400 Lux - Art Donaldson

400 lux - art donaldson

cw; sexual content, drinking, language?? (if this is bad no one tell me!)

;; art and reader if he never met tashi 

;we’re never done with killing time, can i kill it with you, till the veins run red and blue? we come around here all the time, got a lot to not do, let me kill it with you 

you met art donaldson at the stanford class of 2010 mixer. you knew him by then, of course, everyone did. he was art donaldson, six time grand slam champion and french open winner. in contrast, you were an english major with no real interest in tennis at all. your singular interest in the sport was art himself, despite not knowing him, you knew he was the most beautiful angelic man you had ever laid your eyes on. it almost seemed like this entire mixer was made for him, the way everyone crowded around. eager to see the tennis prodigy in his prime, eighteen and sipping wine coolers and smiling politely. he was all blonde hair and red cheeks and, “yeah, thank you for having me!” that first night. 

you hovered around the tables, sipping shirley temples and keeping to yourself. you noticed art slowly getting closer to the table you’d been occupying, making his way through the room. his blue eyes met yours and you quickly averted your gaze, desperate to avoid conversation. two minutes later, he stood in front of you, lazy smile on his face. “you enjoying this corner by yourself?” he asked, his tone light and slightly sarcastic. “yes, actually. i’m not a fan of crowds,” you replied. “i can relate to that. art donaldson,” he outstretched his hand to you, “and you are?” you told him your name, your cheeks heating as you shook his hand, “i know who you are. everybody here does.” “yeah, seems that way. do you play?” “oh, no. english major.” “ah, okay. so you’re a writer?” “aspiring, yes. hoping this will get me closer,” you said, feeling yourself slowly loosen up with the conversation. “i’m sure it will,” he smiled, and you wondered how a stranger could have blind confidence in you, “well, would you maybe want to get out of here for a minute? it’s stuffy and i need a smoke.” you tried not to let the surprise show on your face and nodded, “sure, i have a lighter in my bag.” 

you and art sat on the balcony, a cigarette between his lips and his beer in your hand. “so, why stanford? why not go pro?” you asked. “wanted to be good for something else, i guess. not just hitting a ball with a racket, you know? not that there’s anything wrong with that, my best friend went pro straight away, just not for me i guess.”

“patrick, right? your friend?” “yeah, patrick. he’s more of a career player, more confident. he’ll stay pro while i’m here playing.” “i can see you as a career player,” art’s face reddened slightly at that, “i mean, you’re already winning every match, right?” “well, most of them. it’s more than that though, you have to have the stamina to keep it up until your body can’t anymore. and i just don’t have that,” he said. his face looked twisted with an emotion you couldn’t place, but he kept his tone light and let out a quiet laugh. “well, you don’t have to do something forever to be good at it right now. just like you don’t have to win every game to be good,” “i disagree with the second part, but thank you, really. not everyday someone tries to relieve pressure for me.”

“i can imagine it’s not easy, being the art donaldson and all,” you smiled. “oh god, the art donaldson,” he laughed, rolling his eyes playfully. you shivered, the sudden breeze prickling your skin. “are you cold?” he asked, and when you looked over he already had his blazer halfway off. “no, no i’m okay! just a little chilly out here,” you protested, but he slid the jacket off entirely and handed it to you. your cheeks grew hot once again, and you hesitantly wrapped it around your shoulders. “you’re gonna get cold now,” you said guiltily. “no, i’m alright. at least i have long sleeves.” you regretted the strapless dress now, feeling silly for not taking the cool evening breeze into account when getting dressed. “it is getting late,” art sighed, “we’ve been out here for a while.” you glanced over at his watch, reading 1 am on the face. “oh jesus. i’m sorry i kept you out so late. let me take you home?” he asked. you bit your lip, anxious at the thought of being alone with him in his car, despite being alone with him for hours now. “sure,” you smiled. neither of you were ready to let the night end, anyway.

;you pick me up and take me home again, head out the window again. we’re hollow like the bottles that we drain. you drape your wrists over the steering wheel, pulses can drive from here, we might be hollow but we’re brave

you sat in the passenger seat of art’s jeep, your eyesight slightly fuzzy from the drinks you finished off before leaving the balcony. he was a vision of beauty in the glow of the passing streetlights, his wrists draped lazily over the steering wheel. radiohead played quietly from the car speakers, and you couldn’t hold back your surprise. “didn’t take you for a radiohead kinda guy,” you said, leaning over to turn the volume up slightly. “yeah, patrick got me into them,” he shrugged, looking over at you, “do you want the windows down? it’s stuffy.” “ooh, yes please.” he rolled down the front windows and opened up the sunroof, and you sighed with relief when you felt the breeze in your hair. you sat up, sticking your hands out the sunroof and laughing.

“this is so cool, i wish my car had one of these,” you said, raising your voice over the wind. “you’re beautiful,” art said from below you, and your face instantly grew hot as you sat back in your seat. “well, thank you,” you said, unable to look at him. “sorry, i just had to tell you, i didn’t mean for it to come out so fast,” he rambled, a passing light revealing he was also blushing. “no no, it’s okay! i just don’t know what to say, but i appreciate it, thank you,” you replied, subconsciously playing with your hair. “you’re the first, like, real person i’ve talked to at all these bullshit mixers. everybody else is just kissing up or asking me the same five questions about tennis and patrick and tashi.” your eyebrows raised at tashi’s name, having forgotten about her. “were you and her, i mean not to be rude, but i heard she was your girlfriend,” “oh, no. she’s patrick’s girlfriend, we’re just all friends. we met at one of tashi’s adidas events a few months back. i’ve heard the rumors though.” “oh, okay. well you’re also one of the only real people i’ve met since i even started my interviews here. i like that,” you smiled appreciatively, “oh, and you can turn up here. it’s the marriott on the right.” “you didn’t tell me you were staying in a hotel. have you not moved down yet?” “well, i just can’t really afford to rent so i’ve just been driving down and staying the night for the events until the dorms open. kinda embarrassing,” you explained, your face hot.

“i don’t think its embarrassing, stuff happens. you could stay in my extra room, if you wanted. so you don’t have to leave early in the morning for check out,” he said. “oh, i couldn’t. it’s okay, i promise. me and this marriott have gotten pretty well acquainted,” you joked, still freshly embarrassed. “i really don’t mind, i could even help you get your bags from the room.” “no, i promise it’s okay. i didn’t want you to feel bad for me or anything-” you started. “it’s not that i feel bad, it’s just that i have this spare room i don’t use and you’d have to be up early to check out when i’m the one who kept you out late. plus, we could keep talking, and we could get breakfast tomorrow, get you more familiar with the area,” he said, his tone pleading. “fuck it, why not? let’s go get my stuff,” you gave in, unbuckling your seatbelt.

you took the elevator up to the fourth floor, leading art through the halls and into your room. “i don’t have much, just give me five minutes,” you told him, grabbing your toiletries and throwing them into your suitcase. as you entered the bedroom, you blushed as you followed his gaze to your black bra flung onto the floor from the night before. “oh, i’m sorry,” you cringed, shoving it into your suitcase quickly. “no, it’s okay. sorry,” you gathered the rest of your things quickly, trying to ignore the awkward silence that fell over the two of you. “okay, i’m all packed up,” you said finally, wheeling your suitcase to the door and grabbing your purse. “here, let me,” art said, taking the suitcase handle from your hands and closing the door behind you, “all set?” “yep! ready whenever you are.” 

a short drive later, you were pulling into one of the nicest apartment complexes you’d ever seen. he put in his gate code, driving slowly through the lot until you reached one of the furthest buildings. “this is beautiful,” you said, thinking of your parents small house back in your hometown. “it’s nice, i’m very grateful,” art said humbly, parking and turning off his jeep. he got out, rushing around to open your door before you could get out. “oh, thank you,” you said shyly, stepping down out of your seat. “here, just let me grab your bags and we’ll walk up,” he said, pulling your suitcase from the backseat and locking the car. he lead you to his apartment, unlocking the door and pushing it open for you. you walked in slowly, taking in the big open living room and the massive tv on the wall.

“oh, wow,” you mumbled, looking all around you. “it’s not decorated much, i’m only staying here until the dorms open. my parents keep it rented so i summer here and they can stay here when they visit during the academic year,” he explained. “oh, that makes sense. this is really nice, art.” “thank you, i can’t really take credit but i’m glad you like it,” he laughed, pulling your suitcase over to a closed white door. he pushed it open, flipping on the light switch. the guest room had a massive fluffy white bed, another large tv mounted above the dresser.

“you can unpack in here, there’s a bathroom attached if you need to shower or anything,” he said, walking further into the room, “and you can put your clothes in the wardrobe if you don’t want them to get wrinkled. i have extra of my body wash in the shower if you don’t have any, feel free to use it. and my parents usually keep toothpaste in there as well.” “thank you so much, art. i think i’ll take you up on that shower, but i have my toiletries with me. seriously, thank you. this is so kind,” you said graciously. “oh, of course. do you wanna watch a movie or something when you’re done? i’m wired,” “sure, i’d like that. meet in the living room after?” “the living room tv is actually broken, the screen shattered when i was moving it. the one in my bedroom is alright, though, or there’s yours in here. but there’s no dvd player in here,” he scratched the back of his neck, biting his lip. “oh, your room is fine. i’ll be out in twenty,” you said, grabbing your bag and heading for the bathroom. “okay, see you then, just yell if you need anything.” 

you took your shower quickly, nerves growing at the idea of watching a movie alone in art’s bedroom. you felt silly and giddy like a middle schooler, so nervous about being alone with a boy. he made you feel comfortable, though, and you knew he wouldn’t do anything you weren’t okay with. after your shower, you put on your black pajama set and padded into the hallway. “hey art, i’m done!” you called, unsure of where he’d gone throughout the apartment. “yeah, i’m in here! the doors open,” he called back, and you followed his voice to his bedroom. he was sat on his bed, shirt off, awkwardly twisted around applying some sort of a wrap to his lower back. “oh, sorry,” you said, averting your eyes quickly. “oh, no it’s okay. i’m just doing my kinesiology tape, my physical therapist has me doing it every night,” he explained.

“do you need help? that looks like a hard angle.” “i would really appreciate it, actually,” he said,  turning to you, “normally i can do it but it’s a bit farther down today.” “yeah, no problem,” you crossed the room, sitting down beside him hesitantly, “so you just stick it on?” “yeah, just where i have that first piece.” you nodded, cutting off a piece of the tape and studying it. you moved to place it and his breath hitched as you brushed against the bare skin of his back. your face heated up and you hurriedly applied it, your fingers trembling slightly. “is that good?” you asked, biting your lip.”yeah, that’s perfect. thank you,” he said, his voice trembling like your fingers had been. you traced the light pink scar across his shoulder absentmindedly, “what happened here?” “oh, nothing major, i fell during a match when i was a kid and had to get stitches,” he said. you could feel your pulse quickening, the realization of your closeness striking you all at once. you pulled away from him, pulling at the edge of your shorts to occupy your hands. “was the shower alright?” he asked, gaze lingering on your still wet hair. “yeah, it was really nice. thank you,” “of course. i’m really glad you came,” he smiled, leaning back onto his pillow, “you can lay or sit wherever. do you want a drink or anything?” “i’ll take a water if you don’t mind, thanks. do you want me to get the movie started?” “yeah, you can pick whatever you want. the dvds are on the shelf by the dresser,” he said, walking to the kitchen. you picked through his movies, settling on match point and laughing to yourself at the irony. you placed it in the player, settling back onto his bed. he came back a few minutes later, handing you a water bottle and opening a sprite for himself. “match point? really?” he said, laughing under his breath. “i just couldn’t pass it up,” you grinned, heart fluttering at the sight of him. he really was beautiful, hair mussed from his pillow and his eyes half lidded from relaxation. he laid down, stretching out and pulling the throw blanket over his legs. “you can lay down if you want, help yourself to the blankets,” he said, looking over at you. you nodded, propping yourself up with a pillow and pulling the comforter up to your hips. the two of you watched the movie in silence for a while, and you felt your eyes threatening to close from exhaustion. “if we keep just laying here in silence i’m gonna fall asleep,” you said quietly, rubbing your face. art rolled over to face you then, smiling. “let’s talk then. tell me something interesting about you,” he said. “like what? we talked for hours tonight,” you laughed, “i don’t have any secrets left.” “oh i’m sure you have to have at least one,” he grinned, “i’ll tell you one if you tell me one.” “fine. let me think,” you pretended to be deep in thought, finally settling on, “i couldn’t ride a bike until i was fifteen.” he laughed, his head tilted back, and you wanted to kiss him there, just under his jawline. the thought caught you off guard, and you blushed, scolding yourself mentally for being this hung up over someone you had only just met. “that’s hilarious. could you just not get the hang of it?” “no, i just fell every time, it was pathetic,” you said, breathless from laughing. 

“i love that. do you like to ride them now? or are you scared?” “oh, i love them now. i’d bike everywhere if i could,” “we should go biking together, you’ll need one on campus anyway. much faster than just walking,” you blushed at the idea of art still having interest in you after tonight, let alone into the school year. “yeah, that would be fun. you’ll probably be really busy though, being art donaldson and everything,” you said, slightly teasingly but slightly serious. “i hate being art donaldson if it means i’m too busy to hang out with you,” he said, and you watched as his cheeks reddened to match yours, “i mean, if you wanted to, obviously. i don’t know what your plans are or anything for the year.” “i’d love that. just don’t feel like you have to pencil me in or anything,” you told him. “when are you going home?” he asked, biting his bottom lip. “i’m supposed to leave tomorrow. i’ll be back in two weeks for orientation and move in,” “you could stay here,” he said, and your breath faltered with shock. “two weeks is a long time, art, i mean thank you of course but i couldn’t possibly-” 

“i’d like it if you stayed, if you wanted to. you don’t have to go home, is all i mean. i just, i’m so sorry but can i kiss you?” he rambled, inching slightly closer to you. “yes,” you whispered, and he closed the gap between the two of you, pressing his lips to yours. he tasted like sprite and mint chapstick, and your heart skipped a beat at the feeling of his lips against yours. his hands came to your face, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss. you broke away after a minute, your breath erratic and face completely flushed, and art’s eyebrows furrowed.

“are you okay? i shouldn't have moved so fast, i just-” “no, it’s okay. i liked it,” you said, trying to keep your tone soothing, “i just don’t do this, i don’t kiss boys i don’t know, and i really feel connected to you and i just don’t want to be humiliated,” “i wouldn’t humiliate you, i feel the same way. i don’t want you to feel rushed, i don’t usually do this either-” you cut him off, pressing your lips to his once again, and sighed softly into his mouth. he brought you closer, pulling your leg up over his hips and running his fingers through the air framing your face. the two of you grew closer and the kisses more frantic, and you positioned yourself on his lap, deepening the kiss and settling your hands in his hair. he pulled back then, and you could have died and gone to heaven at the sight of his red, freshly kissed lips. “we should slow down, i don’t want to do anything impulsive,” he said, placing a long kiss to your cheek, “not that i don’t want you, i just think we should wait.” you nodded in agreement, sliding off of his lap and laying on your side, facing him. “that was, i mean i’m not used to that and you’re really good at that,” you breathed, acutely aware of how naive you must have sounded.

