#artxreader

every year, the rodeo brought dozens of boys into town, all southern drawls and catcalls across the bar you worked at, drinkin’ cheap beer faster than they could ask for it. there was a big event this year, drawing in all kinds of attention from sports media and more competitors than usual. the headliner, the main event, was art donaldson. he was unrivaled in the circuit, strong and quick enough to stay on until the very end, the best wranglin’ skills on his side of the mississippi. and god, he was gorgeous. you could tell he knew it, too, the way he walked around with a toothpick between his teeth and a lazy grin on his lips. that kinda man didn’t have to catcall, no. they came to him.

you tried your best to ignore him the way you ignored all the others, but there was just something about him, the sparkle in his blue eyes or the depth of his accent, his voice deep and words curled. whatever it was, you knew you were screwed as soon he leaned against your bar, the sleeves of his pearl buttoned shirt rolled up his elbows. “hey there, miss,” he smiled, the toothpick tight between his teeth, “how are ya this evenin’?” “i’m doin’ just fine,” you smiled in return, “what’ll it be?” “whatever you recommended, darlin,” it was cocky of him, but you couldn’t ignore the way your cheeks flushed at the pet name, “and what if i have bad taste?” you teased. “aw, cmon now. pretty thing like you couldn’t have bad taste if you tried,”

you busied yourself behind the bar, poured him a tall glass of shiner and slid it over to him with a smile, “there ya go,” “see? knew i could trust you,” he grinned around the rim of the glass, “what’s your name, sugar?” you told him, something you never did, “and yours?” “art. art donaldson,” he nodded, “in town for the rodeo,” “oh, i’m sure,” you nodded in return, “i’ve seen you on the flyers. famous, ain’t ya?” “aw, i don’t know about that,” he laughed, hearty and warm, “just won a few, that’s all. enough about me, though. what’s a pretty girl like you doin’ workin at this place?” “my brother owns this place, thank you very much,” you replied, sipping your water, trying to look away from his lips around the glass, “work here on weekends when we have these events, know how yall like to drink ‘nd all,”

“that’s sweet of you,” he smiled, tongue swiping along his bottom lip, collecting the droplets of beer, “how old are you, hm? look awful young to be hangin’ around all these old men,” “i’m 21,” you rolled your eyes, still grinning, “and you?” “26,” he told you, eyes trialing down to the v of your shirt just slightly, “that ain’t too bad,” “too bad for what, exactly?” you asked, resting a hand on your hip. “not too much older than you, that’s all,” he shrugged, a coy smile on his lips, “unless you like older men, then maybe i got a disadvantage,” “i’ll have you know i’ve got a boyfriend,” you couldn’t help but revel in the irritation that flashed across his face, “so it doesn’t matter much anyway,”

“yeah? where’s your boyfriend then, pretty? he let you stay out this late workin’ while he’s at home?” he asked, resting his chin on his hand, smug smile on his lips. “he’s in the kitchen,” you gestured to the window leading to the kitchen that only really produced questionable greasy food, “not that it’s any of your business, cowboy,” “oh, come on,” he groaned, “don’t tell me you went and fell for some kinda line cook, darlin. you need a real man, somebody that’s gonna take care of you,” “yeah? somebody like you?” you cocked an eyebrow, grinning. he didn’t miss a beat, “yeah, somebody just like me. how serious is it, you and that guy?” “mm, not very,” you shrugged, glancing away. “yeah, i’m sure,” he laughed, quiet and intimate, like it was just for you, “what is it, honey? you just mess around with him when there’s no one else around, huh? yall meet here and you settled?” he was dead on- he wasn’t your boyfriend, not really. you didn’t even fuck him, just made out with him after work when you had a few too many shift drinks, let him feel you up until you had enough, then you let him drive you home with false promises of ‘maybe next time’. but art didn’t need to know that.

