#art fluff

Your husband Art came home with exactly what you were craving. He came in the door with two bags of groceries, things you needed, and the Nutella and pretzels you wanted so bad since the second you woke up. You woke up forty minutes ago.

“Oh my god I love you,” you gushed, meeting him as he came in the door, not caring that his hands were full, cupping his face and kissing him hard before pulling away and snatching one of the grocery bags. You mostly unpacked them before finding the things you craved and finding Art had bought the things you’d craved yesterday in case you wanted it again. “You are so lovely.”

Art chuckled, coming up behind you and kissing your cheek and neck. “I love you too.” He said as you ripped open the Nutella. Art was loving the excuse to snack with you so early in the morning, he dipped a pretzel in with you, tapping it against yours before eating it. He was sweet and so was the snack. “That’s really good, that’s a lot better than pickles and ice cream.” He grinned.

“You’re not pregnant, you wouldn’t get it,” you waved him off giggling. “No cravings for you.”

“Aside from you?” He mumbled, going right back to kissing your neck.

“Uh huh?” You laughed, tilting your neck back. He kissed up your neck. Since you’d gotten pregnant Art had been just a little extra obsessed with you. “Let me eat my snack.” You smiled.

“Mmm fine,” he said, kissing you on the cheek again before a tasteful little tap on the ass before putting the rest of the groceries away.

You finished your snack, satisfied, “Thank you for going out so early,” you said when you had both sat back on the couch, settling in his arms. It was a slow Sunday and the light through the dainty curtains was perfect and warm. Art kissed your forehead. “Do you want to hit the farmers market today, maybe?”

“That sounds nice,” he said. “I have a tennis massage booked at three and practice at four, but I’ll leave early to make dinner. Farmer’s market in an hour?”

“Sounds good,” you said, placing your hand on your lower stomach. “But I’ll cook tonight if you wanted to get some extra practice in.”

He shook his head, “I wanted to make steak and I know you’re afraid to not cook it properly.” He kissed your head again. “And I needed the excuse to come home early.”

You smiled, “You’re too cute.” You sat up and kissed him properly. He grinned between fervent and quick kisses to his lips, cheeks, nose, and forehead. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love pregnancy hormones,” he said between kisses. The words were quite broken up with every kiss you planted on his face. “And you.” He beamed. “You cook vegetables and I cook steak how does that sound?”

“Perfect,” you kissed him one more time on the lips and this time he didn’t let you escape, kissing you passionately, silencing the giggles that came from your mouth as he pulled you on top of him. You both smiled into every kiss and grinned in every break for a breath. His hands travelled up your thighs to your hips, then your waist.

His lips strayed from your mouth, tilting your chin up to kiss down your cheek, jaw, neck again. You giggled but he just hummed against your neck, kissing gently down… Your hand slid up the back of his neck and into his hair. “Art…”

“Mhm?” He answered, kisses grazing over your collarbone, not answering.

You had no answer for him as his teeth grazed back over your neck and his hand slid up to gently squeeze over your chest. You let a heavy sigh leave through parted lips, feeling the strap of your nightgown slip down over your shoulder.

Him in his sweats, you felt him shift just a little and move you to straddle just one of his thighs, which mixed with the neck kisses felt close to something you liked. And though you might have wanted him to use his hand, the feeling of one on your waist and the other on your chest was all you needed. You felt him push you down on his thigh just a little, helping with the rock of your hips. You knew what he wanted and you wanted it, not wanting to give into full blown anything an hour before heading out. That would call for showers and more so you just rocked gently against his thigh.

The hands on your waist helped you with guiding and with friction as he pressed you against him better. The friction was hot, but felt so good as he kept kissing softly, little kisses that spread goosebumps down your arms. You couldn’t help the noise you made when he pulled you down just a little harder, grinding against him. His lips met yours quickly, hungrily and your pace got more desperate, small moans slipping out between kisses. He was enjoying every second of this, enjoying how you fought to keep going until you finished. You kissed him breathily and he just grinned, holding you as you rested against him for a moment.

“You’re evil,” you sighed.

“Maybe,” he shrugged, running a gentle hand up and down your upper arm. “Couldn’t get through my day without it, sorry.”

You pulled away, still sitting straddled on his lap. “And to think I was going to put out tonight. Guess you don’t need it, guess that sufficed.” You teased, getting off his lap and darting out of his grasp.

