#art donalson x reader

[bonniesbluee]

stanford!art who...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[deeninadream]

My fav boys right now…

WINNER TAKES ALL ·⁀ ༄.°🎾 ₊⭒˚｡⋆

🏸˙✧˖° ༘ ⋆｡˚ coach!art x reader x tennisplayer!rafe jealous art, age gap (art is mid-late 30s, you and rafe are 20s), voyeurism, art calls rafe "kid" but everyone is adults!!, 18+ mdni it's my birthday!! so nothing better than something incredibly self indulgent for my first real smut (,,>��<,,)!

you're art donaldson’s star student

the brightest star in his sky, damn the sun

he thinks you're an angel come down to earth, flying through the air in those little white pleated skirts

golden, perfect, pure

and then rafe cameron came along

all cockiness and aggression, if his rich parents weren’t paying him so much for private lessons, art would’ve dropped that bastard long ago

rafe had his sights set on you since the very first day he arrived to the court for lessons with art and there you were finishing up your own

little white pleated skirt that showed a glimpse of your underwear every time you jumped to return a ball

he makes sure to talk you up while you’re packing up your things, all dazzling, country club smile

you find him pretty, a little rough around the edges, but you knew the type of guy he was. spoiled rich boy with eyes that looked like they were hiding something

immediately art didn’t approve. watching from across the court with eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching extra tight with each chew of that minty gum in his mouth

art said rafe was a bad influence on you despite him being the one infatuated by his much younger student

at least he was looking out for you. making you better. he could tell just by looking at rafe that he’d only make you worse

he typically tried to keep the two of you apart, keeping your interactions to a minimum, but he saw how you started taking more time to stretch after practice. drawing your lithe limbs above your head and bending extra low whenever rafe arrived for his lesson. lingering. waiting.

and every time he’d see rafe’s eyes on you he’d snap “let’s go, cameron, warm up.” making sure he was occupied with something else

then you suggested he double up your lessons. something about a scrimmage for practice. he said no for weeks as you kept bugging him about it “trust me, he’s nowhere near your level. it’s not going to do a thing for you.”

the day he finally gave in, he regretted it the second he saw rafe’s cocky smile directed right at you from across the net like he had a single chance. he watched you go easy on him for a full set before he told you off for it. “we’re not gonna do this if you’re not gonna play right. what did i tell you about creating bad habits?”

at least he got the satisfaction of watching you take rafe’s ego down a peg after that

but then… god help him.

he was walking by the locker room after practice, towel slung over his neck and racket bag on his shoulder when he heard it. it sounded like you were crying out in pain, and he nearly dropped everything to rush in and help you when he heard what came next. his voice.

“fuckk you’re so fuckin’ tight,” rafe groaned and art froze. he couldn’t move a muscle

he was standing just inside the doorway, unable to see wherever rafe had you pinned up against a row of lockers, just listening. he felt like such a pervert, but he couldn’t leave, not when you sounded like that

every whine and moan sounded like the choir of heaven in his ears, it could almost drown out each disgusting word the other boy was grunting in your ear

“you like this? letting me fuck your brains out where anyone could hear? what if coach heard his perfect angel getting railed like a slut in the locker room?”

he had to make himself leave after that. it was too close. and he was far too hard from hearing the way you cried out even louder at that

after that incident, your lingering after practice stopped altogether. instead, you were rushing off to the locker room. checking your watch every minute for the last ten minutes of your lesson. so much so he had to scold you for it. “you have somewhere to be?”

not only that, but rafe started showing up to his lessons late. swaggering onto the court with mussed hair and red marks half-way hidden under the collar of his polo

it was driving art out of his mind, making him more and more irritable with the kid, making him run extra drills over and over hoping his hands would bleed or something in his shoulder would tear and he wouldn’t be able to touch you like that anymore

it finally got to the point where he had to sit you down at the end of your lesson to have a talk. you were fidgeting in your seat on the bench, your gaze constantly flicking to your watch or back towards the locker rooms. your knee was bouncing so anxiously, he had to reach out and lay his big hand on your thigh to keep it still

“i don’t think rafe is a good influence on you, sweetheart,” says the perv who fists himself every night thinking about the way you sounded on someone else’s cock

you tilt your head in confusion at him, looking like the sweetest little puppy and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from squeezing your leg too tight

“i’m moving your tuesday lessons to mondays,” he finally says with a sigh. no more overlap with rafe. no more lingering, no more running off, all of your time would be his

“what?” you sputter. as long as you’d been with him you’ve had lessons every tuesday, thursday, and friday, and now all of a sudden he thinks he can change things with a snap of his fingers?