“i’m not used to that either, patrick was always the one who had all the girls, i’ve never just done that, but i feel like i really know you,” he said, pulling your hand to his mouth and pressing kisses to your fingers, “please think about staying. i don’t want you to feel like you have to, but you could stay here, just in the guest room if that’s what you want. i can show you around palo alto, you could come to some of my matches if you wanted. you should get comfortable with the area, at least.” “i’ll think about it, art. i need to work, though, i’ll have to find a serving job here,” “you can stay here and not worry about bills or anything, i promise. you don’t have to worry about it,” “i can’t just freeload off of you, we just met,” you sighed. “it’s not freeloading, i’m asking you to stay,” another kiss to your wrist this time, “i’d really really like it if you stayed.”

you woke up several hours later, art’s arm around your torso and his smell enveloping your senses. you opened your eyes slowly, taking in his bedroom in the morning light streaming through his windows. you carefully pulled his arm away from you, attempting to roll over, when he groaned quietly. “it’s too early,” he protested, reaching for you again. “just need to use the restroom and brush my teeth, art,” you said, kissing his cheek quickly, “and call my parents to tell them i’m staying.” at this, his eyes shot open, a smile on his face immediately. “you’re staying? really?” “yeah, fuck it, why not?” you said, calling back to then night before, “i’ll be back soon.” you went through your morning routine and picked up your iphone and calling your mom.

“hey, honey,” her familiar voice came through the speaker, “are you headed home?” “hey, mom. i actually wanted to talk to you about something, i know this sounds crazy but i’m thinking about staying?” you said, phrasing it like a question, though you knew she wouldn’t protest. “staying where? i thought the dorms weren’t open for two weeks,” “yeah, that’s the crazy part,” you laughed lightly, “i met this boy, and this is insane but he said i could stay in his guest room and we’re really getting on, mom. i really like him,” “oh god, staying in his guest room? so you’re staying in his room,” she said sarcastically. “no, not now anyway. i don’t know, we’ll see what happens. i have a lot of money put back from serving, in case anything happens. so you don’t have to worry about that. and he’s really sweet, i’m not worried,” “what is this boys name?” you bit your lip at the dreaded question. “um, his name is art.” “art? that’s cute, like that tennis boy,” she laughed. “yeah, actually, it’s art donaldson. you know he goes here, now. it’s his first year too.” she hesitated, before asking, “art donaldson, really? are you sure about all this, honey? i mean, the boy is famous,” “yes, i’m sure, i promise. i’m safe and happy and if anything changes i’ll be home as soon as possible,” “alright, baby. if you’re sure, just please be safe,” she sighed, resigned. “yes ma’am. i’ll send photos!” you reassured, “i love you, i’ll see you soon,” “i love you too, see you soon.”

you re-entered art’s room, smiling as you saw him stretching in the floor. “i talked to my mom, we’re all set. i’m definitely staying,” you said, sitting down in the floor beside him. “i’m so happy you’re staying, i know it was spur of the moment but i promise it’ll be worth your time,” he said, pressing a kiss to your cheek and leaning back down into his stretch, “i’ll be done in a few minutes, i’m just getting my stretch in. i had some practice matches today with my hitter, but i was able to get them moved. what would you like to see first?” “oh art, you didn’t have to do that,” “i didn’t mind, besides i could use a day off after last night,” “i guess so,” you shrugged, leaning back on your arms to watch him stretch. “there’s a massive farmers market further into the city, if you’d like to go there. we could stock up for our stay-cation,” he said, then cringed, “god, i cannot believe i just said stay-cation.” “that sounds good, but please don’t ever say that again,” you laughed. “i’ll be ready in like twenty, is that good with you?” you nodded, standing up and stretching your arms, “i’ll just run and get dressed for the day then.” 

you threw on one of the only outfits you had left in your suitcase, a black summer dress and your converse, and braided your hair quickly. by the time you were done, art was quietly tapping on the guest room door. you were greeted by the sight of him in running shorts and a us open souvenir shirt, a stark contrast of his formal wear from the evening prior.  “ready?” he asked. you blushed as you followed his eyes to the neckline of your dress, “ready.” 

now we’re wearing long sleeves, and the heating comes on. you buy me orange juice, we’re getting good at this. dreams of clean teeth, i can tell that you’re tired. but you keep the car on, while you’re waiting out front.

art pulls his jeep into the crowded farmers market lot, once again rushing to open your car door for you and helping you out. just like before, you blush, thanking him quickly. “so, where to first? they’ve got everything in sections, fresh veg on one side, fresh fruit, crafts,” art pointed to the various spots in the market, and you were glad at least he knew where he was going. “hm, maybe fruits? i’d love an orange right now, in this heat,” you said, and he nodded. you smiled as he slipped your hand into his, leading you slowly through the winding crowds of people. you stopped at a fruit stand, in awe of the amount of beautiful fresh oranges, peaches, and grapefruits. “just grab whatever you want, i got it,” art said, leaning closer to you, his breath brushing over your ear. a shiver ran down your spine despite the heat, and you nodded, bagging up some navel oranges and passing them to the attendant. art handed the woman a bill, and you were whisked off to the next booth. 

the day was spent with handfuls of produce, and art taking any opportunity to make you laugh. it went by much quicker that either of you would have liked, but you were grateful, in a way, to have art all to yourself again. you hadn’t considered that people would stop him for photos or autographs, but there were at least a dozen tennis fans he had to attend to. you didn’t care much for excessive attention, so it was stressful for you, but you were happy to see how well receptive he was to it. he looked truly in his element, smiling politely and introducing you to anyone who asked. by the time four oclock came around, you loaded everything back into art’s jeep and discovered seventeen missed calls from your mom. your heart rate immediately rose with panic, and you called her back quickly, your breath faltering.

art placed a supportive hand on your arm as you explained and waited on the phone to ring. finally, on the third call back, your mom answered, her voice thin, “honey, i’m sorry to interrupt but we need you back home. your brother’s had an accident, he’s alright but he’s in the hospital in sacramento.” “oh my god. is he okay, what happened? i can be there soon, don’t worry,” “he’s okay, he’s in with the doctors now. his truck flipped on the highway, someone hit him from the side. how soon can you be here?” “give me just a couple hours, mom. i’ll meet you at the hospital, i love you,” you hung up, tears brimming your eyes. “art, i’m so sorry but i have to go home, my brothers been in an accident,” you said, just as the tears started to spill. “oh, i’m so sorry. what hospital? i’ll drop you off, you shouldn’t be driving like this. i can let you out at the door so i don’t disturb anyone,” he said, and more tears spilled as he affectionately wiped some away from your cheeks. “i would appreciate that so much. it’s sacramento community, it’s about an hour and a half. thank you so much,” you cried, wiping your face on your shirt.  

the drive there was quiet, art periodically checking on you and running his free hand down your back soothingly. by the time you arrived at the hospital, you had bitten your lips raw from worry.  he pulled up to the main entrance and slowed the car to a stop, putting his hazards on quickly. “thank you so much, again, i’m so sorry for all of this,” you said, unbuckling your seatbelt. “i promise i don’t mind at all. let me know how he is, okay? here, put your number in my phone,” he said, handing it to you. you nodded, typing in your number rapidly and then, with slight hesitation, typing your home address. “i added my address, if you wanted to come by, or if you need to rest from driving,” you told him, “i’ll call you when i’m done here?” “i’d love that. let me know if you need anything, don’t let me hold you up,” he said. you nodded, waving goodbye and shutting his car door before rushing into the hospital. 

you made it into the room, frantically checking on your family. your brother was in stable condition, but his right leg was broken, meaning he’d need someone to help take care of him once he was released from the hospital. your mom’s face was puffy from crying, and your heart panged at the sight. “here, mom, why don’t you just come sit down? the doctor said he’s alright now, no need to fuss,” you said gently, pulling her to the waiting area. she hesitated but followed you, holding onto your arm shakily. “i’m sorry it took me so long, i was in palo alto with art,” you apologized. she just shook her head, squeezing your hand reassuringly, “it’s alright, honey. i knew you’d be here when you could. did he drop you off?” you nodded, “i gave him the address and told him i’d meet him back there if he wanted to wait.”

“good, i’d like to meet him. visiting hours end at seven, they’re keeping him overnight for observation and we’ll have to come get him in the morning. it’s six fifty now, did you want to go see him before we go? he’s asleep, but you can go in,” she said. “yeah, i’ll go in. i’ll see you back out here soon,” you walked to your brothers hospital room, nervous all over again. he looked so pitiful, your heart just broke at the sight of him. guilt from being so far away when it happened gnawed at you, second thoughts of stanford creeping into your mind. you smoothed your brothers hair gently, kissing the top of his head and leaving the room quietly, careful not to disturb him. after some deliberation with your mom, you decided to ride back to your house, and return for your brother in the morning. on your way down, you called art, your voice timid. he answered on the first ring, “hey, is everything alright?” “yeah, he’s okay. visiting hours ended, so we have to go home,” you explained, “did you end up driving back to your apartment?”

“no, course not. i ran to pick up some pizzas, i figured your family wouldn’t feel like cooking, and i didn’t want you to be hungry. i was gonna drop them off,” your heart swelled, tears falling once again. “oh, art. that’s so sweet, thank you. we’ll be home in about ten minutes, we live close,” you said, “is that okay?” “yeah,  of course, i’ll be there,”

the drive back to your house went quickly, once you explained to your mom what art was doing there. she smiled appreciatively , her demeanor quiet with exhaustion. “he sounds like a sweet boy, baby. i’m happy for you,” “oh, thank you mom, but we’re just friends now. i hardly know him,” “well, regardless, he’s a good man in my books, bringing you home so quickly,” you nodded, undoubtedly agreeing. 

when you arrived home, art was parked in the drive, six pizza boxes in his passenger seat. he rushed to hug you as you approached him, whispering, “you alright?” you nodded into his chest, trying to fight back tears for what felt like the fiftieth time. “he’s gonna be alright, i’m just overwhelmed. you’ve been such a big help, thank you art.” “of course, it’s the least i can do with all this happening. here, i’ll carry the pizzas inside and leave you to it,” “oh, stay for dinner, please. it’s only fair,” “are you sure? i’m sure your mom is overwhelmed, i don’t want to impose,” “i’m sure, i promise. she’ll probably head to bed right after dinner, anyway. it’s been a long day,” “alright, if it’ll make you happy,” he smiled lightly, “i’ll grab the pizzas, just show me the way,” you lead him up the path to your front door, feeling silly once again for the nerves bubbling in your stomach. you’d never brought a boy home, let alone someone like art. you pushed the thought from your mind as you lead him into the living room, calling out for your mom.

“in the kitchen, honey,” she called back. you lead art to her voice, smiling shyly and gesturing to the room. “art, this is my mom. mom, this is art donaldson,” you introduced them. “oh, it’s great to meet you!” she gushed, shaking his hand. “oh, you too, miss,” he smiled. “i’m sorry to disappoint, but i think i have to turn in early. i appreciate the dinner so much, but i just don’t have much of an appetite after today. art, feel free to spend the night, i know palo alto is a ways away. and honey, i’ll see you in the morning, come get me if you need me, alright? i love you,” you hugged her quickly, “goodnight, mom. i love you too,” “so, pizza?” art said quietly, and you nodded, gesturing to the dining table. “i’ll grab some napkins, do you want a drink? we have water, sweet tea and coke,” “i’ll do a sweet tea,” he said, opening up one of the pizza boxes. you poured your drinks and joined him at the table, tearing into your slice quickly,

“god, i was starving.” “me too, i’m glad i picked this up,” “thank you again, art. seriously, i can’t thank you enough, for everything. you didn’t have to do all of this,” “i promise you i didn’t mind.” “do you want to stay? i mean, you don’t have to, but we have my brothers room or the living room, i’d hate for you to have to drive home this late,” “i wish i could, i really do, but i’ve got practice runs in the morning to make up for today. i can come back and get you, though, after they discharge your brother,” he said apologetically. 

“oh, okay. i actually better stay, now, until orientation. mom’s gonna need help taking care of him, and i don’t want to leave them right now,” his face fell, but he quickly recovered it, careful not to let his true feelings sway your decision. “oh, yeah of course, that makes sense. well, i’ll see you in two weeks, anyway. that’s not so long,” he smiled weakly. “yeah, not too long at all. plus i can call you! you’ll have to let me know how your practices go,” “yeah, of course. and you’ll have to let me know how he’s healing up, alright? can i come get you for orientation, or is your mom bringing you? where is your car, by the way?” your face reddened slightly, “um, my mom’s car is my car. i never really needed one, since she doesn’t work full time and i worked so close to home. we figured it would be cheaper, especially since i won’t be driving on campus,” “oh, yeah that makes sense! well, i’ll come get you for orientation, then. morning of, or night before?”

“probably night before, i think that works best,” “perfect. well, i’ll let you get to bed, get some rest. i will see you in 13 days, then,” he smiled, holding his arms out for a hug. you blushed, leaning into his chest and inhaling the fresh scent of his cologne. “13 days,” you repeated, tilting your head back to look up at him. his breath fanned against your face, and you played back the memory of his minty lips on your own. “can i kiss you goodbye?” he said quietly. you nodded, and before you could say yes aloud, his lips were on yours once again. you smiled into the kiss, trying to memorize the feeling in case he changed his mind over the next two weeks. he pulled away hesitantly, resting his forehead against yours, “well, i better go then, or i won’t ever want to leave,” he laughed. “goodnight, art,” you whispered, “see you soon,” he pressed another quick kiss to your lips and pulled away, grabbing his keys from the table and heading for the door. you followed him out, waving to him from your front porch and watching sadly as his jeep departed your driveway. thirteen long days to go.

your brothers recovery was fairly quick. he couldn’t use his leg, of course, but had gotten very adept to wheeling himself in his chair. you talked to art most nights over the phone, smiling to yourself as his crackly voice told you all about his tennis practices and rigorous training. he sounded exhausted, and you felt silly for letting worry creep into your mind. after all, he was art donaldson, he was used to it. you told him stories of your day to day routine, mostly consisting of providing your brother with meals and making sure your mother wasn’t worrying herself sick, or working herself ragged. day twelve snuck up on you, your mom entering your room bright and early to help you pack.

“oh, i can manage, but thank you mom,” you told her, opening up your biggest suitcase and beginning to roll your clothes up. “well, at least let me keep you company before you go,” she said, propping herself at the edge of your bed. “of course you can,” you smiled, happy to get some time in with her before you left. “so, art?” she grinned. “what about him?” “i’ve heard you up at night on the phone with him, honey. sounds like more than a friend to me, with those hour long conversations. are you serious about him?” “nothing is official yet, i do like him, but i worry about school starting,” you said, anxiously biting your lip, “he’s got a really intense schedule, and i’m sure some really intense girls interested in him. i don’t want to get too invested too soon,” “he seems like a sweetheart, but i do understand. just don’t keep yourself too closed off, darling. you’ll know if its right,” she reassured.

“thanks, mom. you’re right, i trust my judgment. he really is sweet, he’s a great person,” you smiled, thinking fondly of getting to know just how sweet he was. “well, you’ll see him soon, so i hope you’re confident in what you’re doing. he’ll be here at six, right?” “yeah, about then. i need to really focus on getting these things packed,” “alright, honey. i’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” and with that, you were alone with your thoughts about art, and your mountains of clothes waiting to be packed away. 

by five forty five, you were pacing in the hallway, biting at your fingernails. ‘this is just art’ you told yourself, ‘i was just with him, it’s nothing new.’ but you couldn’t stop the nagging thought that this would be the beginning of something really great, or you’d shy away and it would meet it’s end. at six on the dot, the headlights of his jeep shone through your window, and you quickly gathered your bags at the door. you’d told your brother goodbye much earlier, before his pain medication induced nap, and your mom was at work for the night. you opened the door, smiling widely as art came up the path.