“well if you ever want a real man,” he slid a napkin you hadn’t even realized he’d written on across the bar, “room 201, i’ll be here all week. i’m competing tomorrow, if you wanna come watch,” “you’re cocky, aren’t ya?” you rolled your eyes but took the napkin anyway, folding it up and tucking it into the pocket of your denim skirt, “maybe i’ll see you tomorrow, then,” “i hope so, darlin. you can be my good luck charm. if i win, you gotta let me take you out,” he winked, placed a $50 next to the empty glass, and left you feeling slightly dumbfounded as you watched him walk away. yeah, you were screwed.

you went down to the rodeo grounds the next day, all dressed up in your favorite gingham dress and boots, sipping a lemonade as you watched the boys compete. when art’s name was announced, the stands wend wild, stomping and clapping and cheering his name. you’d seen this place loud, of course, half the people were usually day drinking just enough to let go of their inhibitions and scream like no tomorrow. but this was a whole new level, like he was some kind of rodeo god, like he was gracing everyone with his mere presence. you could’ve scoffed- tried to, really, but then you saw him.

he was entirely in his element, perched atop a horse like he belonged there, his thighs strong and taut in his jeans as he led his horse into the ring. his hands gripped the reins, catching your attention even from the stands, lighting a fire inside of you. he rode with precision and grace, even as the horse bucked, even when anyone else would have fallen. it looked like a second nature to him, easy as breathing, the sort of relaxation that can’t come from practice. he somehow managed to keep his hat on the entire time, as well as a cocky, barely there little smile. it had you shifting in your seat, thighs squeezed together with each movement of his hands or toned arms. when it was all said and done, they announced the winners, and he was first in all categories. he accepted the awards with practiced graciousness, but you could see right through it. he knew he deserved them, knew he’d win. the ‘oh, you shouldn’t have’ act was all a facade, but it just made you fall even deeper.

that night, when everyone was out drinking and celebrating and making complete fools of themselves, you couldn’t keep your mind off of him. your fingers found the napkin you’d kept in your purse, art’s handwriting etched onto it, and before you knew it you were knocking on the door of room 201, your mind racing. your heart stalled when the door creaked open- art stood before you with just a towel wrapped low on his waist, beads of water dripping from his hair. “well ain’t this a nice surprise,” he grinned, eyes raking over your frame, “sure wasn’t expectin’ you tonight, darlin,” you tried to force your eyes away from him- from the planes of his chest, still shining from his shower, from the toned muscles of his biceps and the veins laying just under the skin. “you told me to come by,” the words came out slightly shaky, “but if now’s a bad time, i can-“

“now’s not a bad time,” his hand circled around your wrist, gently, but just firm enough to pull you inside. you huffed, cheeks hot, “what’re you doing?” “no sense in lettin’ a pretty girl wait around outside, is there?” he grinned, “come on, let me make you a drink,” before you could protest, he’d led you to the creaky hotel bed, turning away to retrieve something from the small kitchenette. he returned with two beers, sweaty with condensation, passing one to you, “so did you watch earlier?” you nodded, taking a small sip, anything to soothe your growing nerves, “yeah, i did. you were pretty good,”

“pretty good?” he arched a brow, “that’s all? you wound me, honey,” he placed a hand on his chest, feigning injury. “you don’t need me to tell you how good you are,” you rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, “everybody else already did that,” “well maybe i wanna hear it from you,” “cocky, aren’t ya?” your eyes fell to the towel still tight around his hips, “why’d you ask me to come here, art?” “come on, sugar. you’re smarter than that,” his hand rested on your thigh, warm and broad against your skin, “you know exactly why i wanted you here,” your breath hitched, goosebumps fanning out along your skin, “you just assumed i’d sleep with you, then?”