“rafe’s taking your spot so he can have the earlier time,” he sighs as if it’s all the rich kid’s fault and not his own selfishness

“why does he get priority?” you scoff. “and what the hell does this have to do with his ‘influence’ on me?”

“well, i know you have the availability on mondays and his parents are paying me a ridiculous amount of money for his slot. and don’t think i don’t see what’s going on here,” he gestures between you and the locker rooms with a flick of his finger

“what? what’s going on here?” you ask accusingly

“you’re ruining your focus on your game for some kid who couldn’t give a fuck about you. i can’t let you do this, sweetheart, you know you’re going places. only place he’s going is the country club,” art scoffs, his patience running thin

but you’ve heard enough, gathering your things and storming off to the locker rooms, leaving art to hang his head in his hands and remind himself that he’s doing the right thing

but this time when rafe’s late to practice, he’s already pissed off. five minutes late turns into fifteen and he can’t take it anymore, storming off the court and towards the locker rooms

he doesn’t bother stopping outside this time, walking right to the back of the room where rafe is busy plowing into you from the back, your hands splayed against the lockers as you’re bent over at the hips

art slams his hand against the hollow metal to catch your attention, both of your heads instantly shooting to the side to look at him with wide, shocked eyes

“what the fuck?” rafe grunts, stilling inside you, but art’s eyes are only on you. even as he says “you’re late.”

but you’ve had enough of his attitude today. the look in your eyes turns defiant as you hold his gaze, pushing your hips back against rafe’s again. “he’s busy.”

rafe grunts and grips your hips tighter, his gaze flicking between the two of you with his brows furrowed in confusion

art rolls his eyes at you, crossing his arms over his chest. “like he’s even getting you off like that,” he scoffed and rafe’s face scrunches up in offense, opening his mouth to protest, but then you’re grinding your hips back on him again and all he can do is groan

“how would you know, coach?” you dig at him again, eyes narrowing at him

“i know what pleasuring a woman sounds like,” he answers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. and he knows you’re too competitive to not take it as a challenge

it doesn’t take long for art to have your back pressed up against those lockers, one knee pressed into your chest with his grip on your thigh and his length bullying you open

he drags his hips back slowly before snapping them up into you at an angle that makes you see stars, your nails clawing at his back as you cry out with each thrust

rafe’s watching your fucked out face over art’s shoulder, still almost too stunned by everything to do anything but fist his own cock at the sight

“feel what you were missin’ out on, baby?” art murmurs against your neck as he presses kiss after kiss to your neck, your jaw, your shoulder, wherever his lips could reach. “runnin’ off to let some spoiled kid rut into you instead of staying with me?” 

you could hear the possessiveness in his voice and it almost made you feel guilty for all those times you ran out of practice as fast as you could to meet with rafe instead. but then again you probably never would’ve had him fucking you this good without it

“‘m sorry, coach,” you whine in his ear and it makes him let out a low groan, his hips snapping up even harder at that. “fuck, you should be,” he huffs into your ear

his hand that’s not practically holding you up comes down between your bodies to rub at your neglected clit and you’re instantly clenching tighter around him, your head falling back against the locker with a clanging sound drowned out by a near pornographic moan. he curses lowly again at the feeling of you squeezing around him like a vice grip, and he knows you’re close

“c’mon, baby, show rafe what it actually sounds like when you’re cumming all over a cock,” he mutters in your ear and that’s all it takes for you to fall apart

you swear you nearly black out from the pleasure and its only a matter of time before he’s pulling out of you and spilling his own release in thick ropes onto your stomach with a chorus of groans and “fuck”s and “so fucking good”s

after a long moment of nothing but a choir of panting breaths in the air, art turns his head to find rafe still sitting on the bench behind the two of you, his hand and stomach covered in his own cum

“practice is cancelled today,” art huffs at him before he’s turning his attention back to you, lowering your leg back to the ground and practically carrying you back to the showers to get you all cleaned up

[littlesoulshine]

meet art's new wife જ⁀➴

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[jiimeniita]

[faistgirl]

can we talk abt puppy art for a sec :(

puppy art always seeks you out in any crowd. cafeteria? concerts? assembly’s? good thing he’s 6’2 so that he can look over everyone’s heads to spot that perfect halo around your head. once he sees you, he’s so unaware of his surroundings he’s basically pushing everyone out of the way, just to take the quickest route to you

puppy art will never give you a second alone when he’s tired and sad after a bad game. he’ll come straight to your dorm, head held low and his lips downturned like a puppy being called a bad boy. but before you can even put your book to the side and ask him what’s wrong, he’s crawling into bed and straight between your legs to nestle against your stomach, making sad little whimpers while he nudges for head rubs :( if you try to go to the bathroom, or get him some water, he’ll activate his iron grip on you and won’t let you go unless you absolutely need to use the bathroom. even then he’d sit by your legs while you do your business, or lean on the vanity.