“That’s not fair!” he chased you to the bedroom.

A month or two later, you were sitting on the couch in your tank top and pajama pants when Art came in through the door just a little late from tennis. You tucked your hair behind your ears, moving to get off the couch, but it was a little harder to have such a comfortable couch when you were increasingly more pregnant with every day that passed. “I can’t get off the couch,” you whined, reaching over the back of it like you were reaching for help. Art chuckled as he took off his shoes. “It’s your fault you know.” You said.

He laughed out loud as he set his things down, jogging the rest of the living room to come to you, immediately dropping down to kiss your stomach, your baby, then crawling up to kiss you. “It is my fault, I’m sorry.” He grinned. “I’m not sorry.” He followed up, kissing you again and sitting next to you on the couch. He pulled your legs up onto his lap, immediately taking your calf and ankle between his hands, massaging gently.

“Baby,” you laughed. “You don’t need to do that, you’ve been playing tennis all day.”

“And you’ve been growing a whole other person for how long now?” He retorted. You shook your head and smiled. He was cheeky and you loved him for it. “Exactly. So I was thinking we order pizza tonight.”

“Mushrooms?”

“Oh yeah,” he nodded, fingers working into your sore and swollen ankles like magic as you grabbed the phone off the hook and called. It turned into a movie night with pizza, watching three separate rom coms that Art pretended to hate, but really didn’t. Art and his metabolism ate almost an entire pizza himself.

He got up to get you water at least twice and helped you get up about five separate times to go to the bathroom. You were getting a bit tired searching for a fourth movie and Art sensed it. He looked at you, seeing your eyes a bit half-lidded, your hand on the remote slipping gently. He smiled gently, taking the remote. “Bedtime,” he said, getting up off the couch.

“Hm?” You said, looking at him with wide eyes that you were forcing to look more awake. He knew better, grinning knowingly. “I’m not tired.”

“Well the baby is,” he said, helping you up but keeping you close.

“The baby sleeps all the time the baby can’t be tired,” you said tiredly, yawning. You were just about the cutest thing he’d ever seen in his life. “Maybe I’m just a little tired though.”

Art pushed your hair behind your ears for you, gentle hands cupping you under your ears and you shut your eyes in his touch. He kissed your nose, then your lips, gently, as if meaning to lull you. He pulled away to admire your perfect eyelashes that rested with your closed eyes. “Maybe just a little tired,” he repeated. You smiled. “You are so beautiful. Let’s get you to bed, though?”

“Mmmm,” is all you could reply with. He helped you get ready for bed, readying himself just the same, brushing your teeth together, washing your face together, moisturizing and Art himself putting on his pajamas.

“Mmm, lose the shirt.” You said, sitting on the edge of your bed. Art laughed. “I’m serious!” You said.

Art obliged obviously unable to say no to his perfect wife, taking off his plain white sleep shirt, gesturing to his upper body. You nodded, eyeing him up and down and giving a thumbs up. “Thumbs up?” he laughed, getting into bed on his side. “Really?”

“I think it’s deserving,” you said, scooting closer to him.

“Not even two thumbs up?” He said, opening his arm to let you lay on his chest and you gave him two thumbs up. He gave them right back, not letting you lay on him, but rather kissing you. Your hand happily slid over his bare stomach and chest, kissing back with the same passion. You wished you could get closer, but the bump in the way made it a little difficult.

He held your face when he kissed you, keeping you as close as he could. You wished you could melt into him, the mix of happiness, sweetness, hot skin, and making out like teenagers so intoxicating you were worried for your baby. His kisses shortened. “You need your rest.”

“Not as much as I need you.” You replied. Art chuckled, ready to be all over you the second you asked. “You know, you could do with a little less clothes?” You said. Art chuckled.

“I could say the same for you,” he tugged at your tank top, faces inches from each other. You gladly took it off, matching him and immediately the kissing resumed, hot and heavy, slipping tongue just slightly. Sometimes you were so glad you’re married your best friend and super hot tennis boyfriend, it made for a really hot husband and father-to-be. And he was absolutely in love with you, more everyday.

That love dripped off his lips as your hand slid down his boxers, gripping him. His mouth fell just a little open. “Fuck,” he said. He’d been thinking about it from the moment he woke up next to you, he wouldn’t admit that but he did. You stroked him up and down, tight-handed. “No, baby, you’re tired.” He protested, caring all too much.

