in. "mmm, getting close, angel." art whispers through groans. "me too, baby," his blonde locks sticking to his skin as he thrusts faster, leaning down to thumb your clit. "fuck- baby, gonna come, please let me come inside you." the moan you make in response is ungodly, nodding your head at his words. "gonna let me fill you up baby? let me put a baby in that perfect tummy, make you mine forever." knuckles white as his grip on your ankle tightens. "shut the fuck up and make me come, art." his smirk is sinful, moving his thumb quicker as his thrusts get sloppy.

screaming out his name as groans leave art's lips, the two of you coming together. riding out your high before his body drops onto the bed next to you. kissing your shoulder, arm snaking around your waist, feeling his load drip down from your pussy. "jesus, fuck, i'll never get enough of that." art breaths out between kisses. collecting your breath before slipping your sweats back on, getting up to get art some water. bringing the glass back into the bedroom, being met with snores from your sleeping boyfriend. sighing, placing the glass on his nightstand before joining him in bed again. pulling the blankets up over the two of you and bringing art into your arms, placing a kiss on the top of his head. "love you so much." he mumbles through his sleep. "love you too, sweet boy."

[dream-a-dream-for-me]

not edited, just need to cup art donaldson's face while he fucks you. pretty boy would nuzzle his cheek against your palm. the second you begin praising him, he can't hold back the tears in watery eyes, feeling them slip down his face, staining his cheeks. the tip of his nose would turn pink, hearing his little sniffles while he gently bucks his hips up into you.

whenever you tell him he's good, or how much you love him, he hiccups out the most pathetic, sad, soft little "yeah?" while staring up at you desperately, needing your validation to live. pulling your wrist to his mouth, kissing up your arm, whimpering into your skin, squeezing his eyes shut as he lets more tears fall.

[nocturneashes]

husband!art and wife!reader where she wears a granny nightgown around and he just gets so turned on by it and just HAS to touch her.

You walked out of your bedroom and a cotton nightgown, little flower pattern over it and white lace trim around the bottom, neckline, and short sleeve. Art is in the living room, feet crossed over the other over the coffee table and elbow resting on the arm of the couch while he holds his head up with his hand. He’s just watching the random show you had put on and forgot to pause before getting ready for bed.

Almost immediately, his head perks up when he sees you walk past him and into the kitchen. It wasn’t anything tight or revealing or even sexy. In fact, he thought you walking around in your comfortable muumuus every night and morning was cute. But it was the fact that he knew. He knew you were wearing nothing but your panties or sometimes even nothing underneath the cotton of the dress. And you just looked so delightful, he can’t help himself.

Art stood up from the couch and followed you into the kitchen. You stood with your back facing him as you put leftover dinner into containers. Art strode up to you, wrapping his hands around your waist. His mouth immediately moved to your neck, leaving wet kisses and tiny nips at your neck and jaw.

You sighed and let out a soft scoff as he moved your hair over to one side. You tilting your head to give him a little more access to your now exposed neck.

“what is your deal?” you ask followed by a soft laugh.

“you just look so good…” Art mumbled into your neck. “smell so good..”

Art’s hands gripping at your hips and moving to wherever he can. He pulled you back into him, feeling his bulge through his thin blue pajama pants against your ass. You turn your head, meeting his lips with your own, one hand holding onto the counter for balance while the other threaded through his short hair.

“Let me have you..” Art mumbled against your lips. He turned you around so you were chest to chest, your lower back pressing against the edge of the counter. “I need to touch you..”

“Right now?” You ask breathlessly, your hands moving down his toned torso over his white sleep shirt before moving beneath it. Your hands running over his bare waist and lower back. He didn’t reply but instead hoisting you up by the back of your thighs onto the counter. His hands on your thighs as he moved them open to step between them. Swiftly, he brought his hands under your nightgown, moving your thin panties over your legs. You leaned back on your hands, biting your lip as you watched him move with such haste.

