set break | art donaldson x reader

hi, baby! loved this request so much. hope you enjoy!

warnings: SMUT 18+, divorced!coach!art, virgin!reader, implied age gap, cursing, hastily proofread

You'd been his student for a while now— long enough to carve out muscle memory and blistered palms, to mold your discipline into something Art could recognize with a glance. Long enough to make your name known to scouts and whispered about in locker rooms. You were young, all sharp edges and stifled softness, with a game that didn’t ask for attention— it demanded it. Unpredictable. Magnetic. Built from hours no one else was willing to give.

You rose before sunrise. Skipped parties. Trained through birthdays and bruises. Nothing existed outside of the court, and you liked it that way. You were obsessed, but it never felt like a burden. You wanted to be the best, and you lived like it— strict, singular, without distraction. There was no space for softness, especially not for boys who didn’t understand why your hands were always calloused or why your heartbeat aligned with the sound of a bouncing ball.

But Art understood. Maybe that’s why it started the way it did— slow, quiet, unacknowledged. A long look across the net. The rough warmth of his palm correcting your elbow. The way you lingered after practice with half a question on your lips just so you wouldn’t have to leave yet. It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t even conscious at first. But it built, the way pressure always does— somewhere low and steady, humming beneath everything.

He noticed when your breath caught as he adjusted your stance, when your hand brushed his at the ball bucket. You noticed when his voice dropped a little lower than it had to, when he watched you stretch and then quickly looked away. There was no line crossed. Not then. But the line had moved— or maybe it never existed the way you thought it did.

Somewhere in those shared silences, the space between you began to thin. His gaze started to hold longer. Your jokes softened into something more deliberate. His corrections became gentler, slower. And when your knees knocked on the bench, or your fingers lingered a second too long passing him a towel, neither of you moved away.

He told himself it was nothing. A trick of proximity. He’d just gotten divorced, after all— a quiet ending to a long, tired marriage. There was no scandal, no betrayal. Just the slow unraveling of something that had once been love. He and Tashi had parted like two people handing each other back keys. It was civilized. It was kind. But it was still loss.

And then you walked into his court, and it was like seeing that fire again— the one he remembered from the early days with her. Before the touring, before the burnout, before the silences. You had that same glint in your eyes, that same stubborn tilt of your chin, that same obsessive hunger to win.

It pulled at something he thought he’d buried. He tried to chalk it up to memory, to projection, to the ache of nostalgia. But you didn’t let him. You kept showing up— sweaty, flushed, laughing at his driest jokes like they were brilliant. You worked yourself raw. You gave him hell during drills. And you smiled at him like you trusted him with every fragile part of you.

He started noticing things he shouldn’t. The curve of your neck. The way your voice went rough from shouting line calls. How tightly you braided your hair on game days. He started catching himself thinking about you when you weren’t around— in the grocery store, behind the wheel, in the quiet before sleep. And when his hand slipped while correcting your grip, and you didn’t flinch— when you leaned into him instead of away— he realized it wasn’t memory at all. It was want.

Still, neither of you named it. You trained. You pushed. You stayed late. And he let you.

The tension didn’t arrive like a crash. It built— slow and tight and impossible to ignore. In the thwack of your racket against the ball, in the whistle of your breath between points, in the way you held his gaze just a little too long in what should have always been the most innocent moments.

You learned his moods by the shape of his mouth. He learned yours by the way you adjusted your grip between volleys. He started making excuses to keep you longer. You pretended not to notice.

And at night, when the sky was black and the courts were finally quiet, he’d go inside his home with white knuckles, jaw clenched against the memory of your thighs dusted with clay, your voice low and tired asking for just one more set.

It was unbearable. And it was holy.

You caught him once— late May, heat thick in the air, your tank top clinging to your ribs. He was watching you, really watching, and didn’t look away when you met his eyes. You didn’t smile. Neither did he. But something passed between you that made your knees feel loose.

You started thinking about him in places you shouldn’t. In the shower. In bed, staring up at your ceiling fan, heart pounding just from imagining what his voice would sound like in your ear. You hated yourself for it. And you couldn’t stop.

So when the snap finally came, it wasn’t soft or silent— it was ugly. Loud. Tense. It happened after hours in the sun, your forearms screaming from overwork, your throat hoarse from grunts and breathless curses. You double-faulted four times in a row and Art had said something— not cruel, just curt. But it hit too hard, landed wrong.

“Maybe if you’d stop overthinking and actually listen—”

You dropped your racket. “I am listening.”

“No, you’re reacting. And you're wasting energy doing it.”

You stepped in. Too close. “Then maybe you should coach someone else.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

You blinked, eyes stinging, your voice rising. “I give you everything—”

“I never asked you to!”

That was the crack. The silence that followed wasn’t calm— it was the kind that pulses in your ears when your heart is racing and you don’t know whether to run or fight.

You didn’t run.

You reached into the minimal space between you, grabbed his collar, and kissed him— hard. Reckless. Like you hated him. Like you needed him. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. You tasted like salt and heat and effort. He froze for half a second before kissing you back, one hand sliding to your waist, the other threading into your sweat-damp hair.

It all blurred after that— teeth, breath, hands. He pressed you back against the practice bench, fingers grazing the edge of your sports bra, dragging beneath your top, skin warm under his palms. His touch was firmer than you expected. You arched up into him, more instinct than strategy, wanting more. Needing.

And then you said it.

“I’ve never done this before.”

His hand stilled. He pulled back like he’d been burned, eyes searching yours, chest rising like he’d been running laps.

“What?”

You didn’t look away. “I’ve never had sex.”

It knocked the wind out of him. All at once, the heat and hunger gave way to something else entirely— something tender, something so achingly human he thought he might break from it. He stared at you, stunned. Not with judgment, not even shock. But with reverence.

Your face was still fierce, but your voice had gone soft. “I just... I didn’t want it with anyone else.”

He touched your cheek then, gently, like you were made of glass. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I want you to.”

And it shifted— the entire rhythm between you rethreaded itself. No longer frantic, no longer fighting. He kissed you slow this time, guiding rather than taking, hands steady and careful. He let you set the pace. Let you tremble. Let you breathe. He whispered against your jaw, your throat, telling you it was okay to be nervous. That he’d go slow. That you could stop any time. You kept your eyes on his, wide and wet, like you were trying to memorize the way he looked at you— not like a coach. Not like a man with regrets. Like you were a gift.

He didn’t let it happen there. Not on the court. Not with the sun still high and the sweat still drying on your skin. The moment your voice trembled with that confession, everything in him shifted— the hunger in his eyes replaced by something deeper, gentler, more reverent.

“No,” he said softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “Not here.”

You blinked, confused, until his hands fell to your waist and he pressed the softest kiss to your temple. “Your first time isn’t happening on a tennis bench,” he murmured. “Come inside.”