“Not too tired.” You said, speeding up. He groaned into your mouth, his hand on the back of your neck as he kissed you again. When he finished it was a string of compliments, even in his highest moments it was praise for you.

After a quick cleanup you laid right back on his chest, his hand immediately stroking your back. You enjoyed the skin to skin. Art kissed the top of your head. “I love you.” He said. “You know that?”

You nodded, “I feel it. And I love you too.” You traced the words over his bare skin with your fingernail. “So much.”

“I’m so lucky,” he whispered. “I have the perfect wife, the perfect mother to our baby.”

You sat up just a bit to look at him. “You have to be so careful or you’ll make me cry.” You said, eyes filling with tears. “Hormones.”

He grinned a big grin, you could see it in the dim of the dark bedroom, his face illuminated only by the moon. “It’s not any less true, but I’d rather no tears. I love you so very much.”

“I love you more than anything,” you replied.

A few months later you were back on that same couch in the living room, Art planting little kisses on your bump, which was becoming a bit too much at this point. You tsked, looking at the ceiling. “I don’t want to keep the sex of the baby a surprise anymore. I know we agreed on it, but it’s been eating at me.” You admit. Art looked up from your stomach, taking a proper seat.

“Is it because you’ve been watching those gender reveal party videos?” He asked with a small smile. “Tell my grandma you want one she will be all over it and have it planned in a day, she’s been dying to know.”

“Maybe the videos,” you smiled. “But don’t you want to be prepared? Don’t you want to know if it’s a baby boy or a baby girl?”

Art nodded, “I’d love to know, but it’s up to you.” He took your hand in his. “If you wanted we could go get the envelope from upstairs right now.”

You tried to sit up, needing his help. “Really?” You said. “You’d be okay with just… knowing? No fuss?”

“I want to know if you want to know,” he shrugged, big smile on his face giving away that he really did want to know.

You took a deep breath, matching his smile. “Okay. Get the envelope.” He was off the couch faster than you’d ever seen him run, even in tennis, bolting up the stairs. He knew exactly where it was because he returned with it in seconds. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“I’m excited, are you excited?” He asked, handing the envelope to you. He was adorable.

“Too excited,” you said, handing the envelope right back. “No fuss. Just open it and we look at it together.”

Art nodded, ripping open the envelope and unfolding the paper. You looked him in the eyes, unbridled excitement showing in both of you. It was too late to turn back now.

“No matter what the sex is, I’m proud of you and I’m so happy.”

You narrowed your eyes, “You’re trying to make me cry.”

“Just a little.” He grinned. “Doesn’t make it less true.”

“You are just mean,” you smiled, kissing him gently. “But I love you. On three?” He nodded and squeezed your hand. You counted down and at the same time, you and Art read over the word ‘female’. You were having a girl. “Oh my god.” You gasped, looking at Art. He was overjoyed, kissing you hard before wrapping you in one of the tightest hugs he could manage around the bump.

“Oh my god, I love you.” He grinned. “I’m going to be a dad to a daughter, that’s crazy.”

“You’ll be the best.” You said. “Oh my god, a girl.” You couldn’t let go of him. You didn’t want to. You couldn’t. “A baby girl, Art.”

“I love you.” He gushed. “I love you, oh my god.”

“I love you too.” You kissed him again and the paper fell on the floors. It didn’t matter. You both couldn’t stop smiling.

Art was so in love with you both. You, messy, hair up, t-shirt off the shoulder and yoga pants on, cradling your perfect baby girl. You were the most beautiful sight he’d ever laid his eyes on, sitting on the couch amongst the pump, a few blankets, and a baby bottle.

“I think she knows you’re home,” you smiled, looking up at him. “She’s all bubbly and awake. I think she missed you.”

“I missed her too,” Art said, putting down his rackets to come sit next to you. “And you.” He planted a kiss on your lips and a small kiss on your perfect baby’s forehead. Her small hands reached up, her mouth trying to latch onto his nose.

“How was tennis?”

“Terrible. Couldn’t focus. Only thought in my mind was you two.” He said. You looked at him with only love in your eyes. One thing Art promised himself when he met you is he would always come home to you. But now he was coming home to his perfect wife and daughter as early as he could. He only smiled back. “You are so gorgeous.” He said.