The bottom of the nightgown bunched up at your hips and your glistening cunt exposed to your husband. Art let out a throaty groan as he looked down at you. He brought his middle and index fingers up to his mouth, swiping them quickly over his tongue before bringing them back down to rub over your throbbing clit. He watches as you threw your head back, letting out a soft moan. A small smirk on his face when he gazes back down at his fingers working your clit, he runs his fingers through your folds. You let out a louder moan feeling Art’s fingers inserting into you.

Your head lulls forward as you watch his fingers scissor in and out of your sopping cunt, his thumb rolling over your clit a few times.

“fuck-art please, need you so bad”

Art looks up at you with his half smirk. “Just getting you ready baby, that’s all…”

He removes his fingers and brings them up to your mouth. You moan around his fingers circling your tongue around them as Art moves his other hand to palm himself through his pajama pants. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth and his hands grip your hips, pulling your bottom closer to the edge of the counter. You bring your hand to palm him over his pants. Your fingers looping around his waistband and snapping it back against him.

You did that a few more times, Art letting out a few groans as you did so before you finally pulled them lower on his waist, Art helping in the process. His pants fall down to his ankles, your hand stroking his hard cock. A soft moan leaving Art’s mouth as your thumb brushes over him, spreading his arousel over his pink tip. You spread your legs a little wider, rubbing his tip over your wet cunt. His hips slightly jerking as you line him up with you. You both let out breathy moans as he pushes into you.

“oh fuck-you feel so good.” His head falling into the crook of your neck as he whimpers and moans into it with every thrust. Your hands wrapping over his shoulders, one running through the short hair in the back of his head.

“mmhm, f’me so good-so deep” you gasp out as he thrusts faster and harder.

“yes-yes. so good, fuck”

Art only moans more at your praise. Fucking you so good you can only babble out few words. He brings his head up, giving you sloppy wet kisses on your mouth and you try your hardest to kiss back but the noise of him fucking into you and the feel of his cock drilling into you only has you moaning into his mouth.

“i’m so close- fuck i’m gonna cum” Art groans out, he looks down at where you’re connected and brings his thumb down to rub circles over your clit once more, bringing you closer to the edge.

“hmm, cum inside me- please i need it so bad” You moan, your legs wrapping around him to pull him in closer.

You let out a few high pitched moans, feeling the coil in your stomach snap, your cunt clenching around him. At the same time, Art’s hips stop moving and you feel him twitch inside you, filling you up with his cum. You moan softly, rocking your hips and fucking yourself on him to ride out your highs. Art pressed his forehead into your neck as you both caught your breath.

“you can’t be walking around in those damn nightgowns unless you want this to happen”

You turn your head as you both laugh, giving him a few soft pecks on the top of his head and temple.

“I’ll make sure to add more to my shopping cart then”

Art groans as he gives you a simple kiss on your collarbone and leans up to look at you. You both look at each other with blissful smiles and Art leans down placing a chaste kiss on the tip of your nose then your cheek and finally, your lips. Art looks down and grabs his shaft, you softly whimpering as he pulls out. He grabs a clean hand towel and cleans you up and then himself. Art slips your panties back over your legs and helps you to stand back on the floor.

“c’mon, i’m tired now.” You say as you walk in front of him, a little wobbly. Art’s eyes never leaving your ass as he slaps and grabs it lightly, a laugh smile on his lips.

wrote this at 2am in my granny nightgown :D

[stanart4clearskin]

mike faist’s side profile. he was literally sculpted from marble.

[cryptfile]

⨳ kinktober file 02 — victims of love, a. donaldson.

summary — you will simply not tolarate losing.

warnings — 18+ mdni, rivals to lovers, fem!reader, tension, filthy mouth, praise kink, whiny&pathetic!art, choking, pet names, p in v, masturbation, mentions of spit, blood and injuries (reader falls during a match and Art takes care of it, nothing wild), dumbification (art calls reader a loser multiple times).

side notes — this takes place before Tashi’s knee accident, it’s not important to know but whatever, english is not my first language thanks to the greater power of the universe, so any mistakes, let them be, i’m not sorry, also, like my previous file, dividers by @cafekitsune! let me know if you want to be tagged in the next kinktober file! been thinking about doing a kinktober masterlist so it’s easier for you my pretty people to look up and read whatever you want. Requests are still open at the moment!