You followed him into the house without a word, nerves coiling low in your belly. The house was quiet, the air cooler than outside, your footsteps muffled against the hardwood. You’d only ever seen glimpses of it before— a mug in the window, a hallway through the screen door. Now, everything felt achingly intimate. Lived-in. Real.

He led you into his bedroom, the sheets rumpled, sunlight spilling through half-closed blinds. There was a pair of his shoes by the nightstand, a stack of worn books on the dresser. And then there was him, watching you with something tender and unraveled in his eyes, like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this moment.

“You okay?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

You nodded. “Just… nervous.”

“I know.” He stepped closer, cupped your face with both hands. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me. Not ever.”

That was what undid you— not the kiss that followed, not even the hands that slid beneath your top again. It was the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like he’d carry the weight of whatever this was, if you let him.

He kissed you slowly, thoroughly. Not like he was trying to take, but like he wanted to learn. His hands slid beneath your shirt, coaxing rather than rushing, and this time, you let him undress you piece by piece. He laid you back on the bed like you were something he’d prayed for. And when his body came down over yours, warm and solid and so heartbreakingly careful, you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

He asked again if you were sure. You said yes. Again.

And then he took his time. Not just in the motions, but in the pauses. In the way his eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to read every thought, every hesitation. He kissed your shoulder, your jaw, the soft dip beneath your collarbone. His hands were warm and broad as they traveled across your ribs, your hips, your thighs, not greedy, but grounding— like he wanted you to know you were safe.

"Tell me if anything feels wrong," he murmured against your skin. You nodded, already breathless.

When his hand slid between your legs, you startled— not out of fear, but out of unfamiliarity. He stilled immediately.

"Too much?"

"No," you said quickly, then quieter, “just… new.”

He smiled, soft and real. “New is good. We’ll go slow.”

And he did. His fingers moved with care, coaxing rather than demanding, reading every shift in your breath like it was strategy, like it was gameplay. You gasped when his thumb brushed your clit for the first time, eyes flying to his. He held your gaze.

"That's okay," he whispered. "That’s just you feeling it."

You didn’t know how to be quiet— not with him. You let the sounds happen. The soft whimpers, the ragged gasps, the way your hips tried to chase his touch without you even realizing. He didn’t tease. He didn’t push. Just stayed with you, murmuring encouragement, grounding you with his voice.

When he finally slid a finger inside, your breath caught. It wasn’t painful— just strange. Full. Real. Your muscles clenched around him, and he stilled again.

“Breathe,” he said. “Just like we do on the court. In through the nose.”

You did.

He moved slowly, gently, building rhythm. When he added a second finger, you whimpered, and he kissed your forehead. “That okay?”

You nodded into his shoulder, thighs trembling.

“God, you’re so good,” he whispered. “Doing so good for me.”

You’d never been touched like this. Never had someone take their time, pay attention, listen.

By the time he pulled back and reached for the drawer— a condom, the sound of the foil tearing— you were half-gone with need.

He knelt between your thighs, eyes on you the entire time. "You ready?"

You nodded.

"Words."

“Yes. I’m ready.”

And when he finally pressed inside, it was slow and careful. Your breath hitched, your body tensing despite your trust. He held still, his forehead resting against yours, hand cupping your jaw as if to remind you he was there, fully, completely. His voice was barely a whisper: “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You nodded, your thighs trembling around his waist, your hands clutching at his shoulders. He kissed your cheek, your eyelids, waited for your breathing to slow. “You’re doing so good,” he murmured. “Tell me when.”

It took a moment. A heartbeat. Then another. And then, quietly, you whispered, “Okay. I’m okay.”

He moved in increments, barely-there thrusts, watching your face for every wince, every exhale. You could feel every inch of him, slow and thick and unrelenting, stretching you more than you thought you could take. Your legs trembled, your fingers curled against his shoulder blades, and he kissed along your jawline, whispering your name like it grounded him. Every press of his hips made your body jolt, nerves alive and blinking, your breath stuttering in your throat.

"You're so tight," he murmured, groaning low as your body tried to adjust around him. "Fuck, baby— you're driving me insane."

The slick glide of his thumb over your clit returned, gentle but insistent. Your thighs quivered, heels digging into the mattress, hips lifting just slightly to chase him. You felt stretched, overwhelmed, but full. Filled in a way that settled somewhere between ache and pleasure.

He kissed your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, again and again. “Just let me take care of you.”

The pain dulled, warmth replacing it. The friction started to melt you open.

Your voice cracked. “Don’t stop.”

He paused, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “There.”

So he followed it. Stayed there. Kept it shallow and tender, murmuring praise between kisses, telling you how beautiful you looked, how proud he was, how much you were giving him.

You weren’t sure it would happen. Everything was so overwhelming— your body, his body, the unfamiliar ache that pulsed low in your stomach, the constant tension of wanting more but not knowing how to ask for it. But then his hand slipped between you again, his fingers finding your clit, and he murmured, “Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Your breath caught. You nodded, but he didn’t rush. He adjusted slightly, slowing his hips, angling deeper— and with each pass, his fingers moved in rhythm. The pressure started building almost without your permission. Your thighs flexed. Your fingers clenched in the sheets. You gasped something that wasn’t a word and clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice rough now, pleasure curling through it. “That’s it, baby. You’re so good. So fucking perfect. Just let it happen.”

The feeling crested slowly, the way a wave might swell before it crashes. You arched beneath him, breath shaking, lips parting as the world narrowed to sensation— his voice, his fingers, the sweet ache of him inside you. And then it hit.

You came with a soft, gasping cry, every nerve ending lit up, your back bowing, your thighs trembling around his waist. He didn’t stop. He kissed you through it, holding you like you were breaking open in his arms.

“That’s it,” he said again, so tender it made you want to cry. “So good. So good for me.”

And only after, when your body relaxed, when your eyes fluttered open and you saw the way he was looking at you like you were some kind of miracle— did he let himself go. Thrusts stuttering, jaw clenched against your shoulder as he followed you into it, hips rolling once, twice, and then still.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Your breathing slowed in sync. He rested his forehead against yours, still inside you, his hand cupping your jaw with aching care.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded, eyes wet. “Yeah. I’m really okay.”

He kissed your nose, your cheek, your shoulder. And then he pulled you close and didn’t let go.

It didn’t last long. It wasn’t perfect. But it was yours. Real and raw and impossibly tender. And when it was over, when he curled around you with one hand stroking your back and the other cradling your face, you felt something settle inside you— quiet, certain.

Later, when you were rested against him in bed, fingers drawing patterns over his chest, he’d think about the walls you carried and the way you finally let him see past them. He’d think about the trust it took to open up. And he’d promise— silently, fiercely— to take care of you, just like you deserved.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream @nozhdyved @asheepinfrance @love-ella333 @jesuistrestriste @cha11engers

If you saw me post this and accidentally delete the ask and everything, no you didn’t 😭

But yeah anon. Patrick would do anything for him.  Make a mess of him before his first hook up with the prettiest girl in school. Just because he feels like it, just because he can. Because Art’s his best friend. His.  

