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romanshomeonwattpad · 4 months

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Girl in New York

pairings - art donaldson/reader | challengers au! |

“__” = Y/N

masterslist | next chapter

sypnosis - men would call you a siren, and women would call you a bitch. but all he knows is that you’re his.

warnings - future smut

word count - 1.5k

authors note - this fic will be having a part two. its completely out my comfort zone, and i wanted to experiment my skills as a writer to create a character super complex. any hate will be deleted and blocked. reminder that this is purely fiction!

His pink lips glistened with beads of sweat that resembled diamonds. Unknowingly licking your own—your thighs clenched as his girlfriend pecked his cheek. You didn’t know why, but having the attention of every man in the vicinity made you feel as if you were worth something. The pain on girls’ faces after seeing their man’s arms wrapped around your figure always made you….

…….bite back a smile.

Your current subject was taken. It was perfect. A challenge never bored you—but only encouraged your habits.

Art Donaldson was on every girl’s agenda at the moment. Whenever you went to your local gym, he was playing on the tv screen at every treadmill with hunger in their eyes. These suburban women go crazy for a pretty boy with nice eyes and a fit bod. And the fact that you’ve never seen him smile, is a plus. He wasn’t a pushover.

He was a challenge.

The blonde haired girl got on her tiptoes, wrapping her tiny arms around Art’s shiny neck. You could see his defined muscles slightly bulge beneath his completely soaked t-shirt, making him look absolutely delicious. He offered her a smile, mumbled something, and she nodded before going to the snack bar.

Taking this as your chance, you dug into your purse and pulled out a cherry sucker from a few days ago. Plucking it into your mouth, you hummed at the sweet tart like taste—carrying your long legs that were hugged tightly by a pair of tiny workout shorts towards the tennis player. He had been tying his shoe when you paused before him.

You cocked out your hip, clearing your throat. His eyes slowly trailed up your figure, jaw clenching as they finally met yours. “Cute girlfriend of yours. Looks pretty young, though….” you sigh afterwards, swirling your tongue over the top of the pop. Art’s eyes slightly widened at the sight, gulping. “I’m _ _! What’s your name, pretty boy?”

You already knew it. As soon as he had shown up on your tv screen.

His eyes were bluer in person, if possible. It was as if there were thousands of diamonds carved into his eyes as the sun set on them. Sun-kissed skin had a thin gloss of sweat from his tournament, his broad shoulders quickly going up and down as he breathed heavily. He was considerably taller than you. He had to look down at you.

“Uh…Donaldson. Art…Donaldson.”

Bending over a tad, making sure your large breasts slightly spill out your bra—you smile innocently. Your lips release the suction on the lollipop with a loud pop! “Pleasure! I was wondering if you offer private lessons?”

Shamelessly, his eyes darted over your hardened nipples. His tongue poked out and slid across his puffy bottom lip, “I um, I charge 20 bucks an hour.”

“Deal. But I’m sure we can come up with a way to give me a discount,” you winked, pulling out your phone from your bra. You heard his breathing turn ragged as you handed him it. “Put your number in. I’ll let you know when I can start.”

His teeth sunk into his lower lip, narrowing his eyes at you. “Just meet me here next Tuesday same time. Make sure to bring cash,” he muttered, looking away from you. Your brow rose at his sudden dryness—but realized you probably intimated him with your forwardness. And to make matters worse, his air headed girlfriend had returned with a boba drink in her hand.

“Art, who’s this? A friend?”

“_ _ Smith. And no—we aren’t friends. I’m only a customer, a happy one at that.” Excusing yourself, you made sure to not even glance at her. You sent a brow towards Art, his eyes filled with a storm.

“See you soon, Mr. Donaldson.”

When next Tuesday rolled around—to say you were ecstatic was an understatement. Your black tennis skirt stopped right at the bottom of your ass, a black skin tight jacket hugging your breasts tightly. The side of your heel hit the bottom of your racket as your hair swayed in its ponytail. A smirk grew onto your lips as you spotted Art, waiting for you at the court.