“well hey stranger,” you grinned, “is that the art donaldson i see?” “oh, hush,” he said, gently pulling you to him and pressing his lips to yours. you were caught off guard, your balance faltering and you leaned closer into him. he held your jaw with one hand, his other arm circled around your waist, crushing you to his chest. the kiss went on for what felt like hours, two weeks of pent up affection spilling out. all your uncertainty melted away with each swipe of his tongue against your bottom lip, like he was pulling your anxiety from your body. you pulled away, chest heaving, and gazed up at him, “well hello to you too,” you breathed. “i missed you,” he grinned, “felt like you might’ve missed me, too.” “oh, i did, trust me. here, help me with these bags, and we’ll go,” he nodded, grabbing three of your bags and loading them into the trunk. you wheeled your last suitcase over, tucking it away, and smiled as he opened the passenger door for you. “i almost forgot what a gentlemen you are,” you said teasingly, settling into your seat. he got into his own, cranking up the car, and settled his hand on your thigh, “forgetting me that quickly? terrible,” he teased back, his voice low. “i could never,” you reassured him, placing your hand over his, “now let’s try this apartment again.”

the drive back to palo alto went quickly, but the nerves eating away at you reminded you of the drive away from it just two weeks prior. you wondered what the expectations might be, coming to art’s like this, the night before orientation. not that you weren’t interested, but you weren’t sure if the timing was right, and you weren’t sure if art even wanted that. your imagination was running wild with images of the night, though, of what it would be like to be that close to him again. art was quiet most of the drive, too, and you wondered what thoughts occupied his own mind. by the time you arrived back at his apartment, your nails were bitten to the quick and your lip was patchy and raw. “well, here we are,” he smiled, “should we unload your bags, or just leave them for the morning?” “we can just leave them, i’m tired of looking at them,” you joked, “thank you, though.” “of course. well, let’s go then.”

when you re-entered the apartment, you immediately noticed a difference. where the couch had been bare before, it was now covered in fluffy decorative pillows and a plush throw blanket. on the bar sat a vase of white flowers, and you thought you smelled a scentsy warmer. “did you decorate, or are your parents already moving in for the year?” you wondered aloud. “i, uh, i decorated. i figured you’d be a little more comfortable if it didn’t look so department store display here, and it needed a little warming up anyway,” he explained, blushing slightly, “what do you think?” “well, i thought it was beautiful anyway. but it looks great, art, you did a great job,” “and i stocked up the guest bath for you, i didn’t know what scents you liked best so i kinda just picked them out,” he said shyly, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “you really didn’t have to, but thank you, as always,” you giggled, “well on that note, i think i’ll shower. movie night again after?” “of course, i’ll be in my room,” he replied. you nodded, heading off for your shower. 

art had stocked the bathroom to the brim, with vanilla and peach body wash and creams, and a very expensive bottle of perfume placed on the counter. you blushed at the thought of art in the store, smelling these things and imagining them on you. after your shower, you toweled off and got into your pajamas, heading to art’s room. the deja vu from that very first night was impossible to ignore as you entered to a shirtless art on his bed. “was everything in there good for you?” “yeah, it all smelled really nice, good choices,” you stretched out on the bed beside him, feeling oddly at home. he rolled over, pulling you into a hug against his chest and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“you do smell really good,” he mumbled into your hair, and your heart fluttered at the tone in his voice. “thanks to you,” you said quietly. “we could watch a movie, but i could stay here like this all night instead,” “me too.” you tried to ignore the feeling in your chest, and between your thighs, at his proximity to you. “so, orientation tomorrow,” art whispered, “are you nervous?” “not nervous, no. something similar but not quite nervous. i’m sure you’re excited,” “nah, i got enough of pretentious students in high school. training is gonna get really rigorous once classes start. i’m not looking forward to that,”

“i’m sorry, that must suck having that commitment on top of school,” “i don’t mind too much, just less time to spend with you, which isn’t ideal,” “i was thinking about that when i was home. what are we doing? i mean, not to sound weird or anything i’m just unsure of of what exactly we are, and you’ll be so busy,” you rambled, feeling silly and slightly embarrassed, “i don’t want you to feel obligated, just because you kissed me.” “i don’t feel obligated, i like you. can’t you see that?” “i didn’t want to assume, i like you too, of course. it’s just really intimidating,”  “i know what you mean, trust me. i’ve never felt this way about anyone before,” “and what way would that be?” “like if i don’t see you courtside wearing my colors, i don’t see any point in competing anymore,” your face flushed, and you scooted even closer into his embrace.

 “if you’re really serious about this, i want this. even if you’re not, i think i’m too far gone,” you tell him honestly. he tilted your face up to his, his breath fanning over your cheeks, “i’m really serious about this, i promise. i’m all in,” “me too, art.” he closed the gap between the two of you, his lips crashing into yours with the pent up intensity of all the emotions he had just laid bare. his large hands cradled the side of your head, pulling you even closer, like he was desperate for you. he leaned over you, hands all over now, his lips gently tugging on your bottom lip. you moaned into his mouth softly, pulling the edge of his shirt up his back.

the sudden intensity had you writhing in anticipation underneath him. his shirt was off in one fluid motion, and yours soon followed. he pulled away, leaving you gasping for breath, and bit at your neck gently, surely leaving a small mark. “are you sure about this? i don’t want to move too fast,” he panted into your neck, and you noticed his hips rocking into yours, almost absentmindedly. “yes, i’m sure,” you whined, pulling his face back to yours. he stopped you before you could connect your mouth with his, shaking his head, “i need you to tell me you want it, baby. need to hear you say it,” your face flushed scarlet, “i want it, art, please. i want it so bad, wanted it ever since i saw you,” you pleaded. in an instant, his joggers were off, meeting your shorts in a heap on the floor. he sat back on his knees, taking in the sight of you in just your thin bra and panties. “you’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, ghosting his mouth over your thighs, “so pretty.” you let out a quiet moan when he pressed a kiss to your clothed cunt, watching with lidded eyes as he kissed his way back up to your neck. he pulled you to his chest, unclasping your bra with shaky hands, and laid you back down gently. seconds later, his mouth was on one of your nipples, sucking and biting down lightly. you arched your back, tangling your fingers in his grown out hair and moaning out softly. “art, please,” you begged, squeezing your thighs together in an attempt to relieve some pressure.

“please what, baby?” his voice was low and rough as he pulled away from your chest, swiping his thumb over the now wet bud. “want you,” you whined, “please.” “want me where? want me to fuck you, hmm?” you nodded frantically. he looped his thumbs around the waistband of your panties, pulling them down teasingly slow. once they were pooled around your ankles, he pulled off his boxers, and you gasped at the sight of him. he crawled back above you, resting his arms on either side of your head. slowly, still teasing, he positioned his cock against your now dripping cunt, sliding against you. you chased his lips for a kiss, almost sighing in relief when you felt his mouth on yours once more. he slowly rutted his hips against you, kissing you with such a force you thought you might cum right there, just from the feeling of him. “art, please,” you pleaded, burying your face in his neck. “okay, baby,” he said softly, leaning back to take in the sight of you, begging for him, “are you sure you’re ready? is this your first? i just don’t want to hurt you,” you nodded, feeling a slight tinge of embarrassment, “yes, but i know i’m ready. i trust you, i’ll be okay,” you reassured him. that was all it took for him. he pulled your knees apart, his breath hissing as he tapped the head of his cock on your clit. your hips jerked, desperate for more of him. he held one of your hands, running his thumb across the back soothingly. he pushed inside of you slowly, your breath faltering at the feeling of him stretching you out. he stopped about halfway, looking at you with concerned brows, “are you okay, darling? i’ll stop if it’s too much,” you shook your head quickly,

“i’m okay, you can go all the way, please.” he leaned down to you, kissing you slowly and sliding the rest of the way into you. once he was all in, he stopped, pressing delicate, loving kisses to your jawline, “is that alright?” “yes, feels so good, art,” you whispered, “just fuck me, please, wanna make you feel good.” he stroked the side of your face, wiping away your stray tears from the pressure, and slowly pulled out of you, before fucking back into you with a force that took your breath away. his arms came behind your back, pulling you up to meet his chest as he fucked into you, all while leaving sloppy kisses and bites down your neck roughly. “fuck, art, you’re so big,” you cried, holding onto him tightly. “you’re just so fucking tight, baby, you feel so good, taking me so good,” he groaned, and you shivered at the feeling of his breath against your ear. his hands found their way to your clit, rubbing circles into you gently as his hips rocked back and forth quickly. “gonna cum,” you moaned out, digging your nails into his shoulderblades, “art, please, feels so good.” “come on baby, cum for me,” he encouraged, rubbing slightly harder and picking up the pace of his hips. he groaned loudly as he felt the contracting of your cunt around him, felt you shaking and moaning wildly as you came around his cock. “fuck, there you go, good girl,” he cursed, “gonna cum, jesus fucking christ you feel so good cumming around me,” he pulled out quickly, and you gasped at the thick, hot ropes of cum that landed across your thighs. he leaned back, catching his breath, rubbing your hip soothingly. “gonna get a towel and clean you up, baby, i’ll be right back,” he said quietly, standing up on shaky legs. he returned immediately, wiping your thighs with a warm washcloth, pressing kisses to your knees and hips as he worked. you could’ve dozed off just then, from the sheer comfort of art taking care of you, and the sheer exhaustion of what you just did. when he was done, he tossed the cloth into the floor and pulled his comforter around the two of you, his hands never fully leaving your body. “you did so good, love. i didn’t hurt you, did i?” “no, was amazing,” you reassured, your eyelids heavy. “good,” he smiled, “you can get some sleep, i know we have a big day tomorrow,” you cuddled closer to his chest, inhaling the fresh smell of sweat and sex and art. “mm, i guess so,” you said quietly, “goodnight, art,” “goodnight, baby.” 

twilight - art donaldson

;; tashi always had everything, including art. 

cw; infidelity, emotional abuse, sexual content, lots of angst, mentions of suicide, injury, tashi is evil hehe

word count; 9.1k

stanford, 2007    -

“did patrick tell you he’s coming to my match next week?” 

your voice pulled art out of his thoughts, bringing him back to your lunch together. 

it had been this way for weeks now. same exact spot, same conversation, but nothing ever changes. art still found himself waiting, searching desperately for a change, just a slight break in the usual conversation, the usual emotions. the same jealousy rose within him at your every mention of patrick zweig. the two of them had been inseparable since childhood, though an invisible string of competition had always run through their friendship. competition over girls, over tennis, over grades. 

girls had always favored patrick, with his cocky grins and unpredictable attitude. art wondered, bitterly, if he’d ever manage to make it out of patrick’s shadow. when they met you, six months prior, the shadow swallowed art whole, all your light shining on patrick. a bitter reminder of all the pent up resentment art had formed over the decade.

art brings himself back to the present, sighing at your question. he feels the pathetic, yearning look in his eyes as he focuses on you once again, feels how sad he must look. if the sports commentators could see him now; art donaldson, stanford star, crying over his best friend’s girlfriend. “no, he didn’t, but that’s great,” he says unenthusiastically, “i’m kinda surprised you two are still seeing each other,” he regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth, biting his lip forcefully. guilt bubbles in his stomach, but he forces it down, as always. relationships are like tennis, at times, he reminds himself. and art always plays to win. 

your brows furrow, your posture straightening defensively, “why are you surprised? i thought you’d be happy for us, art,” he almost laughs, but stops himself, picturing the hurt on your face if he did. he pauses, feeling like he’s backed himself into a corner, and finally says, “you know i want you to be happy,” “and what about patrick?” you ask, surprised at his hesitation to include his best friend. 

“patrick’s happy, i guess,” art says spitefully, hoping you can’t detect it in his voice, “he’s on tour, traveling the world, playing tennis, all things he loves. what more could he want?” “and he has me,” you say, hurt lacing your words at his lack of acknowledgement. the words strike him as if you had reached across the table and slapped him. 

“yeah, he has you,” he says, the bitterness impossible to ignore now, “i couldn’t forget that,” “art, what is going on with you?” you ask, leaning further towards him. he just stares blankly at you, unsure of how to even start. he flinches as you place your hand on his across the table, his heart rate increasing pathetically. your gentle, heartfelt touch snaps something inside of him. 

“you really want to know what’s wrong?” he asks, and you flinch in return at the harshness of his tone. “please,” “i’m jealous of patrick, okay? you got me, found out my big secret,” he snaps, taking an unsteady breath. his eye twitches as he looks at your hand laying over his, resentment like acid on his tongue. “jealous?” you ask, confusion lacing your voice, “of his touring? i thought you didn’t want to go pro until after school,” art scoffs, shaking his head, “i’m not jealous of the touring and you know that, come on,""of what then? i don’t get it,” you tell him, desperate to understand what’s bothering him.

“he has something i want, it’s nothing new,” he says, fighting to keep his voice calm, “i’ll grow up and get over it, you don’t have to worry about it,” “something you want?” you’re even more confused now, “what, art? you play, too, arguably better than he does. you have money, you have excellent grades, your girlfriend is fucking tashi duncan,” he can’t tell if he imagines the poision in your tone as you spit out her name. “yeah, i have all of that, so i’ll be fine,” he says, his breathing growing more erratic. “what is it, then? really, i just want to understand. i promise you i won’t tell patrick,” you assure him, your tone low. he studies your face, accepting this could be the last time he has you like this, all to himself. 

“it’s you, okay? it’s you, it’s been you,” he pushes up from the table, not sure if he’ll be able to control himself when he sees your reaction, whatever it may be, “and i’m so, so deeply sorry to tell you that. you have no idea how sorry i am,” your eyebrows pull together, your head clouded, “art, wait, sit down. you cannot be serious,” “i can’t sit here and listen to you tell me it’s a horrible thing to do, or i’m a horrible friend, or you don’t feel the same. i won’t subject myself to it. please, please don’t tell patrick,” he says, his jaw set, “he’d never look at me the same, and i can’t lose you both,” 

he stalks out of the dining hall, and you follow him like a lost puppy, trying your very best to hold in tears. “art, stop,” you plead, catching up to him just outside, “does tashi know this?” he scoffs, looking at you like you’re completely insane, “absolutely not. tashi would ruin my fucking career,” he laughs sadly, “there’s nothing to come of it, so i’m keeping my mouth shut,” “how long has it been?” you ask softly. “jesus, now you want details,” he says, rubbing his eyes, “it’s been six months,” he says, cringing at how pathetic he knows he sounds. “art, it’s been six months since we met,” “yeah, i know, alright? i might as well get it all out now. i knew when i saw you, i just could tell, you’re so,” he makes a sound like he’s being strangled quietly, “patrick wanted you, alright? he’s my best friend,” your chest tightens as his voice breaks, guilt and regret welling up into tears in your eyes. 