“saw how you were lookin’ at me,” his hand crept higher, slow but insistent, “tell me i’m wrong and we’ll just go back to talkin’, but i know what it looks like when a girl wants me, darlin’,” you couldn’t even deny him, you were helpless to it all. “you’re so full of yourself,” you mumbled, but you let him slide his hand under your skirt, let him kiss you like it meant something more than just a hookup. his mouth was hot and greedy, his self assurance apparent in the way he slid his tongue into your mouth, the way his free hand came to tilt your head back. you gasped when he slid his fingers underneath the cotton of your panties, pressing just lightly over your clit. “knew it,” he mumbled against you, “soaked for me, sugar,” he pulled you up into his lap, twisted you so your back was against his chest, your legs spread open as his fingers worked at your core, his kisses falling to your shoulder.

“look at you, darlin’, just fallin’ apart on my fingers. you still think i’m full of myself, hm?” he murmured into your skin, slowly sipping a finger inside of you, “god, you’re so wet,” “art,” it came out in a broken whine, your back arching against him, the lewd sounds of his fingers against you filling the hotel room. “i know it,” he cooed, “you gonna come for me, pretty thing?” your eyes rolled back as you bucked your hips against his hand, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you got closer, “god, yes,” he worked you through it, drew it from you like it was his one true calling, murmuring praises into your neck as you came down.

you caught your breath, shifting in his arms to face him, your hands coming to untie the towel around his waist. as you kneeled on the carpeted floor in front of the bed, his breath hitched, his hand resting on your jaw, “don’t have to do that, darlin’,” he sounded almost pained, his voice thick, “god, just let me fuck you, please,” he pulled you up into his arms again before you could protest, the towel discarded on the floor, his cock hard against your thighs as you settled in his lap. “you gonna ride me, baby, hm? play cowgirl f’me?” before you could answer, he pulled you down onto his cock, the breath leaving your lungs as he stretched you out, your eyes rolling back at the feeling, “there you go, darlin’, see how long you can take it,”

he didn’t let you do much of the work, of course. he was a man of his word, seeing how long you could stay on, fucking up into you hard enough to have you trembling and gasping, a moaning mess above him. “god, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he panted, his hands surely leaving fingerprints on your ass as he held you tight, “you like that, sugar? hm?” “yes, art, god yes,” you nodded eagerly, jaw slack, “feels so fucking good,” “prettiest thing i ever saw,” his jaw was clenched with the effort of not filling you up right there and then, his hips bucking desperately, “ridin’ me so good,” his hands left your skin just long enough to grab his hat from the bedside table, resting it on your head, your brows furrowing when you felt it. “oh, god,” he exhaled, “look so fuckin’ pretty wearin’ my hat, angel. yknow what that means, don’t ya?” his thrusts had gotten even rougher, his legs shaking, “means you’re mine,”

“oh, art,” you let out a high pitched moan as he slapped your ass, your skin stinging with the impact, “god, so close,” “yeah, there ya go,” he encouraged, his breathing ragged, “atta girl,” you clenched around him as you came, your nails raking down his chest, grabbing at anything you could to stable yourself as he fucked you incoherent. “god, sweetest fuckin’ pussy,” he groaned, grabbing your hips and fucking you on his cock, your breath coming out in short squeaks, “gonna fill you up, y’want that? hm?” you nodded, too far gone to speak, squeezing him tighter at the thought. “yeah, knew you would,” you could practically hear the smirk on his lips, but it was quickly replaced by a broken, desperate moan. his thrusts grew sloppy and erratic, and soon he was coming undone, filling you up, hot and wet and making you even more needy. “oh, fuck,” he panted, catching his breath as he slowly settled you in his lap, his hands soothing over the skin he’d slapped, “so good, darlin’, good lord,”

you, on the other hand? the media loved you. you were riding a high from your US open win straight out of college, on a winning streak that was finally being recognized as more to do with skill than luck. your team was a tight ship, constantly keeping tags on you, making sure nothing undesirable slipped through. it wasn’t just about winning, for you. it was about being the best, and that meant every aspect of your life revolving around getting people to like you. behind closed doors, though? that was a whole different story.