Pulling your glasses down, you noted how his intense eyes burned holes into your body. “Hello, again. Your girlfriend here?”

“Why does that matter?” His tone was cold—a challenge. Every second seemed to get better and better.

He looked scrumptious. There was a hickey poking out from beneath the collar of his white tennis shirt. His girlfriend probably left it there so you wouldn’t try anything—to mark her dominance per se. But the problem with that is, you don’t respect anybody’s property. What’s yours….

……..is yours.

Your brow raises. “I’m getting the impression you don’t like me to much.”

He scoffs, “I know what type of girl you are. Not interested.”

You didn’t realize this was an assessment.

“I’m unaware of what—“

“I have a girlfriend for fucksake, and you’re dressed like—like—“

You innocently round your eyes at him, deciding to play it off as if you’re hurt by his words. But he didn’t actually know the real you—he was just trying to paint a picture for his own benefit. He was scared of what you were capable of. Which meant he was cracking.

“I didn’t come here to be slut shamed,” you shrug, taking a step back. “I’ve been watching your tournaments on tv for a few months now, and thought you were beyond talented. I tried my best not to act too starstruck and got carried away.”

His eyes soften.

Bingo.

“But I’ll leave—“

“Look, I’m sorry. Let’s just forget about this and start over.” He ran a hand through his hair, then leaving it on the back of his neck.

You bit back a smirk.

There were pleading undertones laced in his words, feeling guilty for judging your outfit and questioning your morality. You knew this time to come off less forward, figuring out he liked submissive women instead. Women who go with what he wants, who let him control the situations.

“Understood. Shall we get started?” You offer, in which he chuckles and agrees.

For the duration of two hours, Art accessed your abilities. He complimented you multiple times on how quick you were. Although he was significantly faster when it came to hitting the ball—you knew he didn’t expect you to be at least a little good. After the session, Art when to retrieve the both of you water as you grabbed the cash from your purse.

You should’ve paid him triple just for how good his butt looked in those shorts.

“Thanks,” Art handed you your matte black hydroflask—snatching you from your thoughts. He watched you take a couple swigs from it, a drop of water rolling down between the crack of your breasts.

He licked his lips before chuckling, hoping you didn’t catch him stare. “You hate the color black, huh?”

Looking down at your hydro, you laughed before holding out the cash for him. “It’s my favorite color. Besides, it goes with everything.”

“Hm,” his eyes fall to your hand offering the cash. Instead of taking both 50 dollar bills—he takes one and sends you a smirk.

“You get a half off discount for me being a dick. One time offer.”

You nod and chew on your bottom lip as he swallows thickly. “Perhaps I can at least buy you a smoothie or something. It’s pretty hot,” you offer, adding a suggestive tone to the end of your sentence. Noticing a hard tent forming in his pants, Art steps back, clearing his throat.

“I can’t today. I’ll see you on Thursday—same time.” He mutters, turning around and offering a sheepish smile before walking away. You wondered if he was going to rub one out in his car, or fuck his girlfriend and imagining it was your pussy he was driving into.

The thought made a pool begin to seep through your panties.

The tip of his cock poking out between his fisted palm, leaking with drops of creamy pre-cum. A mouth of pure ecstasy pulling at his features as his mouth hangs open, gripping his center console as he finishes all over the interior of his car.

Or fucking his girl from behind, imagining your bouncy ass rippling with every thrust. His fingers tugging at your strands, reaching the deepest spot inside your dripping pussy. He would think of you—not her. He would….

……cum for you.

Patrick, your cousin, had been visiting from East Boston and staying at your family’s house. He was passionate about tennis, just like you, and pretty much taught you everything you know. That’s why you were so skilled. Learning from Art was simply to get into his pants.

And of course, he wanted to crash your tennis class with Art. Said some bullshit about Art and him meeting at a summer tennis camp—whatever. You were plotting on snatching Art from his perky titted girlfriend—but with Patrick there, it may be a bit hard.