“So are you,” you said. “Do you want to hold her while I get started on dinner?”

“I’d love to hold her but you are not cooking. You’ve done enough for me,” he grinned.

You handed over the perfect baby and stood up off the couch, “I’m sure I can manage something easy. Can’t stop me with the baby in your arms.” You laughed and wandered into the kitchen.

“Says who?” Art said, following, baby in one arm and grabbing your arm with the other, spinning you back into the circle with him and your daughter. He kissed you over her, his free hand on your cheek. “How did I get so lucky? And you’re not cooking.”

“Fine.” You said, kissing him again, then kissing your baby on the forehead. “I make her, you make dinner.”

“Sounds even,” he shrugged, passing her back to you. “But I get to hold her after dinner.”

“Only if you hold me after that,” you teased, poking him in the chest. “Deal?”

All Art did that day was lose. And he had so many chances. And the losing started even before the games did, with a failed alarm and a faulty hotel room key. Your flight had been moved back a day and you were going to miss every game of his until the very last match of the day the way the plane schedule was set.

He was late, but he was groggy and slept badly and worst thing is he missed you. He got up and he stretched and he had his smoothie and it was all fast-paced and rushed and he felt awful.

First match was okay, he didn’t win but he chalked it up to some sort of nerves and a bad morning. The day went on, he had time to practice, but he ended up on the phone with you for half of it.

“They delayed my plane, I’m so sorry, Art,” you sighed over the phone. You weren’t even on the plane yet. “I’m so sorry.”

He knew it wasn’t your fault, he rubbed his eyes and shook his head, “It’s okay. I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” you replied. And he told you about his first game loss and you told him to keep trying, encouraging him softly. But he didn’t have any motivation left.

He moved onto his next match. It was close but he just lost by a few points and lost more at the very end for an audible obscenity. It was hard, things were harsh, you were so far.

The day went on, Art losing a scrimmage game, then another real one. He had one more game and you were supposed to be there for that one but you were stuck on some plane coming home. He almost wanted to half-ass the game, he was so discouraged. But he tried, he played, and he nearly won, but he lost. Keeping sportsmanship he shook his opponents hand. Nobody was happy. It was loss all around.

Art went to get food after and they were out of everything he could possibly want to eat, so he left. He called a taxi back to the hotel but it didn’t come for forty minutes after it said it would and the driver got lost, yet wouldn’t reimburse him for the time.

Art moped up the stairs to his hotel room on the 7th floor, the elevator had broken while he was out. His feet hurt, his shoulders and arms ached from all the tennis. He made it to his room and tossed his things aside. He showered and ordered room service, but the order than came was wrong. Art succumbed to the problems of the day and just ate it anyway. Too many problems.

He sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his face, hair just finished drying from his shower. He sat in his big t-shirt and his loose shorts, rubbing over his mouth, under his chin, reflecting on the day. Every game lost, every match a trial and complete error. At least it wasn’t important, Art thought. Just a bunch of games for no greater purpose. But it still ruined his day.

It got later into the evening and Art just sat and stared emptily, just thinking, more thinking than he’d been able to do.

A knock on the hotel door. Art half expected another disturbance, a problem with his card, the maids coming by, any inconvenience. He sighed, getting up from the couch, running a hand through his hair as he tiredly opened the door. And it was you.

“Hey,“ and the force of which Art stepped into the hall and hugged you almost knocked the wind out of you. You dropped your bags as his arms reached around you and held you tight, your arms wrapping around his neck. One of your hands held the back of his head as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. You were expecting a hug but not like this.

You held him just as tight as he held you and he stayed that way for a minute, you in his arms and him in yours in the middle of the hotel hallway. Neither of you said a word. Art just took the moment to stay close to you, inhaling the scent he’d been away from too long, holding the girl he’d been missing for much longer. Eventually, after a minute or so, he loosened his grip, kissing you on the shoulder and neck, not sexually, but casually. Sweet.

“Are you okay?” You asked, cupping his face with one hand. His eyes were tired, sad.