“i wish you’d told me,” you said softly, “i really, really wish i’d known,” “it wouldn’t have changed anything. you’re with patrick, i’m with tashi, i’ll grow out of it,” he insists, disregarding the pain obvious in his voice. “i won’t,” you all but whisper. “won’t what?” he asks, eyes finally meeting yours. “i won’t grow out of it, art,” you tell him, heart breaking all over again as his eyes open wider. “what are you saying?” he says, his voice suddenly hoarse, “please, i can’t do this if you’re not serious,” “if you’d told me, i would have turned him down,” you admit, shame burning in your stomach, “you were always so set on tashi, i thought,” “i only asked tashi out because i couldn’t handle seeing patrick parading you around anymore,” he sighs, “i don’t love her, i respect her so much as a tennis player, as a friend, but i have never been in love with tashi,” 

“we can’t talk about this here,” you say, only now taking the time to notice the hoard of fellow students walking past you, “come to my room?” he glances at his watch, running his hands through his hair roughly when he sees the time, “i have training in fifteen minutes. tonight?” you nod, hope filling your thoughts, “tonight.” he hugs you tightly, hoping it appears as a friendly gesture to anyone around you, and you nearly sob as you feel his tears in your hair. “we’ll sort it all out tonight,” 

you waited for hours for art to show up, to make it all alright. by midnight, you’d given up, a hollow sort of pain forming in your chest at the realization that he probably regretted his admission. patrick would be arriving for your match in eight hours, and all you could do was cry over his best friend. you thought about texting him, asking if he just got caught up at practice, asking why he didn’t come to you. the fear of tashi seeing the message, of thinking you’d arranged something to hurt her, of her telling patrick and ruining their friendship, stopped you in your tracks. you were asleep by two am, and art’s knock on your door never came. 

the next day, you woke up to patrick’s rough knock on your door, disturbing you from your restless sleep. “coming,” you called, willing yourself not to cry at the sight of him, and opened the door slowly. he stood there, goofy grin on his face, duffel bag in his hand. “good morning, sleepyhead,” he said teasingly, entering your dorm, “guess who i saw this morning,” you rubbed your eyes, caught off guard by his sudden energy, “who?” “art! it was so funny, i pulled into the visitors lot and he was there, running laps,” your heart contracted, and you forced a casual smile onto your face, laughing halfheartedly, “you know how art likes to condition,” you just prayed it sounded natural. 

you prepared for your match, averting your eyes when you passed tashi on her walk to the men's locker room, undoubtedly to coach art on his game. ever since her injury, she was intensive in her treatment of him. she spent thirty minutes before the match hyping him up, reviewing strategy, scolding him. if he lost the match, he was met with hours of cold shoulders, berating, and complete neglect of his exhaustion. if he won, he was allowed a short reprieve, only to be met with reviewing what he could have hypothetically done better. you pitied him endlessly. 

you sat in the locker room for the entirety of the men’s matches, desperately trying to avoid art. when your set started, you stupidly looked into the crowd, hoping for your normal routine of waving to art, tashi, and patrick. you were met with an intense, judgemental stare from tashi, a brief thumbs up from patrick, and an earth shattering, pitiful gaze from art. you lost your first match of the season. 

after your match, you avoided them at all costs. you headed straight to the locker room, taking your time showering off and redressing, gathering all your things. after half an hour, tashi enters the room, stopping your breath instantly. “patrick sent me to see what was taking so long,” she says, and you’re taken back, like always, at the smooth confidence of her voice. “just taking my time getting everything together since i don’t have anymore matches this week,” you lie easily, swinging your bag over your shoulder, “i’ll be out in five,” she nods, starting out of the room, before turning back to eye you. “not everything is a game,” she says, her voice tighter than you’ve ever heard it. “i’m sorry?” you say, face flushed completely. she just shakes her head and leaves you alone with your thoughts.

you silently pray art and tashi have left, that you’ll only find patrick left in the stands when you exit the locker room, nearly sighing in relief when your prayers are answered. patrick sits alone, observing the next match that’s gone on, smiling as he sees you. “good match,” he praises, but you know it’s a total lie. “yeah, not good enough to win it,” you say bitterly, avoiding his hands when he reaches for you. “still, you played well. first lose of the season, i’ll take it,” he smiles, and your heart aches at his support, knowing you were confessing your love for art only one day prior. 

“art and tash are meeting us off campus for dinner,” he tells you. you stop in your tracks, turning to look at him with wide eyes, “patrick, i really don’t feel up to it,” he rolls his eyes, throwing his arm over your shoulder, “you’ll be fine, you’re just feeling bad because you lost. i’m only in town tonight, i’d like to see my friends and my girlfriend,” his use of the term makes you cringe, but you just nod, accepting it. 

your entire afternoon leading up to the dinner is spent filled with anxiety, trying to dodge patrick’s attempts at affection, and desperately trying to figure out what you’ll even say to art. at six pm, patrick tells you to hurry and get ready, irritating you even further. you put on a simple black dress, more concerned for your facial expressions than your outfit, and agree to meet the other couple at art’s car. 

patrick, almost immediately upon getting into the car, enters an irritatingly fast paced conversation with tashi about strategy, leaving you to sit awkwardly listening to their debate. it was like this, most times, when they really got going about tennis. it wasn’t that patrick was particularly passionate about strategy or rules, you swore he just enjoyed riling her up, and she enjoyed yelling at him without fear of having to deal with his emotions. it worked out perfectly, almost like they were the ones made for each other. 

at dinner, you try not to snap as art pulls out tashi’s chair, the perfect, sweet boyfriend. he sits across from you, avoiding your eyes, and tashi casts sideways glances at you, confusing you further. had you imagined it all? had art never announced his love for you, never promised to come to your room, to fix it all? you tell yourself you must have, the blatant lie easier to admit than the glaring truth. “baby, i was telling tash that i’m gonna be touring again next year,” patrick’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, “and i was wondering if she’d coach me. that’s what this dinner was for, honestly,” you pause, turning towards him, “tashi coach you on tour? where did that come from?” you were genuinely shocked, neither of them had ever mentioned anything about this. 

“we’ve been texting about it,” she replied for him, fixing her cool eyes on you, “it would be a good move for patrick’s career. i’ll be taking over as his travel coach, effective in two months,” you subconsciously look at art, wondering how he’s taking this, only to find his gaze fixed on patrick, betrayal evident in his eyes. “pat, you said you were taking a break from touring,” you said, turning back to your boyfriend, “what happened to that?” “tash thinks it’s best for my career if i keep the momentum up, people lose interest if you take a year off,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “well art, are you excited to tour?” you ask, braving the dreaded moment of speaking to him directly. he looks up, startled, “i’m not touring, what do you mean?” “i figured since your girlfriend was going with patrick, you’d just leave school. wasn’t the plan always to go pro after college, anyway?” 

for the second time that night, tashi answered for the boys, almost challenging you with her glare, “art’s not ready to go pro. his footing needs work, as well as his serve. he’s winning against college kids, but that doesn’t mean anything in the real world,” “the real world? i’m sorry, tashi, did art not win the junior US open, same as patrick?”  you snap, feeling your face get hot. “patrick is showing more promise than art at this time,” she said, her calm, condescending tone furthering your anger. “last i checked, art’s stats are more consistent than patrick’s. you push art to his limits, and then punish him when he doesn’t perform,” “i don’t want to hear this shit from someone losing matches to a fucking freshman,” she seethes. “oh, whatever, tashi. i lost one fucking match. sorry we can’t all be the duncinator,” you scoff, standing from your chair with shaky legs, “fuck this, i’m calling a cab back to campus. patrick, i’ll put your bag in the hall,”

not one of them tries to stop you from leaving, no one chases you from the restaurant, no one even calls your name. your hands shake with anger as you dial a taxi, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk as you wait. your phone screen lights up, and your pulse rises even higher as art’s contact photo is displayed on the screen. “hello?” you answer, confused by his phone call. “i couldn’t come after you, i’m in the bathroom, i left them at the table,” he says quietly, his voice thin, “i didn’t know about the tour. i promise i would’ve told you,” “i waited for you all night,” you tell him weakly, trying to hold it together, “i don’t give a fuck about the tour, i don’t care what either of them do. i care about you, art, she’s so fucking mean to you,” “i’m so sorry i didn’t come. i can’t explain now, but i will, i promise. i have to go, please be safe,” and he hangs up before you could even say goodnight.

you’re restless when you get back to your dorm, too busy rolling over your brief phone call to sleep. 

it crossed your mind on the short taxi ride home that maybe there was something more going on with patrick and tashi, besides coaching. you wished, bitterly, that they’d fall in love on the tour, leave you and art alone, right all the wrongs made by the four of you. that was never tashi’s style, though, to fall in love with anything but tennis. least of all a man she couldn’t control. 

in the back of your mind, you thought of the pain on art’s face when he heard the news, and your anger only burned hotter. ten years of friendship, and patrick still didn’t have the consideration to tell art anything. your ever present resentment for tashi only grew. the things you would do for art, the way you’d be so good to him, completely wasted on her. eventually, you slept, another restless night taking you. 

you woke to three texts from patrick, ‘i thought you were kidding about putting my bag in the hall. what the fuck, babe?’ then, ‘you didn’t have to freak out about the tour, honestly. tash knows what she’s doing, and it’s being wasted on art, you know that.’, and finally, ‘we should talk in the morning. tash thinks you’re a distraction, with you acting like this about my career and all. just call me’. 

you seethe, almost laughing at the irony of the situation. surely she sees how ridiculous it is, to need to have this hold on both of them. ‘nothing to talk about, then. if your “coach” thinks i’m a distraction, you should probably get rid of me, yeah? she’ll make you do it eventually, anyway, when she gets bored of art completely. have fun on tour, zweig.’ you hit send before you can talk yourself out of it, before you find out that he extended his trip, that he’s downstairs in the dining hall reading your texts to art. 

you went downstairs, skipping breakfast and going straight for the court, your appetite diminished by your anger. it was seven am, and thankfully you had the court to yourself, serving practice shots into the fence in an attempt to channel your still climbing emotions. you thought again of art’s face, his stricken expression, of tashi’s calm, methodological expression. the taut wire in your mind snapped, and you threw your racket down roughly, nearly screaming with frustration. you sat there, sunk to your knees, your thought too loud to hear footsteps approaching on the pavement. 

“if you’d channel that into your game, you wouldn’t lose again,” tashi’s voice cut through the breeze, and you snapped your eyes up to meet hers. “what the fuck are you doing here, tashi? last night wasn’t enough?” “jesus, you’re dramatic. i saw you hitting to the fence, i brought my racket so i could get in some practice since you’re already down here. hate me too much to serve to me?” a terrible thought crossed your mind, the secret joy you’d get from serving to her when last you checked, she couldn’t even go after the ball, “sure, i’ll serve,” 

as it turns out, tashi had healed up much better than she was letting on. she was able to keep up with most of your swings, grunting quietly when she put too much weight on her leg, but keeping up nonetheless. it only fueled your anger, seeing her persevere like this, just to prove a point. you let your anger get the best of you, swinging particularly hard, subconsciously aiming for her knee, but she somehow managed to deflect it, hurling the ball back to you. you jumped for it, desperate to win now, so caught up in your intensity that your footing faltered. for the first time in your tennis career, you tripped over your own feet, falling from your jump directly onto your right wrist. 

you hit the ground with a startling snap, immediately screaming, feeling the delicate bones give way to the weight of your fall. you hear yourself screaming like it’s through someone else’s ears, not recognizing the carnal agony coming from your chest. “tashi,” you gasp, “please call someone, it’s broken,” you force your eyes open from their squeezed shut position, your vision spotty from pain, just to see her smug face, standing right over you. she smirks, even as she calls for the campus medic, even as you sob. 

she squats down, kneeling by your head, stroking your hair soothingly. her tone is cloyingly sweet, and she leans ever closer, “i saw you aim for my fucking leg. i told you, not everything’s a game,” she strokes your arm, her smirk widening slightly, “you can have art. i’ll be nice, since your career’s over,” in one quick, fluid motion, she presses all of her weight onto your broken wrist, pushing herself into a standing position. a guttural scream tears its way from your throat and your vision gets almost entirely white, “tashi, please,” you sob. she cuts you off, “the medics will be here in just a minute. get yourself together, you know how spectators like to flock when they see commotion,” 

you lay on the cold court, sobs racking your body as the emt asks you what happened, as they help you stand, as they slide you into a wheelchair, pushing you to the medical building. you think of the look in tashi’s eyes, in the pure hatred on her face. you cry for what she must have felt like when she suffered her own injury, for the loss of her career, her passion. you nearly scream for the loss of your own, your life’s work, over in one stumble. you’d never be able to play with your left hand, far too late in your life to teach yourself to be ambidextrous. you can do nothing but brace yourself for the x-rays, for the final say on your recovery time. 

the doctor on staff gives you a mild sedative to keep you calm, and soon you find yourself dozing off on the table as you wait for them to return with your imaging. a doctor comes in after a long, dragging hour, smiling softly at you. 

you stare at the manila folder he holds, almost laughing at this stranger holding your fate in his hands. “are you gonna tell me there’s good news and bad news?” you joke dryly, your throat raw from your prior screams. “i’m afraid there’s not much good news here,” he tells you, his tone gentle, “you shattered your radius, ulna, and completely tore your dorsal ligaments. we’re sending you out for surgery within the hour, at palo alto regional medicine. they’ll place two rods for your radius and ulna, you’ll get stitched up, and you’ll have a stint and brace for, ideally, six months,” your face falls at his words, “then what?” “well, i can’t say for sure. after six months, you should be able to return to low motion, gentle activities, like writing and brushing your hair. after a year, most patients see roughly half of their previous dexterity,” “and my tennis?” he looks at you, his eyes full of pity, “the full recovery rate for an injury this severe is less than twenty percent. with the intense, repeated motion of your sport, i don’t see you being able to make a full return. it’s just a question of your range of motion at the time of your recovery, and how well the rods and pins set in your wrist. if you exacerbate it, you run a high risk of doing much more damage in the  long run,” 

you lean your head back against the wall, closing your eyes. you think of the feeling when you won your first game, a juniors match when you were only six. you think of your first tennis coach, of your first trophy, of your first loss. you think of tashi’s screams when she broke her leg, of your own when she further broke your wrist. you think of the first time you saw art and patrick, fire and ice, of the way they played, the way art came alive on the court. you think, finally, of the way you’ll never feel alive, in that way, again. 

the doctor’s voice pulls you from your reverie, “there’s people here to see you, just outside. would you like me to invite them in?” “who?” you ask, voice weak. “art donaldson and a patrick zweig,” you just nod in response, figuring now is as good a time as any. “you’ll make a great recovery,” the doctor tells you, heading for the door, “i’ll be back within the hour to help move you to the ambulance. it’s outpatient, so be sure to have someone ready to drive you home,” 

he opens the door, and you suck in a breath as you hear both the boys’ voices. you close your eyes once again, unable to look at them, to see the inevitable pity they must have all over their faces. art is the first to your side, and you flinch as he places his hand on your leg gently, “are you okay? tashi told patrick what happened, got here as soon as i heard but they wouldn’t let us in,” he rushes out, your heart clenching with every crack in his voice. “dude, obviously she’s not okay, she broke her fucking wrist,” patrick’s voice startles you, your eyes snapping open, all the anger from the previous night rushing back. “get out,” you bite, glaring at him. his eyes haze over with confusion, “me?” “yes, patrick, get out,” you repeat, your teeth gritting subconsciously, “i thought you were already gone.” 