“For fucks sake, I said no!” You shout before lighting a cigarette, painting your big toe a glittery cherry color you bought at the drug-store. You heard your neighbor slam their window shut before Patrick slides open the screen door and comes out to the backyard where you were. After taking a puff, you blow the smoke into his face. “Love you, cuzzo. But you’re cockblocking me here.”

Patrick snatched the cigarette from you, taking a frustrated hit of his own. “Didn’t you say he had a girlfriend?”

“And?”

You receive a glare, causing you to roll your eyes and snatch the cigarette back from him. “Fine. Whatever. You can come.”

He gasps before hugging you, causing you to scoff and push him off you. It would be cool for him to reunite with his old friend, but this was so not the time for that. Patrick got on your nerves but you had love for the dude. It’s always been hard to say no to him. It was despicable.

You took another hit. The rancid stench filled your senses, smoke swirling around your figure. After finishing your last toe—Patrick pulled up a chair and sits on it backwards. “You like this dude or what?”

A laugh couldn’t leave your lips after. Who does he think you are?

You haven’t truly dated a guy since you were seventeen. Ever since your ex, you didn’t grow feelings for another individual. And it had nothing to do with him—you just outgrew relationships. It was fun to have options. Especially when those options, were already taken.

Men with girlfriends are harder to obtain. They had settled already, and it takes a lot for them to trust you. But once there’s a clear understanding you don’t genuinely care for them…and only what’s in between their legs—

That’s when the real fun begins.

“Hell no. He’s hot. That’s it.”

Patrick lights another cigarette, nodding before blowing out the white ropes of smoke. “Ah. I see. You wanna fuck his brains out.”

“Precisely.”

“Back when I met him, he was dating this cute tiny little thing. What was her name? Tracy? Tara? Tam—Tiffany!”

Your smirk twitched, taking another hit of your cigarette. It was almost finished at this point. “Is she blonde?”

He looks over at you, sending a brow. “You know her?”

“I’ve seen her prancing around.”

“He told me she’s controlling and shit. Wonder if that’s still true,” he pops open the cooler and pulls out a beer, tilting his head back and taking a swig. You suddenly perk up at his words as he swallows the fermented alcohol harshly.

“Heard they took therapy classes together.”

You pressed a finger on your chin, giving him a mischievous look. “They’ve been together for a while now…huh?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Hm.

It was going to feel all the much better to steal him.

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romanshomeonwattpad · 4 months

Text

Girl in New York | 2

pairings - art donaldson/reader | challengers au! |

“_ _" = Y/N

next chapter| masterslist | last chapter

sypnosis - things with Art begin to pick up.

warnings - future smut, angst, cheating, smut next chapter omg

word count - 2k

Art and Patrick had seemed to get along too well.

With your arms crossed, clearly irritated, Art and your cousin were reminiscing old times. As soon as the two reconnected, they hadn’t stop talking since. Chuckling and playing with each others balls. All the same. Standing in the sun made you thirsty, so instead of being ignored, you picked up the dignity on the ground you had left and went to buy a water bottle from the stand.

Rolling your eyes behind your sunglasses, you mentally cursed out your cousin. He was a social butterfly—so he knew practically everybody somehow. And when he ended up in a convo, it would at least half an hour for reality to him himself. But at the same time, he was a fantastic smoking buddy.

“What can I get you?” A boy with pretty brown eyes sends you a charming smile. Your fingers drum against the counter, biting on your bottom lip. A smirk is held back as you notice his eyes flicker to your breasts, grateful you decided to wear a low cut black crop top.

“Hi….” you pull down your sunglasses, spotting his name tag. His name was printed in bold red letters, which matched his red polo uniform top.

“…Chris. Just a water is fine,” you say in a slight flirty tone, pulling your phone out from your purse. It was too hot to put inside your bra, and it would’ve been all sweaty and gross. “Do you accept Apple Pay?”

He shakes his head, “It’s on the house. Here,” he hands you the water, winking. You send him a grateful smile.

“Thanks, handsome. A face like yours deserves a tip.”

“Your number sounds good too,” he flirts back, causing you to giggle. You noticed a tattoo hidden behind his ear, an arrow with vines growing around it. And to match the vibe, a stud on the left side of his nose.