you could, and often did, keep up with art and all of his friends. you weren’t close, really, but you ran in the same circles, always running into each other at parties, occasionally flirting. he’d run into you once at some magazine launch, making small talk, already half drunk. “how do you do it?” he’d let slip through, watching you with hazy eyes. “do what?” you’d laughed, brows knit. “keep it together. you’re always more fucked up than i am, but you go out and win the next day like nothing happened,” he’d sounded frustrated, like he was holding it against you. “i just do it,” you’d shrugged, knowing fully well it was a blatant lie. every moment of your life was choreographed and orchestrated- you never just did anything. “bullshit,” he’d said under his breath, turning away before you could ask him what he meant. he’d avoided you after that, watching from afar as you drank the other girls under the table, as you stayed out even later than he did despite having a 8am match. he didn’t need to know how you did it. he could figure it out himself.

six months later, he found himself sitting in his manager's glass office, getting scolded for what felt like hours, lectured endlessly about his problematic behavior. "we need to rehab your image," his manager told him, leaned over his desk, "you need a girlfriend, someone to soften your appearance, make you more favorable to brands," "i'm a tennis player," art sighed, sinking down in the crinkling plastic seat, "i didn't sign up for all this shit, honestly, and i'm certainly not gonna go date some random girl just so a brand will sponsor me," "you don't need a random girl," his manager smiled, paging his assistant, and before art could ask him to clarify, you were strolling through the door. "oh, fuck no," he shook his head, standing without hesitation, "no. i don't need tennis' golden girl to tidy up my image, okay? this is bullshit," "if you want to stay signed on here, you'll sit down,"

art sat back down with an agitated huff, crossing his legs, trying to keep his eyes off of you as you sat down in the chair just beside his. "you need to understand that the two of you are not just tennis players anymore, alright? you're celebrities. my firm represents both of you, and i have zero intention of letting my investment go to waste because you can't get a grip, donaldson. we've drawn up contracts-" the man slid two folders across his desk, rigid with tension, "the two of you will maintain a stable, healthy relationship for a minimum of six months, until the buzz about art's recent escapades dies down. if, for any reason, this relationship ends before the six month term, both of your contracts with this firm will be terminated. got it?" a handful of mumbled expletives and messy signatures later, you were following art out of the office, the tension palpable.

"i think this is all bullshit, for the record," he told you as the elevator doors closed behind the two of you, "i don't need this. i'm doing perfectly fine for myself," "you're an alcoholic who sleeps his way through whichever city he finds himself competing in, don't be stupid. i know you, art. or were you too fucked up to remember all the times you hit on me at parties?" "i'm not an alcoholic," he scoffed, running a hand through his hair, "and that's rich, coming from you. you drink more than half the guys there," "and yet i still show up and don't make an ass out of myself!" you laughed incredulously, "face it, art, really. you need this,"

the elevator dinged and he watched as you stepped off, hesitating before following after you. “we might as well make the best of it,” he finally sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, “we need to be seen out together,” “just call me when you set something up,” you told him, smoothing out your skirt, “see you around, art,” and then you were gone, slipped out the door and into the back of some dark suv, just casual enough to get under his skin. he waited a week before calling you, finally deciding just to take you to dinner, try to at least be friends if you were stuck together for 6 months. he picked the restaurant, insisting on picking you up himself- he had a new sports car he was itching to drive- and sent you the details. he pulled into your driveway 5 minutes late, debating if he should get out and come to the door before changing his mind. this wasn’t a real date, after all.

you walked out after a moment, a vision of long legs and a sleek dress, your hair falling in loose curls down your back. “rude to make a lady come to the car alone,” you told him as you slid into the passenger seat, “i’d prefer if you didn’t do it again,” “do forgive me,” he rolled his eyes, raising his hands in mock surrender before putting the car back in drive, pulling out of your driveway, “you look nice,” “hm, you do too,” you smiled just slightly, eyes raking over his blazer and slacks, the shining watch on his wrist. he reached over to turn the music up, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “we need to talk about how we want to come across," you said over the song, "like what do we want the public to think about our relationship?"