puppy art who immediately seeks your praise when he does something cool. passed his test? running to you, because texting is too slow on those old phones. beat someone in a game, even if it was practice? running to you. got complimented on his progress by his coach? guess what? running to you! he’s always looking for things that will earn him some head ruffles or jaw scratches, just anything for you to dote over him and praise him like the good boy he is :(

[artsangell]

[deeninadream]

Some of the saddest shit I’ve read…who the fuck said you could write something so beautiful and heartbreaking? I wanna know, and then I wanna give them a long hug. Jesus Christ.

Night Shift

Art Donaldson, Challengers

Summary: Stanford¡Art Donaldson x Fem¡Music Artist Reader,, Art and (Y/n) were more than just a fun college "fling" - it was a real connection. (Y/n) writes the story of their ending love through music as he projects his aftermath of them in his tennis performances.

TW: Angst,, Sexual Innuendos,,

Based off the song "Night Shift" by Lucy Dacus

I do not own any of the songs mentioned, it's all for fanfic purposes :)

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

Not just any party. One of those crowded, sweat-drenched, red-cup-in-hand frat disasters that reeks of beer and bad decisions. You’re there because your band’s bassist begged you to “get out of your own damn head” and Art is there because… well, he’s always there.

He spots you across the room after your half-drunk karaoke rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.” And he’s grinning like he just won Wimbledon. That smug, golden-boy, tousled-blonde charm oozing off him like cologne.

“You know you sing like heartbreak in a leather jacket?” he tells you, a little too close, definitely too bold.

“You play tennis like you’ve got something to prove,” you shoot back.

You don’t sleep with him that night.

But you text him the next day.

It’s never serious.

Not really.

He shows up at your apartment at 2AM with a busted lip from practice and kisses you like the world’s ending. You play him your demos while lying on your back, legs tangled, wine-stained teeth, laughing at your own lyrics. You scribble his name in the margins of your notebook but cross it out twice. He brings you a guitar pick keychain from his first away match win. You joke that you’ll write a song called Boy with a Backhand.

Sometimes he disappears for days — training, tournaments, locked in with Tashi and Patrick. You don’t ask questions. You don’t have the right to.

But when he’s with you? It’s electric.

A storm bottled up in his grin, your voice, the tension of two people who almost fall in love every time they touch — but don’t. Not really.

The lamp is on — dim, warm. A Fleetwood Mac record crackles faintly from the dusty turntable in the corner. It smells like incense and sweat and sex in the air, and Art’s arm is slung across your stomach like it’s his birthright. You stare at the ceiling. He stares at you.

“Your ceiling needs work,” he says lazily. You snort. “So do your commitment issues.” That earns a sharp grin. He doesn’t deny it.

He shifts, half-draped across your body now, chin nudging your shoulder, voice low and boyish. “You’re meaner after sex. I kinda like it.”

“Shut up, Donaldson.”

You both fall into silence again — but it’s not uncomfortable. Not really. His thumb brushes slow, lazy circles into your hipbone. You can feel your heartbeat syncing to his without even meaning to.

“You ever think about it?” he murmurs, suddenly.

You blink. “About what?”

“If we weren’t just… whatever this is.”

You turn to look at him. “You mean if you weren’t busy being golden boy of the court and I wasn’t writing breakup songs about you before we’ve even broken up?”

His smile softens. “You’d write good ones.”

“You’d deserve them.” Another beat of silence.

He kisses your shoulder. Gentle this time. Not the frantic, breathless thing it usually is. Just soft, like he’s saying sorry without saying it out loud.

“I like this,” he says, and he means you. “Even if it’s messy.”

You should say something clever. You’re always quick with him. Always deflecting.

But instead, you just whisper, “Me too.”

You both lie there, knowing it won’t last — but pretending it could, just for a moment longer.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

The air is still except for the hum of her space heater and the soft creak of her guitar strap shifting against her shoulder. The room is low-lit, draped in shadows and string lights that cast a soft glow across her desk — cluttered with tea-stained mugs, scribbled notes, and last week’s setlist.

She’s in his hoodie. Of course. She didn’t mean to put it on, but it was the one closest to the bed, and it smells like him — like detergent and the faintest hint of sweat and something warm and sharp that always made her dizzy when he leaned too close.