You hum, “Hm. Always had a thing for bad boys. Gimme your phone.”

It was almost hilarious how quickly he pulled out his cell from his back jeans pocket. You had to place a hand over your mouth to refrain from laughing, quickly putting your number into his phone. As you were typing the final digits, you look away from the phone to see your cousin.

“Jesus Christ….stop thotting it up and let’s play ball,” Patrick groans as he approaches you two, Art following behind him. Apparently they were finished conversating, but that wasn’t what stood out to you. What did was the fact that Art was staring down the kid Chase…Chad—whatever his name was.

His usually crystal clear eyes were brewing up a storm, a gray hue taking over his orbs. His lips were in a firm line, and when you handed his phone back to him and blew him a kiss, Art’s upper lip twitched. It was subtle—but you noticed. You noticed everything.

Screwing open your water bottle, you took a sip as Patrick nudged Art on the shoulder. “_ _ told me you’re still with Tiff,” he states as the three of you walk back into the court. “How are things going with her? Still a raging bitch?”

Art chuckles, shaking his head as he took a particularly large gulp from his hydro flask. You watched with attentive eyes as he screwed his cap back on, “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just call my girlfriend a bitch. And we’re doing fine—thanks.”

“Sorry, man.” Patrick sheepishly smiles, “Why don’t you come to this outing with us on Sunday night. It’s downtown at some club. Bring your girlfriend and we’ll meet you guys there.”

Way to go, Pat. Sounds like he wasn’t a cockblock after all. But it did scare you a bit when you noticed the pondering look on Art’s face. His features were tight, his pearly white teeth catching his lower lip. It almost looked cute—how conflicted he was almost made you anxious.

Patrick sensed his second thoughts. “How about this. 1 V 1. If I win, your ass better show up.”

Like you said, it was hard for anyone to say no to Patrick.

Art glanced at you, and when you only sent him a smirk, he released a deep sigh before giving in.

“Deal.”

Pat had to leave in the middle of practice. Something came up with work—he was a dj for this club back in East Boston. He always loved music, and was jotting down lyrics, so it made sense he was working in that field.

Wiping your forehead with your personal towel, you watched as Art lifted his shirt over his head and dried his abs. Your mouth almost fell open, his slick muscles contracting as fresh air hit them. His upper body was tan, but as it grew closer to his lower region, the skin turned into an untouched milky section of flesh. Yellow fibers of hair trailed down beneath his shorts, making you poke out your tongue and lick your lips hungrily.

His blonde strands fell over his eyes. “You’re getting better.”

“I have a good teacher,” you tease, but he didn’t smile, snorting instead. “How many students do you have.”

“Just you and another girl.”

Another girl? Interesting. “Is she pretty?”

“I have a girlfriend, _ _.”

“And she’s where? C’mon, you can tell me,” you cooed, putting back on your shades. Popping another lollipop into your mouth, this time blueberry flavor, his eyes flickered to your lips.

“Do you think she’s pretty?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but as your tongue swirled around the top of the candy ball—he cleared his throat instead. You batted your lashes as you hummed at his silence.

“Hm?”

“She’s cute, I guess.” He muttered, not even hiding the fact he was looking at your lips as if he had was starved.

You tilted your head, eyes flying down to his crotch. Behind his dark blue shorts was a bulge forming. It dented against the fabric. “That guy I talked to—he was super cute. Might bring him to the party,” you thought aloud, making him stiffen his shoulders. “What do you think of him?”

He looked away from you, jaw clenched.

“Not my business.”

“All I’m asking for is an opinion.”

“It’s not like we’re friends,” he snapped coldly, sending you narrowed eyes. Ice had taken over those once clear orbs, and it felt like he had grown distant within a second. You swallowed thickly as he snatched snatched bag off the chair.

“I have to go. Later.”

What’s his deal?

“I just don’t understand you, _ _. We paid for these classes and now you’re failing them because of these stupid tennis lessons.” Your mother then released an exasperated sigh, rubbing her forehead as your father throws down your latest report card. He continued, “Two B’s and one C. You used to be a straight A student!”