"i couldn't give a fuck less," he laughed, shrugging one shoulder, "as long as they think we're together, who cares about specifics?" "well you can't be seen with anyone else," you frowned slightly, irritated by his nonchalance, "you know that, right?" "getting jealous already?" he flashed you a grin, one hand coming to rest on your thigh. you jerked away immediately, glaring at him from the corner of your eye, but he just waved it off, pulling you back towards him. "relax, i'm just getting in character," he smiled, more like smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief, "you want it to come natural, don't you?" you tried to relax, ignoring the way his thumb rubbed circles on the skin of your thigh, the way his hand felt warm against you. it wasn't real, so it didn't matter that the simple touch had your heart racing.

the dinner went smoothly, the two of you falling into practiced touches easily, your hand lingering on his arm and his eyes lingering on your lips. by the end of the night, you had a near perfect rhythm. "you're good at this," he mumbled as he walked you down the crowded sidewalk back to his car, his hand on your low back, "guess you get used to that, being the golden girl of american tennis," "that's funny coming from you," you laughed slightly, "you're number one in the country, damn near in the world. you should be used to it by now," "never get used to having a beautiful woman on my arm," his voice was dangerously slow, suspiciously genuine. "bet you say that to all the girls," you rolled your eyes, attempting to brush off the way goosebumps dotted along your skin. "you're naive if you think i care about the other girls enough to flatter them," it sounds too easy to be a lie, "they throw themselves at me, i don't really have time to try and impress them,"

"you're an asshole," you laughed, shocked at his bluntness, "i thought you were nice, you're always so soft at parties," "soft?" he repeated, like he'd been scorned, "i am not soft, i just try not to be as aggressive as some of the other guys," "well i'm glad to discover you're actually exactly the same as they are," you rolled your eyes, "frat boys are all the same anyway, i'm not surprised," "i'm not a frat boy!" he argued, "i graduated last year, thank you very much," "once a frat boy, always a frat boy," you grinned, looking up at his flushed face. he looked down at you, the tension melting away as a boyish smile spread across his lips, "god, should've known you were just fucking with me," he laughed, nudging your shoulder. "i have no room to talk," you laughed, running a hand through your hair before letting it fall to his shoulder, looping your arm through his as you walked, "guess we're not too different,"

the drive home was quiet, his playlist playing idly in the background as he drove, your eyes glued to your phone so you wouldn't look at him for too long. he walked you to the door when you got there, smiling apologetically, "hopefully this makes up for earlier," "i guess so," you grinned, leaning against your doorway. "so we won't see anyone else," he said after a moment, "what about affection? i know we have to sell it, but are you okay with kissing in public? i don't want to take it too far," "wow, a frat boy who cares about consent," you teased, "why don't you come inside? we can sit down and talk about everything,"

you shouldn't have invited him in. you knew it as soon as you actually saw him in your space, sitting on your couch like he belonged there, his dress shoes by the door right next to your discarded heels. it made it all too real, his sobering presence casting a light on your home. "your place is so nice," he said, standing from the couch to run his fingers along the frame of a painting, "i'm surprised you don't have all your trophies out on display," "oh, they're out, just not in here," you assured him, "i have a room for that," "can i see?" he sounded genuinely curious, bordering on excited, and you cursed yourself for being so stupid before pushing it down and leading him through the house.

you opened a door along the main hallway, hesitating before letting him step inside after you, the only person you'd ever allowed inside besides your parents. "jesus," he said under his breath, glancing around. you knew you must look insane to a normal person- there were trophies and medals littering the shelves, plaques displayed, framed photos of winning shots or of you posing with coaches. there was a small tv against the wall, only used to watch back matches, and a loveseat for when you spent hours locked in the room, examining your every played back movement. you watched as he studied each trophy, his eyes lingering on the US Junior Open cup, the first one you'd ever won. "you were 15," he finally said, his fingers tracing the inscription in the copper, "weren't you?" "yeah, i was," you nodded, surprised that he even knew that, "why?" "that's fucking incredible," he continued on over the awards, "this is all fucking incredible,"