Her notebook is a mess of half-finished thoughts. Lines crossed out. Words rewritten. Arrows pointing toward margins where she tried — and failed — to make sense of what she felt. Or maybe, what she wasn’t supposed to feel.

She strums absently. Slow. Thoughtful.

It’s not supposed to be a sad song, but everything comes out aching.

This wasn’t love. Not really. But it’s enough to keep her up at night. Enough to make her wonder what would happen if he ever looked at her the way he does when he talks about tennis. The way he does when he’s winning.

She hums a melody, soft and low, then catches the thread of something real. Something sharp and too honest. Her pen scratches the paper fast now, fingers trembling a little. The song takes shape like a bruise — slow to form, impossible to ignore.

It’s about him. Obviously.

But she doesn’t write his name. She never does.

The title comes last — written in all caps at the top of the page: LOVESICK.

She underlines it once. Then again. Then a third time, harder.

Her tea’s cold now. Her guitar is quiet in her lap. The song is finished, but the ache is still there.

And so is he. Even when he’s not.

It’s been a week since Art’s last message, a text that she’s still replaying in her head. She tries not to obsess over it, but it lingers, gnawing at her. The message was simple enough: “Busy. Catch up later.” But there’s something off about it. Something that feels like he’s already pulling away without saying it out loud. She knew he was distant, but this… this felt like an end without the finality.

She stares at her phone, at the little blinking cursor in the text box, but the words don’t come. It’s like she’s frozen in place, too afraid to write something too much or too little. So, she doesn’t write at all.

Instead, she taps out a half-hearted reply, hoping the weight of the last message doesn’t sit too heavily in her chest. “Alright, take care.” She sends it before she can second-guess herself, dropping the phone to the desk and forcing herself to look away.

She doesn’t reach for her guitar like she normally does when she’s trying to shake off an uncomfortable feeling. Instead, she leans back in her chair, staring out the window at the soft glow of campus lights. It’s hard to ignore the pit in her stomach. He hasn’t stopped texting her altogether — no, that would be too obvious. But it’s all become so… distant. His replies are shorter now, more detached, like he’s just going through the motions. The playful banter, the easy flow of their texts, it’s all gone. And she knows why. She knows it’s because he’s moving on — without saying it.

The next day, another message comes through from him. She jumps when she hears her phone buzz, reaching for it with a mix of hope and dread. It’s another simple message, but this time, it’s even more detached than the last. “Busy. Catch up later.”

She forces herself to breathe, pushing down the growing sense of disappointment. It’s not his fault, she tells herself. He’s a tennis player, he has a life outside of her. He has commitments. He’s just not her commitment. She can’t expect him to change. She’s been trying to convince herself of that for days now, but the more time passes, the more she can’t ignore the quiet ache that’s starting to settle into her chest.

The next few days pass in a blur. She goes through the motions — classes, rehearsals, writing, hanging out with Avalon — but every minute of it feels a little heavier without him. She can’t stop thinking about him, even though she’s telling herself it’s fine. She writes a few new songs, each one spiraling into something more raw, more real. She doesn’t mean for them to be about him. They never are, until they are.

One evening, she gets another text from him. She picks up her phone, her heart racing for a brief moment. This time, it’s a group chat. His name shows up among the list of students from their program, asking if anyone’s up for a game. It’s casual, nothing special, but it stings all the same. The absence of his personal messages — the ones that used to be just for her — feels like another goodbye.

She doesn’t respond. She just stares at the screen, fingers hovering over the keys. She wants to send something back, something that says I’m still here, still waiting, but she doesn’t. She won’t.

Days turn into weeks. The space between them becomes a void she can’t cross. She tries to fill the silence with music, with friends, with everything else, but it’s always there, looming.

Then, one night, after weeks of almost nothing, her phone buzzes again. She picks it up, her heart jumping into her throat when she sees his name.

It’s a simple text. “Yo, sorry I’ve been MIA. Let’s hang soon?”

It’s a text she would’ve expected to come a few days after that first one. Not now. Not after all this time. Her thumb hovers over the keyboard, but she doesn’t know how to respond. There’s too much between them now. Too much silence. Too many unspoken words.

Let’s hang soon? It’s so casual. So easy. And maybe that’s the problem.

She puts the phone down, staring at it for what feels like forever. He’s reaching out, but it’s like he doesn’t even realize how much he’s already pulled away.

She tries to tell herself that it’s fine. That this is what he does. That maybe he just doesn’t understand how much it hurts. But deep down, she knows the truth — he’s moved on. And part of her hates herself for still caring.