“i stayed to say bye to art, and to go over some things with tashi,” your breath falters at her name, “patrick, get the fuck out,” “i just wanted to check on you-” “patrick, she said get the fuck out!” art yells, his face red, surprising the both of you. patrick throws his hands up defensively, shaking his head, “whatever, i don’t need this,” 

you sigh with relief when he walks out the door, your body relaxing as much as you can manage. “what did the doctor say?” art asked timidly, eyes focused sharply on your contorted wrist. you haven’t been able to look at it, to survey the damage for yourself, this entire time. “i won’t play again,” you tell him, eyes straight ahead, “they’ll take me in for outpatient surgery, i’ll have a stint and brace for six months. there’s less than a twenty percent chance of full recovery,” “i’m so sorry,” he whispers, his tone so soft it hurts, “what happened? i’ve never seen you fall,” 

your mind raced, the events replaying rapidly, “i lost my footing on a lunge, it was my fault. me and tashi were just hitting casually, and i just missed it somehow,” “you and tashi? she told me she was just walking by and saw you,” your eyes snap to him, eyebrows raised, “she said that?” “yeah, said she went for a walk this morning and heard you scream and saw you. she said you were in the court alone?” “huh. well, okay,” you laugh bitterly, “whatever she says, then,” “did she do this?” “no, she didn’t fucking do this,” you snap, guilt immediately burning in your chest, “i did it to myself, she just happened to be there.” he nods, flinching only slightly at your tone, and trains his gaze on your wrist once again. “did you look?” he asks quietly. 

your face burns, eyes welling with tears, “no, can’t make myself,” “you’re gonna have to look eventually,” he said,  the hand he’d placed on your leg rubbing small circular motions now, as if to soothe you. you nod, knowing realistically he’s right. “can you go over there? i can’t look in front of you,” you admit, humiliation burning in your stomach. “yeah, of course,” he nods, crossing the room quickly. 

you hold your breath as you force your eyes down to your wrist, gasping as you take in just how mangled it is. your bones are visible, jutting out under your thin skin, and the inside of your palm is completely raw and skinned from the impact of your fall. “oh my god,” you sob, your chest heaving. art rushes back to your side, concern ever present in his face, “what? is the medication wearing off? what is it?” “it’s so ugly,” you sob, your uninjured hand clinging to his shirt, “it’s over, art, i’m never gonna play again,” his hands come down to your hair, running his hands through it soothingly, “it’s gonna be okay, i promise, even if you don’t play again, you’ll be alright,” 

the weight of the last three days collapses onto you, art’s confession, patrick’s betrayal, tashi’s smirk. the sound of your wrist snapping replays in your ears, and you bury your head into art’s shirt, desperately searching for an escape. your entire body shakes with the forcefulness of your cries, and you will it to stop, feeling pathetic enough as it is. you remember the shame you felt when art didn’t show up, the feeling of waiting for him, and almost laugh at how much worse this is. 

you pull away from his chest, looking up at him and wiping your tears roughly, “you never came,” you manage to choke out. he cringes at the memory, his eyes going to the floor instead of resting on your own. “i couldn’t,” he said quietly, “tashi found out, one of her friends overheard us arguing, she said if i left her, embarrassed her, she’d ruin both of our careers. i feel like such an idiot now, my career doesn’t fucking matter, i should’ve let her. she says i won’t make it without her as my coach, anyway, so her stunt with patrick was her way of getting back at me regardless. i thought i could buy us more time, make her see that i wasn’t happy, that this was the right thing. she just had me so convinced, she said she’d coach someone to compete against you,” you laugh angrily, your breath heaving, “even if she did, it wouldn’t have ruined my career. she forgets i beat her when she was still competing. art, you should’ve told me, i don’t care about that shit. she was going to leave with patrick anyway,” “i didn’t know that,” he said desperately, “i didn’t know until that dinner, i had no idea or i would’ve-” you cut him off, pressing your lips to his in a moment of frenzied weakness. 

you can taste your own tears on his lips, salt and heat and his mint gum, and a choked sob leaves you even as you kiss him. the realization that you’ve wasted six months, spent six months in love with him, six months settling, six months afraid of tashi. he pulls away from you, eyebrows knit, cheeks red, “please don’t kiss me to get over him,” you flinch, rejection slapping you in the face, confusion following, “get over him? art, i’m not, there’s nothing to get over,” “you broke up with him, he told me,” he said, his eyes welling up with tears now. “i broke up with him because i’m fucking in love with you, art,” you sob, “please don’t do this, don’t turn me away,” his hands come to the side of your face, wiping your tears with the pad of his thumb as they fall, “i’m not turning you away, please don’t take it that way, i just need to be sure,” you press your lips to his again, rougher this time, trying desperately to make him understand. 

before he has the chance to pull away, the doctor re-enters the room, startling the two of you apart. “i’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, laughing briefly, “i’m just here to take you out to the ambulance, they’ll take you to the surgery center,” you nod, mentally preparing yourself as best you could. he looks to art, whose face is blushed fully, “you wanna ride with her? they’ll let one person in the back,” art looks at you, eyebrows raised. “i need someone to drive me home from the procedure,” you recall, “you might have to meet us there?” “i’ll call a taxi,” he said, shaking his head, “i’m not leaving you,” 

the doctor rolls you out to the ambulance, and you nearly cry again at the sight of it, at the hopelessness you feel. you sit in the back, art holding your good hand soothingly, the entire way to the surgical center. neither of you speak, except for art’s constant check ins, but you feel so much more soothed knowing he’s right here, that he didn’t leave. 

the surgery is fairly quick, the doctors expertly working to insert the rods and tightening the pins. you keep your eyes focused on a stain on the wall the entire time, trying your best to escape inside your mind, to anywhere but here. you think of how different everything would be now if you’d just told art how you felt, about your blossoming, childlike crush you’d developed, if you’d rejected patrick. you think again of tashi’s pain, of her devastating injury, of the parallels of your lives now. her words echo in your head, ‘not everything is a game.’ you wonder what she’s doing now, if she’s hearing her sobs echo through her head, too. you wonder, most of all, if she really believes you would’ve stolen art from her, if she really ever thought he was hers. 

when they finish the surgery, setting your brace and writing your pain prescription, they tell you to come back in six weeks for an exam. you agree warily, exhaustion overtaking you. art keeps his word, having a taxi ready when you’re discharged, and holds your good hand the entire way back to your dorm. he helps you get settled in bed, your eyes half lidded already, and his eyes linger on your lips. “the doctor said someone should stay with you tonight, make sure the medication doesn’t put you asleep too deeply or something like that,” he said, sitting at the edge of your bed, “do you want me to ask one of the girls on your hall or something?” you shake your head quickly, “can you stay?” his eyes soften, and he nods, “i’ll sleep on the floor. just wake me up if you need me, i’ll check on you every little while,” you agree meekly, too exhausted to argue that he could just sleep in your bed with you, and let yourself fall into sleep. 

you wake up with a gasp, your room pitch black, panic gripping you, heart pounding. art’s at your side within seconds, concern in his eyes, “are you hurt? what happened?” he whispers. “just a bad dream, i’m okay,” you tell him, calming down slowly, “can you maybe stay here? in my bed?”  his eyes soften and he nods, “i’ll be right here,” you fell back asleep to the sound of his breathing. 

you woke up several hours later, your heart dropping when you find art gone from your bed. you get up shakily, wrist aching, and search for your phone. you found it on your nightstand, with a text from art saying he went to get you breakfast and he’d be back as soon as he could. to pass time, you open your laptop, going to the stanford news page from habit. the first article is about your fall, and your heart dropped. ‘record breaking sophomore out indefinitely following major wrist injury’. tears pricked your eyes, and you scrolled on, your cheeks heating when you see an article about tashi. ‘stanford’s own, tashi duncan, announces plan to drop out and pursue coaching full time.’ you click read more, anger already simmering, and continue reading. ‘duncan was set to leave in november, but has announced she will now be joining up and coming pro player, patrick zweig of fire and ice, effective immediately. duncan previously coached stanford’s art donaldson, the other half of the aforementioned duo, but they have officially gone their separate ways.’

you slammed your laptop closed, going to take a shower, wash off the stress and the pain and the tension. you waterproofed your brace, allowing a few tears before forcing them down, stepping into the hot water. you scrubbed your skin, frustration building at the limited use of your left hand, and washed your hair, nearly moaning at the feeling of the water on your scalp. as you closed your eyes, rinsing out your shampoo, your bathroom door opened and you gasped, anxiety spiked.

“fuck, i’m so sorry,” art said, closing the door quickly, “i didn’t hear the shower and i couldn’t find you,” your face heated, but your heart rate slowed with relief of it just being art. “it’s okay,” you told him, “could you actually maybe help me? i’ll cover up, i’m just having a really hard time washing my hair,” “yeah, just tell me when to come in,” art replied, his voice muffled through the door. you sat down in the bathtub, pulling your knees up to your chest, “you can come in,” he entered slowly, and you heard his breath hitch when he saw you, his pupils dilated. “what do you need me to do?” he asked softly. “just need you to grab the showerhead and rinse my hair, and put in my conditioner and rinse that. i’m sorry, i was just having a hard time,” he kneeled down beside the tub, his sudden proximity making you suck in a breath, and grabbed the still running showerhead, letting the water fall over your hair. 

“please don’t apologize,” he choked out, “i’d help you with anything,” your face flushed, “i don’t want to have to depend on someone to wash my hair,” you told him, “not you or anyone. though i’m glad it’s you,” “i know it’s hard, but it’s not forever, i promise. i’ll be here to help as long as you need me,” he ran your conditioner through the ends of your hair gently, and you shivered at the feeling of his hands ghosting over your back. 

“tashi’s gone,” he said quietly, still combing his fingers through your hair, “she left this morning with patrick,” “i saw, i’m so sorry, art,” “it’s alright. she wasn't that great of a coach, she was a bad friend, and barely my girlfriend at all. and me and zweig are done. well, i guess all of us are done,” he laughed bitterly, his breath tickling your neck as he did. “it’s for the best, i’m sure,” you reassured, “you and patrick will make up eventually. he loves her, yknow? he’d do anything for her, i’m sure it was her idea. he settled for me because she was out of his league, and i can’t even be mad because i did the same thing,” his hands stilled in your hair, his breath hitching, “i should go,” you turned your neck to look at him, rejecting once again stinging you, “why?” “it’s too much, being in here like this, i can’t do it,” he said, averting his eyes from your gaze, “i’ll help you rinse, i just need to breathe for a second,” he turned to leave but stopped in his tracks when he heard you sniff, fresh tears falling to your cheeks. “please don’t cry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. 

“we’ll never get it right, will we? is there too much history, too much damage?” you asked him, turning back to face the shower wall. he sunk back to his knees beside the tub, his hand coming to your shoulder, “i can’t stay in here because the sight of you, and the smell of your shampoo in this room and being so close to you, i can’t-” he made a sort of strangled noise, reminding you of the day he confessed his feelings, “you’re hurting and i have to pull myself together and i’m trying so hard but i just have all this need for you and it’s choking me,” 

you blushed, turning back to face him, “i’m not going to break, art. you don’t have to keep it all to yourself,” “this isn’t the time for me to be having thoughts like this,” he said, still not looking directly at you, “i’m being so selfish and i’m so sorry,” “art,” you reached your uninjured hand out to touch his face gently, “i’ve wanted this for so long, for you to have any kind of thoughts about me at all, and now you’re here in my bathroom and you have me, and you could take me if you wanted,”  he hissed out a breath, “please, please don’t say that. i’m barely holding myself together, this isn’t the right time,” “i’m the one who’s injured and i’m telling you it’s the right time, there’s never been a time, i’m here and i’m willing and i’m hopeful and i’ve been in love with you for six months and they finally left, art, it’s just us here alone and i’m telling you, please, just be with me,” 

something seemed to snap in him, his eyes darkening and his breath getting slightly rougher, “let me help you up,” he said, his tone gentle despite the obvious need all over his expression. you nodded, turning off the water and relaxing into him as he pulled you up by your arm, careful not to let you slip. you blushed at the stark difference between the two of you, your still naked body compared to him fully clothed. he looked away, still ever the gentlemen, and wrapped you in a towel, walking you back to your bedroom. 

you laid down slowly, careful to avoid your wrist, your towel draped over your torso. “you look like a painting,” art said quietly, eyeing you from three feet away. you laugh softly, rolling your eyes, “you don’t have to lay it on extra thick because i’m injured,” he crossed the room to join you on the bed, resting a hand on your calf, “i’m not laying it on. you’re so beautiful,”  “art,” you say, attempting to capture a million emotions in one word. “you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever laid eyes on,” he trailed his finger along your calf muscle, edging closer to your thigh, “you’re so strong, so inspired,” you nearly moan at his feather light touch, combined with the soft intensity of his words, “come here,” 

“i’m taking my time,” he said, massaging your thigh gently, “i want to take all the time in the world with you, make up for all we lost,” you let out a shaky breath, watching his hand work the tension from your muscles, “all we have is time now,” “doesn’t stop me from wanting to savor this. do you know how long i’ve thought of this? how many nights i spent tossing and turning in bed, your voice clouding my thoughts,  picturing touching you, making you understand just how much i care for you,” his breath shutters, “how much i think of you, how much i love you. i could spend the rest of my life telling you, showing you, how i’ve felt. you don’t understand, but you will,” 

you watched him through heavy eyes, biting your lip as he slowly parted your thighs, leaning closer to you. your towel was pushed in the floor by art’s roaming hands, which made a temporary home on your hips, pulling you down the bed, even closer to him. his breath fanned against you, your thighs parting farther, opening up for him. “you’re so fucking beautiful,” he groaned quietly, and you gasped as he leaned in, licking a stripe up your clit. “art, oh my god,” you sighed, your hands desperately searching for hold of his hair. he held onto your hips, holding you still as his tongue dove into you, lapping at you frenziedly. 

your back arched into his touch, loud pants leaving your mouth. “you taste so fucking good,” he moaned into your skin, his nails digging softly into your thighs. “art, please come kiss me,” you begged, dizzy from the pleasure and needy for his lips on your own. he complied hesitantly, pulling himself away from you and pressing wet kisses up your stomach until he found his lips on yours. you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer, moaning into the kiss at the taste of your own cunt on his lips. 

he ran his hands up and down your sides, desperate, like he thought you’d disappear if he stopped touching you for even a second. he slowly pulled away from your kiss, placing small, gentle bites down the side of your neck. “can feel your heartbeat,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, “do i make you that excited?” he didn’t sound cocky, more genuinely curious, flattered even. “yes,” you whimper, “want you so badly, art. want you to be a part of me,” 

he groaned, from deep in his chest, pausing his kisses only to pull off his own shorts. “are you sure this is what you want, right now?” he asked, looking into your eyes with a slightly concerned expression. “yes, i promise i’m sure,” you nodded without hesitation, reaching for him again. he leaned into your touch, kissing you roughly, passionately, like he was starving for it. 

without breaking away from you, he lined himself up between your thighs with shaky hands, hesitating before he made any movements. “gonna go slow,” he said softly, kissing your jawline and running his free hand through your hair, “can’t, don’t know how long i’ll last,” you titled your head back to look at him, taking in his disheveled state. he looked like he was barely holding himself together, pushing at the edge of his restraint. “i’m not gonna break, art,” you reassured him, your left hand sliding between the two of you, positioning his leaking tip just on the edge of your cunt, “give it to me,” he moaned at the slight touch of your hand, obeying and sliding into you in one fluid motion. 

you nearly screamed, kissing him to shut yourself up, to occupy your mouth that so desperately wanted to let go and scream his name. his pace was erratic, six months of longing, of fantasizing about this. he leaned back, his forehead against yours as he thrust into you, “tell me it wasn’t like this with patrick,” he choked out, “please, need to hear you say it,” “it wasn’t like this with him, art, only you,” you moaned, his possessiveness adding to your pleasure, basking in how fraught he was at the thought of you with patrick. “never fucked tashi like this,” he groaned, pounding into you, “never felt this good, always pictured your face,” you buried your face in his shoulder, biting down gently, muffling your moans. 