Fuck being a loser.

Even when the tournament is a friendly one. Stanford always do that shit, this thing to bring students together and forces everyone to participate, yet, when you find out who you’re compiting with, it’s pretty obvious you’re going for the throat, not caring if the word “friendly” is in name as there was a medal and 150$ on game.

Yes. You are competitive by heart, it’s part of your genetics now that you’re deep into this tennis world you never wanted to be a part of, Tashi made you sign up and suddenly, suddenly you take it very seriously.

You win the first match, the second, and when it comes down to the final one, you find out it’s none other than Art Donaldson the one who’s on the other side of the tennis court, bouncing the yellow ball until he’s confident enough make the first move.

By the end you’re sweaty. Visible drips of sweat even when you’re standing on the other side, running to match his stregth and game. You wanted to be pro, enjoy the luxury of a relaxed life whose only meaning is to win plays, and to finally be that, you need to beat everyone, man or woman alike as it’s not a matter of sex, but rather talent.

It does not matter if it’s a friendly tournament, it does not matter about the masses saying you’re good, it’s about the fact that you won, that you beat Art Donaldson out of all people. Tashi is a wild ride yes, she makes you work for it when you two are against each other, run to every side, get tired. Art is tension.

Competition.

There’s nothing friendly about the way he’s looking at you, like he’s not dripping in sweat like you are, making those filthy sounds he makes each time he uses force to hit the ball, enough effort on it to make him tired, utterly tired.

So when he won, your knee is already bleeding, shaking his hand in nothing but hatred as he gives you this confident smile he uses to flirt sometimes. You hate it, every second of it, hate the fact that you lose against Tashi’s friend (who you’re sure she must have fucked before cause how there’s so much unresolved tension there?) and how he’s looking at you like he just crushed you in every sense of the word, even enjoyed it while doing it so.

“Good match,” he says when everyone’s looking at your interaction with him, but you don’t say a word. Art chuckles cause he knows people like you, people who need to prove themselves over and over again. “You did a good job.”

You don’t need praising even when it does things to you. You remain professional as you shake his hand, a fast and tight shake before taking the second place. Second.

What you don’t expect is to be in that party later. The music’s loud and people are celebrating something you’re not much aware of, yet the third place greets you with the tequila as you arrive, a bronze medal on his chest as the strong, burning taste goes down your throat before you caught him out the corner of your eye.

Art Donaldson.

He loves praising so much he cannot help it when people stop and say something nice about him: A good little tournament he won? It’s not something he’s going to be proud of his life forever, but it’s enough to make him enjoy the comments about his talent as the day goes through, the medium-sized gold medal still on his neck as he walks like he owns the place. 150$ dollars richer.

Fucker.

Everything seems to be against you: Sororities aren’t your thing but you’re there, the tournament went to shit, Art was literally haunting you.

You think about leaving. You live in a small residence where everyone knows each other, so big spaces filled with as much students as they can possibly fit is not a exactly a plan for you in a friday night, not when you like to stay indoors— But Tashi’s there, your friends are there, and man, you just need to have a good time after the disaster of a day.

So instead, you shove down a shot or two. And when you’re invited to smoke some grass outside, you don’t doubt it, even when Tashi says something about training tomorrow before disappearing, you're sat in a small circle, not caring about your friend’s words as you forgot about the pressure and simply smoke oblivious to everything — Even to Art's gaze.

Fuck being pro. You were doing okay in physics, maybe you should stick to that.