She never answers. She lets the message sit there, and in the quiet that follows, she finally admits something to herself: he’s gone. Not in the way she thought he would be, but in the way that leaves someone feeling hollow, like the absence of someone you thought was never going to leave.

It doesn’t feel like closure. It feels like a door quietly shutting. And there’s no way to open it again.

The quiet hum of the campus outside the dorm is drowned out by the muffled chatter of the other students in the hallway. Inside, the dim glow of string lights cast soft shadows across the room, her guitar leaning against the desk in the corner. The space is cozy, cluttered with books, scattered notes, and a few random items from various shows she’s played over the past few weeks. It’s a place she feels safe, but tonight, it feels different.

She sits on her bed, scrolling mindlessly through her phone. She hasn’t heard from Art in days, and she’s told herself she’s okay with it. He’s busy with his tennis, with his life — she can’t keep clinging to something that was never meant to last. But even as she tells herself that, she can’t shake the emptiness that settles in her chest when she realizes he hasn’t reached out. Not in the way he used to, not in a way that makes her feel like she matters.

And then, there’s the knock.

It’s quiet at first, just a faint sound against the door, but she knows exactly who it is. Her heart skips, a sudden, inexplicable rush of anticipation running through her. She doesn’t want to let him in. She knows what that would mean — the heat of it, the mess of everything they haven’t said yet. But she can’t ignore it. Not now. Not with him standing on the other side of that door.

She stands up and opens it, her breath catching in her throat as she comes face to face with him. Art. His tousled hair is messier than usual, his eyes tired, but the smile — that familiar, crooked grin — is there. He looks like he’s been thinking about this moment just as much as she has.

“Hey,” he says, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.

She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “What do you want?”

It’s a defensive tone, the kind she’s been using the past few weeks, but it’s hard to hide the way her body still responds to him. The way she’s never really been able to stop wanting him, even if she’s tried.

“I…” He hesitates for a moment, his eyes flickering to hers before dropping to the floor, like he doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been great with words when it comes to this. But he steps closer, closing the distance between them. “I miss you.”

There’s something raw in the way he says it. Not like the usual flippant way he says everything, but like he’s admitting something to himself too.

She looks up at him, her arms still crossed, but her walls feel thinner now, the anger from weeks of silence starting to crumble. “You’re only here because you need something, aren’t you?”

Art frowns, shaking his head. “No… not just that.” His hand brushes against hers, tentative at first. When she doesn’t pull away, he lets his fingers trace along her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. “I’m here because I want to fix this… whatever this is between us.”

She swallows, her pulse quickening despite herself. “And how do you plan on doing that?” She can’t help but sound sarcastic, the frustration bubbling up, but it’s mixed with something else. A quiet hope she’s been trying to bury for weeks now.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly, his voice a little rough. “But I want to try.”

The tension between them thickens, the air charged with something neither of them can ignore. She knows she should say something, tell him that this isn’t the way to fix things, that it can’t be that simple. But she doesn’t. Instead, she pulls him closer, hands tangling in the fabric of his shirt, and kisses him. It’s not slow or gentle. It’s all the frustration, all the confusion of the last few weeks, spilling out into a kiss that’s almost desperate.

Art responds immediately, his hands on her waist, pushing her back toward the bed, following her as she stumbles back, breaking the kiss only for a second to catch her breath. Her heart is hammering in her chest. She knows this isn’t the answer. She knows this won’t fix anything. But she doesn’t care. Not right now. Not when he’s here, this close, looking at her like maybe, just maybe, he feels the same way.

He kicks the door closed behind him, and the next few moments blur together — hands on skin, lips on necks, the frantic rush of bodies trying to reconnect in a way words never could.

She feels his breath against her skin, his hands tugging at her shirt, desperate and slow all at once. They fall onto the bed together, tangled in a mess of limbs, both of them moving like they don’t want to think about what this means, just feeling each other. His lips trace the line of her jaw, down her neck, and she shivers under the warmth of his touch.

For a moment, it feels like everything else doesn’t matter — not the silence, not the distance, not the way they both know this can’t last. She doesn’t want to think about the end. She doesn’t want to think about the mess they’ve made of things.

But when their lips meet again, slower this time, there’s something deeper in it. Something that feels less like a quick fix and more like something they’ve both been craving. He pulls back for a moment, looking down at her, his expression unreadable.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching hers.

For a second, she thinks about the mess they’ve made. About the silence. The distance. But then she looks up at him, her heart racing again, and she knows, without a doubt, what she wants.

“I don’t know,” she admits, her voice soft but honest. “But I want this. I want you.”