He’s an amazing friend.

CW: 18+ NSFW 

——-

“Is it okay?” Art asks. He’s dressed up so nice in one of Patrick’s smaller sweaters, its cloudy blue like his eyes. He’s got on fitted black jeans, and a brown leather jacket. He looks so good, smells so good, like black cherry and tobacco, this expensive cologne that he only wears when he thinks he might get laid. 

He’s visibly nervous. Chewing incessantly on spearmint gum. Always nervous about his first time with a new girl. Patrick doesn’t know why, if he was a pretty girl he’d be wet the moment Art turned that shy little smile in his direction. He doesn’t need to dress up, pretty boy. He got Kennedy Sawyer’s attention in sweatpants and a t-shirt while he was arguing with Patrick over final fantasy play styles at breakfast.

holy fuck

WHERE IT DOESN'T HURT.

summary: after divorcing Tashi, Art is left hollowed by years of quiet shame over his erectile dysfunction, something that still makes him flinch at the idea of intimacy. But when he finds love again with a new partner, softness and patience replace pressure. On the night you finally decide to be together, you don’t expect him to perform, you only want him, just as he is. With slow touches, gentle praise and the kind of worshiping that asks for nothing in return, you help Art rediscover what it feels like to be wanted.

pairing: art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 3.8k words. emotional trauma / low self-worth, past relationship fallout, performance anxiety, vulnerability, ED (erectile dysfunction), praise, gentle sex, handjob, worship (Art receiving), touch foreplay (kisses), crying during sex (Art), aftercare.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket

The divorce papers had been signed at a table that still smelled like disinfectant and stale coffee. Art had worn a collared shirt that didn’t fit right and tried not to fidget while Tashi sat across from him in something clean and white and almost offensively composed. He couldn’t remember what she said when it was done. Maybe she hadn’t said anything at all.

It was a Thursday.

He remembers that, because he’d driven back to the condo alone after kissing Lily’s forehead from the backseat of Tashi’s car and sat on the edge of their—no, his—bed for a long time, staring at a racket propped in the corner like it had something to say. The silence was louder than anything he’d heard on court.

The next few months were a blur of returning to familiar routines, but without the warmth they used to hold. Seeing his daughter every week-end, being friendly to Tashi because it wasn’t like they hated each other; no. He still played, still trained, still ran drills and went through the motions like muscle memory could save him. But even the crack of the ball didn’t land right anymore. His rhythm was gone, and it wasn’t just physical.

It was like someone had scooped something out of him and left a hollow space that refused to fill.

Art hadn’t wanted to admit it, but something had been wrong with his body for a while. It started during the first year with Tashi, quietly, and he hadn’t wanted to face it then either. At first, he’d chalked it up to stress, to exhaustion, to pressure. There were always reasons. Athletes knew how to push through pain. That was the gig.

But when it kept happening—when he couldn’t stay hard, when he couldn’t finish, when even the idea of touching her made something in him seize up, after Lily—he’d stopped trying. And so had she.

That made it worse, somehow. Like he wasn’t worth trying. Like his body had betrayed him and her. Like he was just one more disappointment she had to learn to tolerate.

Tashi never said anything outright, but Art could feel her eyes sometimes, heavy with something he didn’t want to name. Pity, maybe. Or worse—confirmation. Maybe that made him think of Patrick, because surely Pat never had this problem. Art had always been the weaker one. The less brilliant one. The one who needed someone else to move first.

After the three of them imploded—no, fractured; it was always fractures with them, never clean breaks—Art carried the guilt like a second spine. And the shame. The shame of a body that wouldn’t cooperate. Of desire that flickered and stuttered and died out when it mattered most.

Even now, alone, that fear clung to him.

Because it wasn’t just about sex. It was about his manhood. About his worth. About the ability to be chosen and to keep being chosen. To be loved, to be seen more than a racket and a court and a win.

He met you at a friend’s fundraiser. One of those events where everyone stood around with glasses of white wine and tried not to admit they were all a little tired of pretending they liked mingling. You hadn’t been trying to talk to him. You were laughing at something someone else had said, a soft sound he heard over the hum of the crowd. He remembered the way your eyes crinkled, the way your voice carried lightly, like the first warm breeze before spring really arrives.

He wasn’t trying to flirt. Honestly, he barely knew how anymore. But you had asked him a question about tennis—not the rules or his stats, just something simple: Do you still love it?

And he’d paused, startled by the honesty of the question.

“I used to,” he’d said.

You didn’t push. You just nodded, like you understood something in that. That’s what stuck.

It took a few weeks before you saw each other again. Another friend, another event, this one smaller. You ended up sitting on a couch in the corner, both of you trying to avoid the spotlight. He asked about your work. You asked about his injuries. There was a warmth to the conversation, casual but not shallow. When you laughed, it didn’t feel like you were trying to impress him. You just found him funny. Or maybe just easy to be around.

For a moment, Art remembered not even thinking about Tashi anymore. Not even about Patrick. Not about the vulnerability in his chest; how badly he wanted to be seen.

The first time you kissed, it was outside a late-night diner, a few days later. You’d split fries and talked about terrible movies, and when he leaned in, you met him halfway, soft and sure. It had been a long time since someone kissed him like that—not with hunger or demand, but with quiet affection.

He’d gone home shaking and his head full of thoughts about you.

Dating you was different. There was no game to win, no invisible net he had to serve over. You didn’t prod at him. You didn’t seem to want anything from him except him. Which scared him more than he’d like to admit.

Because what was left of him, after everything? A man with knees that ached in the mornings, who couldn’t get it up half the time, who’d lost the only two people he ever really loved in the same breath, the same passion, the same pain.

He didn’t feel like a man anymore. Not in the way he used to.

He felt like a ghost wearing the skin of a tennis champion. Still broad-shouldered, still strong, still tall. But hollow in the places that used to burn. With a heart empty of a passion that used to devour him whole.

You never brought up sex. Not once. Even after weeks of dating, of kissing slow on his couch and curling up under blankets during thunderstorms. You never reached under his clothes without asking. You never made him feel like he was failing you by being cautious. That terrified him too, in a way. Because it meant you knew he was afraid.

You were being gentle because you saw the cracks. And instead of recoiling from them, you stayed.

One night, he lay beside you in bed, the two of you tangled in sheets and quiet breath. Your hand was resting lightly on his chest, your thumb stroking absently over his sternum. His heart beat too fast.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. You didn’t move. Just waited. He swallowed hard. “I’ve… had trouble. For a while now. With—” You didn’t make him finish. You just nodded, your hand still warm on him.

“Okay,” you said softly. Like you knew; or like you didn’t care because it wouldn’t change anything.

“I don’t know if it’s going to be any different with you. I want it to be. But I don’t want to let you down.” You turned your face to his. “You’re not letting me down.”

His throat tightened. “It’s not just physical. It’s—it’s shame to me. It makes me feel like I’m not—fuck, like my body is falling me sometimes.”