"i thought you'd think i was crazy," you admitted, "like this was some kinda shrine or something," "i think this is the hottest thing i've ever seen," his voice was hoarse, his eyes on the photo of you just after your most recent win, kissing your trophy. "what?" you almost laughed, to diffuse the tension if nothing else. "you're so fucking talented," he turned to face you, and your breath left you, your cheeks flushing. he looked undone, pupils dilated and cheeks tinged pink, "do you just sit in here and look at all you've done?" "i only come in here to watch matches," you felt suddenly embarrassed, like you were admitting some weakness, baring some part of your soul to him, "that's really all," "oh, god," he ran a hand through his hair, "you're so intense," "is that a bad thing?" you asked defensively, crossing your arms over your chest. "no, god no," he said quickly, shaking his head, "this whole thing is just- you're just insanely talented,"

a mental alarm goes off as he crosses the room, standing just in front of you, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “you make all those other girls look like a fucking joke,” he murmured, “you know that? wouldn’t even bother playing against you if i were them,” that does it- ignore the voice in your head telling you this is wrong, that this isn’t real- and kiss him, feverish and hot, rough and quick. he grabs hold of your hips, tight and greedy, with an intensity you’d only ever seen on the court. “we shouldn’t,” it comes out in a pant between kisses, your voice heady, “art, wait-“ “fuck waiting,” he mumbles, pulling you back to kiss you again, your back hitting the wall behind you. he tastes like vodka and redbull and mint gum, your lips tingling against his. a startled gasp leaves you as he halfway picks you up, your shoulder knocking a trophy from the wall with a clang. “shit, i’m sorry-“ “bedroom,” you cut him off, sliding out of his arms to pull him down the hallway, stumbling steps taken between messy kisses.

he laid you back on your bed, his kisses getting sloppier the needier he got, his hands anywhere he could reach. “these fucking legs,” he choked out, his hands grabbing at your thighs, lips trailing down your neck, “gonna be the death of me,” “shut up and fuck me,” you pulled his lips back to yours, eager for more. your body was taut with need by the time he finally rolled on a condom, ignoring your chastising remark when he pulled it from his wallet, and fucked into you, stretching you out more than you’d expected. “art, fuck,” you moaned against his lips, back arching. “oh,” he pulled away just enough that you could see the moment his eyes rolled back, his lips swollen and red, all blissed out as he rolled his hips. “oh, fuck me, that feels good,” his hands came to your thighs as his thrusts grew faster, his fingers leaving little marks across your skin, roaming pointlessly until he stretched your legs up, holding them above you, the new angle making you squeeze him even tighter. “oh, right there,” you were breathless, reaching between your parted thighs to circle your clit, desperate for your high. “you like that?” he panted, pressing a kiss to your calf, “tell me, baby,” in any other situation, you’d have rolled your eyes at his cockiness, but it only served to bring you closer. “yes, feels so fucking good,” you nodded, shameless and eager, “oh! oh, art, right fuckin there-“ he fucked you even harder, your muscles burning as he held your legs higher, a scream nearly leaving your throat as you came, trembling beneath him. “oh, jesus-“ he followed you almost immediately, filling the condom with a moan, his hips stilling slowly, “god, that was good,”

he slowly pulled your legs back down, pulling out of you and disposing of the condom as he caught his breath. your eyes were heavy with exhaustion, a serene feeling enveloping you as you curled up into bed, yawning quietly. “you can stay over,” you offered- something you never did- “if you want,” “yeah, okay,” he nodded, curling up behind you, his hands resting on your waist, “g’night, then,” “mm, night art,” you hummed, eyes closing.

everyone knew art donaldson. he was stanford's golden boy, tennis phenomenon, blue eye and blonde hair angel. he was outgoing, bordering on loud, always the center of attention, always smiling. so when he walked over to you that night, smiling and eyes sparkling, red solo cup in hand, you had to tamp down your confusion. “hey,” he grinned, “i’ve never seen you around, you new?” “no,” you tried not to stutter, a long formed habit, “i just don’t usually hang out much,” “i’m art,” he shook your hand, confident and breezy, as if you wouldn’t know who he was. that was the start of it all, cocky boy and blushing girl, hand in hand.