“not gonna last,” he breathed, leaning down to wrap his lips around one of your nipples, sucking needily. “want you to cum for me, wanna keep you inside,” you told him, even closer at the thought of him spilling out of you. he grabbed your hips, positioning himself even deeper. his thrusts grew sloppier, more desperate, his moans turning into whines of your name as he twitched inside you, spilling into you. 

“fuck, fuck it’s so good,” he mewled, slowing down as he rode out his orgasm, his eyes on the two of you joined together, “so good, oh my god,” he panted against you, your chests heaving, and pulled out slowly, leaving you gasping at the sudden feeling of emptiness. “did you cum?” he asked, his fingers tracing your clit. “no, almost did, but it’s okay, just lay-” 

before you could finish, tell him you didn’t even need to, his mouth was on your cunt again. you could feel his cum seeping out of you, into his open, wanting mouth, and you came almost immediately just from the feeling of it paired with his slow laps against your clit. “oh my god,” you breathed, pulling him back up to you hastily, pulling him down into a kiss. 

you could taste the both of you on his mouth, growing dizzy at the taste, at the thought of what he’d done for you, at his devotion to your pleasure. he rolled onto his side, his arm slung over your hips, catching his breath. “was that everything you dreamed of?” you asked, half teasingly, half curious. “i could’ve never dreamed of just how good it would feel,” he sighed, kissing your shoulder, “i don’t have words. like you were made for me,” 

“maybe i was,” you smiled, kissing his cheek, “we just got a little lost on the way,” he smiled sleepily, nodding and pulling you up onto his lap. you laid your head on his chest, just above his heart, closing your eyes blissfully at the feeling of his warm skin against your cheek. “not gonna know what to do now, having you all to myself like this,” he told you. “mm, i think we should just enjoy it, god knows we earned it,” you laughed sadly, “i wanted to talk to you, not now, but sometime, just go over everything that’s happened, i guess,” 

“we can talk now, might as well get it all out in the open. what’d you want to know?” “what was going on with you and tashi? and you and patrick, even. i don’t understand the dynamics,” his breath hitched, but he kept his hand on your back reassuringly as he answered you, “me and tashi were just, i don’t even know what to call it. we weren’t in love, weren’t even really friends, i guess. it started out just casual, but then her injury, and she wanted to coach me. she ran me ragged pretty quickly, just constant practicing and conditioning, and there were times when i was so tired, i just wanted to end it,” your eyes welled up at his words, “i don’t want to blame it all on her, but it was hell. it was just constant, and if i needed a break she’d just tell me what a fucking loser i was. i guess in a way, that was the only thing i loved about her. she told me what i already knew,” 

you sat up, staring down at him, confused, “what you already knew? art, you’re fucking incredible at tennis, come on now. you know you are,” “i’m not as good as patrick, never have been. i don’t mind it as much now, now that he’s pro and i’m here in my own bubble, but i know it in the back of my mind. why do you think i came to stanford? college was the one place i could escape competing against him,” “oh, art,” you said sadly, “you’re so talented, everyone can see it but you,” 

“patrick and i, i don’t know, he was my best friend, and then something changed, the competition got to be too much. he’d hold these over me, you, my emotions, my losses, whatever. he kissed me once, and when i kissed him back, he told me i was pathetic,” he laughed bitterly, “i didn’t even want to kiss him, i just didn’t want to disappoint him,” he stopped, the cracks in his voice becoming more frequent. 

“i’m so sorry,” you said, your chest aching at the sight of this beautiful boy, so eager to please, so misused, “they never should have put you through that, neither of them. they’re not real people, they’re just tennis players, just mean and spiteful and they’ll use people up, art. it’s not your fault,” “i know it’s not my fault they did it, but i let it happen, i guess. i’ll be fine, i’ll get past it, i promise. that’s it, though, all the complicated bits at least. i don’t want to think about that shit anymore,” 

“we don’t have to,” you promised him, cupping your face in your hands, “we’re past it, we’ll be alright, okay?” he nodded, pulling you down to him and kissing you softly. you stayed like that for a few minutes, slow, gentle kisses between the two of you, your hands still resting on his cheeks. 

he pulled himself away hesitantly, eyes going to your wrist, the bulky brace around it. “you’re gonna heal up, and i’m gonna spend all my free time helping you get your motion back, alright? if you want to play, i’ll help you play. if you don’t, i’ll support you, but i’m not giving up on you, injury or not. you’re the most passionate player i’ve ever seen, and this won’t put an end to it, i won’t sit by and let it, alright?”

you teared up, nodding and trying your best to hold your sob in. “thank you,” you whispered, overwhelmed with the gratitude and love you felt for him in this moment. “i’d do anything for you,” he promised, pulling you to his chest, stroking your hair until you fell into a restful sleep for the first time in days. 

it will come back - art donaldson

;; dark and obsessive art donaldson

cw; aggressive art, rough sexual content, drinking, manipulation, stalking??, obsessive behavior, gaslighting, kinda icky behavior??

you know better, babe, you know better, babe

than to smile at me, smile at me like that

you know better, babe, you know better, babe

than to hold me just, hold me just like that

things with art started off with a simple, well intentioned smile across the court. you were warming up, stretching your shoulders when you caught his eyes stuck on you, drinking in the tight tennis dress clinging to your skin. his bottom lip was pulled between his teeth, his gaze pin sharp and hair-raisingly intense. you had seen art before, at his matches or just around the court warming up. 

you weren’t nearly as well known, or competitive, as art. you weren’t even on the official team, you really only played as a hobby and as an excuse to get out of studying constantly. it seemed, to you, that his entire being revolved around tennis. if you saw him, it was typically on the court, or just leaving it. he always had his tennis bag slumped over his shoulder, his name ever-present like a brand. 

you brushed off his stare, trying your best to push it from your mind and continue your stretches. you were only able to relax when you saw him headed for the gate, following after his coach. your breathing calmed, and you turned to one of the other girls, gesturing to the net. “wanna hit with me? you asked her, “i only have half an hour.” she nodded, walking over to her side of the court. art’s stare was still at the forefront of your mind by the end of your 30 minutes. 

after you showered off the sweat from your practice, you headed to the library, hoping to cram in some last minute studying before your biology exam. you claimed your table, spreading out your books and walking to the vending machine in search of a red bull. 

when you returned, you were surprised, and unnerved, to see art donaldson himself seated at your table, your notebook open in front of him. “hey, uh, that’s my stuff,” you said awkwardly. his head snapped up, those blue eyes landing on you once again, “yeah, i know. sorry, shoulda asked first, i just needed the notes for bio.” his voice was confident and smooth, like he hadn’t at all been invading your privacy. “oh, didn’t know you had that class. well, i’d love to help out but i kinda need to study, so..” you trailed off, hoping he’d take the hint. “oh, no problem,” he smiled, standing up quickly, “see you around.”

you went back to your studying, but couldn’t shake the feeling of confusion finding art with your notes. you knew for a fact he was not in your class, which was only held once a week, when you knew he was more than likely practicing. you tried, and once again failed, to the push the thought from your mind. you told yourself there was no reason for him to lie, he could have just transferred into the class for an extra credit,  and went on with your reading. 

sure enough, as your bio professor handed out forms for the exam, art was nowhere to be found. you leaned to the boy on your right, your voice barely a whisper, “hey, is art donaldson in this class? i could’ve sworn he told me he was,” “nah, don’t think so. i’ve never seen him, anyway.” you nodded, going back to your own paper, mind a million miles away. 

after your exam, you went to the dining hall, hoping to enjoy a quick snack  between classes. you saw him  before he saw you, this time, and found yourself admiring the fluidity of his movement, the ease of his posture as he talked to one of the other boys you saw him with frequently. you felt crazy for ever thinking anything was off about him reading your notes. he probably took the class privately, considering his insane schedule. a few moments passed, with you continuing to watch him, and finally his eyes met yours, catching you. you smiled shyly, going back to your salad and scolding yourself for staring. 

you saw his bright white nikes from your peripheral vision, just at the edge of your table. “hey, i just wanted to say sorry for stealing your notes like that,” he said lightly, “i’m in molecular bio lab, i thought you were too. just got confused,” “oh, it’s okay! no big deal,” you replied, feeling silly for not thinking of that before. “alright, cool. hey, while i’m over here, you play, don’t you?” “what, tennis?” he nodded, taking a bite of his apple. 

your breath faltered slightly as you watched the juice drip down his chin, entranced as he licked it off his bottom lip. “uh, yeah, i do,” you stammered, “not super well, i just play for fun mostly. why?” “to be honest, i need a hitter that’s not gonna scream at me about precision,” he laughed, “love my coach, but he’s intense, and sometimes i just need to let off some steam.” “oh, i get that. i could ask around for you!” you smiled. “oh, i was wondering if you’d be interested? it’d be nice to hit with someone who’s not super competitive, and i’ve seen you play. you’re good,” he said, leaning slightly closer, “if you have time, i mean.” “oh, yeah, that would be fun! i’m really only free in the afternoons, my last class is out by six everyday,” you tried not to let your confusion show in your voice or on your face. “cool, works for me,” he said, “i could meet you at the west court tomorrow at six thirty? it’s a little more secluded so you won’t have to worry about people critiquing or anything.” “yeah, sounds good to me, i’ll be there,” you smiled. 

on your walk  back to your dorm, you ran over the conversation in your mind, examining every sentence for any deeper meaning. what would art donaldson possibly want to do with you? sure, you were fine at tennis, but you weren’t a pro by any means. you told yourself he was right, he needed someone less intense, less competitive. you were ideal for that, considering you weren’t in a position of power, or a threat, to him. 

your classes went by quickly the next day, and by six you were ready to be on the court, to see if art was genuine with his intentions. you changed into a tank top and shorts, grabbing your racket bag and jogging to the west court. you stopped yourself from entering when you laid your eyes on him. he was shirtless, back muscles flexing as he stretched his arms above his head. he bent down, touching his toes, and you watched as his toned legs flexed along with his back and arms. you could’ve stood there all night, dumb look on your face and blush across your cheeks, until your footing slipped and you stepped on a stray branch. he stilled, turning to look at you slowly, and it struck you how much he looked like a predator stalking their prey in that moment. “well don’t just stand there,” he called, a smug grin on his face. you blushed darker, embarrassed of being caught, and entered the gate. “sorry, i was just making sure it was you before i came in,” you explained, knowing he could probably see through your lie. “oh, no problem,” he reassured, “you all stretched?”  you nodded, though you hadn’t stretched, but too aware of how tight your outfit truly was to stretch in front of him, “did you just want me to hit it back? or did you want like a match?” “we can just hit for now, let you get comfortable,” he said. you nodded again, heading to your side of the net and grabbing a tube of balls. “ready?” he called over the net, racket already in his position. “ready!”

you weren’t ready for the sheer speed of art’s serve, of the way he grunted slightly when the ball left his racket, the way his muscles visibly rippled with the impact of the hit. you just barely managed to hit it back, having to jump slightly to reach the ball, and felt a sense of accomplishment watching it fly back over the net. he looked like an entirely different person than the boy you’d seen in the dining hall the day prior. before, he was all easy, fluid movement, smooth words and lazy grins. now, he was rigid, hard lines, his light eyes set with a determination you had never seen in yourself. you wondered if he forgot who he was playing, forgot that he wasn’t in the french open he had won the year before. 

art was always intense like this, it was the only time he could be himself. he could be as aggressive, as loud, as he needed to be. he could let go, not having to pretend to be polite and easygoing any longer. people asked him frequently, if he felt the pressure to perform, and he wanted to tell them he felt more pressure to perform in a basic conversation than he ever had while playing tennis. until he met you, that is. talking to you came as easily to art as swinging a racket, and that was when he knew you were both in trouble. 

i know who I am when i’m alone

i’m something else when i see you

you don't understand, you should never know  

how easy you are to need

your little practices with art continued for three weeks, with you meeting him at the west court every other day at six thirty pm. you slowly began to look forward to them, and by the fourth week, you were desperate to get out of your last class each day. so desperate, really, that you texted art at four oclock, asking him if he’d want to meet you earlier. you emailed your professor, telling him that you’d come down with a migraine and you’d have to make up any notes next week, and went up to your dorm to wait on art. thirty minutes went by, and you hadn’t heard from him, so you went to change into your tennis skirt and brush your hair up into a ponytail. a knock on your door interrupted you, and you hesitantly opened it, not expecting anyone. art stood in the hallway, racket bag over his shoulder and disheveled hair. 

“hey, sorry i came as soon as i saw your text. sorry, i fell asleep after my match,” he said, and you took in his full appearance. his eyes were still hazy, and he had slight creases on his cheek from his pillow. you couldn’t help but think what a beautiful sight it must be to wake up next to him. “oh, you didn’t have to do that, i just got out of my last class and didn’t have anything else to do,” you said, attempting to downplay your desperation. “well we can go down to the court now, here i’ll carry your bag,” he smiled, and you reluctantly passed him your pink racket bag. “let’s go then,” 

the walk to the court was oddly quiet, with art seeming to be in a bad mood and you not wanting to speak up and irritate him farther. once on the court, as always, he seemed to transform. his hits were much more aggressive than usual, his typical quiet grunts turning into full on groans as he served. you noticed how tense he looked, almost uncomfortable, and after half an hour you dropped your racket. “what’s going on, art?” you asked him, approaching the net. “nothing,” he said dismissively, serving another ball just to send it flying against the fence. “i can tell something’s up, you can talk to me,” you said, tilting your head up at him. you weren’t used to this side of him, so short and borderline angry. “i said i’m fine, do you want to play fucking tennis or not?” he snapped, and your eyes teared up in shock. “i guess not,” you snapped back, picking up your racket and rushing off the court, “i was just trying to be nice.” 

you made it halfway back to your dorm before you heard art calling after you, his tone pleading even from a yard away. “please wait, i’m sorry,” he called, and you heard his steps bounding up to you. you kept walking, desperate to be back in the comfort of your bed, and felt his fingers circle around your wrist, pulling you to a stop. “i don’t want to talk about it, art. just don’t worry about it, i’ll see you around,” you said, your tone clipped. “i am worried about it, i want to apologize. i shouldn’t have snapped, you didn’t do anything wrong. i’m just really stressed out and i shouldn’t have taken that out on you. will i still see you tomorrow?” he rushed out, looking at you intently. “it’s fine, seriously. i get it, i know you’re stretched really thin. we don’t have to do this anymore, i’m sure you get more than enough hitting practice with your coach and in your matches. thank you for the experience, though,” you said, turning away from him once again. “you can’t just blow me off,” he said, his rough tone from earlier creeping back, “i’m trying to apologize, not cancel our practices. if that’s what you want, then fine, but don’t blame it on me.” 

you walked away quickly, ashamed at the tears now slowly rolling down your face from the confrontation. you didn’t want to call off your practices, but you also didn’t want to become his verbal punching bag because he was exhausted. he didn’t come after you this time, and you felt more hurt than relieved. your tears kept coming, even after you reached your dorm room. you were so upset, you never even stopped to wonder how art knew which dorm was yours. 