You leaned up, brushing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “You are alright, Art, you don’t have to worry.” His eyes burned. He hated that he was getting emotional, but your words cut through something cold and deep, through shame and vulnerability.

“I don’t need you to perform,” you said. “I don’t want the tennis player or the guy everyone stares at on court. I want you. All of you. However you show up.”

Art had no idea what he’d done in life to deserve that kind of gentleness. But he knew he wasn’t letting go of it.

That night, you held him tighter than usual. Not sexually. Just close. Your hand on his jaw, your lips brushing his cheek, your voice low and steady in his ear. “You don’t have to be hard for me to be close to you,” you murmured. “I want to make you feel good. Not just get you off. But hold you, touch you, love you. All of it.”

He exhaled like it was the first real breath he’d taken in years.

That was the moment he knew he was going to trust you. Really trust you. Not because you fixed anything, but because you weren’t asking him to be fixed. You just wanted him. Soft, scared, healing. You wanted him.

The first time you touched him in bed, really touched him with intention, it was raining.

Soft, steady drips against the windows, the kind of rain that made the whole world feel like it was wrapped in cotton. You’d both been reading on the couch, legs tangled, your feet on top of his thigh, Art’s hand resting absentmindedly over your shin. At some point, your book slid shut in your lap and your head tilted against his shoulder.

“You tired?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse.

“Not really,” you said. Then, quieter, “I just like being close.”

Art glanced down at you. The golden light from the floor lamp softened everything—your features, the curve of your lips, the glint in your eyes when they flicked up to meet his. He felt the pull of it then. Not lust. Not urgency. Just the slow, thick draw of wanting to be near you in ways that meant something.

“Do you wanna lie down?” you offered gently.

He nodded. Said nothing. Just followed you to bed, his pulse already starting to rise. Anxiety, want, love; he didn’t know.

He kissed you for a long time before either of you even got under the sheets. Standing at the edge of the mattress, your hands sliding up under his t-shirt, Art let himself lean into the feeling of your mouth. You kissed him like there was no rush. No script. No performance. No rush at all. By the time his shirt came off, he was shaking.

“Cold?” you asked, brushing your fingers over his ribs. “No,” he murmured. “Just nervous.” You looked up at him, so close, your noses almost touching.

“Tell me what you need.”

Art swallowed. “To not fuck this up.”

“You won’t.” You took his hand, laced your fingers through his. “Let’s go slow. Let me love on you a little. Just that. No expectations.” It was everything he needed to hear.

And still—his body didn’t cooperate right away.

You were so patient. You always were.

Lying beside him, half-draped over his chest, your lips soft against his collarbone while his shirt was gone, you whispered things into his skin that made him ache in new ways. Not the ache of shame or failure—but the ache of being seen. The ache of being wanted.

“You’re so good, Art,” you whispered, kissing down the center of his chest. “So warm. So beautiful.” His breath caught. “You don’t have to get hard for me to be proud of you.”

He closed his eyes. “I’m already proud of you.”

You took your time with him, letting him feel your hands first—just your hands. Stroking his arms, his chest, the dip of his waist. You didn’t go for his member. You didn’t even hint at it. You just touched him like he was something sacred.

When you kissed his stomach, he made a sound low in his throat and gripped the edge of the mattress. “You okay?” you asked.

He nodded, unable to speak. “Too much?” You asked him quietly.

“No. Just… not used to this.”

You smiled against his skin. “Then I’ll teach you.” At some point, you sat up and guided his hands to your body, both of your clothes had been discarded on the floor for a moment now but you still took your time. “You can touch me too,” you said. “If you want to.”

He did. God, he did.

But even then, he went slowly. Ran his fingers up your side, over the swell of your hip like he was searching for a treasure on your skin–the map of Love. His hands were huge on you, and you didn’t flinch or squirm or giggle. You just breathed, steady and open, like you had all the time in the world for him.

You let him kiss your neck, your collarbone, the top of your breast. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, reverent.

You smiled. “So are you.”

His cock stirred slightly, tentative and uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a pass/fail test. It just felt like… curiosity. Like his body was starting to remember what it was like to want and not be afraid. And still, you didn’t grab at him.

You leaned down instead, pressing your lips just below his navel, and murmured, “Can I touch you now?” His voice broke a little. “Yeah.”

The first time your hand wrapped around his cock, he nearly cried. Not from arousal. Not exactly. But from relief. He wasn’t hard in the way he’d have liked, not soft enough to feel ashamed but in the middle that made him feel like it was alright.

From the way your palm cradled him like he wasn’t broken. Like there was nothing to fix. Just warmth, skin to skin, fingers stroking him with care and reverence, not pressure.

“You feel so good in my hand,” you whispered, pressing kisses to his chest. “I love touching you.” His hips twitched, breath stuttering.

“I want you to feel loved, Art,” you murmured, voice heavy with affection. “I want you to know how good you are. How worthy. How beautiful.” And just like that, something in him unlocked, like his brain was finally sending signals to his length–to say he was safe. He was loved. He was enough.

His cock started to harden beneath your hand, slow and unsure, but undeniable. He gasped, stunned. “I—”

“Shh,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re doing perfect. You don’t have to rush.” Art had never cried during sex before. But your praise was undoing him. Your gentleness, your unwavering calm—it was dismantling every wall he’d built around his shame.

He turned his face into your neck, his voice cracking. “Thank you. I’m sorry it’s been like this.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you said, threading your fingers through his hair, not pulling; digits making ways through his dirty blonde strands. “You’re not a machine. You’re a person. And I love this body. Every inch of it. Even when it’s scared.”

His cock was fully hard now in your hand, twitching slightly, leaking at the tip. You looked at him, beaming, and said it like a blessing: “There you are, baby.” He laughed—wet, trembling, disbelieving.

You worked him slowly, deliberately, lips on his jaw, your breath warm against his ear.

“You’re so good for me,” you murmured. “You make me feel safe. Held. Seen.”

His hips moved again, this time with more confidence. You met his rhythm with your fist, curling your hand just right, your thumb brushing over his tip. “Can I…?” he asked, voice shaky.

“Whatever you want,” you said.

“Can I be inside you?” He asked like he was afraid all of this was a dream, like all of this would disappear at any given minute. Your smile was all the answer he needed. You helped him settle between your legs like he was something fragile and beloved.

Art's body trembled as he hovered above you, one hand braced beside your head, the other pressed to your waist like he needed to make sure you were real. You were warm and soft beneath him, your thighs cradling his hips, eyes half-lidded with affection, not lust. Not hunger. Just care.

He looked down at you, cheeks pink, eyes glassy. “Are you sure?”

“I want you,” you said simply. “I want you like this. However you are.”

That was the difference. That had always been the difference. You weren’t waiting for him to impress you. You weren’t expecting the Art who used to dominate the court or light up cameras. You wanted this Art. The man who shook in your arms. Who needed to be told he was enough.

