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Ok so this might be an odd request but I’ve been really sad about the fact that the network vetoed bisexual Reid so I was wondering if you could write boyfriend Spencer coming out to reader and just having it be really sweet and fluffy??

this is the cutest. great minds are bisexual reid truthers. i am honored to do this for the tumblr community and the world at large

warnings/tags: potentially VERY slight internalized homophobia from spencer if u squintttt but he's just nervous that's all!! my boyfriend has never done anything wrong in his life!! fem reader

“My type is you,” you say sweetly, angling your head up to look at your boyfriend. The two of you have been laying on the couch for the better part of an evening, (more accurately, he’s on the couch, you’re on him) talking about nothing and everything. Somehow the conversation has meandered to this—him asking you what your type in men is, of all things. 

“What a convenient answer,” Spencer teases, pushing your hair away from your face. You laugh, leaning into the warmth of his touch. 

“I mean it! I don’t think I ever really got what all the excitement was about men until I met you.”

He hums, a satisfied little smile on his face. “That’s very flattering.”

“What about you?”

His brows dart up. 

“What’s my type in men?”

An inadvertent laugh bubbles from your throat—slowly going stale in the air while you watch as Spencer actually flushes. It dawns on you with a splash of anxiety and a generous helping of guilt that maybe it’s not exactly a joke to him. You attempt to play it off casually, keeping your tone even but receptive. 

“Well, I meant in women. But, if you have a type in men, by all means, tell me.”

Hazel eyes dart between yours as his hand continues carding through your hair—and then he’s looking away, studying the wall behind you like there’s more there than faded green paint. 

Silences stretches as you chew on the inside of your cheek, worried you’ve somehow said the wrong thing. You wriggle higher up his body and gently grab his wrist, interrupting what you suspect is a self-soothing motion. 

“Hey,” you murmur, pulling his hand to your lips and pressing them to his knuckles. “Come back.”

Finally he looks at you again, mildly surprised like you’d tugged him from the very depths of his thoughts. But his eyes are soft, grazing his his fingers over your lips. 

“I’m right here.”

“You know what I mean.” The words are gentle. His thumb catches on your bottom lip and you nip at it playfully, trying to lighten his suddenly heavy mood. It’s hard to tell if it works—he continues tracing your lips absentmindedly, biting his own. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and wavers ever so slightly, the way it does in the rare instance that he’s not 100% sure of himself or what he’s talking about. 

“I was thinking about your question.” You don’t dare speak for fear opening your mouth will somehow break whatever self-hypnosis is keeping him honest. “I don’t have a specific type. In women. Or… or men.”

His voice is so fragile that you have to run it back in your mind a few times to process what he’d said. Several layers of clothing do nothing to dull the rapid drumming of his heartbeat against your chest. And your poor boyfriend looks so scared during the moment of silence while you’re thinking that it breaks your heart. He needs a sign, something to reassure him that it’s okay, before he backtracks and dissociates entirely. Delicately your hand slides up the side of his neck and jaw. You crane your neck to press a long kiss to his flushed cheek. It’s okay, you’re okay. We’re okay. The world is still turning. His chest rises and falls slowly in a deep, silent sigh. 

“I love you,” you remind him once you pull away, wiping away the slight sheen of chapstick your kiss had left. He catches your hand, wrapping it in his larger one. The guarded look in his eye does a poor job of concealing how badly he wants to please you, and everyone, and how scared he is that maybe this was the wrong answer. That maybe this is just another way he is not quite right, and you’ll tell him so, just like everyone else always has. 

“You’re not—you don’t have anything to say?”

Gentle fingers brush away invisible tears under his eyes, sweeping over the skin with the utmost care. He’s not crying, but you imagine at one point or another he had, and since you weren’t there to wipe away the tears then, maybe you can make up for it by being here now. 

“Is it something you want to talk about?” you ask, fingers still skimming over the angular plane and valley of his cheek. The darting of his eyes between yours, the slight furrow of his brow, the pressed-together lips—he’s profiling you. Trying to extract your thoughts through osmosis. 

“I… I’ve never told anyone before.”

Your stomach twists. You hate that there’s any part of him he feels he has to hide—and that he’s done it for so long. 

“Well I’m glad you told me, angel.” 

His eyes are like warm honey as he looks up at you, dulling that sharp, defensive edge as the endearment slips past your lips. Usually it’s the other way around, and you hope it soothes him even half as much as it always does for you. 

A surprised laugh is expelled from your lungs when he pulls you down into a crushing hug. Immediately, gleefully, you reciprocate, pushing your arms under his waist and tangling your legs with his, holding on ferociously and for dear life. His face is buried in the hollow of your neck, so you have to assume that much like you, he’s picked this over oxygen. 

“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he breathes, lips brushing your neck and hair. Muffled, because there’s no space between you. Your eyes sting and tear up almost immediately. A joke forms on the tip of your tongue; low bar? But you bite it back, unsure if you can manage persuasive sarcasm in this moment. “And, for the record, you are the most beautiful human being I have ever met in my life. Nobody else has or will ever come close.”

You laugh tearfully into his collar. “Spencer, I’m not worried about that.”

“I know you’re not,” he says, finally coming up for air. You do the same, laying on his shoulder contentedly and looking into his eyes. “But I’m telling you anyway because it’s true and I want you to hear it.”

A contemplative moment passes, and you wonder how it’s possible to be falling even more in love with him. You’d thought you already loved him as much as any human being had ever been capable of doing. You hope love has no end. You hope you keep falling deeper and deeper forever. 

“You should know something,” you say, looking down to toy with the collar of his shirt. He hums. 

“What should I know, angel girl?”

“You should know that I’m still going to fight anyone who tries to flirt with you. I don’t care if it’s a six five body builder or a seventy year old woman with a walker. You’re gonna have to hold me back.”

A bemused smile tugs at his lips. 

“You would physically fight an elderly woman?”

“Or a six five body builder,” you agree. Spencer faces the ceiling like he’s watching the scene play out. 

“Okay,” he snorts. “I don’t love that, but okay.”

“It’s what you signed up for,” you mumble, snuggling back into him. His hand finds the back of your head and tangles comfortably in your hair once more. 

“You’re right. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

What about Stiles fic where their class is going on a school trip and Stiles has a massive crush on a reader and he's been trying to show it/make a move for a long time but he couldn't because they're friends and because in his eyes reader is perfect so he thinks they're too good for him and sth happens on a trip (maybe there's a party or the pack decides to play a game) and he somehow confesses or kisses the reader

Sorry if it's confusing 🙈😅

THIS WAS REQUESTED ON AUGUST 28TH. I AM SO SO SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG. also: 'tis once again unedited. beware.

(i'm gonna clarify now: this is NOT the school trip they take in season 3A. that was too dark and serious and important for me to try and weave a cute storyline in!)

☆

six months ago, stiles had tried to give you flowers. they got crushed in his bag and then fell in a brown puddle when he tried to take them out and give them to you.

three months ago, he tried to have a study date with you where he planned on cooking food and confessing over dinner on the floor of his bedroom. not the most romantic, but he had candles! .....until his dad dropped one and broke it, stiles lost another, and the rest became futile when he burnt dinner and scott called him all panicked, realizing it was a full moon and he didn't have a plan.

and then there was the lacrosse game last week. they won, no thanks to stiles the benchwarmer, but he got you a necklace. your favorite metal with a small pendant of your favorite flower. and he told himself, if they won -no, when they won- he would find you in the bleachers immediately and bear hug you the way you liked. then, he would present the necklace and ask to be your boyfriend.

and that one, unfortunately, had no excuse other than stiles was a big fat chicken. he found you, you bear hugged, and when he pulled back and looked you in your deep, excited eyes...

he chickened out.

it was nothing against you. oh no. no, no, no way. even the suggestion was ridiculous to stiles. the only reason he couldn't confess was the same reason everything conveniently went wrong every other time he tried to confess. the same reason he bit back every compliment, the same reason he held himself back when he went to touch you, for any reason. and god, stiles hated himself for that stupid string tugging him back to home base every time he went running out to first.

stiles, being bluntly honest with himself, was half convinced you were too good to even be his friend. don't get him wrong, he wouldn't lose your friendship for the world. which is part of his problem. he looked at you and saw a clever, funny, adaptable idiot with the looks of a goddess. he could pick your eye color out of a deck of those swabs you'd find at home depot and get the shade exactly right. he had your moles and freckles memorized, the scars on your knees mapped, he knew the way your lips curved up when you had a bad idea like he knew the back of his hand.

so when he looked in the mirror and saw stiles; skinny, rude, distrusting, not nearly as muscular as your type. not nearly as handsome, or kind, or gentlemanly. not nearly enough. he could tell you exactly why he had yet to confess.

you were too good for him, plain and simple.

so when he got up for your guys' class trip to some big museum, he wasn't feeling too fantastic. sure, you had texted him last night asking to sit with him on the bus ride there (lydia and allison were predictably going to sit together), and that had led to the two of you going from texting to calling until two in the morning. and you had said "i need to go to bed but i don't wanna hang up" and his heart had practically fell out of his mouth with how fast it beat when he heard your timid sleepy voice.

but then he woke up the next morning and remembered that you did not like him. he always forgot that when you were alone, talking for hours and never getting bored. or, alternatively, when you two could just be quiet together and never get uncomfortable. it just felt so natural with you. you were just so perfect.

and stiles was not. it sucked, and it hurt like hell, but he would live with it like he always did. even if it felt like it was getting worse every day. the highs and lows, that is; going from the 'oh my god she does like me!' to the soul-crushing 'oh. that's right. friends.'

he was currently at the low point, brushing his teeth and pulling out his clothes for the day. his jeep already had his bag in it, packed for the three day trip to a huge, fancy museum a little ways into a bigger town near beacon hills. he had done some research on the exhibits to see if there was anything he'd want to sneak off and see, and he found something you'd be fascinated by. part of him wanted to surprise you, and part of him knew you'd get antsy not knowing.

he realized he was smiling thinking about your antsy face and had to shake his head a bit, spitting out his toothpaste in the sink and splashing his face with water. get it together, stilinski.

☆

later, he's got his duffel bag slung over one shoulder and your backpack on the other, watching you from afar while you chat animatedly with allison and lydia.

all the students attending the trip were meeting outside next to the parked busses at an ungodly hour of the morning. you had said a tired "g'morning" to him and he had offered to hold your things, before the girls had dragged you away. and now, he stood like a sap watching you slowly wake up in the company of your friends.

"dude," he hears scott approach beside him, and he has to force himself to turn away from you to acknowledge him. "you've got it so bad."

stiles scoffs at his best friend, giving him a knowing look. it's the same as it's always been since you came in the picture. "yeah, okay, and you're so much better? don't think i didn't notice you looked for allison before you found me. you know, a 'good morning, stiles' would have done just fine."

scott shakes his head, and stiles clocks his 'you're so done for' look in a second. before he can remark on it, scott hums "good morning, stiles."

"good morning. do you have any idea when we're supposed to get going?" stiles resumes his admiring just in time to see you giggle behind your hand. he can see scott adjust his bag on his shoulder and join in the simp stare-off. his subject being allison, of course.

"i dunno, probably within the hour. you know coach never gets us anywhere on time. that's why i slept in."

stiles side-eyes scott. "stop acting like it was a strategic move and not you forgetting to set your alarm."

scott frowns, and opens his mouth to retaliate when coach's grating voice sounds from the front of the gaggle of sleepy teens.

"alright, the buses are gonna start loading and we got the nice ones, so put your bags in the bottom storage spaces. make sure you know who you want to sit with. we don't need a repeat of last year's incident, greenburg. okay, get your scrawny asses moving. lets go!"

he claps his hands hastily and the buses open their storage compartments. stiles haphazardly tosses his duffel bag in, annoying some kid trying to do things in an orderly fashion. he's not sure what to do with your backpack, since he remembered you having a suitcase too. just as stiles goes looking for you, he feels himself being turned around by the shoulder.

"hey, don't store that." you hum, holding his non-backpack shoulder with one hand and reaching for your backpack with the other. "it's got my book, i might wanna read on the way if i can't sleep."

"it's okay, i can hold it until we get on." stiles nods and blinks rapidly to try and shake the warmth he feels where your hand holds his shoulder. when you smile groggily up at him, he just about falls over. "you look tired, anyway."

you nod, and to his disappointment your hand leaves his shoulder to rub at your eye. he smiles a little at how cute it is, compared to your usual too-pretty-and-argumentative-to-be-cute look. "yeah, i couldn't sleep. i swear, if i don't pass out on this bus, hit my head against the window until i lose consciousness."

"aw, so you get to sleep and get window seat? this feels unfair."

"you're lucky i'm not making you sit with greenburg. remember the incident?" you both make your way to the line of kids boarding the buses, right behind scott (who is surprisingly convincing allison to sit with him).

"oh, i remember. coach said if we bring it up on this trip it'll curse us. sort of a 'theater kid hamlet' situation."

"do you think if we tell the story three times it'll reoccur?"

"that's beeltejuice."

you roll your eyes, just as stiles continues with a smirk. "beetlejuice, bee-"

"what are you two even talking about?" pipes in a tired danny from behind you. you both whip your heads around and find him giving the two of you an incredulous look. "it's eight in the morning, how are you this awake?"

"my company is just lively and fun, danny." you joke, turning up your nose. stiles knows you're playing, trying to be enjoyable before you crash and get cranky. he doesn't realize he has that idiotic sappy smile as you keep talking. "i don't hang around closet cases and wannabes. me and stiles like to summon demons in our free time."

"you sure you're not hanging out with a closet cased wannabe?" danny drawls as the three of you shuffle forward in line.

stiles scoffs. "i am not a wannabe."

danny slowly raises an eyebrow.

"..... or a closet case-look, we were perfectly content with our conversation before you rudely interrupted. so if you'll excuse us."

you laugh quietly but it turns to a yawn, and you use a sweater-pawed hand to cover it. stiles mentally picks out his coffin. yeah, he's planning on killing himself if you keep looking so holdable. no biggie.

"yeah, you look so content, stiles." danny mumbles through his sleep deprivation. stiles blushes pink and glares at him. fucking danny. shut up.

"god, i probably look horrible right now. i didn't feel like putting makeup on at seven AM, and of course my two hot best friends show up with swipes of mascara and blush and look like runway models." you're talking to yourself, stiles can hear the familiar tone. he adjusts your backpack on his shoulder and squeezes the strap tight, imagines holding you around the waist and pressing his face into your neck. telling you how wrong you are, telling you,

"shut up, you look cute."

oh fuckity shit! great job, stiles. wanna go ahead and relay every fantasy you've had of her while you're at it? what about you favorite one in freshman year, when you were first getting the hang of your hormonal wants and needs? fucking idiot said it out loud.

"liars go to hell, stiles." you hum, only half-joking. he clears his throat, blushing. you dug this grave, stiles. now lie in it.

"i'm not lying." it's simple, he can hear danny huff out an unsatisfied breath in the back, and he can feel you shift next to him. your shoulder brushes his arm.

"alright. thank you."

he has never heard you speak to him like that before. it's... sure, full of your usual "i don't believe you" insecurity, but something else catches in your tone. it's quieter. softer. he scoots forward in line.

when you're both on the bus (you at the window, stiles at the isle), you fall asleep on his shoulder in seconds. your arms wrap around his bicep like a teddy bear, and he falls asleep quickly after, head lolled back on the top of the seat.

scott, now successfully sitting with allison, takes a few photos and sends them to stiles. allison peers over scott at you two, 'aww'ing quietly.

"i knew he liked her back." allison whispers to scott, sliding her palm down his arm to squeeze his hand. she's grinning, and scott admires her dimples silently. "she's so convinced otherwise, like he's 'too good' for her or something."

"wait-" scott blinks away the lovesick fog in his head and registers allison's words. "wait."

"what? what is it?" allison tugs on his hand, trying to catch his eyes as he sees the next three days unfold before him, as well as things clicking into place from years prior. allison grows more impatient. "scott?"

"she likes him? for sure?"

allison's eyes widen as she nods. "crazy for him."

scott turns back to watch as you nuzzle against stiles and huff out a breath in your sleep, causing stiles to make a 'auh' noise as he snores. allison joins him, and seems to see the next three days, this trip they're on their way to, play out before her as well. a smirk grows on both of their faces, and scott's voice is full of mischief when he speaks.

"then let's help them out."

☆

stiles can feel the ghost of your body pressed against his even once you've been separated into your hotel rooms. you're with allison, lydia, and some girl named claire that's friends with lydia.

stiles and scott are alone, after all the guys picked their roomies and the dust settled. stiles was grateful, for once, that they still didn't quite reach that popularity status. having his own bed to curl up and die in after spending a whole day looking at exhibits with you was a blessing.

"so..." scott hums after they set their bags down (which looked more like throwing them on the nearest bed or couch). "big day."

"it is?" stiles is rifling through his bag, searching for his phone charger.

"well, y'know, lots of opportunity..." stiles can hear scott smirking. oh no. "lots of ideas..."

stiles rubs a frustrated hand down his face when he can't find his charger, only half listening to his best friend. "ideas? scott, what the hell are you talking about?"

"ideas like maybe you should see if a certain someone needs a room to stay in for the night." scott leans against the wall, watching stiles with a knowing smirk and crossed arms. stiles straightens and sets his attention on scott.

"are you asking me to invite a girl over? with you in the room? and coach breathing down our backs? and dead cockroaches in the corners? how romantic, wow."

"obviously i'd find somewhere else to go!" scott defends, feeling his feeble attempt slipping away from him. stiles can see it in his eyes. he's so bad at scheming. "and coach will knock out at ten. you know he's a heavy sleeper with a tight schedule. and... well, the cockroach thing is out of my hands. you can clean up?"

stiles raises an eyebrow at scott. "if you wanna have sex with allison, i'd be more than happy to sleep in danny's room, scott. i hear he's a cuddler."

scott blushes and groans, picking up his phone and texting in an annoyed attitude. "that's not..."

scott leaves the sentence unfinished and stiles doesn't ask him to change that, opting instead to checking the front pocket for his charger. he could've sworn he grabbed it.

instead of the sweet victory of a chord, stiles' fingers brush a hard box. he frowns and pulls the small, dark object out and turns his back to scott, who's too busy texting god knows who to notice anyway.

"what the..." stiles turns the small box over in his hands before he feels his whole body go cold with shame. the loopy, gold lettering of the jeweler he bought your necklace from. the necklace that he failed to give you just over a week ago. the necklace that he shoved back in his duffel bag after the game, hauled home and promptly buried in the back of his mind.

and now, it had travelled hours with him and appeared right when he was on a 'oh my god she does like me' high from the bus. like a physical embodiment of his inadequacy, it dumps a bucket of ice-cold water on his heart and leaves him dripping wet and filled with shame.

he sets the box down on his bedside table and makes for the door. yep, he's totally storming out like a baby. whatever.

"where are you going?" scott calls as he swings the door open.

"i'll be right back." stiles hisses over his shoulder, skittering out of the room as quickly as he can.

stiles rubs a hand over his mouth as he goes for the stairs. all he needs is five seconds alone to wallow, and he'll be fine.

instead, when he swings open the door to the staircase, he finds you in the corner, sitting on the platform with your phone in front of you. your head whips up and you blink up at him. "oh, hey."

"hey." he nods, tilting his head a bit. "what... what are you doing?"

you wave your phone, shrugging. "just taking a second. the girls were talking about tonight. after the museum, what they wanna do."

you pause, looking away from stiles.

"who they wanna do."

stiles shuffles, clears his throat, rubs his neck, does anything to fill the space. "ah, yeah, scott seemed to be getting at that too. i wonder if the wet towel stench of this place is an aphrodisiac."

you laugh, pressing your phone in between your thighs as you draw your knees closer to your chest. he analyzes you, before smiling softly.

you look up at where he stands, and when your eyes lock, it's like everything else gets blurry. all stiles can see is you; hair all messy from the bus ride, bags under your eyes, picking at your nails. he wants to kiss you. so bad.

you suck in a breath and both of you snap out of it, you going for your phone and stiles speaking to cover his tracks.

"it's probably almost time for us to be heading back to the buses." he offers you his hand. "you should bring a jacket, just in case."

"i'll be fine." you grab his hand and he pulls you up. "i didn't bring any comfortable ones, anyway."

he holds open the door for you and you both part ways for your respective rooms, trying to ignore the electric feeling where your hands touched.

☆

"alright, now i know you horndogs can't be trusted," coach stands in front of the bus with the light of the hotel parking lot and the moon casting odd shadows on his face. "so i expect lights out at eleven. ya hear me? eeee-leee-veeen. and remember to take some notes for the essay you'll be writing about this trip. alright, get out of here."

the museum had been interesting enough, but nothing to write home about. you and stiles had been separated into different groups, so the closest he got to seeing you all day was that morning and the things your and your friends posted on your private stories throughout the tour.

and then there was the bus ride home, but you sat with lydia in the back, and stiles was stuck next to coach himself near the front, since his best friend took it upon himself to remind stiles of his singleness and sit with allison. which was fine, until every other spot was taken except for the one right next to the bane of stiles' existence. whatever.

so stiles got to his hotel room in a bit of a sour mood, needing to numb his brain on his phone or the tv and knock out asap.

just as he had gotten on his pj pants and flopped (shirtless) into his hotel bed, there was a knock at the door. expecting one of the guys to be asking to borrow a pillow or something, stiles continued to lay on the bed as scott swung open the door. but instead of one of the guys, stiles hears the voice of an angel ring through the hall.

"hey, sorry, do you guys mind if i use your shower? all the girls in my room need to and i'll be up until ungodly hours waiting my turn. just wanted to get it over with and go to bed." you ask scott, whose eyes widen slightly. he nods vehemently and lets you in, giving stiles no warning to throw on a shirt or get under the covers or hide or something.

you thank scott and smile at stiles as you pass through to their bathroom, setting your stuff down on the sink counter on the way so you could get organized.

"hey stiles, you forget something?" you joke, not even sparing him a glance as he grabs a t-shirt and hastily shoves it on. he can feel his cheeks burn red and grumbles.

"you barged into my room, what were you expecting?" he fusses with his hair. scott stifles a laugh poorly.

"decency." you hum, winking prettily at the poor blushing boy before stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind you. the boys are frozen a moment as the water starts running, and then stiles falls back against the pillows, groaning.

scott rubs the back of his neck, smiling. "maybe she thinks the grumpy attitude is cute?"

"get out."

scott's smirk grows, and he steps towards stiles' bed. "why? wanna have the room to yourself?"

"no, so i don't slowly suffocate the life out of you with one of these pillows. you know, real friends try to encourage and cheer on their friend's romantic escapades."

"i am encouraging!"

"not well!"

"okay, well, i was leaving anyway." scott turns towards the door and stiles shoots up, scooting towards the edge of the bed.

"what? why?"

scott turns slowly, jaw ticking like he's hiding something. stiles knows the tell.

"...allison... needs.... to borrow my..... shoes......"

stiles watches the cringe slowly crawl up scott's face. he shakes his head, waving his best friend out. "you know, that is much better than half the lies i've heard you tell to go see her. wrap it first, dude."

"i'm not...! ugh, okay, bye." scott leaves in a hurry and stiles shakes his head, used to scott's antics. at least someone's getting some.

that leaves stiles to listen as the water patters down in the shower. he has to turn the tv on and scroll on his phone so that his mind doesn't conjure up images of you in the shower.

images of your wet hair shining softly in the light. your skin, slick and plush, covered in scented suds. stiles clenches his jaw as he imagines the rest of you. as he imagines things he totally should not, having to turn the volume up on his phone and will the blood in his body to stop concentrating to the wrong places. he sighs.

"i'm so screwed." he mumbles, letting his phone fall to his chest.

not even minutes later, the water shuts off and you come out, hair up in the towel like a turbie-twist, smelling like hotel body wash and your shampoo. he watches you moisturize your face in the mirror, then take your hair out of the towel and hang it up, brushing your hair quietly in the meantime.

there's something intimate about laying in bed and watching you pamper yourself. stiles admires your legs and your concentrated face, feeling a bit like a husband watching his wife. god he fucking wishes.

"find something interesting?" you break the silence as you put product in your hair, making the room smell even nicer. it's like a bath & body works ran through the room, covering the boyish musk.

stiles blinks, registering the fact that your question wasn't rhetorical. "...huh?"

"on tv," you giggle and meet his lovesick eyes through the reflection. "did you find anything interesting to watch?"

"oh, um." he shifts up, glancing at the tv where a bland action movie plays. "not really. why?"

you finish your nightly routine and turn to face him. you look like a clean, fresh dream. dewy from the shower, damp hair and healthy skin. you look happier, too, like getting clean helped with your tired funk. as you get closer to the bed, stiles feels the temptation to touch you- to feel how soft your skin is after a shower. but he's not a perv, and you wouldn't want it.

would you?

"where's scott?" you ignore his previous question and crawl onto stiles' bed, sitting next to him and practically knocking him over with how good you smell and how pretty you look. he wants to pull you into his chest and die in this dingy old room.

"scott? oh. i..." stiles ponders saving a lie for his friend, but he knows allison probably had a similarly see-through excuse and opts for the truth. "i think he went to have sex with allison. not sure where."

you roll your eyes, getting comfortable against the pillows-and stiles' side. he blushes all the way down to his neck.

"all the girls are room shuffling to hook up. coach is an idiot if he thinks telling teens lights out will stop them from getting some on a school trip." you move stiles' arm to press yourself into his side more comfortably. "that's like, the whole point of a school trip."

stiles feels a sudden bout of jealously coarse through him. "is that the point of this trip for you?"

you sigh, pressing your head against his side and dampening his shirt. stiles, feeling bold from your cuddling, wraps his arm around you. his heart hammers as you draw out the silence, taking too long to answer for his liking.

“no, it’s not.”

he breathes out a sigh of relief.

“is… is that the point for you?”

stiles sometimes forgets that you don’t know. he’s surprised for that very reason by your timid question, like you’re scared of his answer too. it’s almost laughable to him, since it must be obvious. the way he stares, the way he touches you like you’re a gift from the gods, how he constantly calls you and keeps track of your location on pack missions, your study dates he spends making you laugh and letting you control the music. the inside jokes, the good morning texts, the good night phone calls. he knows when you’re going to cry, when you’re going to smile. isn’t it obvious? isn’t it?

and yet you’re curled up against his side, making his arm fall asleep and getting his pjs wet, completely unaware that he wouldn’t let this slide with anyone else. he turns to face the tv, swallowing.

“no. it’s not.”

the two of you fall silent, watching the tail end of a crappy spy movie. the volume is low enough not to be bothersome but high enough that you can hear. stiles can feel your body slowly relaxing completely under his arm, head resting against his chest like a pillow. the dim lighting of the bedside lamp illuminates your features like an oil painting, and stiles can’t look away.

your lashes flutter closed and your lips part, huffing small breaths out and giving him goosebumps. your brow pinches slightly and you shift, curling one leg over his. he shuffles lower onto the pillows and now you’re both laying, eyes closed, falling asleep to the sound of an infomercial.

☆

stiles wakes up to an empty bed, feeling cold where you were laying. it’s late-or early. stiles can’t tell and the clock in his room is off. he sits up and looks for you, hearing the bathroom door click open.

“oh, sorry. had to pee.” you mumble tiredly, washing your hands, giving stiles a moment to blink away the sleep and admire your short shorts. he scratches his bed head and shrugs.

“‘s okay. were you, uh.. comfortable?”

you nod as you walk back to the bed and crawl back over to him. he adjusts to accommodate you again, but you pull at the covers. “let’s get under these. I was freezing.”

he obeys, but just as you go to resume your previous position, your eyes catch on the bedside table. “what’s that?”

“huh?” he raises his head off the pillow and follows your gaze. “what’s what?”

you reach across him and pluck the small jewelry box off the table. “this. woah, looks fancy. is it a hospitality gift or something?”

you start to open the box, and stiles snatches it out of your hands roughly, making you jump. if you see the pendant, your favorite flower and your favorite metal, you’ll know. you’ll know and you’ll call him a creep and slap him, get out of the bed like it’s on fire, and he’ll lose you. that’s the last thing he can lose.

so stiles tosses the box away, onto scott’s bed, urging you to lay back down.

“it’s nothing. just some gift scott’s planning on giving to allison, i think.” his tone has an edge that makes you curl away from him.

“oh, okay. um. but it had your name, on the bottom.”

“what?”

“the order sticker, it had your name. did… are you lying to me?” you sit up, over him now. he swallows back the surge of longing he’s hit with, when he sees your hair a bit messy and your shirt hanging off one gorgeous shoulder, giving him a glimpse of your skin.

“lying? no, scott just needed me to order it so it could be a surprise.” he’s fumbling the fib now, and he can see you doubt him in your deep, pretty eyes. he feels a lump of panic in his throat. “lay down, I’m tired and coach’ll have us up early.”

your eyes narrow and you shift away from his hands. fuck. “that doesn’t make sense. scott could just take the sticker off.”

“yeah,” stiles tries to look casual, rubbing his eye. “I don’t get it either. scott just wanted to be really cautious.”

“scott’s never cautious.” you’re glaring at him now, and stiles wants to melt into the pillows. “you’re lying.”

“jesus, why are you so suspicious of me? it’s just some stupid jewelry scott got for his girlfriend, alright?”

“don’t talk to me that way.” you hiss, getting off the bed. stiles shoots up like a rocket and goes after you as you gather your things in the shower.

“no, I didn’t mean… fuck, okay, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have talked to you like that, i just got defensive.” he paces and scrubs the back of his neck anxiously. “I’m sorry, okay? I am.”

you turn to face him, sizing him up. stiles watches you with a mouth open, ready to plead. “why did you get defensive? because you’re lying? did you get jewelry for a girl?”

stiles steps back, slapped in the face by the ice in your tone. something sharp lingers, like…

like jealousy.

he scrambles to stop you as you make for the door, grabbing your shoulders.

“please, cmon, seriously? you’re gonna leave over this? I…”

you shrug off his grip roughly and he lets you pass. “you let me sleep in your bed when you planned on giving jewelry to another girl, stiles. now I’m stuck looking like some… homewrecker, and this poor girl won’t know a thing. you know how bad this looks? on top of the lying? just… goodnight.”

he gapes at you as you leave, the door shutting loudly behind you. stiles can’t even move for a second.

what the fuck just happened?!

it was paradise, sleeping next to you.

and here he is, back in hell. because of his own cowardice.

he tugs at his hair and squeezes his eyes shut. “fucking dammit!”

he has a hard time sleeping after that.

☆

the next day, stiles wakes up late and has to rush getting ready. the necklace box has disappeared and he’s honestly grateful; his eyes sting a bit, from being up late and all the crying he got up to once you left. scott barely got a word out of him all morning, and the bus ride to the museum was torture, listening to you chat and laugh just two rows behind him as if last night was some hazy dream-turned-nightmare.

it only got worse, too, when allison approached stiles as coach was breaking everyone into groups.

“so,” she hums, mischief painting her tone all singsonged. “how was your night?”

“I think you’re in group c.” stiles responds blandly, hands shoved in his pockets. you haven’t even looked at him all morning.

“no, no, some stuff got switched up. we’re with you now!” she grins, tilting her head to where scott is chatting you up kindly. you seem almost as tired as stiles. he cringes, knowing it's his fault.

allison blinks up at him, smiling all excitedly like that's good news to stiles. he shifts his weight, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze. "are you sure that's... when did that happen? there's no changing back or anything?"

her smile falls, and she tilts her head a bit. "no... is everything all right? you seem-"

"i'm fine." stiles lets his tone get snippy, and allison narrows her eyes, visibly recoiling.

"that's odd. i got the same response from her this morning." she nods her head towards you again. stiles doesn't even glance your way, afraid he'll see you and want to fall to his knees. allison purses her lips, before seeming to clock the situation. "did something happen?"

"no, no. nothing did. jesus, what's taking coach so long to get us going?"

"stiles, what happened between you and my best friend? something did, i can tell." she steps into his line of vision, and he huffs out a frustrated sigh.

"nothing, allison, jeez. now can we-"

"stiles, tell me right now or i'll go ask her instead. and she'll tell me. and then i'll tell her you said it was nothing and... and that will really hurt her feelings. you know it will. if it was something, it will."

"alright!" he snaps, shushing her and steering her by the shoulders away from the group. she still has that stubborn scowl on her face, and stiles scrubs a hand over his own expression as he tries to calm himself. "okay. fine."

"after the most recent game," he sighs, "i planned on telling her... how i feel about her. and i got her this necklace. cheesy, i know. but, um, i chickened out and put the necklace in my duffel bag. well, i forgot i did that and brought it all the way here on accident, and when i found it i put it on my bedside table. when she came over last night, she saw it and i got... i acted like an asshole to get her to drop the subject, and she could tell i was lying about it. and i feel like an idiot because i know she hates lying but it just felt so good to finally have her, for just a second. and then it all went to shit and now she thinks the necklace is for another girl and that i'm a player and a liar."

allison blinks, silent for a second. then , she breaks out in a huge, girly smile. "you got her a necklace?"

"will you-" he starts to cover her mouth before deciding against it, and swallows, glancing around to see if anyone heard. "it doesn't even matter now, okay? she hates my guts and i would too. i was kind of a horrible liar and huge dickhead back there."

"stiles stilinski, you're in loooove. that's so sweet!" allison is still hung up on the necklace (which stiles already lost), as she pokes his arm teasingly. "what was it?"

clenching his jaw, stiles grumbles out a short description of the necklace, and that only sends allison into a bigger giggling fit. he's blushing like a kid, glaring at her, and she doesn't even care.

"okay, well, you're gonna apologize. today. before we leave. and then that necklace is going around her neck and you're confessing, because you totally fucked up and she deserves a good day." allison is still grinning like the cheshire cat, and stiles shakes his head at her demands.

"noooo way, i'm not talking to her until my pride heals. and until she stops looking like that." he glances over at you finally, eyes filled with the longing in his chest. you look sad, even when you smile, like you feel it to your core. "i can't stand the thought that i made her look so..."

"rejected?" allison pipes in, also watching you now. "yeah, that's because she thinks the boy she's been head over heels for the past... however long, is about to gift expensive jewelry to another girl. you have the power to change that, stiles. and you're going to. today."

"but i-" stiles can't even form a response before allison's walking away and over to scott, pulling him away from the conversation you and him were having. you catch stiles staring, and the both of you look away like wounded animals.

☆

stiles is reading the information panel next to an exhibit when scott sidles up next to him, glaring holes into his skull. "dude."

"hm." stiles barely responds, immersed in the jargon of the museum that scott would have a hard time understanding.

"don't 'hm' me right now, allison told me what happened." stiles can hear the annoyance in his best friend's voice. "you have to tell her. right now. she's, like, depressed!"

"what do you want me to do?!" stiles hisses quietly, whirling around to face scott with a scowl. "i'm trying not to hurt her more by rubbing my presence all in her face!"

"first of all, gross." scott deadpans, scrunching his nose. "second of all, that is the complete opposite of what she needs. look, i'm not a genius when it comes to girls,"

stiles scoffs.

"but," scott continues, "if there's one thing i do know, it's that girls love apologies. good ones. ones that end with really nice gifts that are personalized to the girl. and you are totally screwing this up right now!"

stiles rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up slightly. "i don't even have the goddamn necklace on me!" their whispers grow a bit more passionate, and a few people turn their heads as they pass the boys. scott digs in his pocket, presenting the small box.