And in that moment, as their lips meet again, she forgets about the consequences. She forgets about the unspoken things. For now, all she wants is him. And for once, it feels like that’s enough.

The room is quiet now, save for the soft hum of the campus outside. The string lights that decorated the corners of the room cast a gentle glow, but the air between them feels thick with something unspoken.

She lies beside him on the bed, the weight of his arm still draped over her, his fingers lightly tracing circles on her skin. She’s staring up at the ceiling, her mind spinning as the quiet settles in. The adrenaline of their heated kiss, the rush of their bodies moving together, has faded into something deeper, something more confusing.

Art shifts beside her, his breath still coming a little faster than usual. He’s always been good at pretending like nothing matters, like everything’s just for fun, but there’s a tension in the air now, something new that wasn’t there before.

He doesn’t say anything at first, and she’s almost grateful for the silence. What can either of them say after this? What are they supposed to do with the tangled mess of feelings and broken boundaries they’ve just created?

She feels him shift again, this time sitting up slightly, his back against the headboard. He’s looking down at his hands, the momentarily post-coital bliss fading into a nervous tension. She can almost hear the wheels turning in his head, the weight of his usual detached mask starting to settle back into place.

“So…” he starts, his voice breaking the silence like he’s unsure of where to go next. “That was…”

She turns her head to look at him, her body still flush from the heat of their kiss. The space between them feels vast now, like they’re two people who’ve just shared something intimate but are no longer sure how to bridge the gap that’s still between them.

“Yeah,” she says softly, trying to keep the vulnerability from creeping into her voice. “It was.”

His gaze flits over to hers, lingering for a moment before quickly looking away. She sees the slight tension in his jaw, the way he seems to be avoiding the deeper implications of what they just did. It’s always been like this with him, hasn’t it? Everything’s a game until it gets too real.

She sighs, the weight of it all settling heavily on her chest. “I thought this was just… supposed to be a fling,” she says, testing the words on her tongue. She hadn’t expected it to feel so confusing, but now that it’s over, she can’t stop wondering if it was ever really just that.

“Yeah, me too,” he replies quickly, almost too quickly, as if trying to convince himself as much as her. He doesn’t look at her, his eyes still fixed on the space across the room. The cool detachment in his voice doesn’t match the warmth in his touch just moments ago, and that shift makes her heart ache in a way she didn’t expect.

The air between them grows colder, the tension thickening like a fog she can’t shake. She swallows, the words catching in her throat. “Art… why did we do this?” She’s not asking for an apology. She’s not even sure what she’s looking for. But she needs to understand.

He finally meets her eyes, and for a moment, it feels like he’s seeing her for the first time tonight — really seeing her. But the guard in his expression quickly returns.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice quieter this time. “I think we both know the answer. But neither of us is ready to say it.”

His honesty stings, but it also makes her heart ache even more. She wants to tell him that it’s okay, that they can just leave it behind them and pretend it was nothing, that they can go back to the way things were. But the truth is, she’s not sure she can do that anymore. She’s not sure she can pretend it didn’t matter.

Instead, she sits up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. “I don’t want to play games, Art,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to keep pretending that I don’t care, when I do.” Her heart races as she says it, the vulnerability slipping out before she can stop it. “I don’t want to keep doing this thing where we’re just… this. Where I’m just someone you see when it’s convenient.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence stretches on. She can feel him pulling back again, the space between them growing even larger than before. She’s not sure if it’s the tension from their night together, or if it’s the realization that everything has shifted now, but the words he finally speaks make her heart drop.

“I told you,” he says, voice low, almost regretful. “I’m not good at this. At being… what you need. I don’t know how to be that for you.”

It’s a punch in the gut, hearing him say it out loud. She wants to argue, to tell him that he doesn’t have to be perfect. That she doesn’t need him to be anyone other than who he is. But she knows, deep down, that she can’t change him. She can’t make him want more if he’s not ready for it.

She swallows the lump in her throat, pulling her knees to her chest. “I know,” she says, her voice barely audible. “But I thought maybe… maybe there was more to us. Or at least, I hoped there was.”

Art looks at her for a moment, his eyes filled with something — guilt, maybe, or regret. But it’s too late for that now. He doesn’t know how to give her what she needs, and she can’t keep hoping he will.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s the first time she’s ever heard him sound so unsure. “I’m just not the guy you need, and I don’t know how to be him.”

She nods slowly, the weight of his words sinking in. “Yeah,” she says, voice cracking slightly. “I guess I knew that all along.”

He doesn’t say anything more after that, and neither of them moves. The space between them feels infinite now, and neither one of them knows how to bridge the gap.