Who was learning how to believe it.

He moved slowly. Everything about this was slow.

You guided him with your hand, lining him up at your entrance, your body slick and ready for him—not because of some pornographic fantasy, but because you’d wanted him. Because you’d been touching him, loving him, coaxing him open like the petals of something that only bloomed under moonlight.

His cock slid in an inch, and he froze, gasping.

“You okay?” you whispered, brushing a thumb across his cheek. He nodded, nearly overwhelmed. “Yeah. Just—feels like a lot.”

You smiled and kissed him softly. “Then take your time.”

And he did.

Bit by bit, he pushed inside until he was sheathed in your warmth, your body pulling him in like he belonged there. Like he’d never belonged anywhere else.

The first few strokes were almost too much. Not because of friction or sensation, but because of everything else. The way your eyes fluttered shut. The way you sighed his name. The way your hands curled around his back, not clinging, not dragging, but holding.

He pressed his forehead to yours, moaning quietly as he moved inside you, a slow, languid rhythm that wasn’t about getting off — it was about being here. Inside you. With you. Wanted, loved, seen.

“God, you feel so good,” he whispered, voice cracking. “So fucking good.”

“So do you,” you breathed, arching slightly. “You’re perfect.” That word again. Perfect. He didn’t feel like it, but he believed you when you said it. You whispered things the whole time. Not dirty. Not vulgar. Just praise with the soft.

“Just like that. You’re doing so well.”

“You’re making me feel amazing.”

“You’re so gentle. So good to me.”

Every word went straight to his chest. To the part of him that had shriveled under years of cold looks and quiet disappointment. The part of him that used to flinch when someone touched his shoulder too suddenly, that recoiled from compliments like they were traps.

But you didn’t lie. He knew that now. You said what you meant. And what you meant was that he was enough.

His rhythm stayed slow. You were wet around him, tight in that perfect way that made him feel anchored to your body, like he could finally stop floating through his life and just be here. The drag of his cock in and out of you made him shudder, every thrust sending a pulse of warmth through him—not just arousal, but relief.

“Look at me,” you whispered. He did. Your face was flushed, lips parted, your hands moving to cup his jaw. “I’m so proud of you.”

He didn’t know if he was supposed to cry during sex, but the tears came anyway. Hot, stinging, shameful. Until you kissed them away. “Let it out,” you said softly, kissing his cheek. “Let all of it out. I’m here.”

Art pressed his face to your shoulder, thrusts faltering, body shaking as a sob tore from him. Not loud. Not ugly. Just raw. A sound like he hadn’t made since he was young enough to cry into his pillow without swallowing it down.

You held him tighter. Wrapped your legs around his hips. Ran your fingers through his hair again.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

He moaned against your skin, not from pain or pleasure, but because he didn’t know what else to do with all the feeling. The release. The unbearable sweetness of not being punished for breaking down.

Eventually, he started moving again. Slower than before, but steadier. Your bodies moved in sync now, sweat slicking between you, breath tangled, the air heavy with trust. You kissed him again and again—his jaw, his cheek, his lips, his throat.

He whispered your name like a prayer. You whispered his back like a promise.

You came before he did. Quietly, trembling, your walls pulsing and clenching around him as he gasped, stunned at the sensation of your body squeezing him, holding him. You didn’t scream or cry out. You just shook in his arms, biting your lip and sighing, “Art, oh my god, Art,” like it was the best thing that had ever happened to you.

That’s what did it for him. Not the friction. Not even the pressure. Just you.

The way you looked at him. The way you said his name. The way your voice cracked when you told him how good he was. He came with a groan that was almost a sob, hips pressed deep, his whole body locking up as he spilled inside you. It was messy. It was imperfect. It was the best orgasm he’d had in years.

Afterward, he didn’t move, not right away. You stayed wrapped around him, stroking his hair, kissing his temple. “Still with me?” you asked after a while.

He made a small, exhausted sound. “Barely.” You laughed softly. “That was amazing.”

He nodded against your shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, it was.” There was silence then. But not the kind that used to live between him and Tashi. Not the heavy, brittle quiet of disappointment. This was soft. Full. Complete.

When he finally pulled out, he did it slowly, almost reluctantly, like he didn’t want to lose the connection. You whimpered softly at the sensation, and he kissed your shoulder, your stomach, your hip. He cleaned you gently with a warm cloth, hands careful, reverent.

Then he climbed back into bed and curled around you, his hand on your waist, his face pressed between your shoulder blades. “You okay?” you asked.

“I think I’m better than okay,” he whispered.

You turned in his arms and looked up at him, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. “You were incredible.” He smiled, dazed. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this again. Not like this.” You leaned in, kissed his nose, then his lips.

“You didn’t get it,” you said. “You made it. With me.”

He kissed you back, deeper now, more sure. “I think I love you,” he said, almost afraid of saying it out loud. You didn’t flinch, didn’t move away, didn’t grimace.

“I love you too.” You whispered back at him.

Later, after you’d drifted toward sleep, Art stayed awake a little longer, just holding you. Tracing the slope of your arm with his fingers. Breathing in the scent of your skin.

Trying to remember the last time he felt this calm in his body. It wasn’t that the shame was gone completely.

he’s at a party with patrick, nervously chuckling and nodding his head to everything the girl who’s surrounding him says. he knows he’s attractive, and it’s not like bailey— or, no, bridget… wasn’t. it’s just… harder for him to connect with people than it is for patrick.

and then he saw you. babysitting a red solo cup, pretending as if you’re eventually going to drink the contents of it. he can’t even act like he’s listening to whatever britney’s talking about anymore.

summary — after moving across the country to go live with your aunt and participate in panic, you’re wary of the boy who works at the diner she owns. he’s wary of you too

pairing — dodge mason x fem!reader

track six— “the band and i” by maisie peters

warnings — this isn't a band au the title is deceiving, reader's dad's awful, dodge's dad is dead, this takes place in the summer before season 1

word count — 2.5k

note — mike faist pls come home our kids miss you. i love dodge mason so much but i would NEVER ask for panic to be renewed i don't love him that much. this isn't a band au that's just the song title also i forget if dodge's mom like. owns dot's so, i changed that if it's something that needed to be changed also idk if wary was the right word to use but i wrote the description like a month before the fic and then retroactively changed my mind

Summer in Carp felt endless some days. It was indescribable, the golden glow over the fields, the sound of steady rain on the roof of your aunt’s home, the low but constant buzz of the metal fan in your bedroom. It felt even more endless working the afternoon shift at Dot’s.

Your apron folded over your waist, sweat collected in your elbow, hair kept up in a claw clip. He’d watch you from behind the bar, dish towel slung over his shoulder, condensation from the soda glasses he’d slide across the bartop at the customers on his hands, only half looking at them. His eyes wandered back to you, a plastic bucket wedged to your hip as you used your free hand to collect the stray dishes from the tables, moving through the diner. 