"it was on my bed this morning. now take it, and find a secluded spot and make your speech good. i swear to god, stiles, i can't stand watching you mope around like a lovesick dog and tell yourself she's 'too good' for you. if you don't get this over with, i'm telling her you like her and that's going to be a whole bunch of underwhelming."

stiles stares at scott with a bit of shock, mouth open slightly.

"what?"

"i didn't know you knew how to pronounce underwhelming. or what it meant. you've really been studying, huh?"

"shut up." scott laughs and shoves the box into stiles' chest. he catches it and stares at it hopelessly as scott leaves him to ponder, turning the box over in his hands.

the first thing stiles does is peel the sticker off the bottom. then, he shoves the box in his pocket and goes looking for you.

lo and behold, you're admiring a painting almost as pretty as you, eyes dancing along the brushstrokes like you made them yourself. stiles approaches quietly, letting his eyes drink you in for a moment before he dares to speak.

"hey," he hums and you jump a bit, turning on your heel to face him with wide eyes. "can we talk?"

you tuck some of your hair back and nod, not meeting his eyes. he nods too, just once, and leads you out of the room your group is in. stiles hopes he can remember correctly, that his research wasn't in vain and that exhibit that he knew you'd like was here. down a couple more huge halls filled with people, past the food court. you never asked where he was taking you, just looked around and followed closely behind.

there. a sign, in loopy writing with an arrow pointing to the left. stiles followed it and found the entrance, lit with pretty fairy lights and a huge sign above the door.

botanical garden.

he opens the door and lets you in first, but you don't step in; meeting his eyes instead, hesitating, and open your mouth to say something. but then you decide against it and go in, stiles following close behind.

it's gorgeous.

a greenhouse of sorts, with all kinds of flowers blooming all over. you lead the way, walking slowly and drinking in the sights and smells of the garden. stiles thinks you look radiant next to the spurts of color, complimenting them like you came with the garden itself. he watches you admire the different plants as you walk deeper into the garden, reaching the door that leads to the outdoor area slowly.

the two of you step outside and are blown away with the beauty of the garden. it's colorful and bright, doused in the scent of the flowers and sounding of the fountain in the water. once you start walking the path again, stiles musters up the bit of courage he might still possess and speaks up.

"i was an asshole last night."

you glance up at him, but continue walking silently.

"i lied to you, and i was wrong to do that. i'm sorry."

you stop abruptly, stiles skittering to a halt beside you and blinking down at your narrowed eyes.

"right. but you still let me sleep in your bed with full knowledge that you were going to... to... romance another girl the next day, and i don't think that's right."

he grinds his teeth and swallows. "i wasn't-i'm not going to romance another girl. can't you...?" he huffs, scruffing up his hair in frustraion.

"then who was the jewelry for?" you demand, stepping forward to accuse him more passionately. "looked awfully important, and don't try telling me it was anyone else's, stiles. i saw your name on the box. i mean, seriously, what kind of a lie-"

"it's you." the fountain erupts in a beautiful spurt of water beside the two of you. the confession comes out of stiles before he means it to, and it's not as lengthy and wordy as he pictured it. "it's always been you. really, seriously. always. i mean, you're so passionate and honest and funny and kind. are you kidding me? another girl? it's laughable. i've... i'm... it's you."

you stare up at stiles as he pleads at you with his eyes, filled with longing and need and want that goes unfulfilled without you. he's breathing a bit heavy as he watches you part your lips.

"me?"

he nods, eyebrows upturned, and fishes around his pocket before pulling out the small black box that caused him so much anguish. handing over, he urges you. "open it."

you do, pulling the lid off gently and peering down at what stiles has been hiding from you. a gasp leaves your lips as you pull out the small, gorgeous necklace that has your favorite flower dangling from the chain. you admire it for a long moment, leaving stiles to hold his breath and pray you don't throw it in the lake and run.

instead, you meet his eyes and he can see the tears brimming at the corners. "stiles. tell me it's not just a gift."

"no, no, no no no no-don't, don't cry." he panics, unsure of the cause of your emotional state as he rushes forward to cup your cheeks and swipe the tears as they begin to roll down your face. "it's not just a gift, it's a confession. i like you. so much. every day i wake up and i wish you were next to me. i constantly think about you, your hair and your eyes and your mind and your smile. i feel so... so home with you. please don't cry."

"they're good tears." you laugh and lean into one of his hands, sniffling. "i like you too, stiles. i just... i was so scared it was for another girl, i can't believe i was a bitch over nothing."

"you reacted just like i would, honestly. i should've just fessed up. i'm so sorry." he leans forward and presses his forehead to yours. "please forgive me."

"i do." you whisper immediately, warm in his hands. he sighs with relief and lets his eyes fall closed for a moment, drinking in the comfortable silence with you.

"let me put it on you?" he asks, heart still hammering from the leap he finally, finally took. how did he wait so long? having you like this is the best thing he's ever felt.

you hand him the necklace wordlessly and turn around, lifting your hair. he loops the pretty chain around your neck and clips it in the back, letting it fall against your skin. when you turn back to face him and show it off, asking a timid "how does it look?" he has to remember how to speak.

"it's perfect."

stiles leans forward slowly, giving you time to move. when you don't, he cups a hand around your neck and pulls you close, kissing you softly. he hears the box fall to the ground as you kiss back, arms looping around his neck and foot kicking up like it does in the movies. you fit just right against him, like you were made for each other. stiles tucks that thought away and pulls back, admiring your beautiful, just-kissed blush.

after a long pause, you break into a smile and stiles matches it, both of you giggling softly.

"oh my god, we're both idiots." you laugh, kissing his cheek sweetly. he hums in agreement and leans down, kissing the pendant that sits on your sternum. you swallow the giddy squeal that a young, newly-crushing you wants to emit from years prior. stiles pulls you close by the waist and smiles down at you, eyes darting between your lips and your eyes.

"does this mean i finally get to be your boyfriend?" he teases, a dopey grin he always seems to have with you melting your heart.

"i dunno," you pretend to think. "are you gonna lie to avoid having feelings around me?"

"gahhh," he throws his head back and groans. "am i ever gonna live that down?"

"nope!" you laugh and kiss his exposed neck. "you're really not."

"that's okay," he leans down again, lining up for another kiss. "as long as i get to keep doing this."

somehow, it's sweeter than the last, and the hand stiles doesn't have on your waist is pulling you closer gently by the pendant around your neck.

☆

allison and scott cheer like they just won a lacrosse game when you and stiles show up twenty minutes later than you were supposed to with your hands connected and silly smiles on your faces.

"we did it!" allison squeals, pulling scott in for a hug. "we're matchmakers!"

"we're so good at this, babe!" scott kisses all over his girlfriend's face and makes her laugh loudly. stiles raises an eyebrow at the couple.

"if by 'matchmakers' you mean threatening, stealing, lying, and emotionally manipulating-then yes, you two are fantastic at this." he drawls, making your eyes go wide as you hear everything they did to your (now) boyfriend. your eyes meet a guilty allison as her and scott begin to back away slowly.

"you two did what?!"

☆

heyyyyy guysss........ i feel so bad for taking so long omg. and this isn't even good enough in my eyes for the time it took!! i'm sorry i've been so inactive! i'm going to (hopefully) get the train back on track after this bad boy gets out and about. love you all, keep requesting lovely lovely dob characters! or just pop by and say hi, words of affirmation work better on me than they should (praise kink) (jk) (not jk) (but jk if it makes you uncomfortable)!

finally some good food

I'm thinking of Stiles meeting readers parents or reader meeting Noah and Stiles being very handsy and PDA prone during that event 🤭🤭🤭🙈

me, looking out the window as rain patters against it. "i took so long to answer this ask. i wonder if anon remembers me..."

☆

you're practically vibrating with nerves when you approach stiles' front door, wearing your favorite date night dress and holding a small container of home baked cookies.

sure, you've met noah stilinski in passing. but you hadn't really met him met him and part of you was grateful. it would be so awkward if you were familiar with the sheriff (for the wrong reasons) and he turned out to be your boyfriend's dad.

you only have to knock twice for stiles to swing the door open. he's smiling, a bit disheveled, and he's got... flour on his face?

"hey, come on in, we were just finishing up dinner. what's in the box?" he ushers you inside and leads you through his home, stopping just before the kitchen to smile down at you.

"oh, just a little something to ensure parental approval." you joke, shaking the tupperware gently. stiles laughs and wastes no more time taking the container out of your hands to set on a nearby hallway table, pulling you into a hug. you inhale his scent deeply and feel him do the same to you, squeezing you tightly against him.

"you smell nice." he mumbles into your hair. "missed you."

"you saw me yesterday."

"yeah, and i missed you afterwards. okay, come on." he kisses the top of your head and pulls back, hands sliding down your arms to hold your hand. "burnt pasta awaits."

you don't dare ask how he burnt the pasta when stiles turns a corner and leads you into the very room his dad is standing, mixing a pot of penne pasta. he looks up and smiles politely when he sees you, and you do your best to return the smile with confidence (and not fear of rejection).

"dad," stiles hums excitedly, "this is my girlfriend. girlfriend, dad."

"nice to meet you, sir." you hum. you step forward and shake his hand, meeting his eyes.

"ah, the pleasure's all mine." his handshake is firm and he's grinning kind of like stiles does when he's about to make fun of you. "my son won't shut up about you, it was about time."

you blush and laugh, glancing back at stiles, who snakes his arms around your waist and presses his cheek to the side of your head. "that's very true, she's already gotten that comment from scott."

eyes widening, you feel even hotter with embarrassment. stiles is acting like a theme park couple, one of his hands squeezing your waist where he knows it tickles. you squeak and jump back, wiggling out of his arms. he smiles all dopily at you.

"alright," noah claps his hands together, seemingly not even noticing the interaction. "who's ready for burnt pasta?"

you clear your throat, throwing stiles a bit of a warning look before turning your attention to noah. "i've heard about this, i'm curious to see what burnt pasta could taste like. i'd love a bowl."

noah laughs and dishes you up some, leaving you to bask silently in the victorious (accidental) joke. meanwhile, stiles tucks some of your hair behind your ear and smirks.

"me, too. we never really cook, so it's got to have something wrong with it." he turns to his dad. "dish me up some, chef!"

"you can dish some up yourself. i'm only getting it for our lovely guest." noah looks unimpressed with stiles, waving the wooden pasta spoon at him. "don't think you get off just because you have her to hide behind."

stiles makes a "wha-hey!" noise and scoffs, reluctantly grabbing himself a bowl and scooping out some pasta, bringing both of your dishes to the table. once you're all sat, you thank them both for dinner and ask noah about his work.

and you swear, on your life, you're trying to focus.

but with stiles' big, veiny hand on your thigh like a lifeline, it's a bit fucking difficult.

you know stiles likes touch. but when his fingertips are pushing the hem of your dress up a bit to caress your upper thigh? you swallow thickly. in front of his father, of all people!

you tune back in when stiles starts relaying a funny story. his unoccupied hand reaches across himself and lays on top of your hand as he gets animated, explaining scott's hilarious mistake to his dad with enthusiasm. once he finishes, his hand slides away from yours and the one on your thigh squeezes lightly. "do you guys wanna watch a movie?"

"i rented close encounters of the third kind." noah smirks, pointing at stiles. you watch as stiles gives you a bashful look.

"my dad has an affinity for alien media. you'll learn this sooner than you think."

"they're real!" noah seems only half-joking as he gathers your dishes and makes for the kitchen. "just you wait, you'll be wishing you listened to me."

"yeah, okay dad." hums your boyfriend, waiting for his dad to be out of earshot. once you're safe, he pulls his chair impossibly closer to you. "so, how's it going?"

you blink, still blushing from the whole thigh-hand thing. "oh, uhm, good. right? i think it's going alright."

he nods, standing. you follow and let him cup your face. "i think it's going great. he likes you."

"do you say that to all the girls?" you joke, letting him glance down at your mouth obviously. if stiles wants to make a move on you now that you're dating, he usually does. he hums and laughs a little, pushing your hair out of the way.

"only the pretty ones." he leans down and kisses you, briefly. by the time he's pulling back you've forgotten your manners, pulling him by the t-shirt weakly to keep going. he laughs at you, nibbling his lower lip. "when do you need to be home?"

you glance to the side. "soon, probably. how long is the movie?"

"...two and a half hours."

"yeah," you smile apologetically. "i won't make that. sorry, sti'."

"it's okay babe. my dad and i will probably talk through the whole thing. or worse, we'll kill whoever does talk. it's best if you leave on a good note. c'mon."

you follow blindly as he leads you through the house to the living room, pulling you into his side and wrapping his arms around you loosely. his dad is sat on the couch pulling up the movie, and he turns to look at you guys. he seems only mildly phased by stiles' touchiness. you blush, completely mortified at the inappropriateness of it.

"dad," stiles muses. "she's gotta go."

"ah, alright." noah slaps his thighs and stands, and stiles only moves from your side to behind you, holding your hips lightly as his father approaches. "it was so great to finally meet you. thank you for coming."

you smile and shake his hand, doing your best to ignore stiles' too-comfortable hands. "thank you for dinner, sorry i can't stay."

he shakes his head and waves like 'no problem', but he doesn't get to speak it as stiles perks up. "oh shit, the cookies! we have to try them in front of you!"

"stiles, i'm sure that's not-"

"i'll go grab them, be right back." and he's gone.

you make eye contact with sheriff stilinski, watch as he sizes you up and smiles softly. "i'm sure you're a bit put off by the touching?"

"it's... not unusual. just not so..."

"confident?"

"yes," you laugh, flustered and warm, and glance to where stiles ran off. you can both hear him rummaging around. "i'm sorry about it. i don't want you to think we're immature."

noah shakes his head. "believe it or not, it means good things. i don't know how much he talks about it, but..."

noah stilinski looks off, clenches his jaw. "stiles used to hang off of his mother like that. constantly touching, holding. he used to do it with me, too. a lot. and then, after claudia passed... he just stopped. didn't touch, even hug. the first year was the worst. he's much better, but we don't do much loving anymore. not as much as i should be."

he looks back at you, dead in the eyes. "you're the first person i've seen him so comfortable with. physically, i mean. he holds you almost exactly how he used to hang off of his mother. save for a bit of..." noah clears his throat. "romantic tendencies."

you feel your heart swell; you remember when stiles first got all touchy, that night after you had really dug in, actually had a conversation about the nitty gritty of each other. it had been the first month into dating. he had wandering hands ever since, fully subconsciously.

before you can respond (what are you supposed to say? your boyfriend's dad basically just told you that his son loves you in a way he hasn't loved anyone before), stiles comes barreling back in.

"found 'em! they were on the hallway table, imagine that!" he slings an arm over your shoulder and it makes you all fuzzy in the chest. "okay, lets try them. open the lid, babe. my hands are full."

his hand that isn't offering you the container full of cookies is too busy running through your hair. you smile and gently take the container from him, only giving him another hand to put on you.

☆

later, when he walks you to your car and kisses you goodnight, he can't stop talking about how good the night went. you smile into the kiss (he tastes like chocolate chips) and lean back against the drivers side door (his hands are on your hips your cheeks your neck your sides) as he kisses all over your jaw and cheeks and finally, your lips.

"i love you." he whispers against you as he pulls away. you can feel his hands tighten against your body. he's nervous.

"i love you too, stiles." you smile up at him, feeling your heart flutter as he leans in for more.

☆

now what the finger fried fuck is this i dont know what happened i got writers block so bad guys im sorry im so cooked omg please dont cancel me bc of this fic stiles lovers

the art brainrot goes crazyyyyy rn and all i can think of is a fic of him yearning for reader UGHHHH

he would worship the ground you walk on he would love you with everything in him ugh I NEED HIMMM SO BADDD

𖹭 ⊹ ˚.

It's late, very and Art is supposed to be asleep by now. He has a big match tomorrow, and he knows he should be resting, but he can't fall asleep. He tossed and turned in the bed as he tried to get comfortable. The luscious hotel bedding was soft but still uncomfortable in a way. It was big bed, too big for just one person, and it felt like the white sheets were swallowing him whole.

He thought about you sharing the bed with him. He thought about the way you'd cozy up to him and burry yourself in his chest as he wrapped his arms around you. He thought about your warmth that would permeate throughout your body and seep into his.

He thought about the smell of your body lotion and your soft breathing that always lulls him to sleep, and his body ached as it longed to feel yours. Because more than anything, he needed you with him right now. He missed everything about you. He wanted to hear you and smell you and feel you and see you and his body ached to feel yours.

Before he can stop himself, he's reaching for his phone and searching for your contact. It rings about four times before you answer, voice half muffled and laced with sleep. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?" he asks softly, immediately feeling like a jerk.

He can hear the ruffle of your sheets as you move to sit upright. "I just managed to fall asleep, but it's okay," you say through a yawn, and it makes Art feel worse because he knows you struggle with sleeping. "I'm sorry," he found himself saying again, and he could hear the dismissive sound you make.

"Don't be, I'm glad you called," you said softly, and it's like Art could feel the day's tension leaving his body at the melodic sound of your voice. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine you next to him, your voice speaking to him softly in his ear instead of through his phone's speaker.

"Art?" you ask when the line gets too quiet and he humms. "You okay?" he humms again. "Yeah, I'm fine," he sighed, but you could hear the tiredness in his voice. "How was your day?" he asked as he moved to lay on his back as he stared into the darkness.

You smiled, hand rubbing over the material of your nightie as you spoke. "It was okay," you started, "Just a little boring. I missed you a lot today." Art's heart clenched painfully at your words. "You have no idea how much I miss you," he said softly, "I wish you could've come with me."

"I wish I was there too," you said forlornly, and then the line's silent for a moment, the two of you just listening to the other's breathing. Art's eyes already feel heavy, and he reckons he could easily fall asleep just like this — with his phone pressed tightly to his ear as he listens to your soft breathing. In his mind's eye, he's looking over you as you're sleeping, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest and the way your mouth is slightly parted.

"I can't sleep without you. Need you here with me," he finds himself saying, and you're nodding on the other end before you realize he can't see you. "I had to drink some chamomile because I was tossing al night, basically. I'm so used to having you close to me. The bed's too empty." Your hand rubs over his side of the bed when you say it, and you watch the way your engagement ring sparkles in the faint light shining through the gaps of the curtains.

"How's your shoulder?" you ask, and Art sighs. "It's okay, doesn't hurt as much anymore," he says. "That's good, I'm glad," you said. Your eyes shift to the clock on your nightstand, the green numbers almost taunting. "It's so late, Art, you should probably try getting some sleep. Aren't you playing tomorrow?"

"I am," he said almost reluctantly, mimicking you as he looked over to the dresser, the small digital clock displaying the time in angry red numbers. "Can you tell me about your day?" he asked out of the blue, seemingly ignoring your inquiry. "Art—"

"Please, I just want to hear your voice a little more," he interrupted, and your whole chest restricts painfully at the pitiful tone of his voice. You missed him so much, and contact between you two had been limited because of how busy he was during the day. "Okay," you said softly, moving your body to lie back down deeper underneath the sheets as you started telling him about your day. And he listened as you softly spoke, closing his eyes and imagining you were laying on his chest as your soft body warmed his.

she’s driving me crazy

description. STILES STILINSKI finally gets another chance with you, and he won’t take it for granted

includes. SMUT 18+, riding, car sex, fem!reader, protective p n v, lots of making out, loser!stiles, awkward stiles, bi!stiles, exes getting back together, slightly manipulative reader, reader has easily malleable hair, reader wears makeup, drinking (but no drunk intercourse), bickering, scott guest appearance

wc. 6k+

a/n: long awaited stiles fic. bestie boo this one's for u. title from confidence by ocean alley. art credits unknown.

Stiles knows he fucked up. 

He had you, after almost a full year of tortuous pining, and he let you slip through his hands. All of it, your relationship with Stiles, really didn’t last more than two months. Two months where date nights were rain checked and eventually canceled. Sleepovers were lackluster, and nothing more than a movie playing in the back while Stiles worked over something that wouldn’t rest in his brain, leaving you alone in the center of his unmade bed. Promises were made, and never kept. It was a mess, a horrible, murky mess of Stiles’ own creation. 

He knows this. But he still allows himself to mourn what could have been. He grieves what was. All while nursing a warm beer that doesn’t sit well in his stomach, mostly because of the sight he has been doomed to acknowledge—also his own doing as he could definitely turn his gaze elsewhere. 

You’re tucked under the arm of some guy who looks nothing like Stiles, and he doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse. Is that your dream guy? Or are you forcing yourself to branch out and try something that wasn’t him? He tries to resist the spiral that sends him on, and is only able to start crawling out of the self-deprecating and insecurity tunnel through Scott’s voice beside him. 

“What’re you staring at?” 

Scott reeks of alcohol and fruit-flavored syrup. If he wasn’t a werewolf, Stiles knows his best friend would be unable to stand straight by now. But Scott stands like his usual self next to Stiles, a big grin on his face probably from the attention he’s been getting from Kira. (It was sickening for Stiles to watch but he forced himself to be happy for the strong relationship his best friend has.)

Stiles’ immediate instinct is to lie. “Nothing.” He says it a little too fast. He tries to cover his slip up by taking a sip of his beer, but the flavor is unappealing to the point where the face of disgust he presents makes him look more guilty than he really is. 

Scott stares at Stiles, waiting. Stiles knows he won’t lie to Scott, not about something this small anyway, and it is only a matter of a few seconds before Stiles sighs. 

“Look,” he points at you and your suitor. “Don’t you think he’s making her uncomfortable? Look at that. He’s all over her. Probably reeks of Axe body spray.”

It’s then that the guy cracks another joke, your head throwing back in laughter just before you rest your ear against his chest. It’s so affectionate. As if you’ve known this guy for years, and not just mere minutes. 

Stiles flicks his eyes over to Scott, expecting to see his best friend analyzing the situation with at least a small amount of attention that Stiles is. Instead, Scott is looking over at Stiles, wearing what Stiles can only describe as a knowing smirk on his lips. 

Stiles steps back, a little bewildered. “What?” 

Scott, annoyingly, shrugs. He sips his drink, one he has solely for taste as Stiles knows, and only responds once he’s taken a long, slow swallow. 

“She seems fine to me. I thought you guys were broken up anyway.” 

“We are!” 

“Then why do you care so much?” 

Stiles can’t help but petulantly roll his eyes. He turns to face you and your human shaped bag of bricks once again, gesturing for Scott to do the same. His mouth opens, lips parted and tongue ready to spew out the analytics he’d been gathering this entire time in lieu of an excuse. 

Then Scott interrupts. 

“Do you want me to see what’s going on?” Scott throws a finger up towards his ear, one eyebrow lifted as he waits for Stiles to gather the implications and then make a decision. 

It takes Stiles longer to complete the latter than the former. 

He waits, thinks, looks at you and the guy. And then remembers the strict ‘no listening’ rule you all have set in place, the one he most definitely won’t betray in the name of jealousy, even if you aren’t particularly aware of all of the intricacies. 

When he sighs, it’s defeated and with his entire body. He knows he’s pouting, he assumes he resembles his teenage self—mopey and brooding. He doesn’t mean to speak through gritted teeth, but he ends up doing it anyway. 

“No. She’s probably … fine. I guess.” It hurts to admit, deep in Stiles' jealousy-filled gut. Scott’s way of comforting him is by clapping a hand on his shoulder, and telling him that you’re a grown adult who is allowed to make her own decisions, the same as him. 

Scott’s intentions aren’t understood until he points at someone in the opposite direction of you. A guy who, from the looks of it, has been eyeing Stiles for a while. He’s Stiles’ type. Exactly his type, actually, and Scott knows this. 

“Instead of sulking around …” Scott doesn’t need to finish his sentence in order for Stiles to understand. He only lingers for a few seconds, and then is pulled back towards the larger group by Kira’s eyes and grin. 

The guy on the other side of the bar is still watching Stiles. He’s smiling a small but confident smile, like he knows Stiles wants him as much as he wants Stiles. He tilts his head in a beckon, and Stiles is close to letting the guy pull him over there. Until he sees you step away from the man, smile dismissively up to him, and start towards Stiles instead. 

Instantly, it’s like a flip has been switched. 

He starts to feel the effects of the alcohol, even though he’d been nursing the same bottle the entire night. Still, he chooses to attribute the buzz flowing throughout his body to the overpriced beer and not excitement of finally having your attention. 

He watches your path, trying not to feel too disappointed as he takes notice of the way you’re struggling to walk in a straight line. 

You fall into his arms in a fit of giggles. Your head resting on his chest, your hands circling around his back. 

“Stiles,” you sing, long and drawn out and definitely drunk.  

He repeats your name in the same tune, placing his drink onto a tabletop next to him and abandoning it for good. Keeping you away from self destruction is his new main priority. 

You slump against him even more, turning yourself around and leaning back against his body. Your position leaves Stiles with nothing else to do other than stand stiffly. He knows that if you were sober, you wouldn’t be nearly as affectionate as you are now. He ignores the way your ass brushes against his crotch. He ignores the smell of your perfume wafting up to him, a scent he had the privilege of seeing you apply a few times before when you were dating. (The image of you getting ready for the day, lathering yourself in the oils and lotions and scents that worked to create your unique scent will never leave his brain, for better or for worse.)

He does his best to remain unaffected, but then you tilt your head up, the crown of your hair rubbing against Stiles’ shirt as you look at him. As soon as he glances down, he sees you pouting, clearly over exaggerated but it’s a look he, pathetically, will never be able to resist. 

“Why won’t you touch me?” You manage to sound pitiful, as if you had lost every single thing you hold dear to your heart in the last couple of minutes. 

In his response, he tries to remain neutral. Drunk or not, you know the game you’re playing, and Stiles foolishly believes that his knowledge of the ploy makes him insusceptible. 

“Because you’re drunk,” he platonically rests his hands on your shoulders and encourages you off of him. “And we aren’t together anymore.” 

You turn around to face him, grinning up at him like the cat with the canary as you tell him, “it didn’t stop us last time, right?”

That, and the way you almost throw yourself at some guy walking past, is enough reason for Stiles to link his hand in yours and pull you towards the others. Scott stares down at your interlinked palms for only a moment before Stiles explains his plan, which entails getting you back to your apartment before you do something you could regret. 

This isn’t an excuse for Stiles to continue hanging out with you. He makes sure he clarifies that to himself and his best friend before he’s pulling you out of the bar and towards his Jeep.

You’re both less than ten steps away from the entrance to the bar when you suddenly have your lips pressed to Stiles’. 

There is a moment where Stiles fails to resist. Where he reciprocates quicker than his brain can realize, acting on pure instinct and muscle memory instead of logic. He is unable to stop himself from getting comfortable, from linking this kiss to the last one he’d received from you. Hotter and messier than this one. (Lost in his appreciation to finally be kissing you again, Stiles fails to notice how you don’t taste like alcohol at all)

Only a few more seconds pass before Stiles reminds himself that you’re drunk, and that this is wrong. When he pulls away from your lips—regretfully, that is—he’s tempted into staying by the slight stickiness of your lipgloss and the almost-disgusting string of saliva that briefly keeps you two sewn together. 

You try to lean back in, but Stiles stops you with his hands on your shoulders. 

“You’re drunk,” he reminds you. 

You’re fixing him with a look, one that feels strong and weirdly sober. His suspicions have more proof to back them up when you say his name with the same matter-of-fact tone he had just used on you. 

“I’m not drunk.” 

He scrunches his eyebrows together, the muscles in his face mimicking the movement as well. His lips part as he nonverbally exclaims his confusion. He lifts one of his hands from your shoulder to hook his thumb towards the bar entrance. He looks around, for nothing or no one in particular, but as if the night will have an explanation that you would surely be willing to provide if he asks. 

He didn’t even need to ask before you provide an explanation. It’s cut and dry, matter-of-fact, spoken like it is the most casual thing in the world. 

“I faked being drunk so you could take me home.” 

Stiles knows what you mean. He’s not dumb. But he surely does feel it when he says, “If you didn’t feel well you could’ve just told Lydia. She would’ve taken you back to yours.” 

You roll your eyes. “If you don’t wanna sleep with me, that’s fine. Just let me know before I waste my time.” 

Stiles should stand up for himself. He should reprimand your attitude, and exclaim how unnecessary it was. Instead, he flounders and almost falls to your feet with the speed he clarifies himself. 

“No. I do wanna sleep with you. Like, really bad. But … um … well,” you lift your eyebrows and Stiles clears his throat. “How many fingers am I holding up.” 

“Jesus, fuck, Stiles.” He continues holding up his first three fingers on his right hand until you answer. “Three.” 

You lean in but Stiles takes a step back. And then another. And then another, until he’s standing against the wall of the bar and you’re standing at the edge of the sidewalk. 

“Walk in a straight line towards me.” 

You don’t seem happy about it, but you place one foot in front of the other over and over again until you’re in front of Stiles. Nothing more has to be said before Stiles places his hands on your hips, pulls you flush to him, and finally allows himself to kiss you. 

It’s been a while since Stiles had the privilege of kissing you. The last time, just a month ago, didn’t count in his mind. Sure, he remembered nearly every detail, but your shared inebriated state at the time overruled any legitimacy the encounter could have held. Now, it only acts as a reminder and motivator for Stiles to enjoy every moment of this that he can. 

Eventually, it would be smart, and preferable, to leave the outside of the bar and actually take you home where you two could be alone. But for now, Stiles presses his hands into the middle of your back as a way to pull you as close to him as possible. He has his legs spread, creating space for your limbs to stagger. Your hands rest on his shoulders, then at the back of his neck, then in his hair. Both of you are attempting to get as close to the other as possible, all while engaging in the sloppiest kiss you’ve ever had. You both kissed cleaner when you were drunk. 

Now, outside this bar with your closest friends inside, and with nothing but the night (and the bouncer) as witness, you submit to the other. There is a level of appreciation in the way your lips slide together. There is a level of gratitude in the presses of your tongues against each other. There is an exorbitant amount of longing that is solved each time you jerk your hips into Stiles and each time he reciprocates. 

You thread your hands through Stiles’ hair the same time that he slides his hands down to your ass and squeezes, pulling you as close to him as possible and rubbing his thigh against the center seam of your jeans. You both groan into each other's mouths—Stiles from the way you tug just right on his hair, and you from the feeling of his leg between yours. 

Sensing—knowing that he did something right, something good, Stiles does it again. And again. And again. The steady slide of his thigh between your legs does the job. You let your head fall, leaning the top of it against Stiles’ chest just right under his sternum. 

The sound of you moaning Stiles’ name goes straight to his dick, with a few remnants traveling to his head, leaving him dizzy and with a steady growing semi. His actions make you grip his hair stronger. His actions indirectly cause pleasure for him, too. 

It all disappears when the sound of spitting—loud and boisterous, almost cartoonish—breaks up the moment. Stiles stops his movements. He lays his hands flat on the back pockets of your jeans as he turns his head to the side. 

The eyes of the bouncer meet Stiles and Stiles’ ears burn. 

While the bouncer doesn’t say anything to him, Stiles knows the message he’s trying to communicate. 

Get the fuck out of here. 

Stiles is forced to push you back by hooking his fingers in your belt loops. He’s still touching you, at least an extension of you, but then your hands drop to your sides and Stiles can feel his body crying out for you. The same way his body calls out for vital needs—food, water, sleep, entertainment. He squashes his emotions for a second, plasters on a—truthfully sympathetic—face, one that comes off more as a tight lipped smile than anything else. 

“Sorry, man. You — uh. You have a goodnight.” He throws a hand up to the bouncer, hoping it is received as friendly. When the bouncer returns the gesture, still with that same look in his eyes, Stiles heads down the street and pulls you with him. 

The walk to the car is tortuous. His boner keeps rubbing against his jeans, leaving him to stop every few paces, face away from the street, and try to adjust himself. After the third time, you were voicing your frustration, claiming that it was taking forever to reach the car because of Stiles’ worry about who could see his erection. He tries things your way, ignoring the way his dick calls for his attention and instead focusing all of his attention on you. 

The way your hips sway in your tight jeans. The way the wind blows your perfume to him and lifts the edge of your shirt in one, giving Stiles a peek of your skin. It’s such a small look, nothing more than a glimpse, and Stiles feels like a Victorian man the way he’s having to bite his fist at the next crosswalk to avoid groaning. The street lights illuminate your face in just the right ways, highlighting your makeup in an unnaturally ethereal way. Everything about you is driving Stiles crazy. There’s no way he’s going to make it to your house. If he doesn’t get to his car soon, he might pull you into the next bar bathroom that he could find just for a semblance of privacy. 

If he could just get to his Jeep. 

It’s then that Stiles realizes he’s been walking for far too long. He stops in the center of the sidewalk. You stop right beside him. 

Stiles doesn’t say anything as he turns around and leads you three blocks down the street, one street over, and then into the parking garage elevator. 

The way you’re grinning at him alerts Stiles of the words soon to come out of your mouth, definitely words that would be at his expense. He stops you while you’re ahead. 

It’s nice to have the position switched. Your back against the wall instead of his. His hands are still on your hips, but he uses them to push you into the metal instead of pulling you into him. You have that part covered, your arms once more thrown over his shoulders, pressed into the back of his neck and head, drawing him in until the pressure of his lips against yours is a little painful. 

In the rush neither of you have pushed the button, leaving the elevator stagnant on the ground floor. Stiles notices at the same time that you scratch his scalp. He moans, he really can’t help it. His mouth opens as you purse your lips again, and he feels a little bad but you aren’t deterred. In fact, you do it again, your nails scratching in just the right spot and Stiles feels like an animal the way he shudders and keens. 

He’s more human when he admits, “Missed this.” He presses his lips to yours again, pulling back with a smack. “Missed you.” 

Your lips slide against his with what Stiles can only describe as desperation. Pure, unadulterated desperation and desire. You’re breathing a little heavy, deep exhales through your nose and inhales in the in between moments, and it doesn’t turn Stiles off at all. He wants more of you. He takes more of you. 

He doesn’t know how long you two are in there, but it is eventually you who pulls back first, your lips visibly swollen and lacking any of the makeup that was previously on it. 

“Has the elevator been moving at all?” You could check for yourself. Just one look over Stiles’ shoulder and you could see that the small screen still displayed a digital ‘1’. Yet, you’re looking up at him instead. Like Stiles is the most important thing in the elevator. Like he’s the most important thing in the world to you. (Maybe it’s Stiles’ delusion talking, but he chooses to believe it either way)

Still, Stiles looks over his shoulder, confirms that he hadn’t hit the button at all, and leans back to correct his mistakes. 

The elevator beeps twice, bringing you both to the third floor, and as much as Stiles’ wants to continue standing there and just admire you, he can hear the door daring to slide close. Again, he pulls you out behind him. 

As soon as he turns the corner, Stiles is immediately made aware of the lack of other cars on the level. It’s a little eerie, and if he wasn’t about to get his dick wet he would possibly be on the lookout for potential threats that could turn one of the best moments of his life into another inconvenience. 

Your hands are on his shoulders, his back, his arms, as you hold onto him. 

“Why did you park all alone? Did you plan this? Were you trying to get in my pants all night?” 

Stiles digs into the front pocket of his jeans and searches for his keys. “No. There were other people parked here earlier. They’re just all gone now.” 

You hum unconvincingly. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Stiles.” 

As soon as Stiles has the passenger door unlocked, he holds the door open for you and stares, hoping the annoyance is overpowering every other feeling he’s currently having towards you. 

“In the back,” he tells you. You smile up at him, big and entertained, and then do as he says. 

He climbs in right behind you. At this point in the night, there was no point in attempting to get back to your apartment or his. Stiles couldn’t wait much longer, and you two are no stranger to the back of his Jeep. You’ve been in this situation before. 