So while you’re drowning in misery, Art just looks at you with a beer in the hand. You picked his interest right at the end of the game: Tashi's friend, new blood, and a fresh face after a whole semester of knowing the same people — It’s safe to say he's drawn to you like he has been with everything he liked during his life. So yeah, he caught himself staring, going back to his memories and the imprinted scene on his brain of the match you two shared before like it was something intimate everyone in the public saw, the dripping sweat falling off your skin as you throw yourself to the floor caughting the small ball when you don't care about your physical well-being anymore.

He can see the wounds on your knee still, the scraps of dry blood as you smoked weed. He knows you're abusing, abusing your limits, testing how far you can go after a hell of a mach, and Art's usually pinning after Tashi at that point, desperate to sabotage Patrick, yet that night specifically he finds himself in trouble until that very moment, that very moment that everything seemed to change all of a sudden.

Truth is Art don't know you very much. He knows Tashi got a female friend she happens to like, a breathe of fresh air as she would describe you, that you play tennis sometimes, but more than that? He's totally clueless even about your name.

It’s just,— God. He loves girls that can put him in his place. It happened with Tashi before driving him crazy with need, and it has happened now in a lame tennis court with you out of all sudden. He thinks about that look you gave him, the tension of the competition, about the fact that even when you saw him, you choose to ignore him, the silver medal you received before well hidden in the back pockets of your shorts instead of proudly display it on your chest like the thrid place did.

You’re no second place. It’s very clear.

He likes your ego, that cocky face you got when someone mentioned the match, dismissing your second place like it was nothing; and Art just stares, even when people notice he’s looking at you, he doesn’t care about being evident as he scans each and every one of your actions.

Shit, he’s been staring a long time. Your friends notice when they tell you about the cute strawberry blonde that’s been checking you out the whole night, but you, knowing who he is, just know that he’s only doing it for teasing, to make your blood boil like he did in the match.

No one’s breaking the nice bubble you made though, laughing, dancing until you’re dizzy and you need to tell one of your girls that you’re going to the bathroom real quick, plan that usual, goes incredibly catastrophic.

The door is locked and you stand outside knocking a couple of times, cursing at the time it took the person inside to get out. And it’s all very cliché when you think about it hours later, cause when the door opens and you’re so rushed, so high already, you don’t happen to notice who you’re running into.

Either way you crash into him when he comes out. Art, Art, Art fucking Art. You’re half way drunk as you would say, and he’s dead sober as he prevents you from falling, grabbing you by the arm as you lose balance.

“Careful,” he would say before noticing it’s you—. “Having trouble to keep on your feet, second place? you okay?”

The nickname stirs something in you. Boiling rage mostly as you quickly stand on your feet again, regaining the balance you lost.

“Thanks. Watch where you’re going,” you quickly reply, rolling your eyes to the back of your head—. “Gotta be careful. People are not kind as me.”

“Kind? You sure about that?” he laughs softly, looking down at you. Fucking rat. Is he mocking you? “Don’t think you were kind to me. You were nothing but the opposite.”

“Were you expecting a pat on the back and a kiss on the cheek?” you asked furrowing your brows in response, an attitude that only appears cause you lack of shame, driven by liquid courage.

“Well for starters, that could be nice” he admits, and you now understand how it ended like it was going at the moment, how he prevented you from getting into the bathroom as he puts his hand right in front of you, blocking the way inside. “Maybe a good job would do.”

You sober up really fast after that, impossible not to.

“How’s your knee?” he asks after the silence, and you notice how he’s leaning towards you, hand on the wall as he points out the wound you didn’t take care of before, too mad to disinfect it as you ignore the pain after the match: Nothing hurts more than a bruised ego. “Did you go to the infirmary?”

“It’s only a bruise, m’okay” you say, looking at your kneecap as well, the dried blood that’s still on your skin—. “Can I go in or what?”

He’s pretty confident in himself, it seems like it (or maybe it’s because he has a gold medal with a number #1 on it), yet he’s grabbing you by the waist, pushing you inside the bathroom as he closes the door behind him with the help of his foot, helping you sit on top of the sink as he looks out for the first aid kit in a bathroom that’s not his.