After a long pause, Art gets up, his movements stiff and mechanical. He grabs his jacket from the chair, looking back at her for a brief moment before heading toward the door. “Take care,” he says, the words hollow in the air.

She watches him leave, the sound of the door clicking shut echoing through the room. For a long time, she just sits there, alone, letting the silence wash over her. She’s not sure what she expected, but she knows that whatever it was, it wasn’t this.

And now, all she has left is the emptiness.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

It starts slowly. A single uploaded clip from a smoky bar set. Her voice — smooth, aching — wraps itself around a melody she wrote on the floor of her college dorm the week after he stopped answering. People listen. Then they listen again.

Within a year, she’s playing sold-out shows in indie venues, her lyrics dissected on TikTok, fans crying in front rows to songs they don’t know are about him. About Art Donaldson, the boy who kissed her like a promise and left like a storm.

She never named him. She didn’t have to.

The songs said everything.

They weren’t angry songs — not all of them, at least. Some were soft. Remembering the way his laugh curled around the edges of her bed. The way he’d press his forehead to hers like he was trying to memorize her. But there were others, too. Bitten-off lyrics about unreturned texts, the silence that never came with closure, the way he made her feel like a question without an answer.

By the time her debut album dropped, it was clear: she had become something real. Something permanent. Critics called her “a poet with bite.” Rolling Stone named her the voice of heartbreak for a generation. Her second tour sold out in hours.

And Art?

He saw her name more often than he admitted. First on a playlist someone else was playing. Then in ESPN articles mentioning her in passing — Stanford alumna and rising artist (Y/N). The same girl who used to hum melodies under her breath while folding her legs into his lap. The same girl who asked him what they were and got silence in return.

He didn’t listen to the album at first.

Then one night, alone in his apartment, he played it. Track one to eleven. No skips. Her voice hit him like a bruise, familiar and unforgiving. She didn’t sound bitter. That’s what hurt most. She sounded… past him. Like she’d loved him deeply. And then learned how to leave.

He knew he had no right to feel hollow.

They hadn’t spoken since graduation. He hadn’t reached out. She hadn’t either.

But every time her voice floated through a store, or a girl he brought home played her music off her phone, he’d freeze. Because every line — every verse — was proof she remembered. That it had meant something. That he meant something.

And she was everywhere now.

He wondered if she knew how famous she’d become. If she remembered the way he used to tease her about singing too loudly in the shower, or how she once made him sit cross-legged on the floor of her dorm and listen to a half-finished song.

She used to look at him like he was the only thing in the world she couldn’t figure out.

Now, the whole world was listening to her trying to do just that.

He never reached out. He couldn’t. She had become something brilliant, untouchable. And he was still stuck at the edge of that memory, holding a version of her he no longer had any right to.

He had always been good at running from things.

But her voice was everywhere now. And no matter how far he went, he couldn’t outrun that.

The art gallery in Manhattan is small, tucked between a café and a bookstore, the kind of place where people sip free wine and pretend to care about the brush strokes. She’s only there because her label’s throwing a private event — “an intimate evening with taste-makers,” whatever that means — and she agreed because they promised her she wouldn’t have to perform.

She’s dressed in a dark silk slip, leather jacket hanging off her shoulders, a glass of red wine cradled in one hand. Her hair’s a little messy, her eyeliner smudged just enough to look intentional. She looks like success. She looks like a woman who’s healed.

But then she sees him.

Across the room, standing in front of an abstract painting he’s probably not even really looking at — Art.

It shouldn’t hit her so hard. But it does. That stupid familiar profile. The jaw she kissed at three in the morning, the curve of his shoulder she cried into once and pretended she didn’t. His hair’s shorter now. He’s wearing a button-down and dress shoes, like he might be here on behalf of some sponsor or charity tennis thing.

He looks… older. Like time’s touched him but hasn’t taken anything away. He still looks like Art.

And he sees her.

The moment hangs there — a quiet, invisible thread tugging across the gallery. His expression shifts, flickers. Not surprise. Not really. Just a kind of slow, dawning ache. Like he knew this would happen one day, and it still caught him off guard.

She doesn’t look away.

Instead, she downs the last of her wine, sets the glass down, and walks toward him — not slowly, not confidently. Just steadily. Like she’s been walking toward this for years.

“Didn’t think you were the art gallery type,” she says when she reaches him, her voice even.

Art breathes out a quiet laugh, but it’s tight, caught somewhere in his throat. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“Well.” She shrugs, glancing at the painting behind him. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

Silence stretches between them like a wire, thin and sharp. She can feel it — all the weight of what was left unsaid. The night in her dorm. The way he disappeared. The songs.