It’s all completely effortless. You’re already in the process of slipping your jeans off whenever Stiles has the door closed. He mourns for just a second, pouting to himself over not being the one to take those sinful jeans off of you. But then you climb over his lap, situating yourself to hover just a bit above him. 

Stiles plants his hands on your hips, just like he did before, and pulls you to sit right over him, just like you have before. He knows that the status of your relationship has changed since the last time he had the privilege of being in this space with you like this, but that doesn’t mean the way you do things has to change, too. 

You were never shy before. You would always be quick to attach yourself to Stiles in whatever ways you could, just like you had been doing just a little earlier into the night. But that’s gone now. Now, you’re staring at him, your teeth pressed into your bottom lip. 

Before you were together for a short time, Stiles had spent months pining. Months analyzing whatever he could about you. Months mentally cataloging your tells. And now, he calls on that information to declare that you’re hesitant. You’re nervous. No, not just nervous. You’re worried. Almost regretful. 

He tilts his head. “What’s wrong?” 

You shrug but Stiles knows you’re aware of what has you like this. He just gives you the time to voice it. 

Eventually, you say: “Will this change anything between us?” 

It’s his turn to shrug. “I dunno. Do you want anything to change?” 

You shrug again. 

“Well … do you want to keep going? And we decide that afterwards?” Stiles really wants to fuck you, but deep down he knows that if you stopped and got up off of him in this moment, he would be okay with it. Well, he would be okay with it after a few days. Maybe a week or two. 

A little part in him swells, jumps, and clicks its heels when you nod. 

“Yeah. That sounds good.” You press your lips to his once. 

“You just tell me when you decide, okay? I’m cool with whatever you’re cool with.” And Stiles means that. If he gets just one more time with you, if this is his final time with you, he would cut his losses and be grateful for the time that he was allowed. What else was he supposed to do? He would never dream of doing anything that could jeopardize his spot in your life. 

Stiles can feel the warmth of your center is his hand when he trails his touch down. He cups your mound and his eyes flutter shut. He feels like a pervert for only a second before you start to work your lips down his neck and rock your hips into his hand. The way your mouth suctions around his favorite spot almost has him distracted enough to not notice your hands working on his pants. Almost. 

He can’t really tell in the dark, but he can slightly feel your once confident movements start to falter. You stop on his neck, keeping your lips as nothing but a pucker against his skin before you pull away completely to look down between the two of you. 

“When the fuck did you start wearing a belt?” 

Stiles doesn’t want to tell you the truth, he feels like it would be too embarrassing. Really, he knows it wouldn’t, but something about having to tell you that he decided to wear a belt because you always said he should makes him feel a little meek. So instead of filling the silence with the truth, he fills the silence with the clinks of his belt buckle as he undos it himself. 

“Recently,” is all he tells you when you’re still staring at him for a response. Somehow, it’s enough for you and your hands are back on his waistband. 

In record speed, your hands are down the elastic of his boxers and wrapping around Stiles’ cock. He doesn’t hiss, but he does shudder. He tries to hide it by pretending that the car is cold, which it was beforehand, but now it’s warm. It becomes warmer when you spit in your hand, wrap it around Stiles’ cock and pump him a few times, and then push your underwear to the side and hover above him. 

It really pains Stiles to stop you, but he does. He asks if you have a condom, then he asks if you want to use a condom, and the entire time he’s kicking himself. Because he can feel the warmth radiating. He has his tip already nudged between your folds, and just this small touch is already making him lose it. His nails are digging into your hips, he’s breathing harder than he was before, and he has to blink a few times to really focus on you. 

It feels like Stiles blinks and suddenly you’re tearing the foil packet open and slipping the condom over him. He watches it go down as best as he can, and the light doesn’t reveal much. Just the bottom of you and the tip of him is visible, the rest Stiles is forced to make out through squints and memorization. 

He’s just briefly dejected about the lack of visuals, but then your hands rest on his shoulders and he hears you take a breath and he knows it’s time. 

Stiles rests his hands on your side and looks up at you. 

You go down slowly. Softly. It allows Stiles to feel each delicious inch as they go by, revealing more and more of the inside of you as time passes. He battles between watching your face and simply basking in it. Eventually, he settles on the former. 

Your eyebrows are tightened just enough to show your discomfort. You have your lips parted, long breaths leaving them every so often, usually right before you sink down again. And Stiles has seen you take him before. He knows that you have been able to take him faster than this before. And then he wonders: is this your first time doing this, with anyone, in a while? Have you been as lost without him as he has been without you? Have you even attempted to fill that hole, and was your stunt earlier tonight just that: a stunt?

There isn’t time for him to ponder over his questions like he would have wanted to whenever you bottom out. It’s with a sigh, the back of your thighs meeting the top of his just briefly. 

You rest your forehead against his, and you both breathe together. Or, it’s more so you breathing and Stiles matching the pattern. 

You lean up, you move your hair out of your face, and you tell him, “Don’t remember it being this hard.” 

Slightly cocky, Stiles tilts his head.  At first he doesn’t say anything. He smiles, his eyes are heavy when they look you up and down, and then he rubs your back. “Take your time.” 

You take the time you need and then you start moving. Up and down. Up and down. Agonizingly slowly at first, and then faster when you get more comfortable. 

This is what Stiles has needed. This is what he has been missing in his life. You’re like a drug for him, and one hit seems like enough at the time, but by the time this is all over he knows he’s going to be searching for more. He’ll do anything he has to, so long as it gets him in a spot similar to this again. 

He searches for your hand, refusing to look away from the way your body moves atop of him for even a second. You help him out, bringing your hand to his, pressing the fingertips together, leaving Stiles to interlock them. He lifts your hands, looking at them in the white light that enters the foggy window. Somehow, this image is even more captivating. There is a more pornographic way the two of you are connected, one that demands Stiles’ attention. There is something about the innocence of this. He’s doing nothing but holding your hand, and Stiles feels like he might either lose his mind, or cum too quickly. 

He might do both. One after the other. 

You sink down on him again, a little awkwardly this time, but it does it for you. You hit a spot that makes your mouth widen and your eyes flutter shut. You search for it, and find it miraculously. Your head throws back as you hit that spot over and over again, pleasing yourself on Stiles’ dick. The image is heavenly for him. It’s euphoric. 

He lets his eyes wander down your neck, along your clavicle, and your shirt reveals just a bit of your bust but it’s not enough. With his free hand, he pulls the rest of the fabric down, and when he sees that you’re not wearing a bra, he almost cums into the condom then and there. He doesn’t wonder how he hadn’t noticed, he doesn't consider how he hadn’t taken into account the natural shape of your breasts pushing through the fabric, almost reaching out to him. Instead, he leans forward, presses his hand into the curve of your back, and attaches his mouth to the untouched skin. 

Your free hand sinks into Stiles’ hair. Your fingers weave through the back of his hair first, and then you make your way up to the front, pushing back his bangs blindly. 

Stiles peers up at you from his spot around your nipples. You’re still in ecstasy—your head now level once more, but your mouth still open and your eyes still closed. 

He detaches from your nipple to tell you: “Look at me.” 

It fuels Stiles’ ego when you do as told quickly. 

You’re looking at him on his command yet Stiles feels like he’s the one entranced. Because of your eyes. Fuck, your eyes. Watery, lazy, but your pupils are dilated. Your mascara has transferred to under your eyes by now, and it’s smudged a bit, making you look completely fucked out. Stiles thinks some of your makeup along your face has disappeared too, but it allows for a fresh skinned appearance instead. 

Really, there is nothing else for him to do except kiss you. It’s so messy but so good. You flatter in your movements on his cock, but Stiles feels absolutely no remorse when he takes over. 

He unlocks your hands and plants them both on your hips again. This time, he uses the leverage to pull you down on him again and again. He lets you lead the kiss, while he leads this. 

Your hands land on the leather of the seat behind Stiles' back and the foggy glass pane of the window. He hears your fingertips glide down the surface as he starts to fuck you harder, and then the sound is combined with your moans when your lips separate from Stiles’. 

You call his name, low and breathy. 

He hums. 

“‘m so close. Keep going. Just like that.” He nods. Then you add, “Little faster.” And he does as told. 

Your forehead pressed against his, the sweat on both of your skin making your heads glide more than anticipated. It doesn’t deter either of you. When your nose bumps against Stiles’, he kisses you again. When your head becomes too heavy for you to hold it up, he presses his thumb under your jaw, rests his fingers on the side of your neck, and holds the weight for you. 

“You’re so pretty,” he tells you, adding your name at the end to seal the deal. “Baby,” he says, and his heart swells when you hum in response. So he says it again. “Baby, you feel so good. Feel so good, babe.” 

He doesn’t know what more he says. He can vaguely recognize his lips forming the words and his own voice in his ears calling you the prettiest girl ever, telling you that he could never get this anywhere else, telling you he never wanted to get this from anywhere else. 

“Needed this so bad. I needed you so bad. I’ve missed you.” And just as his words finish, yours begin. 

“Stiles, Stiles. Right there. ‘m … I’m…!” 

He singles two fingers out, slips them between your thighs, and rubs along your clit until you’re shaking above him and holding onto his wrist between your bodies. He doesn’t know if you’re trying to pull him closer or push him away, but watching you cum is too gorgeous for him to ever dream of making it stop. 

So he doesn’t. 

Not even when your eyes start to leak and your lips start to plead and you contract around him. 

“One more,” he asks. “I just need to see it one more time. Please.” 

The sound of him moving in and out of you is loud. He drifts his eyes down to watch it happen, groaning when he just barely sees a broken ring of white glinting in the fluorescents from the parking garage. 

It feels a little romantic when you cum and then Stiles follows right after. 

The Jeep is warm, the windows are foggy, and there’s an ache in Stiles’ thighs. He knows for every one of his aches, you have three. The condom has been removed, tied, and disposed of in an old paper bag Stiles had sitting on the floor of his car. His pants are pulled back up, but his belt is still undone. His shirt sticks to his skin and he really needs greasy food and a shower. 

But if that means leaving this moment, and never returning to it, he could put off his needs and wants for an eternity. 

You’re sitting next to him, redressed with the button of your jeans still undone. You’re staring straight ahead, trying to catch your breath as you rub the muscles in your thighs. 

Stiles doesn’t know what to say, so he licks his lips and he says, “Uh … do you … um. Would you like some … ice or something? For your legs?” 

You smile ahead, turn to face him, and shake your head. “It’ll be fine. Nothing a shower and good sleep won’t fix.” You pause. “And maybe some food.” 

Which is how Stiles ends up sitting in your bed, sipping the remnants of his Dr. Pepper as he watches you lather lotion on your legs with your towel still hanging off of your body. 

“Your food’s cold,” he tells you. He doesn’t tell you about the handful of fries he stole earlier, but he knows you’ll notice it and hold the grudge for later. 

Later. Will there be a ‘later’? 

“Be there in a second.” You start to walk back to the bathroom. “Should we go to that place in the morning? Or …” you look at your clock and wince at the time. “Later. The one with the really good pancakes?” 

Stiles is quick to agree. He would love to do something with you later. 

good distractions | m.murdock

description: When Matthew was concerned, it was always easy for you to get distracted, wether intentionally on his part or not. And tonight’s distraction falls in the intentional category as he takes you away from a midnight snack to fuck you against the counter. Turns out not all distractions are bad.

includes: smut 16+, fluffy boyfriend matt (kinda), eating out, p in v sex, female anatomy (vaginas) but no boobs or she/her pronouns, fingering, slight sub matt smirks, very very slight pain kink, kinda rough sex, and light degradation + unprotected sex

a/n: this came about post nap so if it’s bad blame it on the nap. srsly don’t think i’ll ever get tired of writing matty tho love that man sm <3

word count: 3.5K

When Matthew was concerned, it was always extremely easy for you to get distracted.

It was never a big problem in your life as your distractions never got in the way of actual important things like work and such, and only took you away from miniscule chores or desires in life.

Like now.

It’s late, probably some time around two or maybe three AM. You hadn’t checked the time when you quietly slipped out of Matthew’s arms in bed as the hunger in your stomach and the drought in your throat were both more prevalent matters than knowing what time of night it was.

The night was one of those scarce ones where you and Matt were together the entire time, both tired from your respective professions, and so filled with love that you fell asleep in each other's arms before the clock even hit eleven. It was rare for you both, but so appreciated that you would not dare complain about the early turn in, even though you planned to work a little bit extra from home, and you knew Matt had the urge to go out in his slim black outfit.

The early bedtime and change in your routine meant you would awake earlier, your sleep predicted to be interrupted midway through the night as your body was not used to getting so many hours consecutively.

Which brought you here; feet padding on the cold floor as you make your way to the kitchen, the area flooding with cool light as you open the fridge, searching for anything quick and simple to eat.

Happily, your eyes land on strawberries, and then whipped cream. You take both out of the fridge as quietly as you could, placing them onto the counter before you head towards where you and Matt kept the glasses, closing the fridge on the way but not before taking the Brita out.

You’re four strawberries and a whole lot of whipped cream into your late night snack whenever you hear the call of your name.

Matthew’s voice is groggy, heavily laced with the comforting presence of a good sleep, but you can still hear the knowing smirk in the way he says the familiar syllables.

“I’m in here.” You tell him, even though you know he knows that.

There’s a bit of shuffling before he asks, “Are you eating strawberries right now?”

You pause, comically taking a bite from your strawberry and squirting whipped cream from the can into your mouth before saying a simple, “Yes”.

“And whipped cream from the can? You’re disgusting.” He’s up from bed now and making his way towards you. He moves with a slight limp, one he would only let known to you. The beating he took the night before wasn’t the worst, but since he didn’t go out tonight the bruising really had time to set now as the aching muscles were not forced to recover by superhuman-like fighting skills.

You can’t help but smile at the sight of him. His hair is disheveled, the strands pointing in all different directions at a length longer than usual. You know he’ll get a haircut soon but for now you enjoy the longer hair.

He’s only wearing a pair of black briefs pulled low on his hips and you mirror his semi-nude nature as you only wear an old tee you’ve had since high school which had shrunken at least a full size since then, a pair of cotton underwear peeking out from underneath.

“There’s been way worse things in my mouth before and you weren’t complaining.” You wrap your arms around your torso, holding yourself tight for a bit of forgone warmth.

The apartment was cold but nothing too unbearable, especially since you soon would be in the warmth of Matthew’s arms again as soon as he reached you.

“Because those ‘things’ weren’t straight-from-the-can whipped cream.” Matt remarks. You go to say something snarky back, but you forget to when Matt leans in and pecks your lips, tasting the strawberries and whipped cream from you. He hums and makes his way to the cabinet with the glasses but before he can reach it you say, “Water? Have some of mine.” Matt turns around, a pleased smile on his lips as he comes back to you, taking the glass from your hands.

You knew how much he adored drinking after you. You never quite understood why but you knew it had something to do with Matthew’s obsession with being close to you. And his obsession with you yourself, of course.

The countertop digs into the top of your bum as you watch Matthew selfishly finish off your glass of water, cheekily smiling your way and doing a very dramatic “ah” once the glass is emptied. You scoff, taking the glass from his hands and turning around to refill it with purified water for yourself.

It’s then that you start becoming distracted.

Matt takes a step forward, his hips pushing into yours, hands wrapping around your torso and his chin resting on your shoulder, engulfing you in his warmth as you had predicted. Although you welcomed his body against yours, your breath still hitches for a second, all of your senses taking in every part of him. You pause, mind now focused on the way Matt’s heartbeats feel against your back, and the way the bulge in his briefs feels against the top of your ass.

“Weren’t you doing something?” He jokes, the low vibration of his voice next to your ear startling you back into action. That and the tone he takes when he mocks you.

“Stop.” You murmur, ears hot with the embarrassment of being caught. “You know how easily I get distracted.” You take a sip of the now full glass of water, happy for your throat to get some liquid. Your burning skin cools from the touch of the water along your fingers and your throat. You take your hand, chilled from the glass, and press it to your cheeks, ignoring Matt’s cocky chuckle.

You and Matt stay like that for a minute, his large body wrapped around yours like a koala. He asks you to feed him a strawberry, and you squirt whipped cream onto the fruit before directing it back towards his mouth. Matt bites into it and his lips wrap around the ends of your fingers. The act itself was almost innocent and passed off as accidental, but once he swallows, he sucks, swirling his now empty tongue around the edge of your digits, cleaning the strawberry juice and whipped cream off.

You take your hand away from his mouth, placing the green bit of the strawberry onto the counter and cringing at your violated fingers. “You’re so gross.” You exclaim, turning your head to look at Matt’s perky face.

He looks boyish like this; messy hair, content expression on his face, unshaven scruff along his jawline, his brown unfocused eyes shining with the obnoxious light of the billboard outside of his window.

The sight of your lover is euphoric, filling you to the brim with joy and of course, the other sinful feelings that came with being near Matthew.

“And your work is less than adequate,” You start, now on a mission working towards a goal. Your eyes fall to your violated fingers, looking at the small bit of whipped cream and strawberry juice that Matt’s tongue had not reached.

“You missed a spot.”

“Did I?”

“Mhm.” You could’ve easily rinsed your fingers off, the sink was directly in front of you, but instead you pop your finger into your mouth, cleaning off the bit Matthew missed as you watch him listen. His jaw clenches and you can feel his muscles flexing where they still hold you, joined by a growing hardening at the top of your bum.

When you’re done, your mouth is free for Matthew to assault. His lips replace where your fingers had been, the taste of strawberries faint on him as his lips move in time with yours. He unwraps his arms from around your torso to grip your hips, forcing you to turn around to face him completely, your chest trapped between your bodies, pressed against his own harder one.

He places his hands against the counter, caging you in and keeping you from leaving. Not like you wanted to anyway.

Matthew kisses you vehemently, his body pushing you into the counter a bit too forcibly. The edges of the counter digs into your back and the heavy grip of Matt’s fingers dig into your hips. Both pinch your skin painfully. But you don’t hate it.

Your lover pulls away from your lips to allow the intake of air to enter your lungs, his lips instead moving to your neck where he peppers kisses the way down to your collarbone. “I could smell you from the bedroom earlier.” He mumbles. His fingers grip and nip at the skin of your hips and your butt, moving down to your thighs where his right hand comes to the front between your bodies, the left staying possessively on your hip.

“That’s what woke me. Not your strawberries.” He explains as he pushes your panties to the side.

Matthew runs a long stripe up the center of your core, gathering slick on his pointer and middle finger. You watch as he brings his fingers up between the both of you, taking a large inhale and sighing as your scent floods his olfactory senses, his unfocused eyes closing as he does so. Then, he takes his pointer finger into his mouth, cleaning the digit like he did yours a few minutes ago.

The middle finger, though, he leaves for you, pushing it past your lips while he reminds you that sharing is the right thing to do.

The taste is bitter on your tongue, but you have to admit that the smell was addicting and a bit intoxicating. But it was impossible for you to adore it in the way Matthew did.

He adores it so much he drops to his knees, sliding your panties down with him. He forces your legs as far apart as they can go within the confines of your underwear around your ankles. It would’ve taken less than a second for you to step out of them but Matthew is so desperate that he can’t wait for even a millisecond more.

As soon as his head is between your thighs, you feel the wet from his tongue on you, licking in the same path his fingers had led. His nose nudges your clit as he does so and you whimper, your hands flying to grip Matthew’s slightly too long strands.

Without any hesitation Matthew begins devouring you. He uses his hands on the side of your thighs to keep himself balanced, and his shoulders to keep you from closing your legs around his head, possibly suffocating him which he finds he would not mind that much. What better way to go?

You hadn’t felt Matt’s tongue in a longer extension of time than what is usual for the two of you, and you blame the lack of familiarity and the newer position for the way your stomach turns so fast. One of your hands is still tugging on Matthew’s hair, taking deep groans from him that vibrate against your pussy, and the other is gripping the edge of the counter in search of any stability.

Your head is thrown back, neck greeting the ceiling as soft moans, pleas and cries leave your strawberry flavored lips. You can vaguely realize Matt has taken his hands off the edge of your thighs, but you don’t fully notice until two fingers push into you and a calloused palm is rubbing against your stomach, leading up towards your chest.

Matt takes his head from your cunt to look up towards you, his thumb starting to rub at your clit while the fingers pump into you. He’s the one who looks fucked out even though you’re the one breathing heavily with your walls contracting on their own accord around Matthew’s fingers.

“You have no idea how good you taste.” He breathes, tongue darting out to lick his lips. It’s then that you notice the glistening along his chin and before he can go back in for more, you bring your hand from Matt’s strands to the side of his face, using your gentle hold on his cheek to guide him to your mouth. You meet him halfway, pushing your lips against his eagerly, desperate with a new found objective to taste yourself from his mouth.

Matt complies easily, allowing your tongue to enter his wet cavern. You hum into the kiss, delighted by the sweetness of your lovers mouth and the bitterness from your own essence.

When you finally allow yourself to part from Matt, you contradict his statement in a whisper placed close to his mouth.

Matt curses under his breath and he hesitates, every so slightly chasing your lips, to which you don’t give him the satisfaction of finding, the corner of your lips quirked up in a patronizing smirk.

Knowing that he wouldn’t get what he wanted, Matt dives back in, now moving more fervently than before. He’s murmuring into your cunt, either to you or it itself you can’t really decide and you don’t care to. His words are slurred together but you can make out chants of gonna make you come need you to come for me need to taste when you cum on my tongue.

“So good, Matt. You feel so good, doing so well.” You manage to praise him even though your tongue feels like it’s tied into knots. Your hips begin grinding against Matt’s mouth and for a split second, you try to decide against the movement.

But before you can stop your ministrations, one of Matt’s hands reach around and his fingers sink into your bum. He guides you through the movement, encouraging you to continue grinding against his tongue.

It’s all a lot, his fingers pumping curling and twisting inside of you, his tongue suckling along your labia and clit, his palm––now estranged from your bum as you continued moving on your own––now slapping the perked buds of your nipples, the slight burning scrape of his barely-there beard on your inner thighs, all mixing together to bring a hot feeling in a general area along your pelvis, causing you to clench around Matt’s fingers and your muscles to seize.

Matt notices your contracting muscles, recognizing it as your telltale sign of reaching the edge and he leads you there until you’re moaning above him, high and pitchy, your heartbeat crescendoing as you spill around his tongue, giving him just what he wanted.

He coaxes you down, the slapping on your breast now turning into a gentle massage, his fingers slowing to a soft thrust and his mouth kissing on and around your centre.

He’s still mumbling into your cunt, words now soft as he talks you down (“that’s it you’re so good to me”).

When Matt stands to his feet, he doesn’t bring your panties back with him and you know you’re not done. Not yet.

“Can I feel you, sweetheart? I wanna feel you.” He asks, his tone pleading as if you would ever deny him.

You push his hair out of his face and kiss his nose, then his lips, before assuring him. “Of course you can.”

He grins and meets your lips for another kiss before he’s gently turning you around to face the counter, and then not so gently pulling your hips out to him.

He’s quick to pull his cock out of his briefs, guiding it between your lips and teasing you for just a second. You don’t have to complain for him to not tease, though, because you know how needy he’s feeling and he wouldn’t be able to hold out for much longer.

And Matthew once again proves you right when he then lines himself up and bottoms out with a single thrust, sinking himself into you easily.

He groans, his forehead coming to lean on the tip of your spine as he tries to give you a second to adjust. But you can feel him twitch, can feel the way his fingertips dig into the flesh of your hips, gripping the skin as he struggles against the urge to move. Luckily, you’re fine and you let him know by pulling your hips forward as best as you can in the tiny space (which makes it practically impossible for you to move forward so you’re more so going upward than anything) and sinking back down onto him.

Matt takes the bait happily and he begins thrusting into you at a steady, moderate pace. He’s panting behind you already, so wound up just from tasting your pussy, which you tell him.

“You sound so pretty, Matty. You’re so wound up just from tasting me, yeah? So needy. You love this pussy, don’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question, you both know that in the same way you both know the answer is yes. But he still answers like the good boy he is.

“Fuck––yes, I do. You know I do.” He stutters a bit, as do his hips when he feels you clench around him.

“Then show me how much. Show me how much you love it.”

Matthew easily obliges. He pauses for a second but only to pull your hips out further and force the bottom half of your belly over the counter, pushing down onto your mid back, wordlessly instructing you to arch.

He then fucks into you harder, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the apartment. With each thrust, Matt’s balls slap against your clit, providing just enough stimulation to reintroduce that tight feeling in your gut. You push your hips back to meet him, forcing your ass up further into the air so that you can get more contact with Matt’s balls. He catches on to what you’re doing when you rise to the balls of your feet and push your chest down until your head is practically in the sink.

Matt chuckles lowly, his thrusts not faltering as he rubs his thumb along your skin softly, contrasting the harsh snap of his hips.

“Aw,” He coos. “You’re so pathetic, sweetheart. So desperate for any sort of relief, huh?” He’s leaned down over your back now, lips moving at the shell of your ear as the words directly reach your ears from his mouth.

You mewl, head leaning back to make contact with the top of his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll give you what you want.”

His palm is rough against your soft skin, trailing from your hip to your womb where he gives a gentle push down, causing you to briefly feel the drag of his cock inside you, a sensation that has your eyebrows pushing together and a particularly low groan leaving your lips. Matt only laughs a bit, abandoning the move and going back to his original path which leads directly to your clit which still has not completely recovered from your boyfriend's mouth.

It only takes a few circular rubs until you’re coming unexpectedly, your body going limp against the counter, Matt holding you steady with his forearm.

You’re babbling swears with Matt’s name blended in between them as you reach your peak and then struggle to come down from it. It’s hard to do so with Matt still unrelentlessly fucking into you, chasing his own peak determinedly. You can’t do much to help him since you’re so fucked out yourself, but you do your best by clenching around his cock, pushing yourself (and Matt since he’s still leaning over you) off of the counter enough to slip a hand down, blindly searching for Matt’s balls. It’s hard to fondle them with his hips snapping into yours, but you do your best which proves to be enough when Matt’s hips stutter and he cums into you with a low cry.

It takes both of you a second to recover but Matt, with the better stamina, does first. He pulls out, a spill of cum following him and streaming out onto the floor.

“Well shit,” You murmur, looking down at the mess made on the floor and between your thighs.

“Fucking you against the counter seemed like a good idea at the time before I realized that we would have to clean it up.”

“We?” You ask playfully. “It’s your mess.”

You slip out of Matt’s arms in the seconds that he’s momentarily shocked, giggling all the way to the bathroom as you hear him complain about you making the “blind guy clean it up”.

When you come back out, inner thighs wiped clean and a fresh pair of panties covering your bum, you see Matt grumbling as he throws away a dirty paper towel, the sight humoring you as you go back to bed, waiting for your lover to join.

A short while later and sleep is pulling at your limbs, seducing you to join its grasps like a lover, your own lover urging you to do the same with his arm wrapped around you.

But just as your eyes close for the last time and you feel your body relax in the way that you can’t stop it from doing, your vision going dark and mind blank, Matthew says, “You forgot about the strawberries. Which was your mess.” He kisses your shoulder teasingly.

“They’re waiting for you on the counter where you left them, by the way.”

「bites and 'I love you's」 Art Donaldson x F!reader

you can read the other parts here!

━━━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━━━

Art loves to bite you. 

It's something you found out pretty quickly in your relationship, but no matter how many times it happens it still surprises you. 

The first time it happened you were dating for 2 weeks, you were laying on his bed, belly down while reading a book to entertain yourself until Art's arrival from practice.

When the door opened you were too immersed in your book to notice and Art closed the door quietly behind him after stepping in the room, the tennis sack dropped on the floor next to the desk as he walked towards you on the bed. 

He sat down and you finally noticed his presence "hey baby how was pract- OW" you yelped as his teeth sank on your shoulder, not in a painful way but the surprise was still there. 

"What the hell was that for Art?!" you laughed and turned your head around to look at him, Art still sat on the edge with his arms resting on your sides.

"I'm sorry you just looked so bitable" he said and kissed the spot where the bite mark is, Art wrapped his right arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him and rested his head on your shoulder, a devious glint in his eyes as with the free hand he closed the book in your hands. 

You turned around on your back "how was practice?" you repeated and kissed his lips to greet him.

He returned your kiss and smiled gently, moving to lay down next to you. He was clearly tired, practice went long today, and laying down on the bed next to you, wrapping both arms around you to pull you close to him seemed to relax him enough to finally close his eyes "I'm tired and I stink" he said softly, burying his face against the crook of your neck.

"I can tell" he pinched your waist at that and you whined "keep your teeth and fingers away from me!". 

He laughed softly with that, shifting and laying fully on top of you. His head on your chest, his right hand moving up and under your shirt, resting against the skin of your side while the fingers of his other hand traced little patterns on your stomach "but you're so fun to bite and pinch" he teased, lightly biting your chest, just above your breast.

"no, no I have to go, I planned a dinner with Tashi tonight" you pushed him off of you until he is kneeled between your legs.

"Nooo, c'mon, can't you cancel your plans and stay with me for a bit? I wanna spend some time with you before I go shower" he whined and grabbed your arms, trying to pull you against him again.

"I can't, I haven't seen Tashi outside a tennis camp for what it feels like years". 

"Now you're overreacting, maybe a few weeks". 

"Exactly almost years" he laughed and pulled again your arms to make you sit in front of him. 

"Can't you spend an hour or two with me before seeing her?" he asked and you looked at the clock and sighed. 

"I really can't, but I can come here after dinner and sleep here tonight" you proposed with an encouraging smile on the lips making him hum thoughtfully, clearly not fully satisfied with that proposal, but the offer for you to stay the night was enough of a win for him.

"Promise you're coming later? And not going back to your dorm" he mumbled against your neck before he suddenly but very lightly bit your earlobe.

"pinky promise" you kissed his lips once more before standing up "but I expect you to be clean and scented when I come back, or you'll sleep on the floor" he laughed, sitting up properly on the bed.

"Of course baby, I'll shower and be all clean for you" he said with a smile on his lips "now go, get out of here before I change my mind" he teased, smacking your ass lightly.

you laughed "see you later, bye!".

"have fun baby". 

Another time it happened you were trying on some clothes in your dorm room, Art sat on the edge of your bed while looking at you in the dress you just bought, it was beautiful, you were beautiful, "what do you think?" you asked twirling around in front of him.

"you look stunning baby" his arms and legs opened for you to get between them, his hands immediately went to rest on your hips while his gaze moved over your body, taking in the way the dress hugged your curves and accentuated all the right places.

"you could wear this to meet my parents" he mumbled with a smirk on his lips, his eyes met yours.

You laughed at that "yes, if I want them to look forward to you breaking up me" he looked at you confused and you simply turned around to make him look at the back better. 

He hummed "yeah, definitely too short for that" he pulled the fabric as down as possible "but you look amazing".

He moved his hands up and down your legs, admiring the view from behind while the dress rode up, going up your thighs until most of your legs were exposed, you smiled "thank you baby, but I could wear this for a date" you looked at the mirror, too focused on thinking for something to pair it with. 

"love the idea".

"I could pair this with the black heel- ART" you felt a sting on your left butt cheek and you quickly left his arms, your hand going to cover the sore spot, he laughed when your turned to look at him, face shocked.  

"it looks way too good in that dress, I couldn't help myself" he said in between laughs.

"Stop biting me Donaldson! I mean it" you said but there isn't real bite in your tone.

He stood up to walk towards you "what? Maybe you simply should stop looking so pretty" he teased you.

Your hand in front of you stopped him "no, no stay back you're scaring me" you said between laughters "you're sleeping on the floor tonight" he grabbed your hand swiftly and bit your wrist as softly as possible. Then, he made you turn around, back pressed against his chest and arms wrapped around your waist, his eyes looking at yours in the mirror. 

"Will you let me sleep with you again if I promise not to bite you while you sleep?" he asked and you pouted a bit, pretending to think about his offer for a moment before nodding reluctantly.

"I guess so, as long as you keep your promise to not attack me at night like some feral animal" you said with a fake pout.

He huffed and mumbled a small 'fine' against your neck and you patted his biciep around your waist "now, let me try the other two dresse- ART!" he smiled sheepishly after releasing your shoulder "you never said anything about not biting you outside the bed" he winked. 

"Art. Don't be ridiculous. I said 'I love you first'" 

The two of you are laying in your new bed, naked skin pressed together as the early evening sunlight streams in through the gap in the curtains. The air around you feels warm, the room is filled with the sound of light-hearted bickering.

"and I told you it's not true, I did!" he exclaims and you pull away from his arms to turn and look him in the eyes. The sheets around you ruffles at your movements and Art gets more comfortable against the mattress, the sheets are covering his lower parts of him and leaving his chest naked, one hand on his stomach while the other is still under your head, his fingers lazily playing with your hair as he lays on his back now.

"why are you lying? it was our four months anniversary and I told you I loved you during the picnic at the beach!" he just shakes his head, his eyes stared lovingly at you. 

"that was the first time you said it to me, I told you waaaay before that" you raise your eyebrows in disbelief, a mix of irritation and curiosity in your expression.

"Okay, fine. If you're so sure you told me first, then when exactly did you say it? Surely you can remember the circumstances of such a monumental moment" you shoot back.

He ignores the irritation in your voice and begins to talk "we were in my dorm room, you were reading a book in my bed and I had just returned from my training... you looked so beautiful and I couldn't help it, we were together for two weeks" you frown and lift your bust to rest on your elbows, eyes looking at the wall in front of you like it can help you remember that moment.

"Wait, I think I remember that day" you say, your eyes still fixed on the wall in a thoughtful gaze "I do remember that I was in your bed, reading a book and that you had just gotten back from practice... but I don't remember you saying anything"

"well, technically I didn't say it... I bit you" you blink at him.

 "you bit me" he nodded proudly. 

"how was I even supposed to understand that was an 'I love you'?!" you are flabbergasted. 

"I do it all the time!".

 "yes but it doesn't mean 'I love you'" you laugh incredulous. 

"for me it does!"

"for normal people it doesn't!" you can't believe what he is saying. He seriously thinks that biting equals an "I love you".

"Okay, hold on. So, you're telling me that every time you bite me, you're actually telling me that you love me? I thought you're just being playful..."

He shakes his head, a smirk playing on his lips. He clearly thinks that it's a reasonable assumption "when I first wanted to tell you... I felt like it was too soon and I didn't want to scare you away so I sticked to bites" he explains. 

You can't help but roll your eyes at his logic. It's silly but also kind of sweet. 

"So instead of just telling me you love me like a normal person, you thought resorting to biting me was a more reasonable approach?" you ask, trying not to laugh but failing miserably. He looks at you obviously proud of himself and you shake your head in disbelief at that, god how you love him. 

You hide your head in his neck, arms wrapped around him and his around you, his naked skin against yours comforting. You can feel his heartbeat close to your ear, steady and strong. He sighs contentedly and rests his chin on the top of your head, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your back.

Suddenly, he feels your teeth sinking softly in his neck before nibbling it over and over again, his smile grew wider and his heart exploded of joy. 

His lips moves closer to your ear, his breath warm against your skin as he whispers softly in it...

 "I love you too". 

Art loves to love you. 

━━━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━━━

Do not copy or repost.

Leg Day

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Female Powerlifter!Reader

Summary: You first catch Art Donaldson's eye in the university gym when all you want to do is hit back and biceps before class, the tennis player finds himself quite caught in your physique.

Warnings: foul language, smut, oral (f receiving), Art eats pussy and likes your thighs a whole lot. Reader is described as muscular. One line describes reader as not looking like Tashi in terms of physique.