after that night, the two of you were inseparable. you sat courtside at all of his matches, smiling and clapping when he inevitably won, his bag at your feet. in return, he stayed up with you for your frequent study sessions, rubbing your shoulders as you thumbed through page after page. you had a good little system going, a perfect little bubble just big enough for you two.

when you went out, he’d order your drinks and bring them back to you, satisfied like he’d done something grand each time. he stayed glued to your side, hand in hand, his thumb running over your knuckles when he could sense you getting worked up. he was doting and constantly observing you, soothing your nerves, calming any thoughts you let get out of hand.

you had a bad habit of picking your lips raw, biting at them as you spoke, and art developed a little habit of his own; carrying around a tube of chapstick, running it over your lips and chasing it with a gentle kiss, wiping away any dots of blood you’d bring to the surface. he kept band aids in his tennis bag for when you’d get carried away picking at your nails and the skin around them, little pink ones just for you. his friend teased him at times, poking fun at the way he fussed over you, but he waved them off each time. you were his girl, light of his life, who cares if you were a little antsy? everyone had their things, their ticks. you just happened to have a few more than him, thats all.

you worried, often, about the female attention he got. practically every girl on campus wanted him, not even bothering to hide it, fawning over him at his matches and flocking to him at parties. your biggest concern was tashi, patrick’s girlfriend and art’s sort-of coach. after her injury, she spent most of her free time helping art’s game, and the countless hours they spent together wore you down, ate at your mind. he’d come back to his dorm one night to find you crying, the sleeves of his hoodie pulled over your hands, your face red and eyes bloodshot. “baby,” he dropped his bag at the door, rushing over to you, “hey, angel, what’s going on? what happened?” “it’s okay,” you sniffled, wiping your eyes, “i’m okay, sorry, i just didn’t feel good,” “hey,” he wiped your face gently, tilting your head up to look at him, “don’t do that, don’t shut me out. talk to me, please?”

you told him, hesitantly, about your worries about tashi, about the nagging thoughts you couldn’t push away, assuring him that he didn’t have to do anything differently, you were just scared. “baby,” he murmured, “need you to tell me what you want, alright?” “nothing,” you said quickly, “it’s okay, art, you didn’t mean to,” “hey,” he frowned, “come on, angel. remember what we’ve talked about? need you to tell me what you need, or else i can’t make it better,” it took convincing, but slowly you nodded, biting the inside of your cheek, “just, maybe could you not spend so much time with her? or maybe could you bring me too, sometimes? just get worried, and i know it’s just tennis, but still,”

“see, that’s all you had to do, honey,” he crawled into his single bed beside you, pulling you to his chest, “of course you can come. i just didn’t want to ask because i thought you’d be bored. but you can bring your books, yeah? sit n watch me play while you read?” “yes please,” you sniffled, “sorry i’m so much,” “you’re not, baby,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “just perfect,”

when you calmed down, he pulled you into his lap, kissing you slow and steady for what felt like hours. you were always distracted like this, too caught up in the feeling of his lips to worry about anything else. he pulled away, grinning when you whined in protest, “tell me what you want, baby, like we talked about,” you buried your face in his shoulder, shaking your head, and he ran his fingers through your hair gently, “come on, angel, tell me,” finally, after all his coaxing, you worked up the nerve. “want you to fuck me,” you mumbled into his neck, “please?”

after art’s shoulder injury, his team had thought it’d be best to have a therapist travel with him while he was still playing professionally. someone to make sure he didn’t push himself too much, to help with any soreness he’d inevitably acquire. he was embarrassed at first, the thought of someone babysitting him, watching to make sure he didn’t overdo it just didn’t sit right. he’d never expected you, though.