In other words, this is my take on bottom Art for once (this one goes out to you mel @artstennisracket)

6.6k words [AO3 VERSION]

cw: 18+, mdni, fingering, anal sex, etc

What if you’re the one without a place to sleep? What if you’re the one sleeping in your car?

Yeah. You.

What if you’re the one with a toothbrush in your old and nasty bag and a phone charger that only works if you bend it sideways? You’re the one in the parking lot of a 24-hour gym, while your phone is balancing on your thigh, your legs curled tight under you. The car smells like fast food and laundry. You’ve opened your socials especially, you have been refreshing Tinder all night… for no particular reason, no plan. Just bored. Just wet. Just trying to find a bed.

Then it buzzes.

“You’ve got a Match. Start chatting now!”

Then…

Match.

Patrick, 32.

Bio: Tennis & tits. Not always in that order. (My serve isn’t the only thing that’s hard to return.) Above average serve. Above average dick. Forehands, backhands, and you on your hands.

You blink. Then your eyebrow raised. Then laugh out loud.

His pics are… something else. Shirtless. Holding a racket, flexing his arm. That one mirror selfie with a towel slung so low it should be illegal. Looks like a typical fuck boy who looks for hookups often.

You type:

Is your bio real or just bait?

He replies fast.

Come find out. 9 pm.

And he sent his pin location to the conversation as if he’s not even scared or has any survival instinct in his body if you’re a killer or not. But you’re already changing your top in the front seat like it’s instinct.

Because honestly?

You’d use the last drop of your gas for air-conditioning, a mattress, and maybe…maybe… a cock if it comes free with room service.

Why not? You want somewhere to lie down where your legs don’t touch the steering wheel. And if Patrick Zweig going to rail you just to get it?

Fine.

He totally can. While you fall asleep face-down in his hotel pillows.

By 8:55, you’re walking through the doors of the hotel like you can afford the rooms. Patrick’s in the corner of the bar, sprawled on the stool like it’s own his place. He’s got a drink in hand, half a smirk, and legs spread just wide enough to make your thighs twitch.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says as you slide into the seat beside him.

“Didn’t think you’d be hot and real,” you tease him, chuckling.

He orders for you. Something expensive. Not that you care because he looks like he’s someone who will pay just to fuck someone. He doesn’t ask what you like, just says, “She’ll take whatever will get her tongue loose and sloppy.”

Your pussy clenches like it’s trained when he said that.

You just smirked at him before you sipped slowly at the drink that slid in front of you. He watches the whole time… mouth, throat, legs. He doesn’t even pretend that he’s not looking. He just leans in and murmurs, “You keep looking at my mouth like you want it somewhere.”

You shrug, tipsy already because he ordered something strong for you. “Maybe I’m just bored.”

Patrick laughs like that’s the right answer like it’s his favorite thing you’ve said all night. He knocks back the rest of his drink, throws a few bills on the bar without even looking at the total, and then lowers his face close to your ear.

“Come upstairs,” he says, low like he only wants you to hear it. It doesn’t feel pushy. Not needy and not begging for it. It’s just a simple, filthy suggestion, like you’ve already said yes with your body (the way you already squirming and shivering by just his hot breath touching your skin) and he’s letting your mouth part.

You don’t answer. Just stand, grab your things (basically just a small purse with 10 dollars in it, your phone, and lipstick), and follow him through the lobby like you’re supposed to.

The elevator ride is quiet, and loaded. You feel his eyes on your legs, your ass, your reflection in the walls of the elevator. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even move. Just watches you from the corner of the mirrored wall with too charming smirk that translates to something he knows exactly how this going to end. He looks like the kind of guy who jerks off to cheap porn. But you kind of respect it. Because you’re… well… you’re here to fuck him just to feel a soft mattress again, right?

Room 804.

He swipes the key card, nudges the door open with one foot, and steps back to let you in first. What a gentleman.

You walk into a king bed, with blackout curtains, and floor-to-ceiling windows and it’s clean in an expensive way. Air-conditioned hums, all white linen, and slick carpet, too perfect to fuck in. Which means he’s going to.

Patrick drops the key card on the desk, then turns and looks at you like he’s deciding where to start. Or maybe trying to break the ice.

“You want another drink?” he asks. His voice is deep now, raspier than it was at the bar. You don’t know if it’s the whiskey or you.

You nod. He pours. You take it. Neither of you sit.

He watches you drink. Doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, not really he just leans back against the dresser with one hip, one brow lifted like he’s sizing you up, or deciding what position he’s going to do to you.

“You always come back to hotel rooms with strangers?” he asks, voice low, dragging with that lazy accent. Dry. But feels like a tease, not an insult.

You swallow. “Only the hot ones.”

That gets a smirk out of him. Oh, that cocky smile. He tips his glass back, watching you over the rim. You’re close now. Too close. One step between his knees and your back would hit the wall.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmurs, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. “I don’t actually care what your answer was.”

Then he reaches for your waist.

It’s not gentle. He drags you in like you just did something bad and he's angry about it and he spins you fast, presses your front body against the edge of the dresser before you can make a sound. Your glass nearly topples, your palms slap the wood, and you exhale so hard it’s almost a gasp.

“You don’t seem like the type to waste time,” he says, breath skating your ear.

And you don’t answer, you don't need to because your brain’s already gone mushy.

His fingers are at your waistband a second later, moving fast now, impatient, like he’s had enough of the games and already knows you’ll take whatever he gives. Well, he's not wrong in that field. Not really. He drags your jeans down so roughly the button nearly pops, muttering something like fuck under his breath while he strips them past your thighs, past your knees, like he’s got a plane to catch and all he wants is to be inside you first.

“You wore this for me?” he scoffs, looking down at your underwear, that’s barely there, probably slightly damp already. “Or you always like this?”

It shouldn’t turn you on. It shouldn’t. But your whole body pulses with heat at the way he says it. Mocking. Mean. Like he knows something about you that you won’t admit out loud. Like he’s reading the part of you that gets off on being disposable. Or being just a hook-up. No feelings. Just casual things.

He grabs your chin in one hand, rough and possessive, tilting your face up until you’re looking at him. His pupils are blown, jaw flexing like he’s trying to hold something in. But he’s not gentle. You are not a glass. You are not special. Not when you just meet on Tinder and you don’t even have a proper conversation besides him telling you to find out if he has a big dick.

Never pretended to be nice just to get something.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you in my room,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s daring you to object. “You walk in here soaked through your jeans, looking like you’ll beg for it.”

You gasp. His hand is between your legs now. Just pressing, not even moving. Holding you there like he wants to feel the twitch of every heartbeat through your cunt. Just cupping it whole in his big hand.

“…and you think I’m gonna play nice?”

You can’t speak. You can even barely breathe.

And when he finally moves behind you, grabbing your hips, walking you, and pushing you more inside like he owns you already? Your legs go weak on instinct. All wobbly. Knees not working.