Word Count: 1k

Author's note: Forcing myself to get back into writing at the same time im forcing myself to get back to the gym :') take this lil ficlet as a sign of my love for those who still follow me on here lmaoo.

Art adored your thighs. 

You didn’t look like Tashi. Not that there was anything wrong with that in his mind, of course. But the physiques differed greatly. The star tennis player of Stanford had a lean build from her years of training and perfecting her sport. Long legs that covered the court in smooth strides and toned arms that delivered a vicious backhand. 

The same body he and Patrick had nearly shared that one fateful night in a dingey hotel room when they should have been sleeping before their match in the morning. The same body he had found his gaze lingering on a touch too long to be appropriate for his best friend's girlfriend. 

And the same body you called him out for drooling over in the campus gym when all you wanted to do was a simple arm workout before your 10 am. 

“So are you actually going to use the bench or are you just gonna sit on it and stare at her like a fucking creep for another twenty minutes?” 

You were not Tashi Duncan. 

Strong arms crossed over one another as you waited for him to either say something or move, neither of which his brain could comprehend as you stood before him expectantly. A powerful, if not a tad intimidating physique supported by thick, muscular quads built from years of lifting heavy in sweat-filled weight rooms since you were a little girl that grew tired of soccer. 

Then cheer. 

Then volleyball. 

The gymnastics. 

Powerlifting was the one sport that finally stuck. 

“It makes me feel strong.” You had explained your love for the sport to him one night. With his head laying in your lap, the textbook he had carried with him to your dorm under the excuse of needing help studying now laid discarded on your floor as he listened to your story. “Seeing how much I can lift, how it feels to finally make a weight you’ve been struggling with for so long. It feels like you’re proving something, you know? Especially when you’re one of the only girls in the weight room.” 

Art could feel the testament to your craft under him. The thick corded muscle of your quads beneath his head as your fingers carded through his hair absentmindedly. Legs that were hugged by every pair of shorts you wore or hidden beneath the same pair of Stanford sweatpants whenever you felt a chill in the air. He found himself dreading the coming of winter as the two of you began to spend more time together. 

He wasn’t sure when the admiration began to shift into something deeper, slowly turning from one athlete showing respect for another’s commitment to their sport into a hormonal college freshman staring at your ass in spandex shorts each time he bumped into you at the campus gym. 

What he did know was that the night he finally found himself between your legs was one he would never forget. How quickly the pair of you shed your clothes in one anothers embrace, turning your room into nothing more than a collection of discarded study packets and kicked off Stanford merch telling the story that Art would no doubt replay in his mind for the entirety of winter break. 

The soft smile on your face as he crawled on top of you, pressing fervent kisses to every inch of your body that you would allow him access. How he memorized each microscopic reaction, that a kiss to your neck would make you giggle but turn into a shuddering gasp if he dug his teeth into the skin. How you softened in his arms when he ran his tongue along the scar lining your hip, one he would have to ask you about someday. 

But dear God, he could write poetry about your legs. 

The feeling of them wrapping around his head while he lapped at your cunt with tentative kitten licks that soon turned into devouring you with a desperation that could no doubt be heard through the walls. Your muscles twitching and trembling from his touch as you cried out his name with an arched back and scrambling hands, desperately trying to reach him until you found purchase in his soft curls, gripping just tight enough to verge on being painful. His own moans mixing with yours, poor bastard getting so lost in giving you pleasure he didn't even realize when he began to grind his hips into your mattress, desperately searching for a release while helping you reach your own. 

To hear your voice pitch into an airy whine as your thighs tightened around his head. Tighter and tighter as he pushed you over the edge of your orgasm, hips twitching against his mouth still working away against your dripping cunt in a way that verged on being gluttonous until you pulled him away with a sharp tug on his hair. 

In the aftermath, a silence settled over the two of you like a soft blanket. Spit-slicked lips laid feather-light kisses against the still twitching muscles of your thighs, pressing against the blooming bite marks that he knew would just barely peek out from the cuff of your shorts you wore during your morning training sessions. A minuscule stake of claim that he had no business branding you with given that he was too chickenshit to take you out on a real date. 

Had you opened your eyes, you’d see that his were already trained on you with a softness you weren’t yet ready to see. Admiring the rise and fall of your chest with a faint smile on his face and the desire to take you out properly. To scrounge up enough money from his bank account after the room & board payments bleed him dry to some small burger shop or maybe the local theater to see you outside of the walls of your dorm or the university gym, wearing something nice and laughing at his jokes before kissing him goodnight. To sit in the stands of his next match as his girlfriend and congratulate him on his win with an overly obnoxious kiss that he would swear was humiliating but made him preen under your praise like a peacock during mating season. To do all of the downright nauseatingly romantic bullshit every nineteen year old boy wanted to do with the girl he was too afraid to actually make a move on. 

But not yet. 

“Have you ever considered wrestling? You’ve got a killer leg lock.”

THEOPHAGY a challengers fanfic.

chapter one

↳ table of contents • one • two • three •,…

— in which the relentless pursuit of victory entangles rivals and friends alike in a complex web of obsession, love and self discovery.

an: who knew i could make tennis this dramatic. anyway, rebloggs are very much appreciated <3 please let me know what you think and feel free to send asks about theophagy, eve, challengers, whatever you want 🤍 enjoy.

ps: i’m thinking about creating a tag list for theophagy, so let me know if you’d be interested in that.

2004

Tashi Duncan was a name that echoed through the world of tennis with a reverence that bordered on awe. A prodigy from a young age, she had an almost supernatural grace on the court, a fluidity of movement that left spectators spellbound and opponents in despair. Winning had become a second nature to her; it was not just an expectation but a foregone conclusion. Tashi's journey through the ranks was meteoric, and by the age of just fifteen, she had secured her place as a future legend of the sport.

Her confidence was as unshakable as her skill. She approached each match with a calm certainty, her powerful serves and precise volleys dismantling any challenge that came her way. Tashi Duncan was, simply put, the best.

But then came Eve Anh.

Eve was a name Tashi had not encountered before, a new entrant into the upper echelons of tennis who had taken the circuit by storm. There were whispers about her in the locker rooms, murmurs of an almost feral intensity, a predatory focus that left her opponents rattled. Tashi paid little attention to the rumours; she had faced countless challengers and emerged victorious every time. Eve, she thought, would be no different.

The day of their match arrived with an electric tension in the air. The stadium was packed, the audience eager to witness the clash of titans. Tashi stepped onto the court with her usual confidence, her eyes scanning the crowd before settling on her opponent. Eve stood at the other end, her expression inscrutable, her eyes locked onto Tashi with a piercing intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

The match began and Tashi quickly realised that Eve was no ordinary opponent. She moved with a ferocity and precision that was terrifying, each stroke of her racket a slash of claws, each serve a piercing bite. Tashi struggled to keep up, her usual grace and power faltering under the relentless onslaught. It was as if Eve was not just playing to win, but to consume.

Point by point, Eve tore through Tashi’s defences, ripping apart her composure and confidence. Tashi felt as though she was being dismembered, piece by piece, her pride and skill devoured with every brutal volley. Each time she looked at Eve, she saw a hunger that went beyond the desire to win; it was a ravenous, insatiable need to dominate, to consume everything Tashi had ever been.

Eve's gaze was like a shark's, cold and unfeeling, and Tashi felt herself being drawn into those depths, drowning in her own fear and helplessness. She was no longer the lioness; she was the prey, caught in the jaws of a predator far more formidable than any she had faced before. Eve's dominance was total, her victory a feast, and Tashi felt every bite, every tear as her spirit was shredded.

When the final point was scored and the match ended, Tashi stood on the court, feeling eviscerated. Eve approached, her expression unreadable, but the gleam in her eyes spoke of a hunger momentarily sated. Tashi extended a trembling hand, feeling the cold grip of her conqueror, and in that moment, she knew she had been devoured.

Eve had not just defeated her; she had consumed her, leaving Tashi a hollow shell of the champion she once was. The court was her hunting ground, and Tashi had been her feast. As she walked away, Tashi could still feel the gnawing teeth, the relentless hunger of Eve, and she knew she would never be the same. She had been devoured, body and soul, by a predator unlike any she had ever faced.

Eve was a figure of mystery and intensity, her presence on the tennis court nothing short of mesmerising. Her journey in tennis had been one of relentless pursuit, a hunger that drove her to devour her competition with a ferocity that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. For Eve, tennis was not just a sport; it was a lifeline, an essential part of her existence as crucial as the air she breathed.

From a young age, Eve had discovered that she possessed a talent for the game, a natural ability that set her apart from her peers. But it was not just her skill that defined her; it was the insatiable hunger that burned within her, a need to dominate and conquer that transcended mere competition. Tennis was her battleground, and every match was a hunt, every opponent a potential feast for her unrelenting appetite.

Eve's rise through the ranks of tennis was marked by a series of brutal, decisive victories. She had a keen eye for talent, seeking out the best players with a predatory instinct. She latched onto them, drawn to their strength and skill like a moth to a flame. These players became her prey, their prowess on the court the sustenance she craved. She thrived on the challenge they presented, their resistance fueling her drive to overpower them.

But this hunger came at a cost. Eve was acutely aware of the the merciless nature of her pursuit. She knew that her approach to the game was not just about winning; it was about consuming her opponents, drawing from their strength until there was nothing left. She fed on their fear, their desperation, their struggle to keep up with her relentless assault. And when they began to falter, when their strength waned and they could no longer provide the challenge she needed, she would leave them behind, moving on to her next target.

This cycle of predation left a trail of broken players in her wake, each one a testament to her ruthless efficiency. Eve felt a pang of guilt every time she moved on, a fleeting acknowledgment of the destruction she left behind. She knew it was terrible, this parasitic drive that defined her. But the hunger was too strong, too deeply embedded in her soul. It was who she was, and she couldn't change that, no matter how much she might want to.

Off the court, Eve was a solitary figure, her intense focus on the game leaving little room for personal connections. She kept to herself, her interactions with others marked by a certain detachment. It was as if she feared that letting anyone get too close would expose the voracious hunger that drove her, the dark need that she barely contained.

Despite her inner turmoil, there was a part of Eve that reveled in her power, in the fear and respect she commanded. She saw herself as a necessary force in the world of tennis, a crucible through which the strongest players must pass. Yet, there was also a part of her that longed for something more, a connection that went beyond the superficial ties of competition.

Her encounter with Tashi Duncan had been different. Tashi had been a formidable opponent, her strength and skill a tantalising challenge that Eve had relished. The match had been a feast, every point a morsel of satisfaction for her ravenous appetite. But in Tashi, Eve had also seen a reflection of her own struggles, a kindred spirit battling her own demons. The connection they shared on the court was electric, a blend of rivalry and respect that left a lasting impression on Eve.

After that fateful match, Tashi Duncan's world was irrevocably altered. The court, once her kingdom, now felt like a graveyard of her shattered pride. The days that followed were a haze of restless nights and distracted days. Tashi couldn't escape the haunting presence of Eve; she was everywhere and nowhere, a spectre that invaded her every thought.

Tashi's obsession with Eve grew, an insidious vine wrapping around her mind, squeezing tighter with each passing day. She replayed their match in her head endlessly, dissecting every movement, every stroke, every glance. She scrutinised Eve’s form, trying to uncover some secret, some flaw she had missed. But each analysis only deepened her sense of awe and dread. Eve was flawless, a predator who had revealed Tashi’s own vulnerabilities in the most visceral way possible.

She began by studying Eve's matches with an intensity bordering on obsession, dissecting every move, every habit, searching for some clue, some insight into the mind of her conqueror. And it didn't take long for Tashi to uncover the quirks and rituals that defined Eve's presence on the court.

The soft hum that Eve emitted between points became a haunting melody in Tashi's mind, a constant refrain that echoed through her thoughts even when she wasn't watching. She found herself humming along, trying to decipher the meaning behind the ever-changing tunes, wondering what secrets they held.

Eve's unique way of bouncing the tennis ball before serving became a mesmerising spectacle for Tashi, a hypnotic dance that seemed to defy the laws of physics. She watched in awe as Eve spun and twirled the ball with effortless grace, each variation a testament to her skill and creativity. Tashi found herself mimicking the motions in her own practice sessions, hoping to capture even a fraction of Eve's magic.

And then there were the water bottles, meticulously arranged in a precise pattern on the sidelines. Tashi watched as Eve lined them up with obsessive precision, marvelling at the dedication and focus it must take to perform such a seemingly mundane task. She wondered about the significance of the ritual, the hidden meaning behind the carefully arranged bottles.

Her own training took on a frantic, almost manic quality. She pushed herself harder than ever before, driven by a desperate need to reclaim what had been taken from her. She studied Eve’s techniques, mimicked her strategies, and adapted her own style in a bid to become stronger, faster, better. Yet, no matter how hard she trained, the image of Eve standing over her, victorious and unassailable, remained seared into her mind.

In Eve, Tashi saw more than just a formidable opponent; she saw a divine force, a manifestation of power and grace beyond mortal comprehension. Eve's dominance on the court was not just skill; it was a revelation, a glimpse into a higher plane of existence where victory and defeat were mere illusions.

Tashi's fixation consumed her personal life as well. She withdrew from friends and family, her world narrowing to a singular focus: Eve. Conversations were tinged with an undercurrent of Eve’s name, her presence a ghostly thread woven into the fabric of Tashi’s existence. Her relationships strained and faltered, unable to compete with the all-encompassing spectre of her infatuation.

Time Of Our Lives || Part 1

Part 1:

When they were kids, Liana and Art didn't like each other. To be more precise, they couldn't stand each other. They were born in the same month, and because their parents were such good friends, they always celebrated their birthdays together. Since Art was born two weeks after her and his grandmother firmly believed that one should not celebrate in advance, Liana never celebrated her birthday on its actual date, and that was a good enough reason to hate Art Donaldson forever.

When they were 7 years old (or more precisely, he was seven, and she was seven and two weeks), Art received his first tennis racket, and Liana got a small skateboard with a Pokémon design. He cried. Of course, he cried; everything Liana had, Art wanted too. He didn't know how to share anything, and eventually, Liana was forced to let him use her skateboard whenever they met, which unfortunately was at least once a week.

"You don't even know how to ride it," she tried to instill some logic into the blonde boy. "Do you?" he asked curiously. "Not yet, but I'll learn, duh," she rolled her eyes at him. "Then I'll learn too," he shrugged and went to wash his face, returning a few minutes later as if nothing had happened.

Only those who knew Art well understood what Liana knew - he was a crybaby who was never satisfied with what he already had. His friends passed around the racket he received as if it were a chocolate cake while he continued to glance at Liana, who was trying to balance on the skateboard and nearly fell.

At the age of 12, Art was accepted into the fancy tennis boarding school he couldn't stop talking about to anyone who would listen (even those who wouldn't), and Liana was the first to arrive at the party held in his honor. She was so excited. As far as she was concerned, Art wouldn't be coming back. There was a high chance that now, with him gone, she could convince his parents that it wasn't worth maintaining him at home. He was too much of a headache, and they were too good-hearted to keep enduring his presence.

Instead of that happening, he came back with a curly-haired addition named Patrick Zweig. They shared a room at the boarding school, and now he spent half the summer with them. Every time Liana wanted to do something like go to the pool with her friends, her parents would say that the Donaldsons had a pool at their house. Every time she wanted to lie on the grass and read a book, the two noisy boys would decide to play right in front of her, until she gave up on the book and had no choice but to stare at them. It was a pity her plan didn't work, sadly Art didn't stay at his stupid boarding school forever.

By the age of 17, it was clear to everyone that Art was good at tennis. Really good at tennis. He won youth singles competitions and also did well in doubles with Patrick. Her parents forced her to attend quite a few of these tournaments.

"Li, I think you're my lucky charm," he said in front of everyone at dinner after one of the tournaments, smiling a smile that only Liana knew was malicious. Everyone melted at the touching gesture of the ultimate champion taking time for the girl he grew up with, but Liana knew Art too well. He couldn't fool her with his feigned niceness, his suddenly acquired manners. She knew him too well and knew that everything he did was always about embarrassing her and making her do something she didn't want to do. "So, are you suggesting I stop coming to your games?" she asked, taking a bite of chicken, throwing a smile of her own. Two could play this game. "You're going to be at most of my games for the rest of our lives anyway," he shrugged while Liana raised an eyebrow, and the adults around the table laughed as if they knew something Liana and Art didn't. Later, Liana sat on a chair by the pool, and Art sat next to her. She looked at him with the same expression as before, and he raised one hand in surrender. "I come with peace offerings," he pulled out a cake and two spoons from behind his back. Her raised eyebrow turned into suspicion. "What do you want?" she reached for one of the spoons. "I missed you, Li. Tell me something good," he took a bite of the cake and in response got another eye roll that made him lightly slap her hand as it reached for the cake. "You're not getting any until I hear at least one interesting story," he moved the cake as far from her as he could. "I'll just go in and get a piece for myself," she replied quickly. "There’s no more. I took the last one," he took another bite, knowing she was starting to worry about how much cake would be left for her if he finally agreed to let her have some. "I started working on my applications to Stanford," she said, and he moved the cake closer to her, finally letting her eat.

"How's it going?" he asked. They both knew Stanford was a big deal; their families had history there. Art's parents got engaged there. Everything in their lives revolved around getting into Stanford. "I'll be fine. I'm in all the extracurriculars at school, student council, and prom committees. My essay is a bit boring, needs more work, but I have a year, so maybe something will change," she shrugged and saw he hadn't eaten the last bite of the cake, leaving it for her.

"Write about your best friend and what it's like growing up in the shadow of the best tennis player in America," he said with a serious tone, and after a few seconds, he started laughing. "Write about how you miss me," he added. His laughter faded a bit as he studied her, and she went back to looking at the pool. "If I decide to lie in my university application essay, I'd rather write that I got into a modeling agency and live a double life like Hannah Montana," she replied without looking at him. "You're mean," he chuckled and stared at the pool, enjoying the silence between them.

When they went inside, Liana saw there was still half a cake left, and Art, noticing her look, just shrugged and went to talk to her dad about basketball. A year later, things got a bit complicated. Liana had a boyfriend. It wasn’t anything too serious, but he came to her and Art’s joint birthday party. Needless to say, Art and Patrick couldn’t stand him. Patrick said he smiled too much, like he wanted everyone to like him. "How can you trust a guy with a smile like that?" he asked for the third time that evening, as they stood there watching Liana talk to her parents with Jake holding her hand. "All his teeth are in place," Art responded. He felt betrayed. He felt as if tennis had betrayed him. If it weren’t for tennis and the boarding school, he would still be going to the same school Liana went to. He wouldn’t take his eyes off her, certainly not for long enough for her to have a boyfriend with a smile like that. "Do you think they’ve fucked?" Patrick asked suddenly, making Art turn his head sharply in his direction. "You think they did?" he asked back. "I don’t know. You know her better. I only talk to her on the phone occasionally," Patrick shrugged. "You talk to her on the phone???" Art asked, unable to process this new information. In his view, there wasn’t an option to talk to Liana unless she came to watch him play or their parents arranged for them to meet. The thought that Patrick and Liana had phone talks and didn’t just meet in the summer made him uncomfortable.

"Yeah, that’s what phones are for, to call people you miss," Patrick chuckled, but quickly returned to the same expression as he watched Liana and the quick kiss her annoying boyfriend gave her. "In front of her dad," they said together. Art knew her dad well. He knew that gesture wasn’t appreciated. "What do you talk to her about on the phone?" He was a bit embarrassed asking. He felt like he was losing to everyone. Losing to Liana, losing to Jake, and worst of all, losing to Patrick. "Just stuff. She called when she got accepted to Stanford, for example. I promised her I’d take her out for ice cream this summer to celebrate. And she said she stole a bottle of wine from her parents and celebrated with her friends," Patrick felt like he was rambling. He knew Liana and Art didn’t talk on the phone. He didn’t want to compete with his best friend because, well, he was his best friend. But Art had a significant advantage with Liana. He’d known her all his life. And if someone with such an advantage wasn’t making the most of it, Patrick had to step in. He had to show Art he was also in the picture. That even if they both went to Stanford, Patrick would still be around.

What none of them considered was that Liana could choose someone else entirely. That someone else might win. Come to think of it, neither of them even saw her that way. She was just Liana, the girl who was always there, in the background of their lives. And neither of them planned to change that anytime soon. Well, anyway, Jake had to disappear.

here it is. Once again, English is not my first language, and it's my first time writing in it. Hope you like it as much as I love writing it. I'd really like to hear your thoughts so don't stop yourselves from hitting the ask box ❤️

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

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

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

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

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

-

Good luck.

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

You’ll buy dinner if I win?

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

Yes, but if you lose…

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

I’ll feed you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The red looks good on you.”

“Perhaps I should transfer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Losing on tour,” Art corrects.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure Art wo-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

“What do they say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

“It was creepy!”

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

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

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

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

“Art,” you try again.

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe we should change that.”

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

-

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

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

“I don’t know, I just don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop staring Art.”

“Am not.”

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

“Am not.”

“Go to sleep Art.”

-

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“I read.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

“We should do-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just good at reading the room.”

-

12 years later

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

college art donaldson !!!

maybe something about him , tashi , reader , and patrick all being in a friend group at while in college. maybe patrick comes down to visit tashi and suggest an idea where they drive down to the beach and rent a beach house for a few days or something. while they’re there tashi and patrick start arguing leaving reader and patrick alone.

change whatever if u need to but js anything with college art , please !!

so i took a million years and definitely wrote too much but. finally. FINALLY. thank you sm for this request, i hope you like it :)

☆

beach trip

pairing: art donaldson (challengers, 2024) / afab reader [gender not specified]

word count: 3.9K

warnings & info: 18+, afab reader, NOT beta read lol (but nothing of mine ever is), college era art my love, friends to lovers, art and reader swim in their underwear lol, reader wears a bra, reader likes swimming, first time together, oral sex (reader receiving), p in v sex, safe sex (condom moment), art is a munch

summary: A group beach weekend sounded great- until Tashi and Patrick spent the whole drive bickering and the whole first night moments from pouncing on each other. Looks like you and Art will have to keep each other company.

☆

“Don’t let him scare you, he’s shit at board games. And card games. Just like he’s shit at tennis.”

You just blinked, eyes darting to Patrick to see how he’d react to Tashi’s dig. The nervous laugh to your left let you know Art was just as unsure as you were.

When Patrick had come to visit Tashi and suggested all four of you take a trip to a rental beach house, you knew being in close quarters with the both of them for a full 3 days would be interesting, at the least. You weren’t about to pass up on the beach trip, though- not when Patrick was covering the rent.

What you didn’t know was that they would be argue-flirting the entire way there, and every moment since you’d all arrived. It made sense, though- between Tashi rooming with you, Patrick not having a room since he wasn’t a Stanford student, and his long stretches between visits, they hadn’t had any time alone in a little over 2 months.

Their flirting was always a little angry- little jabs and remarks that would have made you wince if you were the target. For them, it just made the other’s eyes linger on their partner's lips for a little too long.

Patrick licked his lips before he responded. “Do you ever talk about anything else?” He asked, a lazy half smile on his face.

Tashi’s comeback was almost immediate: “Not like you give me anything else to talk about.” She leaned back on her hands, eyes raking over him from top to bottom.

Patrick seemed to enjoy the scrutiny. He leaned forward, that lazy smirk changing into a playful grin. “Yeah? I got something I could give you right now.”

Alright. That was your sign to go.

When you turned to Art, brows raised, he was already looking at you. You glanced from him to the door and back. You knew Patrick and Tashi would be on each other any second now, whether you two left or not, and you really didn’t want to get caught up in it.

Art nodded.

Your “I think I’m gonna call it a night” and Art’s “Uh, me too” fell on deaf ears as you two scrambled out of the room. Art had barely shut the door behind himself before you could hear those two pounce on each other, the board game you’d been playing definitely scattered and forgotten.

It made you snicker, like a middle school boy. One glance at Art and he was laughing too, a hand over his mouth, his red stanford baseball cap the only thing keeping his hair from falling into his eyes as he shook.

More noises from the room- a crash, then the dull thud of something falling to the carpet. You winced through your grin, then made your way down the hall toward the front porch, beckoning Art to follow you.

Outside, you placed your arms on the railing, leaning entirely on the rickety wood. In the cool night air, you couldn’t hear your roommate and her boyfriend getting it on like animals. You didn’t blame them, even if the angry flirting style wasn’t for you. If you had a partner who was always away, you knew you’d jump on them the moment they were in sight.

You glanced over as Art joined you, mimicking your posture. You knew there was a point, early freshman year, when he’d liked Tashi. It was hard to ignore how his smile dropped when he’d watch Patrick and Tashi reunite, thinking no one was watching. And you always recognized how lost he looked when he stared at her while the three of you had lunch- after all, you looked at him the same way.

Recently, though- over the year and a half you’d known the three of them- he was easing up on it. His smiles lingered long after he thought everyone had looked away. He didn’t even notice when Tashi walked into the cafeteria until you waved her down to sit with you guys. And now, next to you, he was grinning at their antics instead of grimacing.

He seemed to be over it. If only you could be so lucky.

“Like… animals,” Art said, glancing over at you. You were caught so off guard, you didn’t even remember to pretend you hadn’t been staring.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” You laughed, grinning. “They definitely needed that. Did you hear them in the back of the car on the way down here?”

Art groaned. “Oh my god, I thought they were gonna go at it right there.” He brought his voice an octave higher, lifting his chin in an imitation of Tashi that could’ve also passed for royalty- what was the difference, really. “‘You eat like shit. No wonder you play the same.’”

Immediately, you dropped your voice, giving him a coy side smirk and raising one eyebrow. “‘I’ll tell you what I’d rather eat.’”

The two of you doubled over, howling in laughter. Then, another crash from inside. Escaping them was going to be harder than you thought.

“You wanna head down to the water?” Art asked.

“Sure,” you said, smiling wide when he gave you a mock bow and let you lead the way.

The roar of the waves was comforting as you got closer, sand covering your bare feet- neither of you remembered to grab shoes- and the salty air filling your nose. The walk was silent, and the few minutes you spent standing at the edge of the ocean was, too. You watched it reach out toward you, then retreat back into the glittering blue-black. At some point, you closed your eyes.

“I’ve never swam in the ocean.”

Your eyes snapped open. Art was still looking out at the water, head tilted like an inquisitive puppy. The wind fought to ruffle the few curls that peaked out from under his hat. “Never?” You asked.

Art shook his head. “We didn’t really go when I was a kid, and I was way too scared, anyway. Then when I went with friends it was more about beach volleyball and drinking than actually swimming.” He looked over at you, then laughed. “I’m guessing from your face right now, you must love swimming in the ocean.”

You closed your mouth, which you hadn’t realized had fallen open, and shook your head. “Do I?” His incredulous head shake made you smile. A beat of silence. “Are you still scared of it?”

He took a moment to answer, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then he shrugged. “I don’t know. Not too scared to try, I guess.”

“Alright, wanna try?”

Art just tilted his head at you. You gestured toward your clothes, then the ocean, then to him. You could see it in his face when he caught on. “I’m not going in alone.”

You only took a second to think about it before you were tugging your t-shirt off and tossing it on the sand between you two. Your shorts came soon after. You already had one foot in the water when Art called your name, laughing so hard he could barely say it.

You shrieked at the cold as it hit your stomach, then sunk down to your shoulders, getting the shock over with all together. When you turned back toward the sand, you saw a shirtless Art running toward you in his boxers, moonlight tracing his chest and shoulders. He still had that fucking hat on. It made you grin.

He didn’t shriek when he hit the water, but he did take a lengthy inhale. You watched as he held his nose, screwed his eyes shut, and dunked himself up to his head. His hat bobbed just above the surface, and you picked it up and put it on yourself.

When he came back up, he shook his head, wet hair sending droplets flying. Art grinned, wiping water from his eyes and pointing at the hat on your head. “Thief.”

You rolled your eyes. “Next time I’ll just let it float away then, idiot.” It only made him grin harder. You waved your arms back and forth through the water, the cold easier to ignore when you moved. “So?”

“Hm?”

“Still scared?”

Again, he thought about it for a moment. “No, actually. I think I’m okay.”

You hummed, bringing a finger to your chin in mock deep thought. “What if there are sharks? I think you should be scared of sharks, probably.”

“Nah.” Art shook his head. “The sharks should be afraid of me. I’m the scariest thing here.” He lifted his arms out of the water to flex comically, chin lifted in comical pride.

You laughed, splashing him, making him yelp. “Okay, sure, macho man.”

“What, don’t believe me?”

You shrugged, a smirk tugging at your lips.

Before you knew it, Art had his arms around your middle, lifting you and dunking you in the water back first, like a baptism. You had all of two seconds to scream, then shut your eyes and mouth. He let you up immediately, wading away from you and toward the sand as you resurfaced, spluttering.

“Donaldson!” you shouted, though your serious tone was undermined by your beaming face. Somehow, his hat stayed on your head.

He’d gotten a little ways away from you, but you still had the advantage- you swam in the ocean every chance you got.

You surged toward him, biting back a cackle as his eyes widened in fear. You grabbed his shoulders, pushing off him and shoving him under the waves. He stayed under for a second- then two, then three, until you vaguely started to worry- before jumping out in front of you, wrapping his arms around your torso and making you all but scream.

“Holy shit!” You were giggling, wrapping your arms around Art’s neck for stability. “Isn’t it fun in here? You’ve been missing out.”

He didn’t respond for a moment, so you met his eyes. You hadn’t realized how close you were. It seemed like the realization was hitting him, too, as his eyes scanned your face. He glanced from your eyes to your lips and back. Despite the breeze and the water, your skin was suddenly very warm. You could feel every point where his body touched yours.

You knew what was happening- you could sense it. At least, you were pretty sure you knew. It’s the only thing that could come next, right?

… Maybe you were reading it wrong.

You hesitated. Then, suddenly, “God, it’s cold,” and you kicked off of him to dunk yourself in the water one more time, resurfacing a couple steps away and wading onto shore. When you looked back at him, you could almost convince yourself that the same disappointment that filled your chest was written on his face. “Come on!” You called cheerfully, and Art started after you, replacing the look with an amused smile.

You both put your clothes back on, if only to shield yourselves from some of the breeze on the short walk back. You were both silent as you neared the house, as you walked down the halls. Neither of you even remarked on how Tashi and Patrick had finally gone silent. When Art got to his door and stopped, though, you turned to him.

“Goodnight,” you said, willing your voice to sound less defeated than you felt. Your hands fiddled with the hem of your soaked shirt.

Art nodded. That look was back in his eyes, the one that looked just how you felt. “Goodnight.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The shower was much needed and very welcomed. You took your time getting sand off of you as best as you could, working the water into your hair (you’d wash it tomorrow- you weren’t going through that whole workout this late). When you stepped out of the hot water, toweling yourself off, your eyes caught on the red Stanford baseball cap on the sink counter. You bit your lip and walked past it, into the connecting bedroom you were calling yours for the weekend.

Pajamas on, you sat at the edge of your bed, scrunching your hair mostly dry with a spare t-shirt you’d packed just for that. The crash of the ocean enveloped you through the open window.

You thought about it. About his arms around you and his chest against yours. About the way he’d looked at you and you’d known exactly what he was going to do. About his face when you’d second guessed yourself and ran away.

Fuck. Why did you run away?

When you got up and walked to the door, you grabbed the hat from the bathroom counter. You told yourself you were only going to return it, but something in the back of your mind laughed at your excuse.

You had just gotten to the door, lifting a hesitant hand to knock, when it swung open and you were met with a flushed, freshly showered, boxers-and-t-shirt clad Art Donaldson.

The two of you stared for a moment. You didn’t see the disappointment in his eyes anymore, but there was still something there. You were sure it was on your face, too.

You cleared your throat. “Hat,” you said, intelligently.

Art glanced at the hat in your slightly raised hand, then nodded. His eyes came back up to meet yours, then darted down to your lips. He opened his mouth and hesitated. “Do you wanna-”

You pushed forward, pressing your lips to his for just a moment, before pulling back, searching his eyes. He didn’t give you too long to think about what you’d just done, his hands flying to your waist, pulling you back toward him and kissing you again. Hard.

Art yanked you into the room, and you dropped the hat, the door shutting as he pushed you up against it. His hands found their way under your sleep shirt, settling on your bare waist, and one of yours cupped his cheek while the other thread through his hair. You tugged gently at the curls, and he sighed your name into your mouth.

You pulled back just long enough to murmur, “Bed?”

He obliged, grabbing your hand to lead you to the corner bed. His rental room was similar to yours, save for a warm, dull bedside lamp on, barely illuminating the room.

You both crawled onto the bed on your knees, leaning forward to pick up where you’d left. Art’s hands played with the hem of your shirt and you helped him lift it off of you. His shirt went next. He cupped your breasts tentatively, thumbs brushing over your nipples, his face watching yours like he wanted to see if he was doing this right. You pulled him back in for another kiss and bit his lip. He groaned.

“Lay back,” he murmured against your mouth.

You did as told, scooting up the bed and falling into his pillows. They smelled mostly of the air freshener the owner of the beach house had doused it with, but the vague hint of Art’s cologne permeated the room.

He kissed you again, holding himself up over you. He placed kisses down your neck, your shoulders, your collarbone. As one of his hands came to rest between your legs, pressing against you between your pants and underwear, he placed his mouth on one of your nipples. He bit at it gently, sucking immediately to make up for the hurt and moving his hand against you. Your breath stuttered and grew heavy, lips parting, as he moved to your other nipple.

Art pressed a kiss to your stomach next, trailing lower, eyes closed. You watched as he murmured against your skin, “You don’t know how fucking long I’ve wanted this.”

“Yeah?” ‘Sex with me or eating me out specifically?’ you wanted to ask. Instead, you bit your lip and watched him hook his fingers into the waistband of your pants and underwear, pulling them down together and tossing them on the floor. He pressed alternating kisses to each of your thighs, inching closer and closer. You could barely hear your voice when you asked, “Why didn’t you do anything?”

A shiver ran through you, partially from the vulnerability and cool air, partially from the way Art was looking at you- reverent. Devout. “I couldn’t imagine I’d be lucky enough.”

You wanted to say something back- something clever and sweet to let him know just how easily he could have had you- but his mouth was on you in less than a second, and all that you could do was let out an odd cross between a huff and a whine.

His tongue pressed flat against you- eager, almost desperate, like you were an oasis in the desert. His nose bumped your clit as he bobbed his head, switching between long strokes and focusing on sucking your clit. “Shit,” you whispered, your hand threading through his hair. He fell into a rhythm, the consistent vulgar noises of his mouth against you filling the room alongside your gasps and whines.

When his tongue pushed into you, your eyes screwed shut. “Fuck, Art,” you said, barely gripping his hair and faintly hoping that it wasn’t painful for him. He only whined at his name, a desperate noise, and pushed his face impossibly deeper. “I’ll- I’ll come if you keep-” You cut yourself off with a groan.

Art pulled back just enough to say, “I want you to. Please, let me taste it.” Immediately, his mouth was back on you, like he couldn’t keep himself away for long. You would’ve playfully chided him for being so filthy had you not been busy gripping his hair and letting curses fly.

You let your head fall back, hips rolling on their own accord, and he only adapted and let you ride his face and bring yourself to the edge. You came with a loud cry, thighs pressing in on his head, back lifting just slightly off the bed. Art didn’t back off as your high subsided, continuing until you’d come down and were laying there, panting.