And you, weird enough, forget why you’re there in the first place. That you were feeling strangely dizzy, that you were going to the bathroom to stare at the mirror and wash your face to sober up, even drunk for a moment as he presses a clean towel dipped in alcohol, a weird silence as you leg tweak against the sudden pain, a reflex you cannot control.

“Do you always get so mad when you don’t get what you want?” he asks, distracting you from the burning sensation as he takes care of the wound in your kneecap—. “Never met someone that could get so passionate about a friendly tournament.”

“No,” you admit, looking at his hands. Even when the blood is dried it still hurts. His touch is gentle, warm against your skin as he touches only what he needs to be touched, keeping his left hand on your tight as he prevents you from moving involuntarily. “Don’t lose often.”

“That so?” he asks, tilting his head slightly backwards, giving you this smile as if he has a huge secret about you only he knew, like you two share confidence now that you’ve shared five minutes in a bath away from the noise. “How long you’ve been playing anyway? Haven’t see you around.”

“A while,” you find his curiosity annoying, yet you’ve been rude enough so you don’t say much, not when he’s helping you—. “Didn’t take it very serious until this semester.”

He hums. Art likes that. The fact that your brain works for something else rather than the competition, that you could talk about the fucking weather if you like and not another match, so he takes in the information in, standing between your parted legs, incredible close.

“And you’re winning don’t you?” he asks curiously. “Hoping to go pro.”

“Well, I think we all want that in the end, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t respond, not with words exactly, but he leans over the bathroom sink, body barely touching yours as he grabs the red thread hanging on the back pocket of your shorts, the one he knows it’s there cause he’s been looking at it the entire night, and you need help cause your breathing hitches on your throat for a moment: Art’s touch is soft, equal as it was when he was taking care of your wound, his fingers sliding in the back as he grabs the silver medal of the second place between his fingers.

How, the hell he smells so damn good? Since you heard he was participating in the tournament you were eager to beat him and reduce him to ashes, but now, you find yourself sniffing on his scent as he fills your nostrils with a sweet smell much like vanilla, clean.

“You should wear your medal,” the blonde says, placing it over your head—. “Let people know you’re good in what you’re doing.”

“I don’t want people to cheer over a second place,” you admit looking at the silver with disgust, too proud to let it slide. “That’s mediocre.”

He seems to thing about it for a second: “Mediocre huh? Would you be happy if we switched medals then, second place?” he asks, looking down at your face. He’s too comfortable now that you didn't pushed him away, caging you in the sink as he places a hand on each side of your legs, his weight now against the spacious marble counter—. “Is that what you want? I’ll tell everyone you beat me if that’s going to make you happy.”

“No,” Why are you even nervous? You scold yourself in your mind a couple of times, he’s looking at you with those fucking puppy eyes, glistening under the white lights of the bath as he looks at you almost pleading—. “Cause that’s not true. You won.”

“Don’t really care. I just want to put a smile on your face,” Art replies, and god, it’s getting damn hard to think at that point cause his fingers are tracing invisible patters on the sides of your legs, stupidly close as he scans your face, no shame, nothing but a pure act of lust. “Don’t want you to be mad a me, second place. Would not want us to start off on the wrong foot.”

Whatever he’s doing? It’s working. Cause when he’s taking the gold medal out of his neck to put it in yours, exchanging the silver one you hated so much with his gold? You’re sure you’re making it all up in your head.

“There,” the athlete smiles almost proud as his knuckles brushes against your chest—. “Looks better around your neck anyways.”

He caughts you off-guard. You’re no longer high, drunk, or whatever excess you’ve been through the night, and you simply dig it, a lot to be honest with yourself. Maybe it’s the fact that you lose the tournament, that you’re somehow vulnerable thanks to your ego being bruised so much, but you let it happen, let his fingers grab the skin of your tight again like its their original place cause you want him to do it, to experience his touch.

“Nobody’s going to believe me,” you blurt out, nervous enough to act like you’re normal about it, about his warm skin seeking yours—. “They all saw you win. You played good.”