“You’re… everywhere now,” he says, voice low.

“Yeah. I know.” There’s no pride in it. No smugness. Just fact. It’s the one thing she has that he can’t run from — she made sure of that.

He clears his throat, eyes dropping for a second. “I heard… the first album. All of it.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You and everyone else.”

“No.” His eyes meet hers again, suddenly sharper. “I heard it. I knew it was me.”

She crosses her arms, leans against the wall beside him. “Took you long enough.”

His jaw tenses. “Why didn’t you reach out?”

She blinks. Laughs once, incredulously. “Are you serious? You disappeared, Art. You ghosted me, and then what — I’m supposed to chase you down and beg for closure?”

His face twists, regret creeping in. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“You didn’t have to say anything,” she snaps, voice quieter but harder now. “But you didn’t even try. You made me feel like I imagined the whole thing.”

He flinches. Just a little.

She sighs, shaking her head. “It’s fine. Really. I wrote songs, people listened, I moved on.”

“Did you?”

The question lands heavy. He doesn’t say it with cruelty — just curiosity. Honest, stupid, late curiosity.

She hesitates. Because part of her wants to lie. To say yes, of course, and mean it. But the truth is, a part of her still carries him in those lyrics. In the silences between chords. In the parts of herself that still ache when she thinks of what they almost were.

“I don’t know,” she says finally. “But I don’t write about you anymore. That’s gotta count for something.”

He nods slowly. Looks at her like he wants to say something else — I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready. You deserved better — but all of it would be too little, too late.

So instead, he just says, “You’re incredible, you know. You always were.”

She smiles, tired. “Yeah. I know.”

And then, she walks away.

She doesn’t look back.

And neither does he.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

[artsbaby]

Stanford!art cannot help but get hard when you both are in the cafeteria. Just friends, nothing more. But the way your lips wrap around the straw you are drinking your sweet cherry cola from.

He bets your lips taste just as sweet as that. Or maybe— feel sweeter on his cock too. The way you would stick your tongue out to seek the straw before guiding it to your mouth. Oh, he'll die in his seat.

Maybe he does get a chance to experience it. Both tipsy, at some frat party. When you giggle and make a joke that you can make him cum in just a minute and he denies, because he knows you'll want to prove him wrong.

He wants that.

The first touch of your tongue had him whimpering. Though he didn't let it out. His brows scrunched, lip bitten by his own teeth as he held the back of your head. Slowly pushing you down.

"oh— baby", he whispered. Hands gathering your hair as you almost pull off of his cock before sucking on the tip. Tracing the crown shape of it with your tongue.

That gets him to breathe heavy already, his eyes threatening to close, mouth hung open. One, two, three bob later, he's cumming.

Crying, whining, whatever you call it. That's his voice, "Eh— I'm cumming— shit. . Fuck— no— stop— wai—", he can't even speak before his hips push deeper into your mouth and releases his load.

You pull off to hear him breathe heavy as you look up at him. Popping the lollipop back in your mouth as you giggle, "told you—", he looked wrecked.

Oh, you told him alright.

[rana030]

Pov: when i catch y/n wearing something i would NEVER wear

[glennussy]

so starved for content I might go to the real hellsite (wattpad)

[stanart4clearskin]

i feel a henry, come on cowboy!art donaldson fic in coming 😵‍💫

[strfall]

something something... art donaldson eating it over clothes

he's exhausted after a long day of practice or a difficult match and just desperately wants to be in your arms and unwind. curls up with you as you watch tv or something, head nuzzling into your lap. your hand cards through his hair idly, nails softly scraping across his scalp so casually. it could've lulled him to sleep if he wasn't so desperate for you. he presses soft kisses to your thighs, practically burying his face between them until you shift enough to give him room. his gentle kisses to the soft flesh of your thighs turn messier, more intent until he's straight up mouthing at your skin. his teeth nip at the soft skin there until your legs open up even more, the scent of you, the heat of you overwhelming him until his face is just buried right between your thighs, not even bothering with your shorts. his hands knead at your thighs, lazily mouthing at your shorts until they're all sopping wet and it's so much bc it's just not enough. but he's just so lost in it, eyes closed, humming and huffing each time your nails scratch his scalp or he draws another little moan from you. yeah.

[littlesoulshine]

intro

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God—yes—please—i’ve been so good—”

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

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

inspiration ➳ my lovey @rafesplaymate

[jiimeniita]

need him baaadd omfg

[realangelahernandez]

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

[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.