You pushed yourself up to a sitting position, then pulled Art back up onto the bed. His eyes were glossy, much like the majority of his face, covered in you and his own spit. You put your hands on his cheeks, ignoring the sticky feeling and pulling him in for a rough kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue.

One of your hands wandered, trailing down his chest and coming to rest at the front of his boxers, palming him. He groaned.

“I wanna fuck you,” you said, pulling away to look him in the eye.

Art huffed a laugh. “You can’t say that to me. I’m not gonna last at all.”

That caught you off guard, and you laughed. “What?”

He shrugged coyly, almost smug as if his cheeks weren’t still flushed and glistening from his time spent between your legs. “I’m, like, halfway there already.”

Just from eating you out and a little petting? That was… surprisingly hot.

You told him as much, relishing in how deeply he flushed and how widely he grinned. You made him lie back on the bed. “Condoms?” You asked.

He nodded toward his bedside, to the backpack leaning against the nightstand. You raised an eyebrow at him before leaning off the bed to grab one. All he offered you was a shy smile.

You kissed his chest, making your way down to his waistband, and he watched, propped up on his elbows, like he was sure if he took his eyes off you you’d disappear. When you pulled down his boxers and tossed them aside, you wasted no time ripping the condom wrapper open and rolling it on.

Getting up on your knees, you hovered over him and lined your hips up with his. You gave him a quick glance. “This okay?”

He nodded, eagerly, and you could’ve broken at the sight. You sank onto him, gasping slightly at the sensation. Art watched your face, open mouthed, eyes never leaving yours. You almost wanted to look away, but the intensity was riveting.

With him now fully in you, you gave yourself a moment to adjust, hands settling on his chest as he gripped your thighs. You gave your hips an experimental push forward.

Art let out a groan that sounded somewhat like “Fuck” and “Ugh” put together. You repeated the motion, your mouth opening softly as you watched his eyes flutter open and shut. It was like he was struggling between giving into the feeling and watching you.

You increased your pace, head falling forward as you lifted your hips with each push. Art’s hands moved to grip your ass, eyes focused on you, little pants and whimpers escaping him as you moved. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured. You would’ve responded in kind, but he bucked his hips moments after and your head fell back with a moan.

With your hands now supporting you from behind, gripping the sheets, you rolled your hips with each lift. Art let out a particularly pathetic whine, and you grinned through your heavy breathing, gazing at him with heavily lidded eyes. “Close?” He nodded, his expression so desperate that you were sure he was right on the edge. You could feel yourself right behind him. “Cum for me then,” you panted.

Art groaned, one hand moving to press sloppy circles against your clit. You forced yourself to keep your eyes open, wanting to see his face as his orgasm hit him. His eyebrows were furrowed, lips parted as he panted and he whimpered. When his orgasm came, his eyes shut and he cried out, gripping you tightly and continuing to rub your clit, hips bucking into you involuntarily. You were only a second behind, “Fuck, Art!” the only thing you could say before your hips stuttered and your second orgasm washed over you.

Slowly, you came to a stop, panting and barely keeping yourself up. Your head was light, and you couldn’t wipe an exhausted smile off your face. When you finally felt like your arms wouldn’t give out, you lifted yourself off of him, collapsing on the bed between him and the wall, catching your breath.

Art removed the condom, tying it off and throwing it in the trash before turning to face you. His breathing was much more regular, but his chest still heaved. “...Fuck,” he said.

And you laughed, one arm over your eyes, the other clutching your stomach. “Yeah?”

He was grinning at you when your arm moved off your eyes, then leaning in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your collar bone, your cheek. “Yeah,” he murmured. Silence fell over you both as you watched him intertwine your fingers and stare at them. His lip twitched, like he was working up the courage to say something. “I meant it, you know. I wanted this- you- I’ve liked you for… a while.”

You hummed, now suddenly also very interested in your intertwined fingers. “‘Liked,’ past tense? All done now?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, dumb-ass.” You smacked his arm, glancing up to find him looking at you now. “Like. Still. And probably will for a while.”

You felt your face warm. You kissed him. “I like you, too. Still do. Will for a while, etcetera.”

“Thank fucking god,” he said, and you couldn’t help but snort a laugh. When Art kissed you again, you could feel his smile against your lips, and you were sure he could feel yours.

nothing in the world belongs to me |carmen berzatto x reader|

prompt: still new in your relationship, you show up to the bear for dinner unexpectedly, surprising carmen and the others.

based off this prompt from the other day :)

contains: fluff lol. really, it's just fluff. established-ish relationship (the others don't know). carmen being a little nervous and possessive but mainly cute <3 language.

“Alright, listen up,” Richie stood next to Sydney, flicking through the piles of tickets that were ringing through by the second. It was normal now, an expected task in their routine. “We need to walk the focaccia to table seven, please.” 

“Yes, Chef!” A chorus of nearly robotic voices rose from the sizzling hiss of the lamb searing in Carmen’s pan, lifting the spatula to tip the meat over, before giving it back to the chef on the line. 

“And for table nine, we’ve got a shellfish allergy, alright? So let’s triple check the cross contamination on that. T, can you handle that one?” Richie moved from his leather bound book of notes back to the ticket. 

“Yes, Chef!” Tina chimed, pulling a freshly washed pan, filling it with the veal stock. 

“Table nine, is that- that’s the senator?” Carmen turned to Richie, tasting the roux bubbling on Victoria’s station, giving her a curt nod of approval. 

“No, that’s table eleven.” Richie hummed, looking back at his notebook. “Nine, is… a birthday. Booked online.” Carmen had already begun to drone him out, mind racing with a million other things as Richie listed the guests name. Until he got to one. 

The name Carmen was sure he was hallucinating. The name no one knew- How would they know? How could they possibly know your name? 

You and Carmen had been seeing each other for a little while. A few weeks that were slowly turning into months. A casual thing that was slowly turning more serious. Dates and meetups are becoming more frequent. You’d even invited him over to your place a few times, he’d spent the night last week. 

Still, Carmen hadn’t managed to tell anyone. Selfishly, he liked that you were all his for now. Privacy was not guaranteed in the Berzatto house, in Carmen’s life still. He knew they meant well, they always did- he knew it wasn’t purposeful, the intrusion that almost always led to a demise. Carmen wasn’t ready for it, not yet, he still wanted you all to himself. 

“Carmen?” Sydney’s voice pulled him out of his panicked trance. “Chef, are you- are you good?” Her voice lilted with that familiar suspicious quip, the one always accompanied with her lifted brows. 

“What?” Carmen blinked, hands buzzing, heart thumping. He could see the window, Richie’s frame blocking most of it. “Sorry, yeah- yeah, I’m good, Chef.” 

Sydney watched him carefully, a slow nod before she continued calling out orders. Carmen could feel Richie’s eyes on him, narrowed with curiosity. Carmen tried to be nonchalant, crossing the kitchen back towards Tina, his eyes cutting carefully, looking out the window. 

There you were. 

Sitting pretty at the middle table, surrounded by friends, some Carmen recognized from your Instagram. He’d actually logged in to the app, looked you up after the first date, consumed every photo of yours in the dark of his room. Cheeks burning with excited heat, stomach fluttering in a way he hadn’t felt since junior high. 

“Alright, walk five salads to nine.” Sydney called out. “Where’s our runners? God, Richie, can you run-” 

“-I got it.” Carmen called, the urgency in his tone making Tina jump behind him. Carmen took the tray before Gary could, his hands shaking as he lifted it. 

“Cousin, I can get it.” Richie frowned. 

“No, I-I got it.” Carmen nodded, swallowing down his fluttering nerves. His eyes cut to your table through the window, heart skipping when he saw you. “I got it. I’ll be- I’ll just be a second.” 

“I don’t- I can’t even handle that one right now.” Sydney sighed in exasperation. “Alright, Chefs. Let’s get back on track.” She announced, shaking her head. Richie frowned, pulling out his phone. 

Sugar’s cell buzzed against the hostess stand, excusing herself to check it. 

From: Richie 

‘Look at table nine.’ 

Sugar huffed. 

To: Richie 

‘Why? Is there something wrong?’ 

She stepped back, casually turning to scan the room, eyes landing on the table. A small group of girls, younger, and amongst them- Carmen? 

To: Richie 

‘Is something wrong with the food? Do I need to comp it?’ 

From: Richie 

‘No. Cousin wanted to go out there.’ 

Sugar frowned, angling her body behind the large plant near the front as casually as she could. She watched through the leaves as Carmen passed out the salads, each girl grinning widely, but their eyes always cut to one on the end. 

Carmen saved your salad for last, hoping the lowlights of the restaurant would hide his boyish blush, setting the bowl in front of you carefully. “Hey,” 

“Hi,” You smiled sheepishly, looking to meet his gaze. “Everything looks so good.” 

“Yeah? Thanks.” Carmen nodded. “I-I didn’t know you were comin’ tonight.” 

“I’m sorry.” You cringed softly, embarrassed heat flooding through your veins. You knew better, knew you shouldn’t have done this- showed up at his restaurant unannounced. 

“I, uh, it’s my friend’s birthday.” You nodded towards Alicia at the end of the table. “And I was telling them about that pasta you made me, and they really wanted to come try it.” Your nerves bubbled, rambling in nervous peals that seemed to pour out before you could stop them.  

“Yeah, no, that’s really nice. Thank you.” Carmen nodded, giving a half smile to your friends, hoping they didn’t see the way he wiped his clammy hands on his apron. “Why didn’t- Why didn’t you just call me? Tell me you were comin’ in.” 

“I didn’t want to bother you.” You muttered softly. “I honestly didn’t think you’d even see us here, I swear. I didn’t mean to bother you or anything-” 

“-You’re not bothering me.” Carmen’s voice dropped to a coo, accompanied with a soft smile that had your head spinning. “Never a bother, but, uh, next time? Bother me, ok? Wanna make sure you get the best seat in the house.” 

Your cheeks flushed with heat, your friends excited giggles only intensifying the rushing heat blanketing over your body. Carmen’s own cheeks heated, tongue rolling on the inside of his cheek to hide his grin. 

“Alright?” Carmen added, and in a complete act of shocking boldness, his hand squeezed your shoulder affectionately. A small gesture on the outside, but for Carmen, it was huge. 

“Alright.” You grinned, leaning into his touch, your hands sliding over his. 

“How’s everything so far?” Carmen turned to the table, nodding at the excited gushes of compliments, not missing the way your friends cut their eyes to you with animated glee. 

“Just let me know if you need anything, ok?” Carmen turned to you.

“I will.” You nodded, starry eyed with love sick affection. 

“Good. I’ll see you before you leave, alright?” Carmen muttered, ducking down towards you. His lips brushed over your cheek, your perfume clouding his senses. “You’re not botherin’ me. ‘M glad you’re here.” 

Your cheek pressed to his, a gentle, affectionate rub before Carmen parted. Both of your features painted with shy delight. 

Carmen could feel everyone’s eyes, through flickering gazes and lifted brows. Sydney’s gaze lingering over him skeptically, still counting tickets. Fak’s wide grin from the corner, loading trays to take out. 

“Hey, uh, Marcus.” Carmen ignored Richie’s raised brows, a teasing, questioning remark on the tip of his tongue. 

“Yes, Chef?” Marcus muttered, looking up from the cannolis he was garnishing. 

“Table nine has a birthday. I was thinkin’ maybe the chocolate ganache, punch it with the little circle to make it look like a cake. Add a candle?” Carmen muttered, hand rubbing across his face. 

“Yeah, Chef, I can do that.” Marcus nodded. 

“Thank you.” Carmen nodded. “And Chef? Let me know when it’s ready before you walk it.” 

Marcus frowned. “No, it’s not- I just wanna walk it, ok?” Carmen shook his head. 

“Alright.” Marcus nodded slowly. “Heard, Chef.” 

Richie smirked, leaning against the stainless steel table. “So,” Richie hummed. “There a complaint or somethin’? Need me to go talk to ‘em-” 

“-No,” Carmen snapped, the possessiveness in his tone startling the both of them. “Sorry, it’s- No, I-I don’t need you to do that, Chef. Everything’s good.” 

Richie nodded slowly, passing the dishes to Gary with a nod. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” 

“No, Chef.” Carmen clipped, an edge to his tone that was teetering on annoyed. “But, uh, there’s not gonna be a check on table nine.” 

“What?” Richie frowned. “Did you mess somethin’ up? Seriously, Cousin, if something's wrong it’s my job to know-” 

“-No, it’s not-.” Carmen huffed, eyes pinching closed, running a hand over his face in frustration. “Look, that’s… The girl on the end? I-I’ve been kinda seein’ her, ya know?” He muttered. 

Richie gawked, blinking in disbelief. “No shit.” He grinned. “No shit? You-You’re serious?” He turned to look out the window. 

“Don’t fuckin’ look.” Carmen hissed. “Look, it-it’s not a big deal, alright? Just don’t-don’t say anything o-or do anything.” 

Richie swallowed back a teasing remark, a reactive reaction from years of being with Mikey. How the two of them used to tease Carmen endlessly, until they were fighting on the front lawn, Mikey howling with laughter while Carmen was red faced with mortified anger. 

This time, Richie held back. He wasn’t sure why, call it divine intervention, a gut feeling maybe, but it felt different this time. 

“Alright.” Richie nodded slowly. “No ticket for nine. Heard.” 

Carmen’s foot tapped anxiously. “I mean, right? Th-That’s what I should do right?” Carmen looked over his shoulder out the window. “That would be shitty to give her a check? Be a complete jagoff move to charge her?” 

“Yeah,” Richie scoffed lightly. “Jagoff of the fuckin’ year. Makin’ your girl pay to come to your place.” 

Carmen’s heart swelled at the term- your girl. His girl. You were his girl. 

“Walk four Pappardelle to nine. Walk one Pappardelle vegetarian style to nine.” Sydney called. 

Carmen dipped the spoon in the glaze, garnishing the plate before sliding it towards Sydney. “So, you gonna take these out?” He muttered. 

“No,” Carmen huffed. “Gonna wait until the cake.” 

“Yeah, good idea, Cousin.” Richie nodded with a proud smile. “That when you’re gonna tell them no check tonight?” 

“No,” Carmen shook his head. “I don’t- It would feel weird comin’ from me.” He looked up at Richie. “I was gonna let you do it.” 

“Yeah, I can handle that.” Richie smirked. “And I won’t say anything, Cousin.” He stopped Carmen before he could say it. “I got you, Cousin. I won’t fuck it up, alright?” 

Carmen nodded slowly, a strangled thank you on the tip of his tongue. The door swung open behind Richie, and for a second, Carmen caught a glimpse of you. Smiling and laughing, leaned in over the table, no doubt giggling with your friends about him. Carmen’s heart squeezed, but this time, without fear. No, there was no dooming fear that you were mocking him, making fun of him. This time, he felt the content rush of adrenaline filled love. A change in his routine, yes. Unexpected, sure, but he was glad for it. Glad that you were there- here, with him.

tonguing down peter parker

summary: ushy gushy mushy loser makeout

content/warnings: gn!reader, mdni, andrew!peter, fluff, suggestive content, excessive macking (very excessive)

notes: um uh um NEXT QUESTION

word count: 1k

masterlist

peter’s favorite thing at the moment was making out.

so much so that he would come home from fighting crime and whatnot to just swap saliva with you.

he had no idea why this was the only thing that could seem to motivate him, he just couldn’t seem to get enough of you.

currently, he was at your apartment and you were both watching some sitcom rerun from the nineties.

but alas, not much of the show was actually being watched and absorbed.

you weren’t touching besides your lips, and my god, was he good at kissing. he was licking into your mouth with such an intense fervor that you couldn’t help but scoot closer to him ever so slightly. one of your hands was on your leg, which was bent, while the other was making small movements over to peter’s hand.

the small smacking sounds from your lips seemed to be deafening over the sound of the television. every now and then, you could hear him exhale rather strongly whilst you felt it on your face.

he reached over and grabbed your knee, attempting to urge your leg to straddle his waist.

evidently needing to get closer to you, he pulled away after pressing one short kiss into your mouth before asking, “please?” he then leaned back in to continue his ministrations.

his voice was both shrill and hoarse. his kisses then migrated from your lips to your jawline, and he was quickly making his way down to your neck. the breaths that you made caught his attention and he let out a chuckle as you left open-mouthed marks against your warmed skin.

“what?” you replied breathlessly. “do you want me to-” you trailed off, much too embarrassed to finish your question.

“oh god, yes please,” his easy pulling on your leg pursued. when you pulled away, a thin string of spit connected your mouths.

you decided that you too, had not had enough and you put your pressure onto your other knee to hoist yourself up before slowly placing your legs on either side of his torso. the breathless chuckle he breathed out against your neck did not go unnoticed. you did not, however, settle your weight onto him just yet.

he slid his hands underneath the oversized shirt that you were wearing and tried to pull you downwards. because you were so much higher up than him, he had to pull away from the column of your throat.

he continued to try and get you to relax against him. you had become too distracted by the blown out look in his eyes, the ruffled nature of his hair.

he settled for situating his head underneath your t-shirt and mouthing more kisses against you stomach. small traces of saliva were left in his wake.

he was always careful enough to only suck marks that would be covered by your shirt (ever such the gentleman).

he hummed into your skin, laid down another kiss, and whispered another plea.

“c’mon.”

it was soft, gentle, but nonetheless convinced you.

you settled down onto his lap, and he pulled out from underneath your t-shirt. he began leaving languid kisses along your neck again. the feeling of his hands splayed across your back would’ve been overwhelming in another scenario, but they felt just perfect for the time being.

peter was encompassing you entirely, and you had no problem with the line blurring between you two. there was no telling where he began and you ended, and vice versa.

you huffed out a jagged sigh. this had motivated peter to make his way back to your lips, and this he did.

he left tentative kisses wherever he went. he was always like this, subdued and sensitive. though, he was by no means shy.

when you were alone, something unleashed from him. something that never seemed to never stopped craving you. his thirst for you never satiated.

he moved his hands from your back to your waist, and pulled you closer. you abided and scooted as close as was humanly possible to him.

your hands were on either side of his face, your thumbs on the part of his cheek closest to his ear. you could almost hear his heartbeat; you were sure that he could hear yours (he had told you the benefits of his spider senses once, but you had been, um, preoccupied).

he pulled away and smiled at you, turning to leave a kiss on your palm before leaning back in.

“you taste good,” he said after saying your name.

you responded after kissing him one short time, “yeah?”

he didn’t respond vocally this time, opting to only answer with “mhm,” which you could feel the vibrations of.

the lewd wet noises emitting from your mouths should have been embarrassing, neither of you paid any mind.

every so often you would exhale out of your nose, which you’re sure he could feel against his cheek. “quit holding your breath,” he would sometimes say.

your knees were digging into the couch, so you adjusted yourself to avoid any further pain. this resulted in something that was a mix of a groan and a whine from peter.

his lips were very soft, and the feeling of his tongue inside your mouth felt foreign, but commonplace. he was always so gentle, and this was demonstrated by the way that he was licking in short motions in your mouth.

this time, you were the one to part from him. you began leaving kisses from his cheek to a spot behind his ear. your efforts demonstrated to be successful, as the noises leaving peter’s mouth were nothing short of blissful.

eventually, he pulled your face away from his neck and guided it back to his own.

his hands had migrated to your back again, and yours to his. you thought that you might have felt him scratching into your skin, but you weren’t too sure. you’d be able to tell later in the mirror.

in the background, the tv had begun to play a commercial for some erectile dysfuntion drug. the irony of this was not lost on either of you. you disconnected and laughed hoarsely.

later you realized that you had hickeys that expanded across your belly.

renovation | ☆ミ p. parker

summary - y/n renovates the spare bedroom into something she thinks peter will love, but there’s something he loves even more.

genre - fem!reader x peter, fluff, domestic

warnings - kissing, can be read as any peter but i imagined tasm!peter :)

w.c - 800+

a/n - first marvel fic ever!!!! i hope yall like it. i was inspired by that one stardew valley scene- also i dont actually know alot about photogrpahy and darkrooms but hey you write and you learn.

You stood back from the second bedroom and sighed, a smile crossing your face as feelings of self-accomplishment and proudness rushed through you. The room was set up with two desks, bottles of processing fluids, papers, storage containers and string hung from one side of the room to the other.

Though it was a small room, your heart felt big when you looked at it. You originally scolded yourself for doing this, as Peter had insisted on the room being your office or library (he was getting tired of book stacks), but as your hard work ties in together in a picture of purpose, you mentally wipe the dust of your shoulders and hold up a trophy reading 'Best Girlfriend Ever'.

One last time, you checked to make sure the red lights worked and that everything was set in place, as Peter's nightly retirement from swinging through the city was approaching. The time that actually happened was varying night to night, but you hoped he caught you before you fell asleep and he discovered the darkroom himself.

You situated yourself on a stool facing the kitchen counter, which faced the door. An old tie was resting on the bench, as well as your phone which buzzed unanswered messages from coworkers and friends. The doorknob jiggled with the sounds of keys (he changed his ways of climbing through the window after you almost got doxxed) before the door opened. You stood, dressed in a sleeping shirt and some pyjama pants, and rushed to him. Avoiding his hello kiss unintentionally, you wrapped the tie around his head and giggled to yourself. Peter was adorned in loose jeans and a shirt with a physics joke you didnt understand, his hair messy from flying through the wind for the past four hours.

"What's going on?" His cheeks bunched in a smile, as he placed his bag down before reaching out to you blindly.

"I've got a surprise for you, your not allowed to look beforehand."

He smirked and let out a sigh, "Oh god you haven't tried to paint me again have you?"

"Nope. Something much better." You took his biceps in your hands, squeezing them in excitment and anxiety as you pulled him down the hallway.

Peter had an idea where you were going, but not why. The new-ish apartment was basically memorised by now, and by the time you stopped pulling him he assumed he was stood in front on the spare bedroom. It had been unfurnished for the six months you had been moved in there, and even if he insisted you made it your own personal space, you denied the idea immediately.

Next, he felt you fingertips brush against his cheeks and unwrap the tie from his eyes. The first thing he saw was your beaming face and your hand on the doorknob behind your back. All he wanted was to squeeze your face and place a million kisses on your face, but alas you looked too excited to even blink.

His eyes darted from your eyes to the floor under the door and unconsiously raised one eyebrow with curiosity. It was tinted red.

"Okay. Before we go in, there are things that definitly need to be added and arranged differently but that depends on how you like things. Seriously, like this is not going to be everything you need-"

Peter gently pushed you to the side and opened the doorknob, eyes still on yours, "I'm sure whatever's behind this door is-"

He was met with a darkroom. A room to accompany his imense love for photography, in his very own apartment. He didn't need to rent out a dark room anymore, or borrow time from someone else. It was right here. He could photograph to his heart's content.

The strings we are at his eye level, and they swayed slightly when he bent down to observe the whole room. It was hard at first to differentiate one object from another due to the red hue of the entire room, but nonetheless he loved it.

"Is perfect." He finished his sentence in shock.

His gaze spun to face you, your back to him as you closed the door. When you turned, your face was full of anxiety and expectance. His eyes raked your face, he ducked below a string and grabbed your face, smashing his lips to yours.

You squealed in surprise and giggled into his lips. He ripped away - hands not leaving your face - and he started rambling. "This is perfect, Y/n! Oh my gosh. This is like the best thing ever- I'm a little angry that you didn't use it for yourself- But still this is like..." His eyes swirled with adoration and love, and it almost made your legs turn into jelly.

A weight was lifted off your shoulders at his reassuring words. You let out a happy laugh, "You deserve it, I'm glad you love it."

He took one more look at the room with the biggest smile you've seen on him in a while, before turning his attention to you once again. "Oh, but I like you much more."

He kissed you hard, opening the door behind you and leading you to your bedroom.

taglist is open!!

i feel like art would have a babbling problem. like, he can’t stfu the closer he gets to cumming, so you have fun finding different ways to occupy his mouth while you suck him off or ride him. first instinct is sitting on his face or shoving your fingers in his mouth

// MDNI; art donaldson x reader

warnings; smut, oral (m receiving), praise, fluffy af ending, light dom/sub undertones, sub!art, art definitely has a praise kink i don’t make the rules 🫡

Art has always been loud— loud on the court, grunting and groaning as he plays, loud when he’s kissing you, breathy whines and gasps that you swallow greedily with your own mouth.

But most importantly, he’s loud in bed.

You always know when he’s about to cum; those corded thighs tighten around your head, back arching from the bed. His lips- rubied and swollen from your greedy mouth against his own- part around a moan, a drawn out whine, and an outright shout when your tongue laves across the tip of his weeping cock, drooling and flushed from your attention.

“Baby, baby, please,” he babbles. “Need it so bad. Gonna fuckin’ cum, please, baby.”

One of your manicured hands drags its way up his glistening chest, slick with sweat and littered with dark marks from your hungry teeth. He moans again, and you part his lips with a gentle thumb, pressing two digits flat against his tongue; he takes them greedily, suckling against the curve of your knuckles as you work him over with your other hand. You resist the urge to roll your eyes— always so obedient.

“Good boy,” you giggle. “Pretty baby.” He whines. You soothe him with a kiss to the tip of his cock.

His hips sporadically jerk as you seal your lips over him, sinking downward until the heavy length of him is settled snugly in your mouth. His chest stutters, a bare leg twining under your arm and round your waist until his heel presses into the base of your spine.

You know he’s cumming before he does.

His breath seizes, missing a beat. The muscles in his thighs tighten as he grinds further upwards into your warm mouth, and then he’s spilling into you with a sob.

His mouth is a wet throbbing around your knuckles, tips of your fingers still pressed to the dip of his tongue. You coast your thumb over the underside of his chin, pressing to the hollow of his throat— he preens under the attention.

“Shh, shh,” you coax. He bends at the waist, hooking a lithe hand under each of your armpits, and you’re dragged up and over his front until you’re nose to nose.

“Baby,” he sighs, nuzzling his cheek against your own. “Love you.”

“Love you too, pretty baby,” you coo. He’s almost limp underneath your weight, eyes half lidded and crinkling at the corners. “Can I have a kiss?”

He melts.

“You can have anything you want. C’mere.”

You need a subject for a photography submission, 'the face of sport'. Art offers one up- him. He doesn't know, however, the long-lasting effects one photo can have.

cw; consensual voyeurism, piv sex, f-receiving oral, masturbation, tennis...

Art Donaldson x fem!reader | The Rule of Thirds masterlist | talk to me!

An old tennis racket, two trophies, a signed ball, three pairs of worn shoes he couldn't bear to part with. Art Donaldson sifts through piles of memories with a smile on his face. Tashi would call it junk and insist Art gave up on what he does not use anymore if she knew it was here, hidden in boxes labelled ‘LINEN’ in the basement where the dust collects dust.

His old pair of lucky socks, an empty bottle of sunscreen, a drive-in ticket to Fast and The Furious, another old tennis racket, his last ever report card from school. Art has to take a moment to stretch his back out, being hunched over a box of old things doesn't work for long periods of time when your posture is everything. He isn't so sure what he's looking for under the dim light of a bulb that needs to be changed: a piece of himself, if he were ever that pensive.

A box of condoms with only one left inside, a toy race car he found on the side of the road after losing a match, three different lighters. The blond has a match the next day and a sore shoulder to boot- with a grimace, he pushes his hair out of his eyes. The basement feels cold and stale and Art doesn't quite know why he prefers being down here than lounging in the wide expanse of his multi-million dollar home. Tashi will be back soon and aching to go and train— maybe it's just a moment alone that Art is after.

Art throws an old neck pillow on the ground beside him and coughs at the dust it kicks up. He knows he should go back upstairs and forget about a life gone by, but when Art peers into what he thinks is a now-empty box, his eyes widen. A camera bag sits abandoned at the bottom of the box, a ribbon that was once tied around the handle lays discarded next to the bag, frayed at the edges.

Art Donaldson feels like an infidel, an apostate, as he reaches in and picks up the bag. It's smooth against his fingertips, the zip cold from its neglect, though the bag is in good condition in spite of a half decade's worth of dust and the constant use of it beforehand. It smells like something old and sweet, and Art feels perverted for even remembering a time of such struggle when his life now is so easy. The feeling makes his breath catch, and he holds the bag to his chest like it'll give him strength- the idolater that he is.

He's seen many cameras in his life, but the one inside is what he remembers most fondly, it's an old Canon with a scratched lens. Though Art is no religious man, this is an occasion that warrants a little extra faith and he thanks whoever listened for blessing his hands with the volition to dig into his past. Also in the bag is a set of printed polaroids held together with a worn elastic hair tie, though Art discards them for the moment in fear of recalling too much.

He takes the camera in both hands and turns it on, half expecting a dead battery symbol to greet his piqued attention, but instead, the screen lights up and he's looking at his spacious basement through a camera that's seen more than it should. He aims the camera into the box mislabelled 'LINEN' and snaps a photo of the white ribbon lying at the bottom. He smiles, presses a button on the camera, and waits as it loads the picture onto the display.

"Not too shabby," he hums to himself, though falls silent again when his finger hovers over the PREVIOUS button, and Art Donaldson falls victim to the sin of nostalgia.

He presses the button and is immediately assaulted with a flash into the past that burns a hole right through his stomach. There he stands, spry and grinning like an idiot with a lollipop stick between his teeth, his arms draped around Patrick Zweig, who is sticking up bunny ears on top of his head. They look happier than ever, bound by a friendship they had thought to be unbreakable. Art can't bear the sight, he presses the button again and feels nauseous.

It's the same scene, the same lollipop stick between his teeth, the same eye-slanting grin across his face. But rather than Patrick Zweig by his side, someone else hangs off his arm...

The door upstairs slams- Tashi's home. The basement ceiling shakes with the rattle of the door, and Art jumps when his wife, his wife, calls into the house for him.

"Art?"

He drops the camera, and the damned thing breaks as it hits the concrete flooring. His heart pounds in his chest as he scrambles for the shattered pieces, eyes glued on the now-dull display screen.

"Art, come on." Tashi's voice is loud enough for Art to catch as she walks through their first floor. "I want to get an hour in before we leave."

Art looks from the camera to the stairs, and then to the set of polaroids he had left unlooked at. And like a dog biting his own tail despite the pain of his own teeth, Art shoves the polaroids into his back pocket and straightens up.

“Coming, babe!”

SIX YEARS EARLIER

“If you hit my camera with that ball, I’ll never forgive you.”

Art grins, “What, you don’t trust my aim?”

You stand to the side of the court, eyes squinted in opposition to the sun as you watch Art Donaldson take a tennis racket from his bag and stretch out his shoulders. You don’t know him, not really, but you’ll vouch on any given day that the man has nice hands. 

You manage yourself as he pulls a tennis ball from his pocket and hits it against the floor a few times before catching it and looking up at you, hands on hips.

“So, I just hit the ball a few times?”

You nod, “and look good doing it.”

Art snorts out a peal of sweet laughter that has you grinning in response, though when you take your camera from its bag, you’re struck with an issue.

“Hey, can I put my camera bag with your things? I really don’t want to lose it.”

Art looks from you to the bag you hold, a black camera bag with a white ribbon tied dutifully around the handle, he nods and gestures over to his belongings that sit to the side of the court, but can't help his curiosity. "What's the ribbon for?"

"So I know it's mine, everyone in my photography class opted for the same bag," you shrug. "Plus, it's pretty."

Art lets out a hearty laugh and readies himself with a few more stretches as you situation yourself, checking settings and exposure and the such. He doesn't want to distract you, but the silence between you is heavy and awkward. He wishes desperately to fill it, but words of much grandiosity fail to find their way out of his mouth.

"So, you like photography?"

You giggle at his attempt and squint up at him. "You could say that. It's a bit of an entry-level requirement for being a photographer, you know... liking it."

He laughs again, leaning back on his heels to admire the care you take with the camera, fiddling with the settings. He doesn't know you, not really, but he'll vouch on any given day that you have nice hands.

Art's tennis coach is in the midst of a hot work-fling with a professor who happens to head the photography club. She had a student lost on a subject for the 'faces of sport' submission, and Art's coach put his name forward. And here you are, now one of many who have watched him through a camera lens. He had seen you around campus on occasion, taken note of you talking to a friend of a friend- he'd have introduced himself if Patrick wasn't always dragging him away for a drink or four.

Now though, sober and grounded in his element: the court, Art can't help but let his eyes train on you a moment too long. He wonders what you see through the camera lens- a tennis player or a peer?

"Ready?" You're looking up at him with an encouraging smile and he feels his cheeks burn under your gaze as you snap a picture of him as he stands unassumingly.

"I did not say I was ready," Art points an accusing finger at you, but replaces his butthurt tone with a smile and readies himself to hit a few balls. "But I am. Now, at least."

You laugh, and Art finds himself wanting to hear it every day for the rest of his natural life. He smiles at the sound, a toothy grin he'd usually only flash when drunk or ecstatic.

You take another picture, and one more when he frowns at your antics. "You said you were ready," you shrug.

Art serves a few times, getting into his element as you photograph him. The click of your camera becomes background noise as Art works with his mind's eye and body's memory, making precise adjustments and hitting perfectly every single time. He gets into a sweet rhythm, serve after serve as he hits the balls to an empty other half of the court. You watch his form through the camera, taking each shot as they present themselves to you. All he does is play tennis, yet you find yourself eyeing something breathtaking. He's beautiful, like a piece of art with skill unmatched, but it's not his form that piques your interest: it's the look in his eyes. Focused, intent— in love. He adores what he does, the narcotic feeling it gives him, and you find you adore watching it flood his system.

Though your perfect shot, your submission picture, comes as an idea. 

"Okay," your voice breaks Art's reverie, and he stops mid-serve to look at you. "I have what I need."

Art's brows furrow, "that's all?"

His arms fall to his sides, tennis ball dropping by his feet as his racket hangs loosely from his grip. He's sweaty, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. Though he hasn't done much, you blame the sun and thank it in the same regard: he looks good.

"Just one more thing," you hum, raising your camera one last time. "Smile like you did before."

"What?"

"Just do it, Art."

He likes the sound of his name on your lips and obliges without further question. There he stands like a boy on his first day of school, arms by his side, racket hanging from his grip, sweaty and squinting under the bleating sun with a wide grin plastered on his face. 

And you take the photo, him to the left of the shot as an empty court fills the rest of the frame. Remnants of that elated look still shine in his eyes, you've caught the afterglow. 

"That's the one," you practically jump up and down at the picture staring back at you on the display.

Art makes a face. "What? I wasn't even playing."

You have to look from camera-Art to real-life-Art to catch his frown. You smile in response and walk pointedly over to the blond so you can practically shove your camera in his face.

"Look," you offer, feeling the extra heat of his body against you when he looks over your shoulder to gaze at the camera screen. You click through photos of him playing, all basic pictures he's seen a hundred times with a hundred different players. "That's the game, hitting a ball with a racket. You look good, you're focused, in touch with yourself, that's great. But this..." you click forward until you find your latest image, the one of him smiling, "...this is the afterglow, the dopamine rush, the actual game, the face of sport."

Art is quiet. He stares at himself, his own smile. A moment passes, and then another, and you're beginning to think he doesn't see the vision when he finally breaks the silence.

"Have you ever played tennis?" His voice is barely there, loud enough for you to hear as he leans down a little, right next to your ear. 

You shake your head, you know he can see it, his breath is hot on your neck. 

Art stands upright. "You should let me teach you. It's a good skill to have."

You turn and look up at him, "anyone can hit a ball with a racket."

He's quick to frown, a dramatic faux hurt etched across his face, "anyone can press a button on a camera."