And that’s the moment it hits you: you’re not here because he’s hot. You’re here because he doesn’t care why you are here. He doesn’t even have to dine or wine you.

You raise an eyebrow but don’t move right away. Just stand there with your drink already in half and your lip curled like you’re weighing whether this man is worth using your gas for.

Then, slowly, you start walking… left the glass on a flat surface and walk past him, into the dim room, tossing your purse to the floor and crawling onto the mattress like you own it. You stretch out on your back instead of your knees, legs crossed at the ankle, one arm behind your head like you’re posing for a photo shoot he wasn’t invited to.

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you murmur, glancing toward him with a smile. Taunting him. “You always bark orders before your dick’s even out?”

He hums. “You always talk this much before opening your legs?”

“I just like to check if the bait you put in the app is legit.” Your fingers drag slowly down your front, teasing the waistband of your panties. “Tennis pro and… ‘Above average dick’ was it?” You even use your hands to quote the above-average dick from his bio just to piss his shit off.

That makes him pause.

Then he starts walking.

“No pressure,” you add lightly, nails scraping the lace. “I’m sure it’s hard to live up to all that… size.”

He’s at the edge of the bed now, shirtless, belt undone, looking at you like you just took his trophy away from a tennis match. His cock is already thick behind the zipper, straining. He palms himself once. Not for pleasure… just to show you. Proving a point, maybe. But it ends up being shown to you when he pulls his pants down.

“Tell you what,” he stated, grabbing your ankles and yanking you flat to the bed, dragging your body toward him, your calves getting out of the bed frame. “Why don’t you keep talking shit… while I stuff you so deep you forget how words work.”

You laugh, head tipped back, knees falling apart as he shoves your panties down. “Wow,” you say breathlessly, “that’s… motivational”

And then he leans in, hand fisted around the base of his cock, and smacks it against your cunt. Once, twice, wet and heavy. And he’s lining it up.

Your hips twitch with every hit, cunt slick and practically clapping back at him. The squelch is obscene. You’re hot from the chest up, grinning like a girl with nothing to lose. Honestly? You don’t have anything to lose at this point. Gain, maybe. A bed, that’s it.

“You always find pussy this easy between matches?” you ask, eyes half-lidded, baiting him. “Or just desperate ones who’ll take you raw off an app?”

He snorts but doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head, lazily, like he’s deciding whether to answer or fuck you for that. You see the way his grip tightens around himself, cock jumping against your folds.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you whisper, just enough to mock him.

He leans in suddenly, bracing one hand beside your head. The other fists your hair back until your neck arches sharp.

“You talk a lot for someone this wet,” he mutters, and slides in without warning, deep and thick, and you are thanking yourself because you got so wet easily and it doesn’t hurt much anymore. Your body… or cunt, rather, is not used to his size.

You choke. Actually choke. Hands scrabble against his stomach, nails dragging down as your back bows off the mattress. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease in. He just bottoms out like he owns the goddamn part he’s sliding between your legs.

“F-fuck,” you whimper.

He’s not even fully inside before he starts rocking slowly, maybe he’s nice enough to see that you want him to let you settle with his size first. It is just enough motion to feel every inch split you, drag you wide, make you clench and seize around him like a fist.

“Should’ve led with your pussy instead of your mouth,” he growls in your ear. “Would’ve skipped the drink.”

Then he flips you.

He grabs you by the hips and turns you over like you weigh nothing, like you’re just another girl (technically you are) in his bed who talked too much before taking cock. Your cheek hits the mattress, breath punched from your lungs as his palm splays across your back, holding you down. But he started caressing your back while his other hand remained on your hips as if he didn’t want you to move at all.

“Ass up,” he mutters. “Don’t make me say it again.”

So bossy. So annoying. But you’re already moving, legs shaky as you scramble to your knees, arching without thinking, without pride. On all fours. He drags the length of his cock through your slick again at a mocking, slow pace like he’s checking to see if you’re still wet after the way he talked to you. Spoiler? You are. Worse. Sloppier.

“Jesus,” he huffs. “You’re soaking. What, the drink made you this needy?”

You want to snap something back. You really do. But the second you open your mouth, he’s pushing in so deep it feels like it hits the back of your throat. Your fingers claw at the sheets, a choked gasp catching in your throat as he bottoms out.

And then he just stays there. Settling inside you.

Deep. Full. Letting you feel it. Letting your pussy flutter and grip around him while he doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, just leans over, like he’s waiting for you to admit how desperate you already are.

He doesn’t thrust. Not yet. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, cock twitching like he’s enjoying the way your cunt tightens in waves around him. You’re breathing through your mouth, face crushed against the sheets, knees barely holding like your whole body’s trying to compute what the hell just happened.

His fingers drag up your spine, light and lazy before he fists your hair and pulls you back enough to whisper it.

“Say it.”

Say what? You think. Your jaw clenches. You won’t. You won’t. You are not that desperate, right?

But the weight of him has you trembling. He has your thighs quaking like you’re trying to hold back something dangerous. And when he finally rolls his hips, just once, slow, like he’s testing you, it knocks the wind out of your lungs.

“Say it,” he breathes again, mouth in your ear now. “Say you needed this.”

You whimper. Hips jolted back against him without permission. You hate him. You hate him.

You love how it feels.

He laughs under his breath like he already knows. Like you’ve already told him without a word. His other hand slides to your throat, not tight, just enough pressure to make your whole body hum. To feel something.

Then he pulls out halfway. What an asshole. He lets you feel the drag, the loss before slamming back in with one deep, punishing thrust that makes your mouth fall open in a helpless, broken moan.

“Jesus,” he groans, voice ragged now. “You’re fucking made for it, aren’t you?”

You’re not… you’re not. It just happens you are using your body to your benefit to get something you want. Bed. Soft pillows. Nice room. Nice sleep.

His hands grip your hips like he owns them. Like you’re not just some girl he picked up after two drinks and suggestive ‘come with me upstairs’ bullshit. He holds you there, steady like he’s making sure you feel every inch of him, the weight, the stretch, the pain of being filled without warning. No rocking, no thrusting, just the full, filled, unrelenting pressure of his cock deep inside you while your body tries to adjust around it.

You breathe hard against the mattress, hips twitching under his grip. He doesn’t let you move. Not really.

“You’re not saying anything,” he mutters, low and cocky, hovering over your back. Chest almost touching your back. “What, cat got your tongue? Thought you had a lot to say about my profile.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m just… getting used to being split in half, thanks.”

He laughs. Like there’s something funny. Fuck there isn’t. He probably thinks you’re pathetic. “Yeah?” Then he pulls out slowly, dragging against everything inside you, and slams back in with a snap that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Let me help you get used to it.”

Now he moves. Rough and fast, no rhythm at first, sloppy like a virgin, and the sound of skin and breath and the slick, filthy wet of it all. He rocks you forward on each thrust, forcing your knees wider, his hands digging in harder, using your hips like handlebars. Like a grip for leverage, not care. You swear he gets deeper every time or he hits the spot with each thrust.