You furrowed your brows, hating those words. Your gut dropped. “Dad, please. I’ll get my gra—“

“You’re going to be a surgeon, not a tennis player.” Your mother pointed a stern finger at you. This is the angriest you had ever seen her. Usually she would be the one to call down your father, but this time, they were both hounding you. When it came to grades, they stressed because they prioritized money for school. Your school.

Your father had came from his home country when he was a teenager on a visa, and grew a business in the end. He worked very hard to supply you with the food and shelter you needed, and it was a miracle public school was free. But as you got older, his business flourished, and he could put more of his income towards your nursing classes.

To become a nurse was always his idea. Ever since you had been born, he pinned that title on you. Your mother agreed because she learned it made you a lot of money.

“This isn’t fair. It’s once a week.”

“And so are your in person classes, and they’re on Tuesdays.”

“Let me ask him if I can change the day,” you begged your parents, putting a sweet tone behind your voice. Your father wasn’t budging—but your mother nodded and held your father’s hand as if to say it’s fine. But he didn’t want to let you off that easily.

“If he can’t change the day, cancel the lessons.”

His words nerve wrecked you. But it should’ve been fine. The only problem was—you didn’t have his number.

“Hey, Pat. Give me Art’s number.”

You heard him laugh through the phone, “Hey to you too, bitch. And stalker much?”

Rolling your eyes, you continued styling your hair whilst looking in the mirror. The speaker on your phone broke out for a second before you responded. “I need to ask him something. It can’t wait until next week. Just—please.”

“He didn’t give it to you?”

“What are you? His personal body guard? Give me the damn number, Pat.”

“Ugh, fine. I’ll text it to you rn.”

You smiled in triumph, unplugging the bedazzled black straightener before snatching your cell from the counter. Without letting Pat know you’d call him later, you simply hung up on him, clicking the contact he sent. After pressing the call button—it proceeded to ring. Then his voice sounded.

“….Hello?” Ugh. It was his girlfriend.

This was going to be weird. “Uh, hey. Is Art around?”

“He ’s in the shower. I can give him a message.”

Bitch.

Whatever. “Cool. Unless he can change our usual Wednesday and Thursday schedule—my dad wants me to cancel my lessons. So I need his response like ASAP.”

“Of course I can tell him. Who is this?”

“_ _ Smith.”

There was a silence, and then her voice rang in the phone. “I’ll let him know.”

The phone clicked.

In the incoming week, you received a text from him.

Hey, it’s Art. I’m sorry but I can’t readjust my schedule. It was nice working with you. Let me know if you’re ever interested in working with me again!

Oh.

It looks like he really didn’t like you.

It wasn’t surprising, but for some odd reason—this one hurt a little. And instead of pushing you to chase him a bit more, you retracted away all together. He had made it clear he wasn’t interested in you at all. At this point, to keep pining after him would shatter all shards of dignity you have left.

Today was Sunday. You contemplated on even going, but Patrick would literally decapitate you. It’s his last night out and you promised to go out with him at least once when his trip rolled around. But you weren’t in the mood to party. You didn’t feel sexy enough.

This was all supposed to be a fun game. And now it’s turning into a nightmare.

You really didn’t think he meant it when he said you two weren’t friends. Was he trying to keep a professional relationship for the sake of his girlfriend? You didn’t imagine the friendly moments between the two of you. The fleeting glances, hidden stares. Lingering touches when passing the hydros.

Blowing out the cigarette, you leaned on Pat’s shoulder as he wrote lyrics down on his notepad. He slightly hummed to his own melody. “You’re fucking indie ass is going back in two days. I fucking hate you,” you mutter, causing him to gasp before laughing out loud. “Can I go inside your suitcase? I wanna leave here soooo bad Patty cakes.”

“I fucking hate that nickname, but love that top on you.” He gestured to the cropped forest green sweater you were wearing. It balanced perfectly well with your high-waisted leather black skirt.

“Is it giving slutty?”

“Gross.”

“Perfect.”

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