You're about to defend your sport, ramble about the editing process and exposure settings and moving subjects and the rule of thirds when Art's sour expression loses to his breaking grin, and you catch the hypocrisy as it's about to drip from your tongue. 

Before you can reply, however, he cuts you off. "I'll let you use that photo of me... if you let me teach you the basics."

The basics aren’t so basic when you spend most of your time photographing the ball, not trying to hit it. Art is patient, laughing ceremoniously whenever you flinch at the ball as it comes towards you, clapping when you do hit, and offering you pointers when you don’t. Half of the guys at Stanford for sports would have left fifteen minutes ago when you called tennis ‘a game straight from Satan's hole’. Art just laughed.

You wonder if you weren’t in need of a subject for your submission, whether you and Art would have ever crossed paths naturally. You wonder who his friends are, what he does when he’s not playing tennis, if he has other hopes and dreams.

“Your grip is wrong,” Art calls from the other side of the net. “You can hurt your wrist like that.”

You look down at your grip on Art’s racket and sigh—there’s a proper way of doing everything in tennis, you presume. You’re about to try and correct it yourself when Art quite literally jumps over the net to your side, he’s right in front of you in only a second. 

“Hi,” he huffs.

“Hi.”

Art gestures something with his hands that you don’t quite get, then takes another step closer to you before freezing. “Oh, can I touch you? To fix your stance, I mean.”

“I thought it was my grip that was wrong.”

“That too.”

You have to laugh at your fuck-ups if you want to avoid looking like an egg. You nod to Art, who moves behind you and gently places his hands on your hips. He guides your body, slender fingers splayed over your waist, into a position that feels unnatural yet somewhat powerful. With a gentle nudge of his foot between your legs, he parts them and pushes one slightly forward.

“That’s good,” his voice hits your ears in waves, and you feel the tingle of goosebumps creep up along your arm. “Now your grip."

Art Donaldson slides his hands down your arms, taking each of your wrists in each of his hands and readjusts your grip on the handle of the racket, one hand above the other.

You stare at the ground, and he clears his throat quietly. “Like this.”

He brings both of his hands down to cup around yours and pulls your arms up as he swings your arms back and forth, the movement fluid. in demonstration of the godforsaken 'proper technique'. Your back is pressed right against his front, his chest flush against your back and the ridges of his stomach brushing against the line of your spine. Your heart races, and though you're sure he hears it, it's drowned out by the pounding of blood throughout your head as you focus on each movement of his hands, on his words, and on his voice.

"There we go," he nods, his mess of blond hair brushing against your neck as he dips his head down, presumably to check your footing. Your body shudders as he whispers, "Good job," and his mouth tickles the shell of your ear before he releases you. The world seems to tilt, no longer relying on Art for balance. You're surprised the racket doesn't fall from your grasp when he steps back, though with the loss of contact, your knees feel weak enough to collapse. As it stands, though, you're still standing, and Art is beaming down at you like he's just taught a puppy a new trick.

"So, what'd you think?" he asks.

You tilt your head in question.

Art smiles wider, "is it easier than pressing a button on a camera?"

"Oh, so you're an asshole," a bemused smile crawls across your lips.

He snorts, "Maybe."

Your laughter dies away as a strange sort of melancholy seeps in. You're suddenly aware of how far apart you two are, the space between your bodies, the lack of physical contact. Art notices, and gives a soft laugh of his own, a lighthearted chuckle that breaks the eerie need to replace the warmth of the sun with the warmth of each other. 

"So," Art crosses his arms. "Now you just have to learn how to hit the ball."

"Ha ha ha," you verbalise, straight-lipped and eyebrows furrowed. "Maybe next time, hot shot."

"Next time?" Art's reply is quick. "So you'll let me keep teaching you?"

You smile at him, "No, I was lying to be polite."

It's Art's turn to act unimpressed, but you see him bite back a grin. He lets out a stressed-short laugh that turns into a huff at the end. "You're so funny."

"I know."

"Will you show me the photo once it's printed?"

It takes you a moment to realise he's being serious.

"Huh?" you ask, looking up.

Art's eyes are wide, and he raises an eyebrow. "Can I have your phone number?" he clarifies.

You open your mouth to object, to tell him no- you don't give your number to random boys you've just met, but instead, the corners of your mouth twitch upward and you're suddenly typing your number into Art's phone and saving your name with a smiley face next to it. Art smiles at the gesture and pockets his phone. There's a moment of silence shared between you, an unassuming silence that's more comfortable than it is awkward, but a silence nonetheless.

A silence broken by the loud echoing voice of another boy calling out from the far side of the courts- a brunette with curls that are more defined than Arts, that's the most you can make of him as he calls to the blond by your side, waving his arms above his head and then gesturing to his wrist like he's tapping a watch.

"Oh, shit," Art pulls his phone back out to check the time. "Fuck, sorry, I have to go."

You shrug, smiling. "It's fine, thanks for giving up some of your time."

Art smiles back, thanking you in turn for putting up with his tennis brain, then hurries to grab his things and race away in the direction of his friend. For a few seconds, all you can do is stand there dumbly watching his retreating form until he reaches his friend, who nudges Art and looks over his shoulder at you before the pair of them disappear around the corner leading back towards campus.

It's not until they're out of eyeshot that you turn to grab your camera bag, just to be greeted by an empty space where you had left it. Your heart drops for a moment, the thought of losing your camera a soul-crushing one. You remember, though, tucking it away with Art's stuff for safekeeping. He must have grabbed it in his rush to leave.

You exhale, running a hand over your forehead. Well fuck.

Art Donaldsons dorm room number plays on a loop in your head that night. He had texted you as promised, with a simple ‘I HAVE YOUR CAMERA!’ along with an easy ‘COME TO MY DORM I HAVE BEER’

It had taken him another ten minutes to realise you’d have no clue where his dorm was, and send through his dorm number. You had debated sending him a text back, telling him to meet you tomorrow on campus to hand over the camera, but your submission deadline is the next night and you need time to edit, decide you hate your prospective career as a photographer, and then fall in love with the process all over again.

You roam the halls of the boys' dorms for a few minutes, eyeing door numbers until you find his. Some doors are left ajar, some wide open and sporting odours so bad you curse God for giving you a sense of smell. You finally find Art’s door, and double check the number twice before knocking, despite a tennis ball sticker just above the door handle. 

There's a little rustling inside when you knock, but his voice calls out clearly. "Come in!"

When you open the door, you're greeted not by Art Donaldson, but by the blinding flash of your own camera. You blink away the stun to find Art grinning at the display, admiring his handiwork as an amateur photographer. He turns your camera in his hands to show you to yourself, startled and wide-eyed in a half-blurred photo: Art's finger covers a corner of the frame too, it must have been over the lens.

"I think I'm a natural," he bites his tongue cheekily as he hands you your camera back. You check it over, out of habit more than mistrust of Art, and he pushes his door wide open to reveal the dorm room in all its college-student glory. It's not large by any means, but it has everything you could ever possibly want and then some, plus an impressive collection of sports memorabilia from past years and awards displayed in frames on the walls. Your camera bag is sitting on his bed, and Art gestures you towards it with a smile.

"Sorry," he spins around and opens a little cooler sitting on his floor, pulling out two beer cans from inside and offering you one. "I didn't realise I had picked it up. Were you okay without it?"

You take the beer with a 'thanks' and pat the small shoulder bag you wear. You lift the flap open to reveal a little Polaroid camera, an old one you barely use anymore. "Had to pull this off the shelf," you say.  "But yeah, it should be good now."

"That's good," Art nods as you pop the top of your beer.

You sit on the edge of his bed while he takes a sip of his beer, staring at you. You notice a slight flush to his cheeks and wonder if he's a few drinks ahead of you. You can't help but laugh, leaning forward as you rest your elbows on your thighs. "Why am I here, Art?"

He frowns, looking down at you from where he stands, leaning against his countertop. "To pick up your camera?"

"You could have met me with it tomorrow. It's..." you glance at the alarm clock beside his bed, "nearly midnight."

He blinks and laughs sheepishly at you, scratching behind his neck. "Yeah, about that... I guess I just wanted to see you again?"

"Oh," you lean back and purse your lips in surprise, glancing from Art and the beautiful nervous look on his face to the beer he holds in a tight grip.

Art laughs softly, "Are you freaked out?"

"No," you shake your head quickly, "I'm not freaked out, Art."

Art chuckles lightly at that, his smile widening as his blush deepens. "Okay," he breathes out before he takes another sip of his beer and moves to sit beside you on the bed. It dips under his weight, almost pulling you closer into him, though he leaves enough space to remain respectable. His eyes seem darker now, more focused, even though his expression remains soft and pleasant. His gaze lingers on your face for a while before he opens his mouth to speak. "You said earlier, on the court, that the photo you took was the real face of sport. You're good, huh?"

"I'd like to think so," you smile fondly, gaze flitting from his lips to his eyes.

"Are you in love with it?"

You hum, "with photography?"

Art's eyes flick up to your eyes. His gaze is intense, not in a scary way, but something more playful and inviting. He nods.

"I love it, sure," you nod, situating yourself to sit more comfortably on Art’s bed. "Are you in love with tennis?"

Art nods, taking a longer drink from his beer. "Yes."

Your brow furrows and you raise an eyebrow. "I didn't know. You seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole 'look at me, I'm a tennis player' thing, actually."

His face splits in a toothy grin. "I'm humble."

You giggle quietly at that, and stare at him for a couple of seconds, studying his face, taking in every little detail. His hair, his eyes, the faintest hint of stubble on his jawline and chin, his smile, and the dimples on each cheek that said smile brings out. There are traces of dark circles underneath his eyes, you realise, and they're highlighted when his pupils expand slightly at your laughter. 

You feel warm, and not from the alcohol that sits inside your stomach. The both of you place down your beers, and Art Donaldson, who may well have a girlfriend and dirtied intentions, takes in a deep breath before asking you lowly, "Can I kiss you?"

The word 'please' escapes your lips before you can stop it and the red tint in Art's ears deepens. You bite the insides of your cheeks nervously, waiting for Art to speak again, but he doesn't, and suddenly his hand is at the nape of your neck, tugging you forwards and pressing his lips to yours in a hungry, desperate manner.

As he starts moving slowly, his tongue darts out and traces the curve of your bottom lip as he pulls you further into him, the taste of his beer lingering on his lips making the gesture feel all the more enticing. A hand cups your jaw, slender fingers trailing down your neck in sensual exploration of your exposed body before his other hand rests on the small of your back and he draws you even closer until the heat radiating off himself feels almost unbearable on your skin.

There's no hesitation, no awkward pauses, or second-guessing, you find yourself melting against his body instinctively. A narcotic, he is, the way he smells and tastes and sounds and touches, and there's only so much you can handle before it overwhelms your senses completely. The kiss itself isn't that hot, it's chaste and messy and your teeth click against his in the desperation of it all, but it fills you with something unfamiliar, makes you feel lightheaded and dizzy and yearning wholeheartedly for more. You don't care how little you know him, you don't mind the lack of foreplay; you just feel overwhelmed and need more, you need more than just his lips on yours.

He practically whimpers when you pull back, his hands sliding down to hold onto your hips possessively. Sad eyes meet yours at the loss of your taste, but you brush off his worry easily, running your thumb across his cheekbone as he leans into your touch, breathing in and out heavily through his nose as if you are his only source of breath, and the sight causes a knot to form in your stomach.

"You are single, right?" your kiss-swollen lips whisper against his and you feel him exhale.

"Yes," he speaks against your mouth, a husky sound that makes your heart ache.

"Good."

You kiss him again, more fervently, letting your tongue tangle with his as his arm wraps around you tightly. Before you know it, Art has your back against his mattress and is hovering over you, hands gliding swiftly under your shirt. You aid him in getting it over your head and watch as he follows suit, pulling off his own shirt and tossing it to the floor in dismissal. He slides down his shorts and leaves himself in a pair of blue boxers that you already notice are tenting.

You take a moment, you have to, to appreciate the sculpt of Art’s body—the muscled planes of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders. His face is flushed, hair mussed and unkempt, lips swollen and kissed pink. You want to commit every last inch of this man to memory, keep him locked in the back of your mind in fear of never experiencing this again. 

Is this a one-time thing? You lift your hips as Art pulls down your shorts and panties in one go, and you can't help but wonder if this is the first and only time you'll feel his fingertips against the skin of your thighs. When morning comes, and your lust is expelled and tired, will Art turn his shoulder from you? Is this something? Hell, you don't know the guy, not really.

But he presses a gentle kiss to your lower abdomen and you feel safe and comfortable; your heart rate slows as the tension eases and your body sinks further into the mattress, letting Art's hand slip between your legs to part them. "Art…"

A low moan passes your lips as he brushes his fingertips over your clit, they're still cold from holding his beer, and the stark contrast in temperature is enough to make you gasp. Art slides his thumb over the sensitive nub and you arch your back in response. Your hands come to grasp at the sheet beneath you, knuckles whitening from the amount of pressure you're exerting on them. You want more, but you realise quickly that Art is a man for taking his time. Slow, languid circles over your clit, not daring to even push a finger inside of you just yet. You whine and buck your hips against his hand, needing his touch to be deeper.

He presses a kiss to your chest, and then trails his mouth down your stomach, pausing briefly to look up at you before he dips to place a kiss directly to your pulsing clit.

You freeze, and a wave of insecurity washes over you. "You don't have to..."

"I'm dying here," Art's eyes meet yours: he looks starved. "Please let me."

All you can do is nod your head and close your eyes as he delves between your thighs for a taste of your lust. His free hand digs into the flesh of your thigh, grip tight as if he’s dead set on leaving his mark, staking his claim. He’s showering in the way you writhe, his tongue rolling over your clit as he slips two fingers inside of you. He’s high off your taste alone, latching his lips around your clit in an assault fueled by insatiable need.

You can feel him shuffle a little, moving his free hand from your thigh to reach under his own waistband and stroke himself in tandem with the thrust of his fingers inside of you. His pace quickens, though he still manages to savour your pleasure. Your hand snakes down to thread your fingers through his mess of blond hair, pushing your hips up in an attempt for more.

As Art pumps his cock with his hand, he groans against your heated flesh, sending vibrations from your sex to your spine: you arch your back in pleasure, the tightness of an impending orgasm beginning to roll over you. You try to vocalise it, tell Art you’re close, but you’re already a mess of incoherent moans and pleads for more— but he doesn’t need words to know, not when he can feel you clenching around his fingers, your every muscle tensing. His scalp must burn from the stress of your pulling, but he doesn’t seem to mind so much, smiling against your pussy as he finger-fucks you to climax.

With a sharp inhale and a choked sob of a moan from your throat, you come undone under Art’s ministrations, your vision blurred and stomach in knots of ecstasy. It's only once your breath finds you again that Art pulls his fingers out of you and climbs over you once more to press a messy kiss to your lips, he shares with you a taste of yourself, lips glistening with your release. He grins into the kiss, as pussydrunk as can be, and moves to press a sloppy mixture of kisses and bites to your exposed neck.

"You taste so good," he speaks against your skin, nipping at your pulse. 

"I want more of you," you exhale, dizzy with lust.

Your legs tighten around his back as he meets your eyes once again, a sultry smile creeping across his face. You snake a hand down to the waistband of his boxers, noting the thin layer of sweat that already glosses Art's torso, and dip a finger under the elastic. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah, please," he murmurs, ducking down to press another kiss to your shoulder. You tuck your hand into his boxers, feeling past his trimmed-short hair and wrapping your fingers around his cock, rock hard and pulsing in your hand. He groans and presses himself further into your hand, his teeth dragging along the expanse of your shoulder as you pump his shaft. His hips rise of their own accord as you bring your hand higher, rubbing along his length until you have him completely desperate for the now-familiar warmth of your pussy.

"I need to be inside of you," he lays his intentions out, head tilting up to watch you for a sign of protest.

You nod, eager and willing to accommodate him, and release his cock, raising yourself onto your elbows to get a better look at the beautiful mess of a man moving to stand. He (ungracefully) reaches over to grab a condom from his bedside drawer and sheds his boxers. Inhaling slowly through his nose, he takes his time as he slides the condom onto his dick, stroking his cock gently once it's on. He watches you closely, a fond look on his face as he rubs the head of his cock up and down your pussy a few times, collecting the remnants of your lust and his spit before he enters you. It's slow, and careful, and deliberate, and your body trembles in anticipation, eyes flickering closed when he finally gives into your silent plea. The shared gasp between you is uniform, a symphony of pleasure and endurance. Him, overwhelmed by just how tight you are. You, overwhelmed by the stretch of just how big he is.

Art bottoms out in one movement, to get the harshest part out of the way for you; you hiss at the searing heat of the stretch, but calm as Art stills inside of you. You both take a moment, a shared breath, to appreciate being one, and the pleasure that comes with such entwining.

Once you’re ready, you squeeze his bicep, giving him the green-light to move. And he does, painstakingly slow, he pulls out of you, just to snap his hips forward to plunge himself back inside. The hand that isn't holding him up is pressed down on your stomach, feeling himself through you as he pushes in deep, then withdraws.  Each thrust of his cock brings forth a loud gasp from your lips, which only serves to guide him further into a state of mindless bliss. He keeps himself in check as best he can, though his breathing has quickened considerably as he continues to fuck you. You feel like you're going to lose your mind, unable to breathe or speak or think straight as you're pulled closer and closer to your end. Though as you've learnt, Art Donaldson is a man to take his time, and he switches from the fast snapping thrusts to a slow roll of his hips once he feels he's a little too close to the edge.

You notice, too: you see the tension building in his muscles, how he pants and groans with each movement he makes. He stares at you adoringly, heavy lids weighing his sights down to your chest, your arched torso, your sweet design. He leans down to press another kiss to you, lips parting so he can slide his tongue into your mouth as his rhythm quickens even more. The kiss feels more intimate than even the act of his cock splitting you open, it's a sweet one, a honeymoon-style kiss where after his forehead meets yours and his eyes bore into your eyes in a mixture of something hazy.

You notice the glossy look in his eyes immediately, it's the same one you had seen on the tennis court earlier. The awestruck, total blissful look in his eyes that had spurred your inspiration. The face of sport. Even through your fucked-dumb haze of lust and a hedonistic desire to finish like this, with Art on top of you, the opportunist in yourself can't help but move. You place a firm hand on Art's shoulder, and his thrusts roll to a stop.

"You okay?" he pants, a sudden worry in his eyes, he looks you over for any signs of discomfort.

"Fine," you shake your head, trying to clear it, blinking away the foggy sensation clouding your mind. "Just, uh... do you trust me?"

Art's eyebrows shoot up, taken aback by the question: "Why?"

Your voice is barely there, a heat spreading across your face as you ask; "will you let me on top?"

Art chuckles low and deep, eyes never breaking contact with yours. A gentle touch to the curve of your ass cheek tells you that he'll miss the view, but he nods nonetheless, and you smile in turn. You expect Art to pull out and lay back on the bed, but instead, he wraps one arm under your back and pushes up with his other, flipping the both of you in one fluid motion. As soon as he's flipped over you straddle his waist, resting your hands on his chest for support, and laugh at the sheer adrenaline rush of it all.

This new position, with you sitting on Art's cock, makes you feel twice as full. You can tell that neither of your orgasms are far off, and you take the opportunity to test the waters. You roll your hips, grinding down on Art's cock, enjoying the way his eyes flutter shut. When he lets out a low noise of approval that sends shivers down your spine, you lower your body closer, pressing a wet kiss to Art's jaw as he grips your waist with a strength you don't doubt will bruise come morning.

His hips raise underneath you, fucking up into you as you continue your ministrations. The sound of skin hitting skin fills the air, and you'd close your eyes in ecstasy if you weren't so hypnotised by the sheen in Art's eyes. With each thrust Art manages to drive into you, you find your nails biting into the skin of his chest. He gets louder, groans and whines that you'd play on repeat if you could,, he's close, and he says as such.

"Let me take a picture," you say before you can stop yourself; his jaw slacks open at your words, staring up at you with incredulity written across his face. You defend your proposal- "With the Polaroid. I'll let you keep it, no copies."

A bad idea, probably, what with his face being one he hopes to see plastered across buildings one day. He doesn't know why he nods, why he smiles when you reach across the bed for your Polaroid. Maybe it's the mindless state of lust he's in, maybe it's the danger, or maybe he'll find the photo in ten years' time and remember this night with a smile or a frown depending on the grand outcome.

You ready the camera, roll your hips against his a few more times, and look down at pretty Art Donaldson. 

"You're fucking gorgeous," you let slip, praise falling from your lips straight to his reddened ears. You feel him twitch inside of you, you squeeze around him in coaxing. "Look at you."

He fucks up into you with a pace unrelenting. Your second orgasm of the night is only seconds away, and you cope through the haze of pleasure and lust to focus on Art's face, memorising every detail of that look in his eyes as he starts to falter.

"Fuck," you groan, pressing down onto him to a new depth. He's tense for a moment, a sweet moment of shared rapture as you both fall over the edge of your climaxes. 

"Shit, shit," his sounds mirror yours, veins pulsing in his neck as he cums. One hand digs into your hips, the other grips the sheets. 

His eyes meet yours, and you see it. The look, the face of pleasure, of need, of sin. 

You take the shot.

SIX YEARS LATER

The night is quiet, save for the sound of rustling trees outside and the occasional passing car. Art Donaldson has to bite his tongue to stop himself from making a noise.

He stands in the shower, water falling over his back, though cleanliness is an afterthought despite being sweat-ridden after hours of training with Tashi.

With one hand, Art pumps his cock in vigorous strokes, leaning against the cold tile wall as he jerks himself off. His eyes are locked onto what he holds in his other hand- the photo you took all those years ago. He's careful not to get it wet, but it's hard to focus on the state of it when his pooling orgasm nearly blinds him. 

His eyes burn into the image, a display of himself at his most vulnerable. You had taken it looking down at him as your orgasms synced, and now he looks down at the same sight you had seen at your peak. He cums ropes onto the shower floor, biting so hard on his tongue to stifle his moans that he's surprised he can't taste blood in his mouth. 

He’s left breathless, eyes still locked on the polaroid he had found in the basement earlier in the day. There's a handful more of them, but Art had no time to go through them, not after pulling this one out first and being hit with a wave of memories he’s not sure he should have.

He has to satiate his guilt by telling himself it’s not wrong to jerk off, especially not when it’s only a photo of himself… or, that could make it worse. Art exhales deeply, emptying his lungs so he can take a breath of new air.

Art steps backward into the fall of water, letting it run down his face in a rejuvenating cleanse of his sins and unholy ways of thinking. He sighs, wonders what level of hell he’s going to, and then flips the polaroid around.

Written in your handwriting on the strip of white down the bottom in permanent marker, 

THE ART OF MAKING LOVE.

series taglist: @lotties-ashwagandha @daughterhouse @kiiwizz @doll-0f-flesh @jackierose902109 @lonnie2390147 @hedonisticwomen @ysuftmikey @viena-vie @whitewashedghanianlol @kolsmikaelson @nikirikii @dumbass-sappho-stan @seriousaliysa @majathepapaya @lovezclub @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo

♡ Am I Making You Feel Sick?; Art Donaldson ♡

nsfw! (18+) cw: subby!art donaldson, solo!art donaldson, mentions of reader, gn!reader, porn w/ plot, masturbation, hurt/no comfort, crying, heavy angst, desperation, begging, self-choking, established relationship, toxic relationship dynamics, general filth, also the title is inspired by an ethel cain song lol

wc: 3.3 k

prev. art donaldson fics: ♡ ♡ ♡

This wasn't how Art's Saturday night was supposed to go.

At all.

He was lying in bed with a you-shaped absence next to him, his hand sweeping weakly over the empty bedsheets before fisting them tenderly under his palm. It was silent in your guys' apartment except for the low hum of the bedside lamp, and he was desperately trying to swallow the lump in his throat and blink away the sting in his eyes. He'd been trying for the past ten minutes. This wasn't how he pictured the evening going. Everything felt so confusing and muddled and wrong.

-

About twelve hours earlier, around 8:30 AM, you and Art had had a fight.

It started out simple. It really did.

You had brought up the fact that he seemed 'off his game' lately, with him losing matches and lessening his time in the gym and whatnot. He had quipped back that he was just tired lately and maybe needed a break. You hadn't loved the sound of that. You knew that if he took a break now, he'd never go back. It would be over. And as much as you cherished your partner and his wellbeing, you had spent far too much time and energy building and sculpting him into the perfect player. It was selfish and almost sadistic in nature, but you wanted him to keep playing. You needed him to. After all, you had been playing tennis vicariously through him ever since your knee injury about a decade ago. You had tried to convince him to resist the urge to take a break before the Open, but he had just frowned and sighed and crossed his arms over his chest before he responded by saying that he felt suffocated on the court. The conversation grew increasingly heated as it went back and forth. I mean, was there ever any other way it could go?

'You don't need a break, Art, you're just feeling discouraged.'

'I'm not just feeling discouraged, I'm exhausted..!'

'How can you be exhausted when you've put only half of yourself into the game recently?'

'That's not fair! I've put everything into this! I've done this all for us...'

'You need to be doing it for you, Art!'

'How can I when every time I lose, you look disgusted with me?!'

It didn't take long for him to grow resentful and for you to get defensive. The whole argument lasted a mere thirty minutes, but that didn't matter. Thirty minutes is all it really takes to destroy someone's self-worth and lose another's respect.

You two had huffed and scowled before moving to separate areas of your shared flat, but before Art could muster up the strength and motivation to say 'i'm sorry', you were already leaving.

'I'm going to a friend's for the night,' you had said.

And it took everything in him right then not to pull you into his arms and kiss your lips and beg you to stay. But he didn't. He knew it would only make things worse. You needed your space, and he probably did too, but he always found it hard to be apart. He understood that you needed your space, but he couldn't help but feel completely and utterly rejected anyways.

And then the anxiety came soon after the door shut behind you.

You still loved him, didn't you?

Whatever. He didn't care. He'd let you have your night alone.

Who was he kidding? Of course he fucking cared. He needs you. He always needs you.

-

Art tossed and turned on the bed relentlessly, trying his hardest not to think about whether or not you were telling your friend what an ungrateful and selfish partner he'd been for ever wanting to pause his tennis career (and your career as his coach). Your friend would likely only make things worse. He could practically hear their voice telling you things like 'he's such an asshole' and 'you should just leave him' and 'let him rot as a washed up player all on his own'.

Ugh.

It made him feel sick to his stomach.

He turned onto his side, his sad eyes looking to the spot where you usually laid. He swiped his fingers across your pillow, his calloused digits brushing over the cream-colored satin, and then he was shifting forward on the mattress to let his head rest on it. It only took a minute for the faint smell of your hair and warm skin to flood his senses, and that was all it took for the dam to break. He was suddenly crying like a teenager during a first breakup.

Tears had filled his eyes in an instant and spilled down across the bridge of his nose as he remained laying on his side, his face half-buried in the plush cushion as he trembled. He sobbed harshly and loudly, his chest heaving up and down as he clutched the physical reminder of you in his hands, and he swore that he could just about die from heartbreak right then and there. He missed you. Why did you have to go? Why didn't you just stay to talk it out? Surely he'd lost you forever.

Self-loathing, mixed with strong codependent tendencies, was an easy pill for Art to swallow. He'd take it with water, with tears, with blood; he'd surely want it through his IV if he was comatose.

It was a comforting type of poison, but oh hell, did it burn every time. A part of him would be lying, though, if he said he didn't like it this way. He knew that. He tried to ignore that.

He rolled onto his back as he gasped for air between heart-wrenching sobs. His bottom lip wobbled furiously as he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed furiously as he sweat and shook. He couldn't stop crying. God, he had said such horrible things to you. Worse than what you had said. He was sure of it. He didn't deserve you.

Your warmth.

Your selflessness.

Your compassion.

Your love.

The thoughts messed with his head.

He started to picture your smile when he would make you breakfast in bed on Sundays, and hear your laugh when he'd purposefully perform an awful backhand during a practice session, and feel your touch on his skin when you'd—

...

Oh.

Oh no.

He took in a shaky breath as he removed his palms from his puffy eyes and looked down to his boxers.

He was sporting a full-on semi. Warm and aching and growing with every second. He could feel every single pulse of his blood pump into it.

Just from a few thoughts of you, no less.

This was truly pathetic.

He sniffled wetly and shook his head, wiping his running nose with the back of his hand as he tried not to think about how badly he wished you were here.

Art's hand involuntarily reached down to adjust his erection, but it only made it harder. He hissed softly through gritted teeth before his lips parted and his head tilted back.

He removed his hand instantly, letting it rest back on his chest over his shirt guiltily.

He didn't want to touch himself. That was something you helped him with. You always did. He bit his lip as it quivered, trying to stop the flow of tears that were still falling from the outer corners of his eyes and past his ears as he stared up at the ceiling.

And then he thought for a few moments.

If you knew the state he was in, you'd want him to touch himself. Even if you were mad at him. Even if your anger towards him was justified; even if he deserved it. Right?

You wouldn't want him to lay here, stiff and throbbing, when he could be thinking about you and getting himself off.

He mentally scolded himself for about fifteen seconds over the fact that he had so quickly managed to conjure up an excuse to relieve the pressure in his crotch, and then he was letting his hand slide down into the front of his underwear.

He wrapped his touch around his cock at the base, biting his lip as his brows pinched up, and then he let his eyes flutter shut as he began to move his hand up and down.

He wasn't exactly too worked up yet, which meant no precum, so there was an uncomfortable tug on his flesh as he stroked himself. Art pulled his hand up and spit a thick glob of saliva onto his fingers before bringing it back down into his boxers to slide them over his tip.

"Ah-"

His back arched as soon as his fingertips slicked over his cockhead, and his knees lifted slightly up from the comforter. He worked his saliva down over the length of himself, before he started to slowly jerk off.

If you were here, you'd probably slide your hands up under his tee shirt and touch his chest. Maybe even play with his nipples. You knew all the right places to touch him. He didn't even have to ask anymore. Oh God.

Tears started to prick at his eyes again, but he furiously blinked them away as he started to let out little gasps and barely-audible moans. He decided to let himself melt into the sensations alone. He wanted to forget about you for a little while. That didn't make him a bad partner, did it?

And so he tried not to think about you for a little while as he touched himself — he really did — but he only lasted about two minutes before he started to lose his erection. He frowned, and then he sighed, and then he gave in. Of course he couldn't get off without thinking about you. You were all-consuming. You were everything he's ever wanted. Fuck. He really wished you were here.

The hand that wasn't on his dick maneuvered up under his shirt, and he let his eyes close fully again as he started to explore his chest the way he knew you would. His hand caressed over his toned stomach, and then up over his sternum, before it settled over his collarbones. He thought about your lips pressing there, your tongue poking out afterwards to lathe his sensitive skin with the needed amount of attention. He failed to stop a louder, anguished moan from being let out as his imagination took over once more.

His touch soon slid to one of his pecs, his thumb gliding over the nipple, which only made his hips buck up into his hand as he started to speed up his arm's movements. A sticky 'shlick shlick shlick' filled the space around him as he let out a low whine and started to squirm. Hot, boiling pleasure was building up faster than he thought it would.

As his cock squelched into his fist, he started to imagine that both of his hands were yours instead. The progression to this was was only natural.

"please touch me," he murmured softly into the loneliness of the bedroom, "please touch me more, baby.. i need it.."

Images of you started to swarm his head, and he began to picture what you would look like if you were the one touching him. You'd probably smile at him while he whimpered, and you'd coo at him and tell him he was pretty for you right then.

"Oh, fuck, ohh," he whined, his head tipping further back against the pillow as his thighs began to shake. A blurt of clear, sticky fluid leaked from his slit.

He stroked himself furiously, his other hand moving back down the length of his torso. He slid it down until it met his moving hand at his cock, and he cupped his balls.

"You're making me feel so good," he moaned as his brows twitched, "I wanna cum for you.. I wanna cum, baby.. let me cum..."

The silence in response to his pleas for release meant nothing to him. He could still hear your voice. He could hear it in death.

'You can't finish yet, I'm still playing with you,' you'd probably say.

He shook his head feverishly.

"No, no no," he gasped, responding to an imaginary you, "I need to cum.. I'm close, oh my god, 'm so close for you—"

A gasp, a stuttered moan, a buck of his hips. He sped up his hand a little.

He felt borderline drunk.

The hand on his soft balls glided up to squeeze lightly at his own throat, fingers applying a benign amount of pressure to the sides, and he felt his mind grow hazy at the pleasure thrumming through him as a result. He also felt his eyes roll up to the back of his head under his lids, and his cock grow heavier in his other grasp.

Sometimes, when Art got overwhelmed during sex, he'd ask you to choke him. Most people would think that this would only make a person more overwhelmed, but not Art. The feeling of your hand wrapped around his neck, gently and pleasurably stifling his blood flow, was more than enough to bring his focus back to you and less on every other separate sensation going through his nervous system. He could focus better on you when you did it, which was all he wanted. Honestly, most times when you choked him, it was so tender and loving that it didn't do too much. He actually liked it better that way. All he wanted was to be reminded of the control you had over him, not to be throttled. Pain like that wasn't really his thing.

He couldn't stop himself from picturing you straddling his pelvis as you choked him and asked him if he wanted to climax now.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," he wheezed under his hand's touch over his jugular veins, "i'm gonna cum, i'm.. please give it to me, baby..!"

"I need to cum.. i promise i'll be good.. i'm really gonna cum, i am.."

"Please, please— plea- ohh, hah anngh- HAH— please!”

In the fog of his building orgasm, Art realized something. If you were here, you wouldn't let him babble and slur like this over and over. No, you'd definitely do something about it.

With that, he let go of his neck and slid his index and middle finger over his tongue and into his mouth, closing his hungry lips around them instantly.

You always did something like this to shut him up. He considered it blissful torture.

He pressed the digits down over the back of his tongue and sucked needily as drool began to pool around them. His moans grew louder as his other hand moved faster over his twitching cock, but they were all coming out muffled. Art swallowed thickly. The copious amount of saliva coating his fingers was gulped down, only to be replaced by more flooding in. He started to think about the taste of your fluids and how happy he was whenever you'd let him use his mouth on you.

He'd have given anything to be able to suck and lick at you for real in that moment. Anything.

He stroked himself desperately for only a minute longer, before he was at the very edge. A finger ghosted over the underside of his oversensitive tip, a complete accident, and then his eyes flew open and his back arched as his heels dug urgently into the sheets. One loud, pornographic moan erupted out of his chest and around his fingers. His watery blue eyes squeezed shut tightly again, just before his digits slipped out and over the warmth of his wet tongue.

"I'm c-cum-ming, i'm— cumming-! i'm cumming, baby! don't stop!"

As soon as the words flew from his empty mouth, the waves of heady ecstasy were washing over him and pulling at his trembling limbs like he was a puppet. His abdomen flexed and shuddered with contractions, his hips were shallowly fucking himself into his hand, his other arm was flailing to frantically grasp at your pillow, and his cock was gushing all over his fingers in thick spurts.

It wouldn't end. It just would not stop.

He gasped as he milked himself dry, nearly sobbing from the throbbing relief and the burning high in his brain. He couldn't get air into his lungs fast enough as his heartbeat thudded rapidly in the confines of his ribcage.

You.

Oh, you.

You, you, you.

That's all he could think about.

If you were here, you'd probably say things like, 'wow, you did such a good job, baby' and 'came so hard for me, didn't you?'

He whimpered as he tried to shake the thoughts from his mind. He wanted to feel good for as long as possible before he knew the reality of his situation would come rushing back at him.