Your fingers claw the sheets. Your thighs shake.

“Fucking made for it,” he growls again, more to himself this time, like he can’t believe how tight you are, how wet, how much you’re already falling apart for him.

You feel it in your teeth when he slams in again. Feel it in the base of your skull, where your forehead’s mashed to the sheets, in the pathetic little gasps you keep swallowing against the mattress. He’s panting harder now, muttering filth under his breath, swearing, low and ragged, things like “fuckin’ tight,” and “so wet for a stranger,” like it’s a compliment and a threat rolled into one.

He doesn’t stop moving. Don’t pause to let you catch your breath. Just tightens his grip around your hips, bruising, and pulls you back to meet every thrust like he wants to hollow you out.

“Should see yourself,” he grits. “Fucking dripping. Like your cunt knew I was coming.”

You let out a cracked little moan. The kind you can’t swallow. The kind that sounds like yes even if you don’t say it. One hand fists the sheets. The other’s somewhere under you, numb, forgotten. Your whole body’s gone slack, pliant, just flesh he can fuck into whatever shape he wants.

Then he slows.

Not soft. He stays deep, grinding it in like he wants you to feel every inch, every twitch, every fucking vein. You choke. Your thighs shake.

“Bet you say this to all the girls,” you manage to whisper, voice hoarse, cheek smeared with drool and heat. Just to get back to his words earlier. “Any city. Any hotel.”

He huffs a breath right over your ear, dragging his cock out just enough to make you clench down, desperate.

“Nah,” he murmurs, hips pulling back.

Then he drives it back in, all at once, deep, and just how you like it. “Just the ones who take cock like you do.”

You cry out, unfiltered. And he laughs, he’s even pleased, and breathless, still buried in the base like he’s never pulling out again.

You’re half-gone already, mouth slack, eyes wet, fingers curled into the sheets like you’re trying to claw your way out of your own body. He’s still there, deep, solid, anchored, driving into you like he knows your pussy better than you do like he’s trying to teach it something it won’t forget.

And it listens. It flutters. It chokes on him.

“Jesus,” he pants.

You want to talk back. You want to laugh, or moan, or say something smart and cruel, but your brain is slowing down or maybe you are just cockdrunk, all heat and pressure and stretch. The slap of skin fills the room, louder now, rougher, wetter. Clap, clap, clap. He’s close. You can feel it, his rhythm faltering, hips stuttering, breath catching like his body’s trying to warn you.

And then you hear it.

That groan.

That deep, helpless, fucked-out sound that says he’s about to come and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

Your forehead pressed to the mattress, thighs trembling like you’re about to snap in half.

“You gonna pull out?” you pant, blinking tears off your lashes as he rails into you.

He doesn’t answer.

Don’t slow down.

Just grunts under his breath and grabs your hips tighter, dragging you back into each thrust like your body belongs to him now, like the question was rhetorical. Like the answer’s already happening.

You know it. Feel it.

The stutter in his rhythm. The tense, desperate twitch of his cock inside you. The soft, breathless noise he makes when he presses all the way in and stays there.

Then…

Spilling. Flooding. His cum forces its way deeper as your body clenches around him.

You freeze. Your mouth opens. “Patrick,”

“F-fuck sorry,” he breathes, forehead resting against your spine, totally unbothered. Too calm. You can hear the smug in it. Hear the fucking smirk. You can tell he’s not really sorry.

“Patrick.”

He shifts his weight, presses deeper, somehow still half-hard, and exhales like he just did something inconvenient, like dropping a towel on the floor.

“Felt too good. Couldn’t help it.”

Bullshit. He didn’t even try.

You start to push back against him, thrusting your ass to him, but he pins you there and drags a palm down your spine like it’s no big deal. This is just what happens now.

“You’ll be fine,” he adds, quieter. Still inside you. Still leaking.

“Don’t act like you didn’t like it,” he adds, cock heavy and wet against your ass, half-hard and twitching like he could go again if you even looked at him the right way.

You hum, cheek pressed to his pillow, lashes sticky and stuck together. “It was… good,” you murmur, voice a little shy, a little too quiet. You fiddle with the comforter between your fingers, then, almost too fast to clock, you add, “You’ll, um. Cover Plan B, right?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets out a breath through his nose, like he’s smiling but trying not to give you the satisfaction.

He snorts, rolls onto his back, and throws one arm behind his head like he’s getting comfortable. Not leaving. Not tossing your clothes. Not panicking about what you’re gonna do next.

You roll over too, slower, adjusting your leg like it’s not leaking from the cum he just spilled inside of you, like gravity isn’t already doing its humiliating thing. “It’s late,” you murmur. Yawn a little, all fake innocence. “Didn’t even realize it was almost three.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares up at the ceiling like he’s waiting for you to say what you actually mean. But you won’t. Not out loud. You just stretch, and mumble, “Kinda dangerous out. You know. Sketchy.”

Still, he doesn’t bite. Just blinks at the ceiling. So you sigh, dramatic and helpless, like the thought hadn’t occurred to you until now.

“Would it be so dumb to drive somewhere now, huh? Like… might as well just crash and go in the morning or whatever…”

Patrick turns his head. Raises a brow, he’s just holding himself not laughing. “Are you asking if you can stay?”

You blink back at him. Too shy to ask if you can crash. “What? No. I’m just saying it’s late.”

He huffs. Then throws the comforter over both of you and mutters, “Jesus. Just go to sleep.”

This isn’t what he does. He doesn’t do this. In normal times like this? It’s clothes back on before the sweat dries, some fake ass words like “You get home safe, okay?” while he’s already unlocking the front door, not looking back. Or he leaves, whatever’s easier. He doesn’t let them stay. Doesn’t let them sink into his sheets like they belong there.

But he hasn’t moved. And you’re still here. All warm skin and soft whining and sticky thighs and little sighs like you won something. Like you planned this.

He clears his throat. Stares at the ceiling. “And, no cuddling or whatever,” he says, like it’s an important reminder that he needs to say it before it happens.

You don’t answer. Just shift a little closer, calf brushing his under the comforter. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away.

No cuddling. No promises. No ride home.

ohhhh anon you have TASTE. i’d be DELIGHTED to write this for you.

x is for x-ray | arthur morgan

warnings: explicit sexual content, nudity, detailed anatomical description, language consistent with 1800s setting, voyeuristic focus on male body, light exhibitionism, use of second person pov, erotic fixation on physicality, unprotected sex implication, emotionally intimate context, mild praise kink undertones

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

notes: hey angels just a lil note—i absolutely love writing for challengers and the bear, and i’ll always be down to explore more of that, but if you ever feel like sending in asks for other fandoms too, please do! it really helps me stretch my creativity and explore new voices/vibes. writing for arthur morgan was such a joy, and i’d love to dive into more worlds like that. don’t be shy! okay i’m gonna stop because my hands hurt, i wrote a lot today 😭 enjoy!