“You really think that?” he’s dizzy on that cocky confidence, that boost your words give him as he smiles, his right hand caressing your cheek for a moment, losing itself in the strands of your hair moments after. “You really think I did a good job out there? Beating you?”

It’s the way he’s saying it. How he’s all desperate about it, so needy for you to admit he did good as he brushes your hair using his fingers.

“You know I do. That’s why you won, Art.”

“I swear i’ll keep the secret, loser” he chuckles lowly, breaking every rule as he pushes you to the edge of the counter. “I’ll tell everyone that you won, but you’ll still be the second place to me.”

Fucker.

You want to respond, say something sassy as well, a snarky remark at least, but Art’s pressing his forehead against yours, grabbing you by the jaw strong enough to remind you he has more force than you, but gentle enough to let you enjoy it, demanding you to look at him. Look at him like he’s been looking at you the whole damn night.

“I do, really want to kiss you right now, second place” he admits close to you, gaze travelling to your pumped lips as his eyes take in the details, the pink shade mixed with a transparent lip gloss that only seems to invite him, to make a mess with it, dissapear at its finest. “It’s burning me alive.”

He waits for any sign of permission, and you try to think reasons to say no. Any motive to say no to him, but instead you simply chuckle, back against the wall, trapped in this atmosphere he so easily created: There’s no human way possible to say no cause to be brutally honest, you want it too.

He’s hot. he's handsome in a way you cannot stop thinking about so when he's kissing you? You have no complains. You let him be needy, let him touch you like an anguished men, like he encountered a glass of water after a long walk in the dessert. The kiss it's all teeth and bite — It's fast, messy, demanding and wet. He's grabbing you by the medal, tugging on the gold circle just to make you lean towards him, fingers now caressing on the skin of your throat now as he deepen the kiss, not even waiting for permission as he slides his tongue in, wanting more.

"So you wear my medal and i'll wear yours" his breathing collides against your skin soon after, planting kisses on the crook of your neck, drawn by your smell of peaches, the softness of your skin. "Say it, please say you'll do it."

Each second becomes a torture, a cruel joke when you were so invested in winning, something you don't care about now, that seems to be far from your interests as he squeezes the skin of your tight, toying with the hem of your shirt, the cotton fabric of your black t-shirt that only annoys him as he touches your stomach, the sweet intimacy he's been craving since the morning.

"I'll do it," you nod for a second—. "But you have to be convincing. Don't make me look like a fool."

"How could I?" he asks, utterly curious as he stops for a second to look at you. "You're a winner, anyone can tell."

It makes your blood rush. His words seems to hit the jackpot, cause your shirt's falling the floor, the door's being closed with lock, and suddenly, the air is hot, the only sound that filled the bathroom of the sorority being his kisses, your labored breathing as you forgot about the rest of the party.

It's not something you'd usually do, the rush of something so sporadic, so inconsistent, but you love the adrenaline, the touch of his hands, the electricity being poured down your spine.

"Nobody would even dare to think you're in reality a loser" he says, praising once again in his own way as he places a soft kiss on your lips, looking down at your hands now, fingers interwined now in his jeans. More. You want more. “A really hot second place.”

Your touch is getting more eager now, and as you unbuckle his pants, he's fucking whimpering, his hips moving in need for the friction the palm of your hand can offer, taunting him for a second before he's pulling down on his own underwear himself, the blue fabric of his jeans falling halfway over his tights.

Your hand leaves his body for a second, and he's ready to beg for more until he notices what you're really doing, a large amount of spit going into your hand in what Art could swear is the most erotic act he has ever seen, traces of drool on in your chin before your fingers finally hug his already hard cock.

Soon he's fucking your fist, burying his head in your neck, moaning and pleading you to keep on going, moving his hips fast enough to create a delicious sound you thrive on, ones that mixes damn well in the air. He's slightly sweaty, not like he was in the game, but enough to create this nice smell it only makes you addicted.

"Don't cum," you ask, and it's a lot when his movements are becoming more erratic at the time passes, incoherent words of praise and need as he bites on your neck—. "Art. Don't cum on my hand."