After several long moments, he started to come down from his release. The aftershocks left him sweaty and panting. It wasn't that comfortable. Even though you hadn't been here and he'd done this completely alone, he still felt the instinctual need to be held and kissed and caressed affectionately. He frowned, feeling his lip quiver.

He felt his legs stick to the sheets underneath, and white spots danced in his vision as he blinked his eyes open to glance around. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his lips, trying to steady his breathing and his heart rate.

As soon as the feelings of pleasure came, they went, and were replaced with the pit of despair in his heart that he had only briefly forgotten in the past twenty or so minutes. It was back, and it was only growing more painful each time he blinked. Flashes of you kept invading him. It was like there were goddamn pictures of you taped to the inside of his eyelids. His heart slowed, as did the air moving in and out of his lungs, and then he was left with nothing more than a sticky hand and those same anxious thoughts from before.

He sat up a bit in bed, leaning his flushed, clothed back up against the headboard, and he sighed. He suddenly felt sweat dripping down his cheeks, and he reached up to wipe at it, before he realized he had been crying again. When did that start? Before or after he came? He couldn't remember. Regardless, he knew the cause.

He bit his lower lip as he looked around your guys' bedroom.

It wasn't like you were dead, so why was he grieving the loss of your presence so hard?

This was bad. This was probably, like, super unhealthy. God.

He was startlingly shook from his daze by the sound of his phone buzzing on the bedside table next to him, and he leaned over and quickly slapped his hand over the device to turn it over and pull it close to him.

His heart fluttered when your name and contact picture lit up the screen, along with a red 'decline' and a green 'answer' button.

How could he ever hesitate?

His thumb was on the answer button before he could really process what he was doing, and he held the phone up to his ear as he breathed softly and shallowly. His heart rate was all the way back up now.

Please.

...

"Hi," you spoke. You sounded sad. Regretful, even.

He smiled and sniffled, clearing his throat as he sat up further in bed and blinked away the stray wetness in his eyes.

"Hey," it spilled from his lips a little too eager, but who cared?

You still loved him.

You had to.

You called him.

...

Maybe things were going to be okay after all.

note: ughhh. sad, angsty art donaldson .. how i love you so. sigh.

dividers by @h-aewo <3

🩷 tags : @idontevenknow1359 @odyseesnape @theoldsports @mitskilover23 @ysuftmikey (more tagged in the comments! sorry, still trying to navigate this! much love)

thank u to this anon + their ask for the inspo!:)

never say sorry -sub!art donaldson x fem!reader smut

notes- this was literally supposed to be super short but i got carried away cause i am a whore (and proud of it)

cw- art is a little insecure:( , mentions of him having sex with tashi before (NO TASHI SLANDER I LOVE MY GIRL BUT IT'S FOR THE PLOT😭) , he cums prematurely (like...really..) art's a whiny little slut, art keeps calling reader love ( i got a thing for that pet name sorry y'all) , reader calls art 'artie' once cus it's cute&idc.

thinking about art constantly apologizing while having sex :( like ur unzipping his pants and he's already bucking his hips up into your hand, and then immediately muttering "sorry":(( my babyyy

so at first you think that okay, whatever, it's just something that slips out

but then he does it SO many times that you're actually starting to be concerned

like, you're giving him head and he moans a little too loudly- he's apologizing again. while kissing, you pull back for air and he still follows you, mouth half-open, wanting more - but then he realizes and he apologizes again.

but one time he really caught you off guard-

it had been a long day for him, spending almost all day training for his upcoming match. he barely had any time to rest, so he comes back to his dorm, taking off his shirt and pants, getting into bed with you only with his baby-blue boxer briefs on.

he kisses you. he's so fucking tired, but he still kisses you. 'cause he needs you, especially after the day he just had. you could feel his hard cock, practically begging you to take his boxers off.

"please love, wanna see you" he says while tugging at your top, watery eyes glistening with tears waiting to be spilled.

you take it off and unclasp your bra, little whimpers leaving his lips at the sight of you over him, with your tits out. you would love to take your time with him, really. to hear him beg and plead for you. but he's so eager, and so polite about it too- you just can't do that to him right now. so when you take off his boxers, his cock immediately jumps up, slapping his lower abdomen, right over his strawberry-blond happy trail.

"aww baby, look at you. you're so pretty aren't you?" you smile down at him, admiring how his legs shake slightly at every word you say. "hmm? aren't you?" you repeat. "mmghn- yeah, i- uhh i am" he says, eyes almost rolling back from the lack of touch. "you're what? say it." he sighs. you do this a lot. 'self love is important' you usually tell him- but not now. not when his dick is out, aching and leaking and begging to be touched. but just for the sake of it- just because he wants to please you, he says it. "i'm pretty"

"good boy," you coo, finally bringing a finger down to his cock, only to circle his pink, wet tip. and with that, he loses it. his mind goes blank, and he can't help it- all the waiting, the anticipating made him lose control of his body. he really didn't want to cum, he wanted to be good for you, but you were just so hot, he couldn't hold back. so immediately after his white, thick and warm liquid lands partially on his stomach and a bit on your hand, he starts babbling out apologies.

"i'm sorry, i'm so sorry love, please don't be mad, please- i'll clean up after myself- oh my god i'm so sorry-" he was so obviously tired, he could barely make up the words, yet he still continued apologizing. until you cut him off.

"art, baby- you dont need to apologize to me! what's up with this" you ask, softly. "you know i love making you feel good. and it's even better when i get feedback like this" you giggle. his cheeks turn bright pink as he covers his face.

"but i literally came the second you touched me" he mumbles, shyly.

you kiss his shoulder, smiling. "and it was hot."

"i- I don't know how to explain it to you, love- i just don't want to disappoint you. tashi used to hate it when i did any of this, she hated hearing me, and stuff like that- sometimes it made me feel like i was an object to her or something, y-you know? she'd get mad at me, and uh- it wasn't great."

"oh." you could actually feel your heart breaking for the boy. he was so sweet, he never deserved any of that. "well i'm not tashi, and i definitely won't get mad at you for anything like that. i like hearing you, and believe it or not, this was really fucking hot. you're letting me know i'm making you feel good. what's wrong with that?"

"just don't wanna upset you." art shrugs.

"i promise you artie, you could never upset me." you peck his lips and he smiles. "now let's clean you up"

the golden quartet

art donaldson x reader, slight tashi duncan x reader, slight patrick zweig x reader, wc: 2k

author’s note: basically just a way less toxic (?) version of the movie with the reader inserted. they’re all still incredibly codependent and tashi/reader are very much in love and art/patrick are very much in love and art/tashi have their own kind of friendship/relationship and so do patrick/reader, but really patrick and tashi are one couple, art and reader are another couple, but like they would all live together and probably sleep in the same bed hypothetically. but in a healthy way. i like to imagine a world where they’re all codependent but skip all the “villain” allegations in their mess, and it’s just a beautiful unspoken symphony of love and four-way fidelity and infidelity. will probably write more in this universe.

part two here

“Tashi, stop it.”

Tashi stops and her eyes lock in on you, racket dropping to her side. “Stop what?”

You watch the way she bounces the ball a few times and don’t miss the way her gaze keeps flitting to your hand.

“Stop analysing me.”

She lifts a shoulder in a shrug, and doesn’t break your gaze. “It’s my job to analyse the opponent so I know how to win the game.”

“Yeah, but you’re not looking at me like an opponent.” Your lips purse. “You’re looking at me like you’re trying to calculate how to get me back on the court.”

“You’re on the court right now, aren’t you?”

“You know what I mean, Tashi.” Your racket falls to the court exasperatedly and you manage a step towards the net. “It’s over for me, I’m done playing tennis and I’m okay with that, but I’m not sure that you are.”

There’s just a tiny quiver in her eyes before her gaze steels itself again and she nods. “Fine. I get it.”

She tosses you the ball. “Just help me train.”

You watch as Tashi gets into position, and pick up your racket slowly. Maybe you shouldn’t have snapped at her. You so rarely do, but you’ve closed the door on that chapter of your life now, and you’re sick of her trying to pry it open. You don’t want possibilities of what you could have had. You don’t want to put in more years just to watch yourself fail at something you never really liked in the first place.

There’s a dull ache in your chest as you serve the ball.

Tashi Duncan has been your best friend for five years. For the life of you, you can’t remember the details of the tournament you were at, but you had a game against her. It was electrifying. You’d never played tennis like that before. It felt like you’d never known what it was like to breathe before Tashi Duncan. She basically crushed you, but you managed to get in a good few points, had the audience and line judges on the edge of their seats, and at the end of it, when you shook her hand, you felt like you’d just discovered a missing limb.

She found you afterwards in the stands and sat with you to spectate the next few matches. And hadn’t let you go since. You couldn’t imagine a life without Tashi. She was there for your first boyfriend, she was there when you broke up with him, she was there when you failed a class and your parents threatened to pull you out of tennis, and she was there when your wrist shattered and you quit.

Tashi never really understood why it was so easy for you to walk away. “You’re one of the best,” “You have so much potential,” “You can learn to play with your other hand.”

She never seemed to hear you when you said you didn’t want to play anymore. She’d look at you, with her piercing gaze then look away and move on. But the conversation was never over. It was like you didn’t exist to her without tennis, like it was your one achievement, and she couldn’t gauge who you were without it.

You suppose you were flattered, touched even, that she cared so much about you, in her own weird way.

Tashi looks at you questioningly when you lower your racket. You smile, “You should rest up. Your drills are perfect. You’re gonna crush her tomorrow.”

She takes a look at her watch, then nods. You can tell she wants to stay longer, but there’s really no reason to. Especially when you can feel her itching for a real match. That you can’t give her.

You bump her shoulder as the two of you walk out. “Wanna grab some donuts?”

The unimpressed face she gives you makes you laugh. “Come on, we can get you one of those healthy ones. The gluten-free, vegan bullshit.”

“Sounds delicious,” she drawls, but makes no further comments. You grin. A success.

She says nothing as you swing your borderline crippled arm over her shoulder, but you feel her muscles underneath relax just a little bit.

The following day brings a new round of pretentious young assholes on the court. Some of them eye you up as you make your way into the bleachers, whispering to each other. A girl comes up to you and asks for a picture. You’re a little surprised, and feel a little blindsided, but you suppose it’s only been a year since your injury. And well, considering where you are right now, it sure does seem to the rest of the world like you’re not fully done with tennis.

“Yeah, no problem,” you say with a smile.

The girl takes the picture, thanks you profusely then leaves, and you make your way up to the bleachers, and find a nice spot in the middle. Tashi liked you to be right in the middle of the game so you could watch her and her opponent. You wonder if she’s secretly preparing you to become an umpire.

There’s a flurry of whispers all too close to you, and then there’s a shadow blocking the sun to your left.

Two boys stand facing you, staring at you with their mouths slightly agape. You can’t help the amused smile that splits your face.

“Can I help you?”

The brunet snaps back into reality first. “Sorry, we were just— are you Y/N L/N?”

“Yeah, I am,” you say, eyes flitting between the two. They’re cute. Really cute.

The blond shakes his head slightly, like he’s coming out of a trance, and says, “Sorry, this is just the first time we’ve seen or heard about you since….you know.”

He winces, and his head ducks a little like a scolded puppy. “Sorry to hear about that, by the way.”

You let out a laugh that seems to catch his attention again. His friend jabs him in the side with his elbow. “Oh, don’t worry about it, seriously. It’s been a year, I’m over it.”

“Huh,” he says, nodding a little absently. He glances to the brunet, who’s just grinning at him. “Um, by the way, we’re—“

“Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig, right?”

The blond, Art, looks a little speechless.

Patrick chimes in. “Yeah, that’s us.”

“I watched your game just before. That was quite some victory celebration.”

The way Art’s ears turn red makes you happier than you’d like to admit. There’s a little flip in your stomach as he fumbles, “Yeah, well…”

There’s a flurry of movement as Patrick puts his arm around Art’s neck and pulls him impossibly close in a one armed hug. “Social conduct’s not gonna get in the way of me celebrating with my boy.”

The blond leans away and fights to get Patrick off him, and you smile as you watch. “Don’t worry, it was cute. Plus, I get it. We’re sort of the same way sometimes when it comes to victories. I mean, not the same, but you know.”

That seems to catch Patrick’s attention. “By we, do you mean you and—“

“Tashi Duncan!”

The announcement rings loud and clear through the speakers as she walks onto the court.

It’s almost comical the way Patrick’s jaw goes slack and he slumps onto the seat behind him.

You watch as Tashi waves at her screaming fans, shoots her winning smiles and makes her way to her side. She catches your gaze for a moment and you nod. She looks away and begins to stretch, but you’re not bothered. She knows you’re here, and that’s all you need. Can’t try and take Tashi Duncan out of the zone.

As you sit down, you’re a little surprised to find Art mirroring the action, still looking at you. “So, you’re best friends with Tashi Duncan?”

You nod. “Since we were like, thirteen.”

“Oh wow,” his eyes widen and you can’t help but think how impossibly cute he looks, “that’s almost how long Patrick and I have been friends.”

“Really? Oh, wow.” There’s a beat of silence, just long enough for you to catch each other’s eye and look away with awkward giggles.

Luckily, that’s when the match starts. And your focus locks in.

“COME ON!” Tashi’s scream is palpable in the air.

It feels like the wind has been knocked out of you. You’ve heard it a million times before, but it never fails to strike you.

There’s something akin to awe in Patrick’s eyes. Art looks like he’s in disbelief.

You can’t help but agree with their faces.

“So, are you guys coming to the party tonight?”

Patrick’s eyes flit away from Tashi’s to look at you. “Yeah, we were just talking about earlier. Art was saying how excited he was. He just loves parties.”

You can’t quite decipher the smirk on his face, but he looks like the kind of guy who’s never up to any good, so you turn to Art expectantly.

His eyes meet yours and your stomach does another little flip as he says, “Yeah, I’ll— we’ll be there.”

“Cool,” you reply. “I’ll see you guys later, then.”

You manage one quick glance back as you walk away, and see Patrick grinning and shaking Art’s shoulders. A smile plays at the corner of your lips and you leave.

Tashi finds you at your agreed-upon meeting spot, and wastes no time in grabbing your hand. “Come on.”

“Don’t you need to take pictures with your trophy?”

“Got a few, they’ll take more at the Adidas party. We’ve got to get ready.”

There’s a warm feeling like sunlight dancing in your chest as you let her drag you away.

The party is in full swing by the time you finally spot Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig lurking in the corner of the yard.

You’d just stepped off the dance floor for a moment, telling Tashi you were going to get another drink. The two boys seem to be arguing about something, but as you close the distance, you can see that they’re grinning too.

“Hey,” you greet the two. Their heads turn towards you in unison and they both stand up straight.

“Hi,” they chorus.

You take a sip of your drink as your eyes flit between the two. “So….what are you guys doing all the way over here?”

“You know,” Art says dryly. “Just enjoying the ambience.”

(Cute and funny. Man, you’re screwed).

“It’s a lot less creepy if you actually talk to her instead of just staring at her.” Your words are directed at Patrick, whose eyebrows shoot up. A smirk falls on his face. His charm instantly covers up the awkwardness.

Art barks out a laugh. (It’s a sound you wish you could inscribe in your mind).

“What makes you think I’m here for her?” Patrick smirks, looking you up and down. It’s so clearly a deflection, but it feels so natural that you can’t help but smile, and you feel your cheeks warm just a tad.

You glance back at the dance floor, and see Tashi excuse herself, glancing at you as she goes for her drink. You reach over to pat him on the shoulder. “Come on, I’ll help you out.”

As you turn on your heel and walk towards Tashi, you hear a slap behind you and an, “Ow!”

“Tashi!” The smile in your voice is audible as she looks up.

“Hey,” she smiles back.

Then, her head tilts to the side and she looks at the boys. “Hi.”

“Hi,” they both say.

There’s a quiet moment in which you all exchange looks, a twinkle in each of your eyes. You can almost feel a spark of something in the air, and suddenly you’re thirteen years old again, meeting Tashi for the first time. Like another puzzle piece has finally fallen into place.

You feel your chest warm. If only you knew what your life was about to become.

The Winner Takes It All||Challengers

AN: So, I finally I got to see Challengers yesterday and boy do I have thoughts that may or may not be weaved into the story, things still might be ooc or wrong. Also, I'm warning y'all now, I know absolutely nothing about tennis/college and partook in half ass research on how the sport functions.

Based this fic off the most gut wrenching ABBA song because it fits so well with the story. I hope you all enjoy this mini series, don't know if I did it justice from translating this from my head onto Tumblr, but we move. And hopefully there aren't any spelling or grammar errors, but if there are, we die like men.

A playlist for this series is coming soon!

Word Count: 3.5k

Trigger Warnings: mentions of colorism and racism

Taglist: @seriousaliysa @hopless-y @malscorner @miximora @urfavesim @mmmunson @jackierose902109 @youngestxhearts @blkdivinefeminine @kailkailz @lottiematthewsceo @lonnie2390147 @begoniaespresso @everydayimagineer @pnkstalli @softimgyu @amethystwonders11 @hazbinh0e @ysuftmikey

I tried to tag everyone who commented, but tumblr is being weird so I don't know if you'll get the notification.

Part One: Sugar & Spice

With her arms folded across her chest, Gianna's eyes were glued to the TV screen in front of her as two male sports analysts began to discuss their pick for match of the day.

"Oh man, this right here was my favorite today!" one analyst stated excitedly.

"For sure! It was the match to watch as the tennis world bore witness to the next up-and-coming tennis star," the other commentator agreed.

The camera cut away from the men and to the highlights of the mixed doubles championship match.

"Out the gate Gianna Langdon, ranked number five in girls singles, set the the tone for the day with a powerful ace to start the match,"

A clip of the opening minute of the match is put on the screen with Gianna throwing the ball high in the air for the first, and perfectly executed serve, followed by her pumping her fist in triumph with a grin.

"From there, she and her partner, Max Sullivan, kept their opponents, Roy Christians and Marie Riviera on the back foot for what seemed like the entire match,"

Gianna studied the way she nimbly moved around on the grass court, her swift volleys, sharp serves, and effortless backhands left no room for doubt that she was a force to be reckoned with.

"Play of the match goes to none other than Gianna Langdon, with this volley to put the nail in the coffin of this championship," the analyst reported, as the final moments of the match popped up on the screen.

With a powerful strike, the tennis ball was slammed back over the net by Roy onto Gianna's side of the court. Roy's hit lifted the ball high into the air forcing Gianna to reposition herself and backpedal to the spot to return it. Leaping up, Gianna smashed the ball down with force, out of reach from both Marie and Roy, the game winning hit. The clip replayed, but only this time in slow motion, so viewers at home could properly admire the athleticism on display. ESPN then did a jump cut of Gianna and Max both dropping their rackets simultaneously before rushing towards each other to embrace. Max even lifted up her a bit, twirling them around as they celebrated their victory.

The camera panned back to the two commentators who were wrapping up their coverage of the tournament.

"Honestly, Gianna Langdon just dominates the tennis field for her age group whether it's single or doubles," the commentator complimented, gathering his papers up in his hands and tapping it against the desk.

Gianna's lips lifted at the praise, its rare she gets her flowers as a tennis player.

"She's a force to be reckoned with, no doubt about that. If she keeps playing like she is now, she can easily break into the top three, but she's no Tashi Duncan," the other commentator corrected.

At this, her smile instantly fell off her face. Since freshman year of high school, Gianna has forever lived under the inescapable shadow of the phenomenal, powerhouse that is Tashi Duncan. Because Tashi wasn't just some athlete, she was the athlete. The next Serena Williams, as some people taken to calling her. Gianna might as well been chopped liver.

The girls have been thick as thieves since Gianna moved to the same school as Tashi and was paired up by their coach to be doubles partners. The duo were unstoppable on the court, as Gianna was a tennis prodigy in her own right, but often was relegated to just being known as Tashi Duncan's partner. A repeated slight which didn't go unnoticed by her two strongest supporters, her parents. They made it their mission to drill Gianna with an unshakable sense of self confidence in not only her skills with a tennis racket, but also her appearance.

"Don't you ever let the media or naysayers play in your face about your talents, Gianna," her father's words echoing in her head. "You already know, you have to work twice as hard to get half the recognition compared to others," he went on.

Gianna recalled the exact day, he gave her this speech. She was probably fifteen and won a match against some Eastern European girl, it was an upset, and boy did everyone make it a point to tell her so. It ranged from backhanded compliments to outright slurs lobbed at her.

"Oh, so when Tashi pulverizes her opponent on the court who's ranked higher than her it's admirable, but when I do it's a problem!" she complained.

"Competing against Tashi, you need to be prepared that narratives are going to be formed and pushed from factors beyond your control," her father warned. "She's lighter, you're darker. She's thin, you have curves. You're both confident, but only one of you is going to be labeled as arrogant," he listed.

"It's a shame we didn't get to see Duncan and Langdon compete together in girls doubles this year," the analyst said, snapping Gianna out her thoughts.

"Agreed, the best girl duo in juniors we've seen in years,"

Images of Gianna and Tashi materialized on the screen, some were from the last two Junior US Open Championships; both of the, proudly beaming and holding their trophies high above their heads and kissing each other's cheek. But, the one picture that stood out the most to Gianna was their cover on Tennis. Both of them had their arms folded and their game faces on with the headline emblazoned below them.

“Sugar & Spice”

~~~x~~~

Rounding the corner of the hallway, the doors where Tashi's party was being held outside came into Gianna's view. Music and the low murmur of voices floated out of the room, bouncing off the walls as she drew closer. From the corner of Gianna's eyes, she caught her reflection in the hallway mirror promoting her to stop. A pair of eyes, identical to color of rich, molasses stared back at her. Carefully, Gianna studied herself in the mirror from every angle. The healthy glow of her golden, deep brown skin made the light dusting of freckles decorating her upper cheeks and nose more prominent.

"She's no Tashi Duncan,"

It only took those four, little words to dampen Gianna's cheery demeanor and leave her brooding since the afternoon.

Lips pursed, she shook her head slightly, "No, no, no," she whispered to herself. "You're still a champion, Gianna. Fuck that ESPN analyst," she said lowly, smoothing out the pale yellow halter dress she wore.

Letting a lopsided grin grow on her lips, Gianna moved away from the mirror and entered into the ballroom where the party was in full swing. She weaved her way through the crowd to find Tashi, but found herself stopping repeatedly to smile and shake hands as people crowded round her to congratulate her on her match. Gianna couldn't help but feel smug. For once, people were basking in her presence and enjoying the chance to meet a future tennis star in person. It boosted Gianna's ego—a pure, bone-deep satisfaction that something in the air was beginning to shift.

She was starting to be seen as a standout player, not just an extension to Tashi.

Thanking her last well wisher, Gianna's eyes met Tashi's who was a few feet from where she stood. A flicker of recognition flittered across her face and she smiled a tiny smile. Tashi was not alone though, two boys were standing in front her and seemed to be having a very lively conversation.

"What's this I see?" Gianna wondered aloud, brushing past one of the boys. "I'm gone for a minute and you're already making new friends without me," she joked, dropping into the empty chair next to Tashi.

Across from her, both boys were slack jawed and unable to tear their eyes away Gianna. Pride simmered in her chest, Gianna already knew that she was beautiful, but it was nice to be reminded of that fact every now and then. Especially, when there's two boys ogling at her looks and treating her like a divine being.

"You boys gonna stop staring and introduce yourselves, or what?" Gianna questioned, her words flavored with a lulling Louisiana drawl and the boys snapped from their stupor.

"Let me, these two seem to be malfunctioning," Tashi cut in, with a smirk.

"They keep on drooling any longer, they'll catch flies," Gianna quipped, her nude colored lips curling upwards.

Tashi motioned to the dark haired boy with sharp features, "This is Patrick Zweig," she introduced, as Gianna's eyes met Patrick's gray ones, holding her stare and grinning widely. Confidence that bordered on cockiness practically radiated off him. "And this is Art Donaldson," Tashi continued, gesturing to the boy next to Patrick.

Art only allowed himself a small, shy, smile when her eyes shifted over to him. Unabashedly, Gianna let her eyes roam over Art's features. Those blond curls, those blue eyes.

God, they're both gorgeous.

Tashi placed her hand on Gianna's knee, "Patrick and Art, this is my best friend—" she started.

"Gianna Langdon," Patrick and Art interjected simultaneously, causing a Cheshire grin to form on Gianna's lips.

"Well, well, my fan club only continues to grow this tournament," Gianna joked, playing with the curly ends of her pick and drop braids.

"Deservedly so, you were absolutely amazing this tournament," Art complimented, a breathy chuckle leaving him.

"That play when you landed a split after playing a return," Patrick mentioned, beaming at her. "And you still got the point, fucking incredible!" he praised, shaking his head.

She smiled, "Oh, so you two have been avidly watching my matches then?" Gianna questioned, playfulness in her voice while slightly leaning forward in her seat.

"Ashamedly, not initially," Art admitted, and Gianna quirked brow. "But after your storybook comeback in Round 4, we knew there was no way we couldn’t stop watching you," he added quickly.

"Singles or doubles," Patrick chimed in.

"Did you by chance watch any of our matches, Gianna?" Art asked timidly, staring at her with hopeful eyes.

She smirked, "Singles or doubles?" Gianna asked back, smoothly echoing Patrick's words.

"Either," Patrick responded, his eyes drinking her in.

They both seemed mesmerized. Leaning in closer, as if they were going to learn her with their close proximity. Gianna hummed thoughtfully, leaning back in her chair and raising a finger to her chin to mull over the question. She glanced over to Tashi, who was already watching her with an amused expression. Embarrassingly, Gianna kind of forgot her best friend was literally sitting next to her, she had become too engrossed in her conversation with the newcomers.

"No, can't say that I have," Gianna answered finally, with a shrug.

Art deflated, his face falling as the tips of his ears went fiery red, while Patrick's shoulders sagged a little.

"O-Oh," Art breathed.

There was a silence. Gianna looked off to her side again to see a ghost of a grin threatening to appear on Tashi's face. When the two girls' eyes connected with each other, they burst out laughing at the same time. Both boys looked at each other wordlessly, both speechless by this.

"Gia's just fucking with you two," Tashi explained, in between laughter.

Relief couldn't have been written across their faces more clearly.

"Yeah, I actually watched your championship match while I was in the recovery room," Gianna informed, her giggles subsiding. "Your between the legs shot was very inspired, Patrick," she remarked, with a smile.

At this, Patrick puffed out his chest a bit.

"You know, they're playing against each other tomorrow in the boys singles championship match," Tashi mentioned, her eyes bouncing between the boys.

"Are they now?" Gianna responded, an intrigued smirk gracing her face while crossing one leg over the other.

"We are!" Art blurted out, almost too eagerly.

"You both should come and watch," Patrick suggested.

Gianna cocked her head to the side, "Hmm, maybe," she answered, having a little fun toying with them.

Tashi rose from her chair, reaching her hand out for Gianna's.

"Come on, my dad is waving me over to come take pictures," Tashi informed.

"This is a group activity?" Gianna questioned, her brows furrowing.

"No, but the demand for Gianna Langdon is ever growing," she reminded, her eyes filled with mirth.

"It sure is," Gianna agreed, taking her hand as her friend helped her to her feet. Gianna looked over to Patrick and Art. "Well, ciao. It was nice meeting y'all," Gianna said, waving goodbye as Tashi led her away.

"Goodbye?" Patrick jokingly scoffed. "We'll be here all night!" he called out after her.

~~~x~~~

True to their word, Patrick and Art were in the same spot where Gianna and Tashi had left them earlier and they were more than willing to continue hanging out with the girls. Which is how the group of four found themselves on the beach, slowly treading along the sand, the dark blue sky and millions of stars above them. Naturally, Tashi had found herself in the middle of the group with Patrick flanking on her left and Art on her right.

Gianna was next to Art and as they walked, their arms would accidentally brush against each other every now and then. Both of them exchanging shy smiles at the fleeting contact that sent butterflies fluttering in Gianna's stomach. She secretly relished the contact from Art, he radiated warmth similar to that of a dryer-warm blanket; a nice contrast to the cool sand between her toes.

"You know earlier, Tashi asked us who was fire and who was ice," Patrick spoke, looking over to Gianna. "I figured I should return the favor, between the two of you, who's sugar and who's spice?" he asked, his eyes bouncing from Tashi to her.

"Tashi, is definitely 'spice'," Gianna answered, and Tashi rolled her eyes with a smile. "She's more fiery than me and has a more aggressive play style than I do," she explained.

"Making you 'sugar', of course," Art reasoned, the two staring at one another. "You are the perfect mix of deadly grace and effortless balance on the court," he described, going in an almost dreamlike trance.

"Why, thank you Art," Gianna said, bumping her arm into his.

"If Tashi is 'spice' and your 'sugar', why does the media switch it around?" Patrick wondered.

"Preconceived notions, methinks," Gianna replied, simply shrugging her shoulders.

They wandered along until they settled on a spot to hang out at. Art and Patrick both sat in deck chairs while Tashi and Gianna perched themselves on a large rock. Conversation flowed between all them on a myriad of topics ranging from college, life in general, and of course tennis.

"So Gianna," Patrick began, a small curious and mischievous glint in his eyes. "Your doubles partner Bryce—"

"It's Max," Gianna corrected flatly, with a laugh.

He smirked, "I was in the ballpark," Patrick argued, throwing his hands up. "Anyways, you and Max, you two a thing?" he asked curiously, before taking a drag of his cigarette.

"Eww, no!" Tashi exclaimed, her nose twisting in disgust. "You think Gia has such low standards?" she asked back, clearly offended on Gianna's behalf.

"Tashi, come on, Max is not that bad of a person," Gianna stated, lifting her hand up to tell her to calm down.

"Honestly, I don't know how she does it," Tashi went on. "It's a miracle she can still walk after carrying Max through this entire tournament," she sneered.

"Look, Max is not someone who I would consider as an ideal mixed doubles partner," Gianna conceded, her gaze meeting everyone's. "He's mediocre actually," she said bluntly, making Patrick and Art both snicker. "However, Max as an individual and not as an athlete, he's a wonderful guy," she said, with a slight shrug. "Us dating has never once crossed my mind," she finished, waving her hand dismissively.

"So it sounds like you'll be in need of a new partner soon," Patrick hinted, a hunger in his stare.

"Hmm, I guess I will," Gianna agreed, letting a coy smile grow on her lips. "You know anybody?" she asked, tilting her head a little.

"I can think of two people off the top of my head," Art responded, taking a drag of his own cigarette and blowing it out slowly.

"Oh, is that so? And who just—" Gianna started.

Suddenly, Gianna's phone began noisily vibrating in her lap, putting an end to the playful between the boys and Gianna. She picked up her phone and flipped it open before exhaling heavily, it was her dad texting her.

"Shit, fun's over guys," Gianna announced, with another sigh. "My dad wants me back in my room," she explained, unfolding her legs.

"Your won a championship today, and you're father won't let you stay up late to celebrate?" Patrick asked in disbelief, leaning forward in his chair.

"Obviously, you don't know my father if you think a single championship win is going to get him to loosen his reins on his regimented schedule for me," Gianna stated, grabbing her sandals and letting them dangle from her fingers.

"You're about to be off to Stanford, it's insane your dad is giving you a curfew," Art chimed in.

"Well, I'm not at Stanford yet," Gianna pointed out. "And also..." she trailed off, turning to Tashi who had a knowing look on her face. "His roof, his rules," they both said in unison, after hearing those words countlessly over the years.

Finally standing up from the rock, the boys followed suit. Both of their gazes traveled the length of Gianna yet again, as if they needed to commit her to memory.

"I can walk you back to the ferry and to your hotel," Art offered kindly.

"We both could," Patrick volunteered.

"As much as I am flattered that both of you want to walk me back, I can manage just fine," Gianna assured. "Plus, we're all going to be playing an unwanted game of 21 questions if my dad sees two, random white boys walking me to my room," she remarked, with a chuckle.

Tashi pushed herself up onto her feet, "I'll come with you, Gia,"

"No, no stay, Tashi," Gianna encouraged. "Don't end the fun on my account," she insisted. "Another time will come about for all of us to hang out again, right?" she questioned.

A toothy grin broke out on Patrick's face, "There's gonna be another time?" he asked

"I don't see why not," she answered, mirroring his expression. "The three of us are going to be at Stanford together, and I'm sure you come visit from time to time. It all works out so well!" Gianna said excitedly.

Art opened his mouth to speak, but the shrill ringing of Gianna's phone silenced him. Looking down at the phone, she grimaced slightly.

"Shit, I really have to go, my dad is calling now," Gianna stressed.

"Then get going," Tashi prompted, playfully swatting her bottom.

A surprised whoop escaped Gianna's lips before morphing into a giggle as she began to half-walk, half-jog away from the group. She spun around to face them, continuing to walk backwards.

"This was really fun y'all, we should do this again, yeah?" she yelled.

"I look forward to it!" Art yelled back.

"Me too!" Patrick shouted.