three days passed, and you didn’t hear from him at all. it took almost all of your self control not to send him a text, or stop by one of his matches, but you held yourself back. on day four, there were flowers outside of your door. you rolled your eyes, squatting down to read the attached note. ‘west court, six thirty. art.’ you opened your door, placing the bouquet on your desk and throwing yourself onto your bed. your mind raced, debating if you should meet him or not, wondering what he would possibly have to say. you felt completely out of control as you changed into your tennis dress from that very first day you saw him, grabbing your racket and locking up your dorm. 

you walked onto the court at six thirty on the dot, with no art in sight. you sighed, sitting on the cold pavement and stretching your legs. ten minutes went by, then twenty, no art. at seven, you rolled your eyes and left the court, pulling out your phone to text him. ‘really nice, art. thanks for the flowers.’ you sent it, turning off your ringer and going back to your dorm, wanting the day to be over. you showered, changing into your pajamas, when you noticed your top drawer was open.  you knitted your eyebrows, sorting through the drawer, but not noticing anything missing. you told yourself you just left it open, and put on a movie on your small tv before going to sleep. 

the next morning, you woke up to a text from art. ‘i’m so sorry, i meant to come but got caught up in one of my classes. can i make it up to you?’ you ignored it, going about your morning routine and turning your phone off once you got to your literature class. when you exited, someone grabbed your wrist, yanking you out of the door frame. you gasped, your heart rate spiking, but immediately relaxed when you saw his familiar head of blonde curls. “what the hell, art? scared me to death,” you scolded, putting your hand on your chest. “you didn’t reply to my text, i just wanted to see you,” he said softly, rubbing your wrist where he had grabbed you, “did you like the flowers?” “would’ve liked seeing you more, but yeah, they were pretty. what’s going on with you? you’re acting so weird,” “i told you, i’ve just been stressed out. do you wanna get dinner or something? i feel like we’ve spent all this time together and we barely talk,” your eyes softened, and you nodded, “yeah, i’d like that. don’t stand me up this time,” “i’m not, promise. i can pick you up at seven?” “what should i wear?” “i’ll have something sent up to your dorm. see you at seven,” he said, and left you standing dumbfounded in the crowded hallway. 

at six, you climbed the stairs to your room once again, this time finding a department store garment bag hung over your doorknob. you blushed to yourself, taking it off the knob and entering your room. art had sent you a beautiful dark red dress, a silver necklace hung around the neckline to pair with it. your face reddened even more, your mind going to how much money he must have spent on this. as you pulled the dress from the bag, you saw a small note tied to the hanger. ‘you’re gonna look gorgeous. art’ you giggled to yourself, feeling like a high schooler giddy in love, and held the dress up to your body. he had somehow picked your perfect size, and only after looking in the mirror did you recognize the signature stanford color. 

you quickly straightened your hair, putting on the new dress and digging into your closet for shoes to pair it with. you sighed loudly when you came up empty handed, pacing around the room barefoot, unsure of what to do. you heard a knock on your door and ran your hair through your hair anxiously as you went to answer it. art stood in the hall once again, this time in a white button down and pressed black dress pants. your breath caught in your throat, all thoughts of your shoes gone as you took in the way he filled out the thin white shirt. “i realized i forgot shoes, and i had some time to kill so i hope these are alright,” he said, holding out a black shoebox. “oh, thank you so much. i was just thinking i didn’t have any wear,” you breathed a sigh of relief, moving back to hold your door open, “you can come in, i’ll just put these on and be ready.” he nodded, his eyes darting all around your room as he entered. you sat on the edge of your bed, leaning over to open the box. your breath faltered once again as you saw the gorgeous black heels. “these are beautiful, art. thank you,” you said, taking them out carefully. you slid one on, fumbling with the clasp. “do you mind helping? sorry, i can’t get the clasp with my nails,” you said, blushing slightly. he shot up from his seat, nodding, “yeah, here,” 

he kneeled in front of you, taking your calf into his hands gently and clasping the shoe with ease. he gently took your other foot into his hands, his thumb rubbing circles on your ankle as he slid your foot into the heel. you could feel your pulse all through your body, heart racing at the simple feeling of his gentle hands on your legs. “hey, how’d you know what size to get me?” you asked suddenly, realizing you hadn’t thought of it before. his face reddened just barely, and he said, “oh, i must’ve just noticed when you were stretching or something. i probably just guessed.” you nodded, still questioning it in your mind but not pushing it further. you closed your eyes in pleasure as he ran his hand up your calf, before standing up and holding the same hand out for you. “shall we?” 

he took you to a dimly lit, obviously expensive italian restaurant just off campus. “this is beautiful, i’ve never been here,” you said, in awe of the detailing on the walls and the subtle beauty of the design. “i’ve been once, with my parents when they were in town for a match. it’s pretty nice, nice wine selection,” he said, pulling out your chair for you. you thanked him, smoothing your dress down and sitting down. he took his seat across from you, immediately opening the drink menu, his eyes raking over the options. “do you have a preference?” he asked, peering at you over the menu. “no, i’m not much of a drinker so whatever you recommend is great,” you told him. the server came over, and you noticed how he instinctively turned toward art first, like he commanded all the attention in the room. “what wine would you like, mr. donaldson?” the server asked, and the realization struck you that art wasn’t just famous on campus, but more than likely all throughout the country. “we’ll do the 2005 pinot noir, thank you,” art replied, handing him the menu, “and you can just leave the bottle.” “perfect, i’ll be back shortly with that,” you smiled at art across the table, your eyebrows raised, “so, mr. donaldson,” you giggled. “yeah, unfortunately. nineteen years old and getting called mr. just because i won a few games,” he laughed, but you could see the tension underlying his laughter. “well, i think its cool. you’re a big deal,” you said reassuringly.

the waiter returned quickly with your wine, pouring you both glasses and asking art what you’d both like for your main course. “i’ll do the eight ounce wagyu with a caesar salad,” he replied, then nodded to you, “and she’ll have whatever she wants,” “oh, i’ll just have the ricotta ravioli, thank you so much,” the server nodded, heading to put your orders in, and art grinned at you. “you’re so polite, it’s endearing,” he said, his eyes gleaming. you blushed slightly, “i was just raised that way,” you said. “tell me more about how you were raised, i wanna hear all of it,” 

there was not a quiet moment the entire evening. you talked all about your life, growing up in the south, while art told you all about his busy upbringing in palo alto. his life was all tennis lessons, private school and flashy cars, something you were not accustomed to. you found yourself wishing you could have known him when you were both young, before the world had shaped him into the hardened version of himself he was now. he seemed calmer through dinner, like you could see the tension melting from his body with every laugh that left your lips, or every brush of your hand against his over the table. 

with all your talking, you didn’t notice his one glass of wine to your four, didn’t notice how his jokes started to get much, much funnier, how the touch of his hand started to feel almost euphoric. when he said it was time for him to get you home, you protested, telling him he couldn’t drive yet. “oh, i’m alright,” he assured you, “i had one glass before our meal even came, i promise i’m fine to drive,” you pouted your lips, confused why he had stopped but let you keep downing glass after glass. a slight pang of anxiety formed in your chest at the thought that maybe it had been intentional, but you quickly pushed it away, telling yourself that art wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, or make you uncomfortable. 

the drive home was full of laughs and his hand was on your thigh, rubbing small circular motions. you sighed, leaning your head back against the seat. “tonight was really fun, art. thank you again, for the dress and the shoes and everything,” you said sweetly, adoration in your eyes as you watched his skilled hands around the steering wheel. “of course, it was my pleasure,” he said, glancing over at you. the streetlights made his blonde hair look like a halo. “we should do it again,” you said. “yeah, absolutely. whenever you want,” he smiled, “i’d love that.” 

he walked you up to your dorm, holding onto your arm the whole way to keep you steady. “i think i’m a little drunk,” you finally admitted, halfway up the stairs. “yeah, i can tell,” he said, grinning down at you, “you gonna be alright in here alone?” “oh, yeah, i should be fine. you could stay for a little, if you wanted,” you said, focusing your eyes on his lips as his grin widened. “oh, i don’t know if that’s a good idea tonight,” he said, “but next time, of course,” you pouted slightly, but nodded, agreeing. “well here’s your door,” he said, gesturing to the doorway, “do you want me to unlock it for you?” you nodded again, handing him your keys, watching as his fingers wrapped around the key and twisted the lock. “thank you, art,” you giggled, “thank you for the whole night. no one’s ever taken me to dinner before. not a boy, anyway.” “i find that hard to believe, but i’m glad i could be the first,” he smiled, pushing a stray curl from your face, “you should get some rest. goodnight, love,” he leaned down, pressing a slow, gentle kiss to your cheek, and he was gone before the warmth of it had time to fade. 

you woke up the next day, head pounding, dress still on. you smiled to yourself as you remembered the events of the night, trailing your fingertips across your cheek where art had kissed you. you got dressed for classes with a skip in your step, unable to wipe the giddy smile off your face all the way through the day. you didn’t have practice with art that evening, so the thought to surprise him popped into your head. 

you approached one of his tennis friends, michael, in the dining hall. “hey, sorry if this sounds weird, but do you know art’s dorm number? i had something to give him, and-” he cut you off, smirking. “yeah, it’s 38. second floor, third door on your right. knock yourself out,” he said. you blushed, thanking him quickly and leaving. the embarrassment of his presumption stunted your confidence in your actions, but you proceeded to his dorm anyway, sure that he’d want to see you. 

when you approached room 38, you hesitated to knock, questioning yourself once again on if this was right or not. as you stepped closer to the door, you heard quiet moaning, so faint it was barely noticeable. it was definitely a man, all breathy grunts, but you couldn’t tell if it was art for sure. you told yourself he must have a roommate, surely he didn’t have a girl in his room, surely he wouldn’t do that to you. your mind raced, until all thoughts were halted by the clear moan of your name through the door. your heart skipped, and you dug your teeth into your bottom lip, confusion clouding your thoughts. you should just leave, you thought, just go and never speak a word of this to him. but curiosity got the best of you, and suddenly you were knocking on his door, cheeks red and eyebrows furrowed.

you heard some clambering inside, before moments later, a sweat sheened, pink cheeked art opened the door. “jesus, what are you doing here? you scared me,” he said, and you took note of how breathless he was. “oh, i just wanted to say hi, since we didn’t have any practice today,” you said, “can i come in?” “yeah, of course, come on in,” he said, quickly recovering his face and smiling down at you. you entered his room, taking in the tennis posters covering the walls, the dark comforter on the twin size bed. it was clean, cleaner than you’d expect a male dorm room to be, but smelled distinctly of art. “this is cozy,” you complimented. “it’s alright, about as good as one of these shitty dorms can be. i’m just waiting for my sophomore year so i can live off campus,” he said, shrugging, “i like yours much more. here, you can sit anywhere.” you sat on the corner of his bed, not wanting to make yourself too comfortable, “so, were you busy when i came? i’m sorry if it was a bad time,” you could’ve sworn his face reddened, but he quickly recovered, insisting that he hadn’t been busy at all. “did you want to do something? or were you just saying hello?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “just saying hello. i need to get home, i have a seven am lecture. i’ll see you at six thirty tomorrow?” you confirmed. “yeah, of course. i’ll see you then,” he smiled, and you gave the room one last scan before heading for the door. “well, goodnight art,” you smiled, walking out into the hallway. you couldn’t shake the feeling that the light pink panties shoved just under his bedframe had been yours.

two hours later, you were laying in bed, unable to sleep. all you could think about was what you had clearly seen in art’s floor hours prior, and your mind raced with the possibility that they were yours. he could’ve snagged them when he came in to give you your shoes, but you couldn’t understand why he would possibly do that. your imagination ran wild, filthy images of your panties wrapped around his cock, the sound of him groaning out your name as he fucked into fist, his cum all over the pink fabric. your thighs squeezed together, hot tension building between them. you wondered what it would feel like for him to touch you, for those long, skilled fingers to work their way into your core, to make you fall apart for him. you wondered if the sounds he made during tennis were anywhere near as alluring as the sounds he’d make while he fucked your throat. you couldn’t ignore the burning, intense desire anymore, and slipped your hands into your pajama shorts. you tried your hardest to suppress your moans as you circled your fingers around your clit, thinking about art, about his toned arms, his long fingers, his plush pink lips. how good it would feel to have those lips wrapped around your clit instead of your fingers, how beautiful he’d look pumping you full of his cum. you came quickly, art’s name shamelessly tumbling from your lips as you bucked your hips to meet your own hand. you fell asleep thinking of him holding you. 

don't let me in with no intention to keep me

jesus christ, don't be kind to me

honey, don't feed me, i will come back

the next day, you went to your classes, trying your best  not to let art completely consume your thoughts. hot shame burned the forefront of your mind from what you’d done, the things you’d thought about him. part of you was worried from the intensity, the suddenness of your closeness and attraction to art. part of you wondered if you should end things before they got to be too much. you weren’t used to this, to this all consuming need for another person. you told yourself this wasn’t like you, touching yourself to the thought of a man you’d only been on one date with. and you worried about why, and how, art had your things in his room. you were ashamed at how hot you’d found it, now acutely aware of how dangerous it could be, a man being that interested in you that he would stoop to stealing your panties from your room, to moaning your name behind closed doors. most of all, you were ashamed of how you didn’t care, how you wanted to fall into whatever this was with art, how you’d let him do whatever he wanted with you. 

at six thirty, you entered the court you’d become all too familiar with. art was serving to the fence again, beads of sweat already rolling off his back. “how long have you been out here?” you called, smiling when he turned to face you. “not too long, got bored waiting on you to get out of class,” he replied, crossing the court to stand before you, “maybe we could do something else, instead of practicing. i’ve worn myself out,” you found this hard to believe, but didn’t protest. “like what?” “whatever you want, we could go to dinner or see a movie or you could come to my room. whatever sounds best to you,” he said, already putting away his racket. “maybe we could go for a walk? if you’re not too tired, of course. i’ve been cooped up in classrooms all day,” “yeah, of course. a walk sounds great,” 

the two of you walked all around campus, talking about your days and how exhausted you both were. “i don’t know how i’ve never asked you this, but are you staying off campus next year too?” he asked you suddenly. “uh, no,” you said honestly, “i can’t really afford to move out of the dorms, to be honest. i’ve got my tuition and housing covered, and i really don’t mind the dorms, they’re comfy,” “you could always stay with me,” he said, and you stopped in your tracks. “i actually wanted to talk to you about that, well something like that,” you said, your anxiety almost tripping up your words, “do you think maybe we’re, well whatever we’re doing, is moving a little fast? i know we were practicing together for a while, but we’ve only just started really talking, and i’m just not used to this kind of thing,” his expression hardened quickly, his eyes darting everywhere but you. “yeah, that’s fine, it’s not really a big deal to me,” he said dismissively, “i was just being nice.” “oh, yeah of course. i feel silly now,” you rambled, laughing awkwardly, “it’s just, you know the date was really lovely and i’d love to do it again, but i didn’t want you to get the wrong idea,” “and what idea would that be, specifically?” “just, y’know, didn’t want us to get ahead of ourselves. didn’t want you to get the idea that it was more than it was or anything,” “and what is it exactly?” “oh, i don’t know. we’re friends, and i really like you, and i like getting to know you-” he cut you off, his jaw tight, “friends? that’s what you think we are? friends?” 