Fuck that.

His touch becomes desperate after that. The medal of the first place still on your bare chest, your black bra slightly up as he’s been touching you, rolling your nipple between his fingers, your skin almost glowing beneath the bathroom lights: He needs you more than what's actually possible, tugging on the button of your shorts, annoyed with the piece of fabric as he takes it off, the time it took to undress you being valuable time he simply doesn't want to waste.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks, making sure for a second you're okay, nodding in response before he grabs you by the hips only to push you in the position he wanted, finally throwing the damn shorts you're wearing to the floor before spreading your legs open, positioning himself in the middle. "God, you're such a fucking sight."

His voice is rough now, and that nice look on his face, that fucking rat smile, friendly even, is far erased from his lips now as he grabs his dick, pushing it between your folds without really fucking you, and the act is enough to make you moan when he’s moving his hips in a cruel pace, the tip of his cock leaking already against you clit. He’s fucking his own fist, your already dripping cunt making it easier for Art to slide as he wants to.

He spits, and it’s a crime cause nobody looks good while doing so, the trails of saliva that leaves his mouth land on his dick, coating your cunt before slightly pushing it inside with the help of his fingers, finally offering what you trully need—. And you feel him, inch by inch. When his fingers are grabbing you by the waist to keep you in place, pushing slowly until he’s deep inside, placing sloppy kisses all over your neck as you moan in response.

Art swears he’s in heaven. Invaded by an intense bliss as he began to move. The second place medal hits his torso, colliding against yours as he moves, and his left hand moves to grab a fistful of your hair just to pull it backwards, making your head follow the motion — He’s relentless, moving in a slow pace at first before gaining rythm, but shit. You’d lie if you didn’t say he knew what he was doing when his right thumb moves in circles over your swollen clit.

It’s hard to hate Art Donaldson like that. All whiny and pathetic, mumbling words about how warm your pussy is, how tight you feel, wet for him. It’s hard giving a fuck about the competition when he’s leaving your hair alone to instead grab the thread of the medal you’re wearing, the red ribbon that was on his neck before and now is hanging on yours, angling the medal so the thread is now choking you, pulling on the gold slightly to make it harder to breathe.

“C’mon, loser” he says with a cocky smile, looking down where his cock is, stretching you out to his liking with each thrust. “D’you feel that? How good your pretty pussy is taking me? That’s first place material there, champion material.”

You nod a couple of times, too fucked-out to function. Lewd sounds fill out the room after, the moans, the grunts, the coils of pleasure that started to form in the lower part of your belly, fueled by his rough movements now, leaving that soft touch behind to replace it with force, fingers digging on your skin so hard he’s sure it’s going to leave a mark behind.

Fuck it. Fuck the game, fuck second place. Your head hits the mirror behind the sink, yet it means nothing as you can feel the orgasm being poured all over by the minutes, the insane punch as he keeps on going, hitting that nice spot in an inconsistant pace as you come undone.

“God that’s it,” he says, pulling on the medal until your skin is changing fucking colors—. “That’s it, cum,” he demands. “Taking my cock like a fucking champion.”

He cums soon after you, pulling out as it lands on your stomach, the gold medal thats now resting on your belly stained with his cum.

And he melts in top of you for a second, breathing heavily against your neck, body covered in sweat before blushing slightly embarassed about the mess he did.