Laughing, Gianna spun around and jogged away, all too aware of the three pair of eyes boring into her back.

~~~x~~~

Propped up against the hotel bed headboard, Gianna was tucked underneath the blankets with a well-worn copy of Baking with Julia in her hands. If tennis was her first love, then baking was her second. There was nothing more relaxing than to Gianna than being able to slow down and just allowing herself to focus on precision, without any of the heightened stakes that came with tennis. Not to mention, beating eggs or whisking a cake were great ways to rid herself of any frustration she may be feeling.

A series of rhythmic knocks on her door pulled Gianna from her musings. She didn't even have to ask who it was, she could tell by the pattern of the familiar knock.

"Just use the card I gave you, Tashi," Gianna called, her voice just loud enough for her to hear.

There's a quiet click of the door unlocking before the door opened a crack and Tashi's head popped into her room, a shit eating grin on her face.

"Hurry up and get in here, before my dad sees!" Gianna ordered, with a laugh.

Closing the door behind her, Tashi pranced over to Gianna and sat beside her on the floor on the edge of her bed.

"Tell me everything! What happened after I left?" Gianna asked, a smile of her own on her face.

"They invited me to come up to their room,"

"And you went?"

"I did," Tashi answered, a smirk on her lips.

Gianna landed a playful hit on Tashi's arm, "No fucking way!" she whispered, her eyes wide. "You hooked up with both of them?"

"I didn't sleep with them," Tashi corrected. "We only made out, and then they made out," she added, smirking proudly.

Gianna raised an eyebrow, "They made out? Patrick and Art?" she questioned.

"Yep," Tashi grinned.

"On their own or did they have some help?" Gianna asked, arching a brow.

Wordlessly, Tashi plucked Gianna's book from her hands and she straddled her, resting each leg on either side of Gianna.

"They did most of the heavy lifting, I just gave them the push they needed," Tashi explained, looping her arms around her friend's neck.

"Now, I'm a little jealous. I missed out on all the fun," Gianna complained, sticking out her lower lip in a mock pout.

"Gia babe, don't worry, I did not forget about you," Tashi reassured, as Gianna hands came to rest on Tashi's thighs. "Remember their match tomorrow?" she reminded.

"Yeah,"

"Winner gets my number…." Tashi trailed off, removing her right arm from around Gianna's neck. "And yours," she finished, lightly tapping the tip of her nose.

A slow smile spread across Gianna's lips as Tashi's words sunk in. She knew exactly what her friend was up to, especially if it meant Tashi could watch some "real fuckin' tennis".

"Tashi Duncan, the girl that you are," Gianna praised, letting out a chuckle.

Leaning forward, Gianna planted a soft kiss on Tashi's lips. It was only meant to be a quick peck, but as Gianna went to pull away, Tashi held her face, keeping their lips connected.

Tashi withdrew herself from Gianna, "Tomorrow is gonna be so fucking good," she grinned, her eyes twinkling at the thought. "And guess what is the best part about all of this, Gia?" she questioned, their forehead resting against each others.

"What?'

"We already have them wrapped our fingers, without even trying," Tashi answered, sending the girls into a fit of giggles.

「seashells and hotel rooms」 Art Donaldson x F!reader 🐚

Hi! this is another part of a serie I'm planning to write but can be read as a stand-alone, enjoy!

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“she's on a whole other level,” Patrick told him before Tashi entered the field.

"You mean her game?"

"No! I mean she is the hottest woman I've ever seen"

And Art couldn't help but agree because, even though her and Patrick's tastes in girls were completely different, there was no denying that Tashi was a beautiful girl.

But what struck him most about Tashi was you, her best friend.

The blond had seen you at the same match in which he had seen Tashi play for the first time: you were sitting in the front row next to the tennis player's parents and not only were you the first to stand up after the last point to scream with joy in Tashi's favor, but you were also the only person Tashi looked in the eye after the best points and the first thing Art thought of you was that for the tennis player you must have been a really special person.

'A special and incredibly pretty person' he had thought when you turned towards him at the end of the game to wrap Tashi's parents in a hug and it was enough for him to see your face to completely forget the compliments he had given to your best friend before.

So that same evening he didn't have to be dragged with force by Patrick to the Adidas party when he proposed again to go so that he could meet the winner of the tournament, even if he pretended to be annoyed by the idea.

And now he finds himself dejectedly drinking a beer a few meters away from you, while you are dancing with Tashi on the dance floor, probably without having the slightest idea who he is and this realization makes him sigh, attracting the attention of his friend nearby to him.

"you should go talk to her" patrick tells him nudging him after noticing Art's eyes on you and Art looks at him like he just said one of the most ridiculous things he's ever heard.

"I can't go there and talk to her while she's dancing, I have to wait for the right moment" he replies and his eyes don't leave your body.

The right moment comes a few minutes later when you whisper something in your friend's ear and she takes your hand to lead you to the table where you left your drinks.

"now" and shoves the raven-haired guy next to him to make him move.

"hey, I'm Patrick Zweig"

"Art Donaldson"

Tashi sits down and lets you do the talking "we know who you guys are, you're fire and ice" you sit next to your friend with the drink in your hand.

“oh my god” Art mutters under his breath but you seem to hear it anyway, as you hide a giggle behind the glass of your drink and the blonde feels his ears getting hot.

"who's who?" Tashi takes a sip from her drink and points to the two boys.

"what do you think?" Patrick smirks but your friend just looks at him without responding.

"damn you were incredible today it didn't even feel like tennis, it felt like a completely different game" Art turns to the tennis player but his eyes don't leave your figure for more than half a second and although you don't seem to notice, too busy looking proudly at the your best friend, Tashi does it and smiles in amusement.

"thank you very much".

"Do you play tennis too? I don't think I've ever seen you" Patrick turns to you.

"no I'm just a model, but Tashi taught me the basics so she can beat myself there too" you joke and Tashi shoves you lightly.

"don't trust her, she's very good actually" Art smiles.

“You go to Stanford, right?” Tashi continues addressing Art.

"yeah, how do you know?"

"I just accepted the offer and they nominated you, next year we'll both be there" Patrick could swear he saw his friend's eyes light up.

"Are you coming to Standford too?" Art asks to make sure he heard correctly.

“that's right” you nod and smile and from that point on neither of you are listening to the conversation Tashi and Patrick are having, your eyes don't leave his and just as Art is about to ask you something else he is interrupted by a voice.

"girls I have to steal you for a second, you have to take photos with the sponsors".

“we'll be right there” you both stand up and Tashi takes your hand.

"we have to go... but it was nice meeting you"

"yes" both you and Art say and Tashi turns to look at you strangely but you don't even notice her and continue to smile at Art like 'an imbecile', in her opinion.

"...ok" she laughs in dismay and drags you away with her.

“You should at least try not to look like a total loser.”

"Shut up, Patrick."

They stay silent for a few minutes.

“…so when do we go back to them to continue talking?”

"we can't approach them again, we'd look like two losers"

"So what do we do?"

"we wait for the shuttle to the hotel" but as he says this he is sitting on the chair next to him.

"Ok... shall we go?" Art also sits on the couch.

"yeah yeah we're going" and they don't leave.

The two boys stay and watch you until they lose your figures in the crowd and Art is forced to look around for the first time since he arrived at the party and only now does he realize that, hanging on the columns along side the photos of Tashi, there are also some shots of you, dressed completely in Adidas.

'you must be a model for this brand too' and he thinks your photos are a pretty satisfying way to fill the gap you left at the moment.

"Hey!" Patrick shouts, Art looks in the direction where his friend shouted and sees Tashi turning towards them, but you're not there and the enthusiasm he had had for a second disappears.

"you two have a final tomorrow, shouldn't you be...getting ready or something?"

"We already know how it will go" Patrick says, and Art doesn't bother to answer.

“where is Y/N?” he asks instead and Tashi smiles.

"she left an half an hour ago, she wasn't feeling very well".

"do you smoke?"

"no... you?"

"yes, do you want to go to the beach?"

Art doesn't listen to anything from that point on, he just follows them listlessly to the beach and even there he isn't very interested in the conversation, his thoughts are interrupted only when Tashi turns to him.

"I should go or my dad will come looking for me, Art don't act like a kicked puppy, you'll see her again in Stanford" Art smiles at her embarrassed and sinks into the deckchair, was it really that obvious?

"come and visit us in our room" Patrick interjects again.

"you want me to tuck you in?"

"no, let's keep talking... about tennis" Tashi smiles and shakes his head.

"good night guys"

Art nods at her and for a while he and Patrick remain on the beach in silence.

........

If Art was surprised when Tashi showed up in front of their bedroom, he was even more surprised when his friend kicked him out of the room as soon as Tashi gave him the slightest sign that she reciprocated his intentions.

And it was for this reason that now Art stood in front of the closed door of his bedroom wearing only his unbuttoned pink shirt and a pair of boxers, his face stunned and his hands at his sides as a sign of surrender.

"I owe you one man" he had said before closing the door in his face.

'you owe me a lot' Art thinks and in dismay he turns to leave the hotel and walk towards the beach in front of the hotel.

He thought he would take a walk on the beach alone until he was sure the two were done (Patrick had kicked him out so quickly he hadn't even given him time to take his phone with him) but what he finds on the beach makes him want to go back to the room just to bow before the raven's feet and kiss them, thanking him for being the horniest man on the face of the earth.

Because a few meters away from him, with feet immersed in the water and holding a handful of shells, he sees you.

He stands in shock for a second as you unknowingly crouch down to pick up another shell from the water.

“hey” you gasp and turn your head quickly when you hear a voice behind you.

"Art! what could be the chances of us meeting like this" you quickly relax as soon as you notice the blond and laugh.

"very few, but I'm glad they weren't zero" you blush and Art leaves his slippers next to yours before walking closer to you still in the water but remaining on the shoreline.

"are you feeling better?" he asks but you're too busy collecting more shells to understand what he's talking about.

"mh?" you get up and put the shell along with the others in your left hand, Art notices that you've taken so many that you can't close your hand anymore and wonders how long you've been here collecting them.

"here... give them to me" he extends his hand towards you and you thank him with a smile before passing them to him "Tashi told me that you left the party early 'cause you weren't feeling well" he then explains.

"oh that! yes... I wasn't really feeling bad, let's say I was just a little tired of socializing, I like parties but up to a certain point" you start walking and Art laughs before following you closely.

"you did the right thing, if Patrick hadn't been so determined to stay and flirt with Tashi, I would have gladly left earlier too" he puts the shells in his shirt pocket on his chest and then bends down as soon as he sees one on the sand that you would like.

"Oh really?" you ask him amused but Art doesn't notice your joking tone and bends down to rinse it in the water before getting up again, he hums in response.

“So it was just my imagination that made me feel your eyes on me all evening?” you move closer to him until you're only a few inches away and Art just stands there in embarrassment at having been caught.

Your lips are so close to his that Art feels the need to lean in to kiss them, but just when they're about to touch you pull away with a smile and Art wants to throw his head in the water and stay there until he drowns from embarrassment.

"So... I take it from what you're wearing or rather, what you're not wearing," Art looks down and smiles embarrassed, "that Tashi and your friend's evening is going very well," you look him up and down.

"so good that Patrick kicked me out of the room before I could get dressed decently."

"at least you have an excuse for being dressed like that, I went out dressed like this 'cause I thought I wouldn't meet anyone" you laugh and Art looks down to see how you're dressed: your nightgown is white and short, face free of make-up, your hair are loose on your shoulders and Art's heart swells in his chest at seeing you so comfortable compared to how elegant you were dressed earlier at the party, he definitely likes this version of you more.

"How was your evening going before Patrick kicked you out?" you ask him to change the subject.

"everything was going well, until Patrick thought of telling our most embarrassing story to Tashi to impress her" your eyes light up with curiosity and Art already hears what you are about to ask him, he stops walking and you stop in front of him, "no. You'd lose any interest you might have for me if I told you."

"oh come on! Tashi will tell me about it anyway as soon as we see each other, you might as well be the one to do it" Art looks at you for a second and has half a mind to lie to you and tell you a story that might be less embarrassing, but nothing comes to mind and he sighs, at least hopes it will make you laugh.

"Ok then... when we were 12 Patrick taught me... he explained to me how to jerk off" your eyes widen in surprise, you expected anything but this.

"Wait, what?"

"... when we were little we shared a room at the academy, he was very precocious and I was in normal times ok?" you give a 'mhmh' of agreement to let him know that you're still listening him and take another shell from the water "and one time, he thought I was asleep, and he was... jerking off, at some point I asked him what he was doing and he told me, then he asked me if I had ever done it and I told him no and so... he showed me... how to do it" he looks down to see if on your face there are some signs of disgust but he only sees a dismayed expression.

“what do you mean he showed you” you ask and an amused smile appears on your face.

"no, no he did it on his bed and I did it on mine, we did it together but on opposite sides of the room" he parts his arms to make the point.

"...you mean... in silence?"

"no no we talked about Kat, Patrick said it was better to think about a person while you do it and so I asked him who he was thinking about and he told me 'Kat Zimmermann', one of our tennis partners, and so... I thought about her too..."

You laugh so hard that you throw your head back and for a moment you seem to lose your balance.

"and then what happened?" you ask again through laughter.

“well I was a little surprised by that, I just stood there all covered up” you laugh even harder and Art can’t stop talking.

"I looked like a child who spilled milk on himself, Patrick was an expert by that time and kept a sock near the bed, but he forgot to tell me that detail and so... yes..." from laughter you lose your balance and from your crounched down position you fall with your butt in the water and Art is quick to bend down next to you to pick you up, but your body is shaking with laughter and the job is difficult for him.

“oh my god Y/N are you okay?” he does everything he can to look worried but the amused smile on his lips makes it seem less than credible, your arm wraps around his bicep for support but it still doesn't look like you want to pull yourself up and so Art patiently waits for you to stop laughing.

“That's the most adorable story I've ever heard” you say and Art looks at your smiling face, it was definitely worth it to tell you this story.

Finally you calm down and your eyes meet again like just before, your faces are close again and Art moves slightly closer until your foreheads are touching, his eyes are half-closed and looking for yours.

"If I try to kiss you, will you push me away again or-" his voice is cut off by your lips on him and for a moment he's surprised by the gesture, but he wastes no time putting one hand on your jaw and the other on your side to reciprocate the kiss.

He's so caught up in it that he doesn't remember the unstable position he's in, and when you push forward slightly to intensify the kiss, he's not ready to hold himself and falls back too: the hand on your hip clings to your nightgown and suddenly tugs you towards him, you yelp as the blond makes you kneel between his legs, your hands move to cup his face and your thumbs gently caress his cheekbones.

Art tilts his head to the side and his tongue parts your lips, he moans when your tongues meet and his breathing quickens until it's labored just like yours.

You move again and sit on his lap, your legs on either side of his hips and your arms encircling his neck with your hands in his blonde hair, you tug lightly at the strands of hair and he whimpers against your lips, you try to suppress a laugh but Art notices.

His teeth take your lower lip and nibble it gently and this time it's you the one who moans, when you try to bring your lips together he moves away slightly and when you try again a second, third time he moves away again.

“You’re mean,” you push his chest before placing your hands on his belly to steady yourself above him and you can finally see, as far as the moon will allow, the state he is in: his soft cheeks are adorably flushed, the eyes are barely open in a relaxed way, his lips are swollen and parted to catch trembling breaths and the chest rises and falls more and more slowly.

And the way he looks at you makes you feel like you're the only one in the world.

Art lets go of your hips and leans back on his arms to get a better look at you too and what he sees has to be the most ethereal thing he's ever seen: you on top of him, hair slightly messy and nightgown ruffled, one shoulder pad has slipped off the shoulder and Art puts it back in place before moving his hand toward your neck to bring you in again.

He's about to kiss you again but you push him back and the blonde is about to ask you why when-

"ACHOO"

Art bursts out laughing and throws his head back "that's one way to ruin the atmosphere" you laugh too and for a while you remain silent looking at each other, the ocean breeze makes you tremble but you don't feel like moving yet, even if you know you have to.

“We should get out of the water, you have the finale tomorrow and I wouldn't want you to get sick” you get off his lap and finally stand up, but he doesn't follow you.

"Are you ok?" you ask him.

"yeah... I just need a second... here... alone" it takes you a second to understand but when you see him move uncomfortably under the water you understand and burst out laughing.

"okay then, I'll wait for you outside the water"

“I'll be right there” he tells you and you gently run a hand through his hair as you get out of the water.

'ok Art. think of something unattractive, your grandmother, your grandmother's friends naked-'

When Art joins you on the beach a while later, despite his heart pounding in his chest in fear, he holds out his hand and is relieved when you take it with a smile.

"shall we go back?" he asks and, as you walk back to the hotel, you think that later you'll have to thank Tashi for being the horniest girl you know.

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Will correct eventual mistakes later, hope you enjoyed it!

Please, let me know what I can improve or if you liked it, your opinion matters a lot to me 💞

(do not copy or translate).

art cums the second u slap him for the first time when ur on top

he moans and begs u to hit him harder and degrade him for being such a fucking loser ughhhhhhh

warnings: smut 18+, riding, creampie, face slapping, degradation

it’s only been a few minutes but art already has to bite his swollen lip in order not to cum at the sight of you rolling your hips on top of him, tits bouncing up and down. the sounds of moans fill the room— not yours though, but his, coupled with a string of curse words and your name repeatedly spilling from his mouth.

“baby, ‘m gonna— ‘m gonna cum s-“ art begins but his face abruptly meets the palm of your hand, slapping him on the cheek and leaving a red mark on his skin as a whimper leaves his lips. “you gonna cum already? fuck, you’re so useless art.” you hiss, not even near your own orgasm yet as your hips increase in pace, nails digging into his chest.

“harder, p-please.” art pleads, causing you to furrow your brows. “what?” “i— i want you to slap me again, please, baby.” you scoff at his desperation, feeling a surge of power as you gaze down at him— his blue eyes barely open, his plump lips parted, and his blonde hair clinging to his forehead, sweat trickling down his flushed face.

“so fuckin’ pathetic.” you sneer with a condescending tone before sticking your fingers into his mouth and forcing him to suck on them, “god, you’re such a fucking loser” you remove your spit-drenched digits from his mouth and drag his own saliva over his face, making a mess everywhere before your palm strikes his face with force once more, but even harder this time, the stinging sensation through his skin igniting a feeling of ecstasy throughout his entire body.

“oh my fucking god” art moans with his eyes closed before you suddenly feel a familiar pool of warmth deep inside of you, his hands tightly gripping your hips with all their might. “poor thing, couldn’t hold it any longer, huh?” he merely hums in response, unable to form any coherent sentences as he comes down from his high.

“‘m so sorry, baby. just… feels too fuckin’ good.” he murmurs, chest heaving up and down before you speed up again, bouncing up and down on his cock as his warm sperm drips down the insides of your thighs. hitched breaths escape his mouth as his brows knit together and his muscles tense from the intense overstimulation he’s experiencing. “so you’re sorry, huh? then shut the fuck up and help me cum.”

Agreement prt1

Art Donaldson x Fem black reader

Warnings: cursing, infidelity(kinda), slight smut (fingering) sub ish Art. Slight he loves her more trope, needy Art and probably some other stuff

Word count: 2k

Summary: Despite being engaged to one of the top and richest tennis players in the US, you feel unfulfilled. But everything changes when you transfer schools and meet Art Donaldson, who just can’t quit you.

Author note: GUYS GUYS, PLEASE DON’T KILL ME. MY WRITERS BLOCK HAS BEEN SO BAD YOU DONT UNDERSTANDDD, But I’m finishing all my requests and unfinished fics soon so stay tuned. 😚

Sitting on the bed in your brand new silk pajamas, you found yourself distracted, just like you had been the day before and the day before that. You played with The edge of the book you were attempting to read,mindlessly repeated the last sentence over and over in your head trying to retain anything. The loud television and the whirring of the ceiling fan only added to the chaos. Plus the freezing cold air conditioning of the hotel room made it impossible to concentrate.

In a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of focus, you clumsily reached for the remote, hoping to silence at least one of the distractions. your eyes falling on your fiancé who was sleeping peacefully, his dark hair all messy, in his crisp white t-shirt that matched perfectly to the expensive hotel sheets, he looked so sweet,so innocent. You thought if he slept more, maybe everything could work out

Mike slept while snuggled into your side. Like he often did when you two shared a bed, You had attempted to remove him several times but every time he ended right back at your side so you gave up, In any other scenario his action would seem romantic but they only made you feel worse than you were already feeling. In an effort to relieve some guilt you liked to reminded yourself your engagement was never out of love but business. But then again the line did blur in the beginning of your relationship. Before you left for Stanford, you and Mike got caught up in the act of pretending be in love.

After that you could never really tell real from fake with him, he didn’t like you talking to other men. He’d shower you with really expensives grift but then leave town and not answer your calls or text for days. But when no one was watching he’d try to hug and kiss you. The whole thing was confusing, You had known idea how he persived your relationship but you knew You Felt guilty, without all the technicallys, you knew that you still lied,

The people ate up the role you and Mike played. occasionally you’d have to leave campus and go out in public holding hands or sharing kisses in the rain. But it was all for show, at least on your end. Your Dad made sure to reminded you That, it was the love sick tennis player in love with his coaches daughter that sold tickets. kept the stands full of women hoping to catch the world win romances in action. Also Brought in a large number of his clientele. He promised It wouldn’t be forever unless you wanted to be. And Really how could you complain? 20 years old engaged to One of the wealthiest and most talented tennis players in the world and he wasn't bad looking either. Before all this, you weren't too keen on love anyway, so what were you really missing out on?

~~~

Ten months before

Patrick serves but Art's attention is elsewhere. The ball zooms past Art for the second time, prompting Patrick to turn around and finally see who's behind him. His gaze lands on you, playing tennis alone on a smaller court. The sun shining off your smooth, glistening skin, and your pink tennis dress gracefully flowing with each jump and run.

"Oh, I get it," Patrick chuckles, glancing back at Art. "She's hot. You should talk to her, maybe offer her a lesson. She could use it," Patrick suggests, looking back at you as you let another tennis ball from the machine fly past you . "I think I've seen her somewhere before," Patrick mutters, tapping his racket against his leg.

Still in a daze, Art jogged over to your court. "Oh, you're serious," Patrick murmured watching as he went over to you following closely behind him. "Hi," Art greets, slightly out of breath walking up to the net. "Hi?" you respond, slightly confused, giving him a small wave.

"Are you new here?"

"To the school or the court?" You ask

"Both."

"I'm new to both” you say a little breathless wiping sweat from your forehead.

“I just transferred," you explain.

"Where did you go before?"

"A small community college in Virginia."

"What about tennis?"

"You have a lot of questions," you laugh, tapping your tennis racket against your leg.

"Im just curious “Art jokes.

"I'm just doing this because my fiancé is a tennis player. I thought I'd try to learn," you reveal.

“Finance?” Art questions.

“Yep”

“ how old are you like 20?”

“ actually 19, I turn twenty in a couple months”

“And you're getting married?” Art asked clearly dumbfounded

“Yes” you laugh at his forwardness

", is he a pro or college?", Art asked, assuming the answer would be college.

“Pro," you replied, letting your curls fall freely from your hair tie. Art couldn't help but admire how beautiful you were,too young to be tied down

"Anyone we would know?" Art asks following you as you walk over to the bench with your tennis bag. "Hmm, maybe," you hum, sitting down to tie your shoe. "Mike Fitts."

"Your fiancé is Mike Fitts!" Patrick exclaims a little too loudly. "Mhmm," you confirm, starting to tie your other shoe. "If Mike Fitts is your fiancé, why are you here?"

"Are you referring to the court or the school?" you ask, looking up at both Art and Patrick.

"Both," Art and Patrick respond in unison.

You chuckled as you stuffed your tennis racket into your bag. "Well, whether I'm engaged or not, I always planned to graduate college. And Mike is too busy right now to teach me, so I'm trying to teach myself."

The two of them nod in understanding as you stand up. "It was really nice meeting both of you, but I have class," you announce, throwing your tennis bag over your shoulder. "By the way, it would be great if you guys could keep the whole fiancé thing on the down low. I'm trying to keep it as quiet as possible for now."

"Yeah, no problem," one of them replies.

"Of course," the other adds.

"Thanks, I really appreciate it," you say giving them a small smile before turning around to leave the court.

just as you're about to walk away, Art calls out after you, "Wait! You said you're trying to learn, right? we could coach you if you want” Patrick gives him a look and Art ignores it waiting for your response.

You pause, considering the offer.

”the both of you?” you asked gesturing between them. Art gives you a nod. at that moment The risk didn't seem too big so you said

. "Sure," with small shrug

"How about tomorrow at 12:30?" you suggest, checking the pink Bvlgari watch Mike got you.

"Perfect," Art responds with a shit eating smile

“Ok see you guys ” you laugh walking out the court

~~~~~~

“Yeah see” Patrick says reading a newspaper. “Olympic coach, Dylan yLn, Daughter engaged to Olympics gold medalist Mike fitts” Patrick reads next to a photo of you and Mike smiling as you showed off your huge

engagement ring. “She wasn’t bull shitting”

“Let me see” Art says grabbing the newspaper. “She didn't have on her engagement ring when we saw her...” Art trails off

“You can't be serious” Patrick laughs

“What?”

“She’s engaged Art, not to anyone either,” Patrick leaned in on the table so only he could hear. “she’s engaged Mike Fitts!”

“I didn't say anything,” Art defends

“ you don't have to” Patrick says stealing a fry off Arts plate plopping it in him mouth.

”I know you,”

~~~~~

After that day, everything seemed to blend together. Art and Patrick dedicated themselves to training you throughout the weekdays for three entire months until you got tired of it and decided on once a week. You told Mike you found a coach but never told him who. Since they were kinda the only people you knew in the entire school, the three of you grew close fast. You started going out to bars and parties together. you had your most memorable college moments with the two of them. And then, your birthday arrived. Patrick had left for some torment and it was just you and Art.

You two were just having so much fun that night. On thing led to another And before you realized it, the two of you were constantly having “fun together”. It didn't matter where - in the dorm, in the shower, or even on the floor. It was bad, but you two couldn't stop

Trying to clear your mind you Let out a sigh. you carefully remove Mike from your side sitting up to taking a sip of you're water on the nightstand. Trying to ignore the ache of your core. This is how you spent every night away from him, needy, uncomfortable. You heard a knock at the door which almost caused you to spill water on yourself. You Quickly put your drink down and run to answer it before the person could knock again careful to be quiet not to wake up Mike.

You swung the door open to find Art standing there, hair slightly damp, with huge smile on his face. "Are you out of your mind?" you whisper, stepping out of the room and shutting the door quietly behind you. You can't help but notice his thin athletic hoodie and gym shorts. Slightly wet clinging to his skin as if he just stepped out of the shower.

"It's past one ,"Art huffed out , his voice filled with urgency and desire as he leaned in for a kiss. his hand gently cradling the side of your face in the process.

When the realization of what was happening washed over you, you pulled away, but still stayed close enough to feel his breath against your skin. "Art," you breathed out, eyes darting down the hall to check if anyone saw. Your hand instinctively found its place on his strong chest, you savored the feeling and the look of your manicured nails there, not knowing when you be able to do it again.

"I like these," Art hummed, playing with the hem of your pajama shorts. He rolled the fabric between his fingers, his big hand gracing you thighs in the process. The little touch sent shivers down your spine. You somehow composed yourself pushing him away gently with your index finger, creating some distance between you two.

He looked at you with sad eyes like a rejected puppy. "Mike’s sleeping inside," you whisper, worried someone could hear. "What does that mean?"

There was a long pause as you carefully choose your next words. Art stared at you intently, trying to decipher your expression. "You slept with him?” Art asks, as if he already knew the answer.

"No, I didn't sleep with him!” You whisper yelled, “He just showered and fell asleep," you explained,

"What's bothering you then?"

"I feel guilty."

"You didn't feel guilty at Stanford."

"Mike wasn't at Stanford."

“You care about Mike's feelings now ?" Art's asks furrows his brow, his voice filled with a mix of confusion and hurt.

" I don’t know… he’s been nicer lately and were supposed to be married in three days”

“You’re actually thinking about going through with it?” Art asked the hurt now evident in his voice.

“There’s nothing I can do now, I signed contracts, this isn’t just about us anymore I’ve told you this”

“What about the private investors?”

"That's just a 'what if,' a perfect 'what if,' but we don't even know if he's seeing someone."

“ If I win tomorrow?”

“Art If you win are lose tomorrow it doesn’t change anything, my Dad expects me at the alter on Sunday regardless, nothings gonna change that”

“But you don’t love him ”

“ I could” your words come out more a question, maybe a hope. “I loved you?”

“You love me” Art corrects

"There's too much at stake now, Art. This is my father's career. We don't come from money, this is all he has."

“You honestly believe this will ruin his career?”

“It could” you reply with a small shrug your voice cracking slightly.

“It won’t” Art response

“You don’t know that”

“ Don’t do this ” Art whispered closing the small space between you. He sounded so tortured, like he was pleading with you.

you hadn't realize it but tears welled in your eyes Threatening to spill any moment. When You blinked an a tear fell down your cheek. Art tenderly brushed it away with his thumb. The stress of the last two weeks had finally caught up to you. “it wasn’t supposed to be this hard” you murmured, your voice barely audible, tears streaming down your face as Art wiped them away.

“Do you love me?” his questions sounded genuine but you knew, he already knew the answer. ”more than i’d like to” you joke, using the back of your hand to dry your eyes.

“Then let me make you feel better,” Art whispered leaning down so he was directly above your ear.

“You’re right about what you said earlier, Mike wasn’t there at Stanford”. He paused for a second moving a piece of your hair out the way, “I was,” he hummed brushing his face against yours “just me and you” he whispered leaving a trail of kisses on the outside of your earlobe down your neck. Causing Your breath catch in your throat .“We had fun right?” Art question, his voice deep and breathy causing you to instinctively press your legs together as you leaned back against the door. “Art” you mumble trying to shake the sexual haze that was swirling inside you.

“I missed you” he whispered his free hand slinking up the side of you short griping your thigh, hiking your leg up slightly. “So bad…All day”

“we can't” you manage to breathe out unconvisingly.

“I’ll beg,”

“Art” you warned

“I’ll do anything baby” he mumbles leaving slowly kisses on your neck. “Anything you want me to” he says kissing under your chin. “ I need you” he hums kissing down your neck, ”don’t you need me?” Art asked kissing below your ear. You don't respond giving small nodd biting the inside of your lip. “Can I hear it?” Art asked, the way his voice sounded so desperate, Damn near whiney had you looking for friction. ”I need you so fucking bad” you basically moan pushing your body against his.

“I love you so much you don't understand” Art said smiling against you cheek. sliding his free hand down the front of your shorts. He rubs his fingers through your folds collecting your wetness on his fingers. You throw your head back with a quiet moan, quickly biting your lip to silence yourself. “Fuck your so wet” Art groans before pulling his hand from your shorts, sucking his fingers clean like it was second nature. You clenched around nothing at the sight.

“I missed that taste” he groans returning his hand to your heat. “Can I make you cum right here” Art huffed out peeping down the hall.

"Yea,” you breathed out, nodding your head feverishly. He could have asked you to drive to the moon in that moment, and you would have said yes. Art slowly pushed two fingers inside of you creating a medium pace before bringing his thumb to rub your clit, you moan lifting your hips to meet his fingers. “Fuck I could eat you out right here” Art groaned watching you Practically fuck yourself on his fingers. “Promise me you won't ever let him see you like this” Art goans leaving kisses on your collar done. “this is mine”

”You can bearly hear a word he's saying the feeling of his thumb on your clit and finger damn near touching you cervix was too much to bear. “I’m gonna cum” you moaned out grabbing Arts shoulder hard in an effort to ground yourself. “I can feel it,” Art breathed pressing his forehead against yours. He presses down harder on your clit causing you to buck into his fingers, letting out a loud moan You cum. his movement don't falter, he continues to pump them in and out while still rubbing your clit until he feels like you've finally had enough.

he removes his fingers from your pussy returning them to his mouth. “I’ll never get tired of that” Art laughs leaning in for a kiss, you return it, taste yourself on his lips. He gently places you leg back on the floor and you stumbled slightly grading his shoulder for balance. He instantly goes to your waist holding you steady. “You ok?” Art ask slight consern on his face. You don't respond afraid of what your voice would sound like after an orgasm like that.

You nod with a smile and Art led you to the hotel room directly next to yours, pulling out a key card from his pocket with a grin.

“You didn't,” you exclaimed as he opened the door.

“I did,” he replied, motioning for you to enter.

“How did you even know our room number?” you ask, stepping inside.

“I have my ways,” he answered, closing the door behind you.

“How did you afford this?” you asked, looking around.

“Are you going to keep ask questioning or are you going to take of your clothes” Art laughs , watching as you sit on the bed.

“You first,” you countered, settling back .

“Yes ma’am,” Art chuckled, starting to undress.

~~~~

Morning arrives and you found yourself back in your original room. Mike was in the bathroom getting ready while you fix your dress in the mirror of the bedroom. As you adjust the straps, you notice a hickey you hadn't seen before, one you forgot to cover up after coming back last night. You laid your hair over it and walk towards the bathroom to retrieve your makeup bag, slightly tripping as your sore legs gave out on you. "You good?" Mike asked, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, I think I'm just sore from tennis practice," you say, reaching past him to get your makeup bag.

"You know no one expects you to play," Mike laughs while drying his hair with a towel. "I'm not doing it for anyone, I want to learn," your words come out more offended than you intended. "I just mean you could spend your time doing something else."

"Like what?" You respond plainly, walking out of the bathroom back to the mirror. "Like calling your dad and asking him what time he'll be here," Mike says from the now open bathroom. "Is your phone not working?" You asked rhetorically, pulling out your concealer . "I don't want to fight today, okay," Mike Replies sternly, looking at you through the reflection of the mirror. "This is a big match," he mumbles while running his toothbrush under the water.

"I thought you said it was going to be 'nothing,'" you chuckle dryly, applying the concealer as his face was turned. "It is, but from what your Dad's been saying, he's been getting good. So I'd like to be on my A-game and not have you trying to start shit."

"Whatever you want honey" you respond, quietly laughing in disbelief. He had resorted right back to his old ways,How could you ever agree to marry someone like him, someone so vastly different from the man you spent the night with.

~~~~

soon as you and Mike were finished getting ready, your father called you to come downstairs to join him for breakfast. You and Mike both stood in line, slightly overdressed, picking out your favorite breakfast items. Mike only getting French toast, disregarding his strict diet. Suddenly, you heard a familiar laughter and turned around to see Art chatting with your father near the entrance. Your heart sank as your father motioned for you both to come over. After dropping off your plates, you and Mike walked towards them, feeling Mike's hand slip around your waist.

"I'd like you to meet someone," your father announced with a smile, putting his arm around Art's shoulder. "This is Art Donaldson," he introduced, "the man I'm competing against today." Mike stated extending his hand for a handshake, and Art reciprocated. Your stomach churned at the sight. "This is Mike, you know him, he's also my daughter's fiancé." Your father says with a smile.

"Stressful, huh?" Art jokes. "Oh, you have no idea," your Dad replies, laughing. "You're both at the same college, right? Stanford?" your Dad asked, nodding towards you. “maybe you could try your luck at training her because I just can't get through," your dad jokes. Art's eyes rake over you, as if looking at you for the first time. "It be my pleasure" Art smiles, looking directly at you. You to discreetly warn him with your eyes but You notice Mike's grip on your waist tighten, clearly not pleased. "Actually, I've been training y/n already, she's improving every day," Mike says, planting a quick kiss on your head.

"Really?" Art inquires, trying to keep up the act to the best of his abilities. "Monday through Friday," Mike replies with a smug grin. “How do you manage with your Busy schedule?” Art asks tilting his head to the side slightly in the process.

“You find time for the people you love,” Mike says with a fake smile. You had to physically hold back your laugh. But you played it off as wiping your face. He had taken a line straight from media training. Silence filled the air as the two have a silent conversation with their eyes.

“Well I wanted to introduce all of you, as I will officially be coaching Art starting next fall,"

Your Dad says in an attempt to break the tension. But it only makes it worse, Somehow Mike's grip on you tightened even more, now you were concerned he’d leave a bruise . "When did you make this decision?" Mike asked, his face showing no emotion but you could tell he was angry. "two weeks ago, and I've been waiting for the right moment to properly introduce you two. I know the timing is awkward with the match, but it's better to do it now than later."

Mike doesn’t say anything giving an expressionless nod. There was another awkward pause before you decided to speak up. "It was nice meeting you…Art?" you trail off , purposely sounding unsure. He nodded with a knowing smile. "But our food is getting cold," you joked, trying to escape the suffocating tension. "I wouldn't want to keep the couple from their food," Art said, while a smiling again only looking directly at you. You wanted to scream, he was being so obvious and the way Mike was already acting, you knew you wouldn’t hear the end of it. "You two eat, I have to go handle some things, I won’t be long" your father said, gesturing for you and Mike to sit at the table before walking off with Art.

Once the two of you sit back at the table you feel caught. "I don't want you near that guy," Mike says, taking a sip of his coffee. You roll your eyes and stab at your scrambled eggs. “He was basically eye fucking you the whole time, and it doesn’t help that your dress is so tight”

“I think you forget sometimes this isn’t real,” you reply, taking a bite.

"Lower your voice," Mike warns, glancing around to see if anyone heard.

"You didn't care about it being real when you accepted the gifts," he scoffs, "or in Virginia."

"It was once, Mike. And every day, you make me regret it."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. You don't get to control me just because you buy me shit. Anyone can buy me shit."

“I told you i’m not doing this with you today” Mike laughs dryly standing up from the table. "I'll see you later, okay babe?" he says a bit louder, forcing a fake smile as he plants a kiss on your head before walking away. You try your best not to flinch when he touches you. Once he's gone, your phone buzzes, and you glance down to see an unsaved number. It's a text from Art.

“meet me at the restaurant next door in 20, alone.”

Author note : GUYS FEEL FREE TO COMMENT I LOVE READING COMMENTS