you’d sworn off boys your own age. there too many excuses, too many half hearted plans, too many morning afters where you woke up feeling more like their babysitter than their girlfriend. you were done with it, done with the immaturity, done with the flaking, done with the bare minimum. what you didn’t expect was to find the antidote standing right there on the court, whistle around his neck, clipboard tucked under one arm. art donaldson was annoyingly responsible, the kind of man who remembered to pack extra water bottles for you, who had his finances in order, who called you kid just to make you roll your eyes, who texted you after practice to make sure you got home safe. he was steady, careful, older. and it made something in you ache. you told yourself you liked him platonically, admired him, looked up to him even. you told yourself that it was comforting, having someone around who didn’t need to be reminded to pay his bills or keep gas in his car. but then there were the nights you’d catch yourself thinking about him, about his big hands steadying your waist during drills, about the way his voice dipped when he told you to focus. it wasn’t a proper crush, not really, not until you showed up late one night, making up some excuse about wanting extra training.

he should’ve sent you home. he almost did, but then you stayed, leaning back against the bench with that daring tilt to your chin, and he sighed like he already knew he was giving in. "you know you’re too young for me," he said, voice low. "i’m not that young," you shot back, though your pulse skipped at the reminder. he stepped closer, looming in that way he couldn’t help, broad shoulders shadowing you, "you want a man, not a boy? that what this is?" your throat went dry, and you nodded. then his hands were on you, so much bigger than anyone else’s had ever been, holding you still like he knew exactly how to take care of you. he kissed you slow, purposeful, like he wasn’t rushing through it but making sure you felt every second. "you don’t know what you’re asking for," he murmured against your mouth. "yes i do," you argued, shaking against him. "you’re saying you want me to be responsible for you?" god, it made your knees weak, the way he framed it like a promise, not a fling.

by the time he had you bent over the padded bench, you were half crying from how good it felt, his voice in your ear steady and grounding even as you fell apart. he was careful, too careful, always checking if you were okay, but there was no mistaking the hunger in him. the difference between a boy fumbling around and a man who knew exactly how to give. and when he pressed deeper, when his breath shuddered out against your neck, he muttered, "fuck, gonna take such good care of you, fill you up, make you mine," responsible, steady, yours, and you’d never been wetter in your life. his hand spread across your stomach, wide and firm, holding you still as he pushed deeper. you gasped, half in shock, half in awe. he was so much bigger than you’d ever had, stretching you to the edge of what you could take.

"shh," he soothed, his voice patient, like he had all the time in the world, "breathe through it, that’s it. good girl," the praise made your skin burn, your spine arching as he sank in another inch. you clutched at the bench, whining, but he didn’t move until you relaxed for him. always careful, always steady, making sure you could take every bit of him. "boys don’t fuck you like this, do they?" he muttered, hips grinding deeper, deliberate, "they don’t know how to slow down. don’t know how to make you feel good first," "n-no," you stammered, head dropping forward, already dizzy from how full you felt. his chuckle was low, smug, but warm too, "that’s right. you need a man. someone who knows what he’s doing, someone who’ll take care of you,"

he set a rhythm then, steady and strong, his cock dragging against every spot inside you until you were sobbing from the intensity. your nails scraped the leather padding of the bench seat, your thighs trembling, and still he held you together with those big hands, grounding you every time you threatened to come undone. "you’re taking me so well," he praised, voice rougher now, teeth grazing your shoulder, "so tight around me, fuck. look at you, baby. you were made for this," the sound you let out was more of a cry than a moan, your body clenching down hard, chasing release. he felt it, of course he did, and his grip only tightened, pulling you back onto him until you could do nothing but take it. "you want it, don’t you?" he rasped in your ear, hips snapping harder now, the control fraying, "want me to fill you up? pump you full, make you mine?"