Weird enough, only one thought appears on his mind after five minutes: Just wait until you meet Patrick.

previous kinktober file [ dean winchester ] // masterlist

[seduzist]

idk if you write for art but can you make one where art loses his virginity with reader pls 😓 (bonus points if there’s breeding kink) tyyy!

virgin!art x fem!reader

cw. talks of breeding, drunk sex.

art’s been waiting for this for way too long, and you know it. that’s why you were so good to him, you kissed tenderly all of his face, making him smile drunkly at you and shove you at the wall, getting more comfortable to start taking off your clothes. he looks mesmerized by your body and for a second the smile disappears, only the fear of not being good enough staying in his eyes. but you noticed and whispers to him that it’s okay to touch.

the trick worked well and in the next second his dick is hard as a rock, the only thought in his mind is to be inside you. which he did, just a few minutes after.

art loses his mind at how tight and hot you are, he couldn’t help but get needy, all desperate, thrusting inside you with his hips like his life depends on it, grunting loudly abt how good you feel, how he can not stop. his face right into your neck and one of his arms holding his body above yours while the other is holding your leg up, guaranteeing that stays this way so he could continue fucking you and feeling your walls against his sensitive cock.

“i need- i need to breed you, please-please.” he takes his face from your neck just to beg you, he should know you were on the pill, but who cares? poor boy never felt this way, his primal instincts taking the best of him, never in this life his body needed so badly of anything. the merely thought of cumming inside you, marking you as his, giving you his fucking baby???? had the boy out of his fucking mind.

his eyes were so captivating, so hard to refuse, how could you? when he’s skin on skin with you, you feel him all over, when he’s griping so hard the soft skin of your thigh, when you feel his cock pulsing inside you, begging for release, when the pretty boy is thrusting inside messily and sloppy, inexperienced, with no sense or skill, just pure natural instinct, he was barely giving you pleasure but the sight made your pussy wetter for him to thrust.

he kept begging until you exclaimed yes! and thats when he cum, hard, loud, deep, you feel him filling you up to the point where is leaking even before he pulls out, he’s exhausted and just falls on top of you, panting hard as he thanks you for making him feel se good… you feel his cock softening up inside you and see art’s eyes closing as he lays in your chest.

[rana030]

We always get sunshine!reader what about grumpy!reader, huh?

[softmiso]

worship the flame | art donaldson x reader

🦊 kinktober day 1: breast worship

🥮 other details: nsfw/18+, fem!reader, ~400 words

🍁 cross-posted on ao3

You lay in bed, idly reading a book, when you hear the front door open. After finishing the page you were on, you place the book on the nightstand, and Art enters your shared bedroom.

“Hi, baby,” he speaks softly.

“Hi, Artie. How was practice?” You ask, but you already know the answer by the look on his face.

“Tiring,” he replies, “couldn’t stop thinking about coming home to you,” he continues, and you pout. He approaches, placing his hand on your cheek, stroking the soft skin with his thumb. You lean into his touch, comforted by the familiar feeling.

“Come join me,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He complies, removing his tennis gear and climbing into bed next to you. Immediately, he lay his head on your chest, hand cupping your breast tenderly.

The two of you lay in comfortable silence for a few moments, but as time goes on, Art’s fingers migrate closer and closer to your nipple. It perks up under the thin material of your sleep shirt, and you swear you can feel a smile tug at Art’s lips.

“Missed you,” he says, lifting his head slightly, kissing you softly on your chin, “missed them,” he continues, placing a kiss on either breast over the low neckline of your top. You giggle at his sincerity. He’s always been enamoured by every part of you, but your breasts? Well, he had a particular fondness for them.

“Wanna take this off for me?” He asks, hands inching downwards to your sides. You nod, and he removes your shirt with grace. Immediately, his lips find your right nipple, and his hand finds your left. His soft lips envelop the bud, while his fingers tweak at the other tenderly.

A moan escapes you involuntarily as his teeth nip at the sensitive skin. At that, he looks up at you, all the world’s admiration in his eyes. He moves up slightly, then, finally capturing your lips in a kiss. Quickly, it deepens, your tongues tangling. The two of you move languidly, however, and his hand stays on your breast. Right where it belongs.

Finally, he returns to your chest, lips now moving to the opposite nipple. As he continues his ministrations, you feel your arousal increasing. You, not so subtly, rub your thighs together to relieve some of the tension. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed by Art, and he releases your bud from his mouth. His hand travels lower and lower, until he reaches your clothed folds.

“Am I leaving someone out?” He asks, a smirk spreading across his lips.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