your brows furrowed, confused, “well yeah, i thought we were friends. are we not friends?” “i didn’t know that’s all this was, no. but that’s fine, if that’s what you want,” he backed away from you slowly, looking like he had the night he yelled at you. “art, wait, i didn’t mean-” “no, i get it completely. i’ll see you in a couple days, yeah? have a good night,” “wait, don’t go,” you protested, but he was already quickly walking away from you. you tried to ignore the irony in your position, how you had left him standing there in your previous fight. you tried to ignore the flashes of pain in his eyes when you said you were friends, the look of betrayal across his face. you focused on coming up with a plan to make it up to him, as he had with you, and this occupied your mind your entire walk home. 

art spent the next few days miserable, throwing rackets during matches, snapping at his coaches, straining his muscles to the point that he spent each afternoon with the team’s physical therapist. he couldn’t believe the audacity, the stupidity of you to say you were just friends. you had to have known, had to have felt the intensity in his feelings for you. he told himself you didn’t mean it, but each time he pictured the certainty on your face, his anger made his concern for your feelings on the situation dissolve entirely. it was like you did it on purpose, talking to him so sweetly on your date, showing up at his fucking dorm, just to claim you were friends. friends didn’t touch themselves to the thought of the other, didn’t moan friends names as they came, alone in their dorm room. granted, you didn’t know that he had seen, didn’t know that he had almost came at the high pitched moans you let out. he was sure, now, that he’d never get to hear them for himself. 

a week after your fight, you worked up the courage to send art a text. ‘hey, miss you. i’ve been trying to plan some grand gesture, but they all feel wrong after the date you planned. meet me at the court tonight? we can talk, or we can play. whatever you want, just come please,’ you sent it, biting your lip with anxiety awaiting his response. 

it can't be unlearned

i’ve known the warmth of your doorways

through the cold, i'll find my way back to you

oh, please, give me mercy no more

that's a kindness you can't afford

i warn you, baby, each night, as sure as you're born

you'll hear me howling outside your door

he responded to your text an hour later, a simple, ‘i’ll be there,’ but it was good enough for you. you once again put on the tennis dress you’d worn the first time art had noticed you, putting your hair into a neat ponytail and lacing up your nikes. at six thirty, you waited anxiously for his arrival, reapplying your chapstick to busy your hands. he walked in, a careless, lazy expression on his face, but you could see the squareness of his shoulders, the hardness of his jaw. “thank you for coming,” you said, your voice timid. “of course i came,” he said, his voice as tense as his muscles. “i thought maybe you wouldn’t want to see me, after what i said. i need to apologize, i don’t think we’re just friends, i just didn’t know what else to say. i don’t know what this is, but i really like you, and it scares me,” you rambled, your face hot. he quickly crossed the distance between you, his gaze intense. “and?” he bit out. “and what? and i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, art. i don’t want to just be your friend, i never wanted that. it’s just, you make me feel all these things so strongly and it really is scary-”

 “you don’t think it’s scary for me? all my life, i’ve only been good at tennis, at shutting the fuck up and playing the game, and that was fine with me. i didn’t care about having a fucking girlfriend, didn’t need real friends, didn’t want to spend my time hearing someone else tell me their bullshit problems, nothing. i just played the fucking game, minded my business, if i needed to get off i’d fuck some randmon fan, i didn’t care. and then i saw you, and fuck, you’re just so pretty, and you looked so oblivious, so fucking sweet. i just had to have you. do you know how that felt? all my fucking thoughts, everything, just you. i waited, i was so good and i waited but then i had you, right on the tips of my fucking fingers i had you. then you look me in my face and tell me we’re just friends? fuck that, i’m not your fucking friend. i have sat by and been patient and i’ve kept it to myself but i won’t wait anymore, i won’t fucking do it. i need you, goddamn it, i think about it all the fucking time,” 

before you could say anything, he tilted your jaw up to face him roughly, crashing his lips into yours. you were taken back by the force, your feet stumbling slightly, but his hand on your low back righted your posture. the kiss was rough, teeth clashing and his tongue searching desperately for yours. you moaned into the kiss as he sank his teeth into your bottom lip, the taste of your blood filling both of your mouths. he pulled away, his bloody lips kissing down your neck, biting roughly as you just gasped above him. his hand held your jaw still, his thumb digging into your pulse point, choking you slightly. “you don’t know how long i’ve waited for this,” he growled, kissing back up to the shell of your ear. he raked his teeth over the sensitive skin, his breath echoing in your eardrum, “wanted to fucking bruise you and bite you and make you cry for me.” he pulled away from you suddenly, pulling you over to the edge of the court, right against the fence. “art, wait,” you protested weakly, your hands coming to his chest.

“i’m done fucking waiting,” he snarled, his hands roughly grabbing your ass, “not gonna wait anymore. gonna make you all mine, see if you ever try that friends shit again. if you don’t want this, you tell me to stop,” his fingers came between your thighs, pressing into your cunt through your dress, “but i don’t believe you want me to stop, i can feel you through your slutty little dress.” you moaned as his fingers curled against you, grinding your hips into his hand desperately. he turned you around suddenly, your face pressed against the chain link of the fence. the cold air surprised you as he flipped the skirt of your dress over your ass, yanking your panties to the side. “we can’t do this here,” you protested, trying to straighten out your back, “someone will see.” “why do you think i always bring you here, baby? nobody’s gonna see a fucking thing,” he said, his tone smug, “nobody’s gonna hear you moaning under me, hear you cumming on my cock. we’re all alone out here.” 

you gasped loudly as he kneeled beneath you, his tongue sliding between the folds of your pussy. your legs immediately began to shake, your knees nearly buckling. his tongue slid inside of you, fucking you with the tip of it as his fingers came around to rub at your clit. “art, fuck, please,” you moaned, grinding against his face roughly. he pulled away, his fingers continuing their motions, “please what? you want me to fuck you against this fence like the fucking whore you are, hm? is that you want?” when you just moaned in response, his free hand smacked your ass roughly, digging his nails into the sensitive skin, “fucking answer me.” “yes, please, want you to fuck me so bad, i’m sorry just please,” you begged, your voice nearly breaking into a sob. he was behind you in an instant, his clothed hips rubbing against you, his breath on your neck. “gonna fuck you so hard, you’re gonna forget why you ever told me we’re just friends,” he said, biting down on your neck roughly. you knew you’d have marks the next day, could feel blood bubbling to the surface of your barely broken skin. 

his joggers came down, and your breath hissed as he teased your entrance, rubbing his cock between your folds teasingly. “tell me again you want me to fuck you,” he spat, gripping your hip with one hand. “need you to fuck me, art, please,” you pleaded, trying your hardest to rub your hips against him, gain some friction. without warning, he slid into you, both hands on your hips roughly now. “fuck, oh my god,” you all but screamed, hands clinging to the chain link desperately. he fucked into you at a vicious pace, one hand on your hip, one underneath your stomach holding up. “you look so fucking pretty taking my cock,” he groaned, leaning over to you to press hasty kisses down your back, “feel so fucking good,” “feels so good, thank you,” you moaned, near tears from the intense pleasure. “thought about this for so long, you have no idea what i’ve done, what i’ll do to you if you ever try to leave me,” he growled, his thrusts getting even rougher. his balls slapped against your clit, the added stimulation sending you even closer to the edge. “want you to cum on my dick and fucking suck it off,” he moaned,  and you could tell from the stutter of his hips he was close too. he changed his position, fucking into you faster, and you nearly screamed at the new sensation. “art, gonna cum, fuck,” you moaned out, your walls constricting around him tightly. his hand came down to your clit, rubbing harshly, desperately, and you let go. 

your orgasm hit you roughly, crying out and your knees giving way completely. he fucked you through it, holding back his own orgasm until he was sure you were through. when the spasms around him slowed, he pulled out of you roughly, forcing you to your knees in front of him. “open your fucking mouth,” he moaned, holding your jaw tightly. you opened for him, sticking your tongue out as far as you could manage, and he slid his cock into your mouth, groaning loudly as he did. you could’ve cum again just from the taste of you and him, all mixed together, a filthy reminder of what you’d just done. he fucked into your mouth roughly, hands holding your ponytail tightly. “gonna cum down your throat,” he moaned, his hips stuttering once again, “so fucking close, you’re doing so good,” as soon as you cast your eyes up to make contact with his beautiful blue ones, he lost it. he came straight down your throat, hips bucking wildly and profanities flying from his mouth. you swallowed as it came, and his hips slowed eventually, until he pulled out of your mouth entirely. “did so fucking good,” he panted, pulling you to your feet, “kiss me,” and you did, your mouth still tasting of his cum. he groaned into the kiss, his hand going to your hair once again. 

you pulled away to catch your breath, leaning your forehead against his chin. “that was so good, baby. are you okay?” he asked you, his voice softer than you’d heard it in days. you nodded, still catching your breath, and he tilted your chin up to face him. “don’t ever do that again, okay? don’t want you to ever question what we have. you’re all mine, and i’m all yours, and nothing else matters, yeah? isn’t that right?” “mhm, you’re right. i’m sorry again, art, didn’t mean it,” you said, resigned to anything but him in this moment. “it’s alright now, baby. you know better now,” 

he had you right where he wanted you.

watch me work it, i’m perfect ☆

↳↳ art donaldson tennis gf core

common tongue - art donaldson

;; you’ve spent five years hating art donaldson, and he’s spent five years trying to pry the hate from you

cw; sexual content, degradation, angst, spitting, slapping, biting, art and reader are both kinda evil!

this is really short i just couldn’t stop thinking ab it! sorry! literally wrote this in like 15 mins the urge was killing me

when the meanings gone, there is clarity

and the reason comes from the common tongue

of you loving me

and it’s easy, darlin, don’t need a remedy

and the reason comes from the common tongue

of you loving me

you watched art’s match intently, your eyes darting back and forth between him and his opponent, who was currently demolishing him. with one last, echoing hit of the ball, art had lost. “40, love. zweig takes the match,” the announcer called, and you watched as art threw down his racket, frustration lacing his every moment, and stalked off the court.

you found him just outside the men’s locker rooms, sweat still dripping from his hair, his muscles taut as he stood there. “you let him beat you,” you said, your voice breaking the silence of the empty hallway. “i don’t want to fucking hear it today,” art snapped, his voice raspy with anger, “i’m serious.” “like that ever stopped me before,” you laughed sarcastically, “seriously, art, what was that? you’ve beaten him before,”

you reflected on your time at stanford, when art beat nearly anyone he competed against, especially patrick zweig. “fuck off,” he sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, “if you came here to instigate, i’m not in the mood, honestly,” “i’m here to tell you you played like a fucking bitch,” you snapped back, “you lost to a fucking loser,”

his hands were on your jaw in an instant, yanking you closer to him, his voice slow, “shut the fuck up. you’re so high and mighty, like anyone even knows who you are,” he spat. you flinched slightly, the anticipation wound tightly inside you, “yeah? nobody knows who i am, art? then why are you so obsessed with me?”

his lips crashed into yours roughly, five years of tension and hostility pent up into this moment. “you think i’m such a fucking loser,” he seethed, “but you come here time and time again, antagonizing me into fucking you. i’m so pathetic, but i know you don’t ever want to leave my hotel room in the morning. you act like you hate me but you come here begging for me like a fucking slut every time i’m in town,”

you relish in the sound of his voice, stretched so thin with self restraint, with violent anger, his breath hot against your face. “don’t fuck me then,” you say breezily, “tell me to leave and i’ll go. look me in the face and tell me you don’t think about me every time you’re on that court, and that’s why you lose every fucking time. because you know i’ll be waiting for you and you’ll get to bury all your problems inside me,”

he grabs you by your throat roughly, pushing you against the wall. “i’m not even gonna wait to get you back to the hotel, since you wanna act so needy for it,” he says, inches from your ear, “gonna fuck you right here in this hallway. maybe patrick will come, see what a fucking loser i am making you scream for it, huh?” you whined underneath his grip, prying at his fingers. he released his grip on your throat, his now free hand coming to the waist band of your shorts, pulling them down roughly.

“art,” you snap, “you’re not fucking me in this hallway, you’re fucking insane,” “if you don’t want me to, you tell me to stop, otherwise i’m doing what i want with you,” he said, his voice dripping with anger, a layer of possessiveness, “don’t get to act like that and then tell me what to do,” he kissed you roughly, pulling one of your legs up around his waist, his fingernails scraping you as he grabbed at your thigh.

your back arched off the wall, leaning into his touch, hating how easily you gave into him. he pulled away, glaring down at you as he pushed down his own shorts just enough to free his cock from the fabric, and your mouth watered at the sight. he pushed your panties to the side, a sarcastic laugh leaving his mouth as he felt just how wet you were against his fingers. “not even gonna take these off, just gonna move them to the side. treat you like the fucking whore you are,” he said, his voice low.

you gasped as he slid into you in one quick, fluid motion, not taking anytime for you to adjust before he fucked into you roughly, his hand returning to its position around your throat. “tell me i’m a fucking bitch now,” he spat, a strangled groan leaving his throat. “you’re a fucking bitch, art,” you mewled, and you swore you felt him get even harder inside you, “only good thing about you is your cock. i’m sure patrick could even do this better,”

something in him snapped, and he squeezed the sides of your jaw, forcing your mouth open, his jaw tense as he spit into your open mouth. your mouth twisted into a smirk as he released your jaw, and you swallowed it, eliciting another groan from art.

“you’re so fucking pathetic,” he panted against you, his theusts growing rougher, “this is the only thing you’re good for,” “don’t act like you don’t love me, art,” you whimpered, “i know you think about me,” “i think about you like this, in your fucking place, but nothing else,” he snapped, his gaze unbelievably intense as he glared down at you still, “this is all i’ll ever love you for,”

you slapped him before you could stop yourself, raking your fingernails down his cheek, your face hot with humiliation and frustration and years of art refusing to admit his feelings for you. his hips only faltered for a second, before he was grabbing your hips roughly and fucking into you harder, biting down on your neck, “fucking bitch,” he growled into your skin.

your back arched into him again, your body betraying you as you shook against him, your high pitched moans echoing through the empty hallway. “gonna cum for me? hm? i can tell you’re close,” art groaned, his hand between the two of you rubbing your clit roughly. you dug your nails his shoulders, your breath rapid as you came around him, nearly screaming his name. “good fucking girl,” he moaned, his head tipping back, his cum spilling into you as his hips jerked against you.

you pulled your leg from around his waist, your eyes stinging with tears as you pulled away from him, pulling up your shorts. “hey, wait,” art panted, eyes wide as you started to walk away from him, “what’re you doing?” “going home, wouldn’t want to inconvenience you staying around your hotel in the morning,” you snapped, your face hot with shame, “this will never happen again,” “wait,” he grabbed your wrist, “i didn’t mean that, come on,” “how am i supposed to know what you do and don’t mean, art?” “you told me what a fucking bitch loser i am,” he said, his voice cracking with exasperation, “it’s just what we do, don’t go,”

“i don’t want to keep doing this,” you sigh, running your hands through your hair, “it is just what we do, i know, i’m just tired of acting like there’s not something here,” his eyes softened, “you think there’s something here? i’ve felt it, but i thought,” he laughed bitterly, “i guess i kinda thought you hated me,”

“hated you? jesus, art. you’re not that pathetic,” you said sarcastically, “i’m not saying i’m in love with you or anything. just maybe i don’t want to hear about how you don’t want me there in the morning,” “but i do want you there in the morning. please, come back with me,” you sigh, feeling yourself giving into him, “yeah, fine. you should win something at least,” you say, glaring at him with the fresh anger still on your mind. “yeah, whatever. i’m gonna flaunt you in front of zweig, see if he stays cocky after that.”