“Better now,” he said, small smile pulling at one side of his mouth. God, you missed him. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”

“Give me five minutes and you can tell me all about it?” You suggested, rubbing your thumb over his cheek and he nodded, kissing your palm gently and letting you into the room. You took the five minutes to set your bags down and have the quickest refresher shower known to man. You got out of the shower and Art, sitting on the hotel sink counter passed you one of his big shirts to sleep in. The ones he liked to sleep in. You smiled and put it on, putting your hair in a towel. You turned the lights off as you passed them, turning on the bedside lamp to dim the room to something gentler.

You crawled onto the bed, propping yourself against the pile of pillows the beds always had. You opened your arms and Art gladly followed you onto the bed, crawling over you. He kissed you, it was soft and sweet and to him, meant the world to have. He then laid down on your lower chest, arms digging under you to wrap around your waist, his body fitting perfectly between your legs. Your hand instinctually went to his soft hair, your fingernails digging softly into his scalp as he told you about his day, about the inconveniences and the game losses, what they felt like. You told him about yours and they were honestly quite similar, minus the tennis.

You sighed, letting your nails trace down over his neck, his ear, the top of his back, the other squeezing his upper arm gently. “I’m so sorry,” you said quietly.

“It’s not your fault,” Art said, his words a little muffled from his cheek pressed against you. “But I missed you. I’m glad you’re back.”

“I missed you too,” you smiled. He couldn’t see it, but he knew. “I tried to get here as soon as I could.”

His hand pulled one of yours down to your side, making it accessible to him to kiss gently up your wrist, to kiss your hand, your fingers, his thumb pressing on the pads of your palms softly. “I can’t help but think-“ he kissed your wrist again, “- That if you were there today, I would have-“ he kissed your wrist once more, “Won. Or at least done better.” He confessed.

You giggled a little, “Oh, like a good luck charm?”

“A good luck charm,” Art echoed. He hummed as your nails slid over his scalp to behind his ear. “Something like that. You might be mine.”

“I would love that,” you grinned. You continued, squeezing him just a little tighter, “I don’t have another business trip for ages so I promise to fulfill my good luck charm duties from here, forward.”

Art, eyes shut, smiled as well. “Mmm, I’d like that.” He kissed you where his mouth rested and went back to caressing your hand. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it after this day we’ve both had,” you said. “Honestly I think travelling without my good luck charm is what delayed the flights.”

Art chuckled at that. “So it’s settled then.”

You grinned, “Mhm. We just never leave each others’ side again. You’re stuck with me.”

“Sounds perfect,” Art mumbled. You could feel the soft beat of his heart against you. “I wouldn’t dream of a better solution.” He raised his head, propping himself up just a little. His eyes were soft as your hand slipped to cup his cheek again, he rested against it. Your thumb, as per usual, caressed over his skin. “I love you.” He said. Words you had heard a thousand million times. But he looked at you with every single time he’d said it compiled in his eyes. You could see it, you could feel it.

You almost pouted with the way he looked. He was gorgeous and kind and he loved you and you loved him. “I love you too,” you told him, feeling about the same as he did. “So much.” You hoped he felt it, your hands pushing hair out of his face as you spoke.

He looked at you through his perfect eyelashes, “Marry me.” He said. Your hand stopped where it was and your heart immediately picked up pace.

“Hm?” you wondered if you’d heard him wrong.

But you didn’t. “Marry me,” he repeated, a small smirk growing on his face. “I’ll do things properly, but I want to ask you. Because I love you and the days that pass without you are my worst.” He said, your hand tracing his cheek. You had always felt that any talk of this with Art would bring unbridled excitement, but as much as you felt excited, you also felt at peace. That was because you knew you were meant to be with Art as if it was just willed into existence that way. Pre-written.

“I’ll marry you,” you grinned. And he grinned, fully, for what felt like the first time that day. He moved upward and kissed you with all of the ‘I love you’s on his lips this time. All of yours on your lips, exchanged like the way they were spoken, from the very first to this one in this moment. Your hands that held his face moved down as he kissed you, taking his turn to hold your face. He kissed you and you kissed him and it was set in stone that neither of you wanted to leave the other’s side. Not ever. “I love you too.” You replied.

Art proposed a second time so your family could be there, but you didn’t tell anyone about the impromptu first take, even though it was the one you truly loved more. When it wasn’t posed like a question because Art knew. And so did you. That it was meant to be that way. There was never a chance you’d say no anyway.

In enough time there were tangible good luck charms in the form of wedding bands, but you both never truly stopped being each other’s.