he’d seen physical therapist before, obviously. they were usually older, usually men, all precision and straight faces, focused on one thing only. but you? you were the opposite, sweet smiles and colorful scrubs and what seemed to be a genuine passion for your work.

and god, did you help him like no one else did. the way you worked his muscles was enough to have him reeling after the first time you treated him, the way you talked him through it. “there ya go, just relax, let me help you,” you’d hummed as you worked over the stiff muscles in his shoulder, “mm, that’s good, we’re makin progress,”

you were just so sweet, he couldn’t help but start to look forward to your weekly sessions. he’d done so well at containing his little crush, keeping a certain distance, never letting his eyes linger for too long, all until he tore a muscle in his thigh during a particularly aggressive practice match.

he’d been rushed into your makeshift office area, and you’d looked at him with such concern as you took in the way his face was scrunched in pain, or frustration, or some cruel mix of both. “oh, art,” you frowned, “you have got to be more careful,”

and then you were working your magic on his painfully sore thigh muscles, dangerously close to the hem of his shorts, and he knew you were just doing your job, but he just couldn’t help it. he was trying his hardest to relax, not to get hard just inches from your hand, but it really did just feel so good.

“so tense,” you mumbled, “just relax, art. not gonna get any better if you can’t relax,” and then your hands were higher, and he couldn’t even help the noise that left his throat, somewhere between a whine and a grunt. “sorry,” he muttered, running a hand over his face, desperately trying to get it together.

“you’re okay,” you smiled softly up at him from the end of the table, “d’you wanna talk about your match? maybe it’ll take your mind off the pain,”

so he rambled on about his latest match, all the high and low points, like you hadn’t been watching intently from the sidelines the entire time. and you listened like you didn’t see it all before, frowning when he expressed his disappointment in himself and smiling brightly when he recounted his win.

“need to work on this hip, too,” you told him, encouraging him to keep talking as you moved up, one hand on the inside of his thigh and one on his sore hip joint. your hand just lightly brushed across his lap as you readjusted yourself, and he subconsciously bucked his hips, almost imperceptibly but enough to have his face flushed. “i’m sorry,” he said quickly, “maybe we should just stop, i don’t know why i’m so-“

“you’re okay, art,” you waved a dismissive hand, but he couldn’t help but notice your own cheeks had grown pink, “you’re not doing anything wrong,” you kept your composure, working at the knot in his hip, and he tried to take your words to heart, to just relax. he was choking back whines and groans as you expertly released all his tension, his hands clutching the side of the table to keep them from going to your hips, holding you there.

he was embarrassingly hard by that point, straining against the fabric of his shorts, his entire body feeling flushed and sensitive. “there,” you patted his hip gently, “you’re good now,”

you took a step away, and he could’ve died right there, fighting against himself until he gave in and reached out for you, pulling you back gently by your arm. your brows were furrowed in concern as you turned to face him, “are you okay?”

“tell me if i’ve got it all wrong,” the words were flying out of his mouth faster than he could even process them, “but i want you so badly and maybe you want me, i don’t know, i just-“

you cut him off, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his burning lips, a surprised sound leaving his throat as you did. his hands came to your waist, pulling you closer, kissing you fervently. “oh, fuck,” he mumbled into your mouth, gripping you so tightly he was scared you might bruise, leaning back on the table to make enough room for you.

you pulled away as he shifted, panting softly, eyes bright and cheeks pink. “this is wrong- we shouldn’t,” you said quickly, but your eyes were lingering on his wet lips, flicking down to the tent in his shorts. “do you want to stop?” he asked, pausing his motions of pulling you back towards him, concern etched on his features. “no,” you shook your head without even giving it a second thought, letting him rest his hand on the back of your head and pull you back into a deep kiss.

one hand snaked around the back of your thigh, pulling you up and into his lap, your hair falling in a curtain around the two of you as you straddled him. he leaned back just enough to pull at the bottom of your scrub top, watching with dilated eyes as you pulled it off, leaving you in a cotton bralette that left so little to his imagination. his shirt was off next, falling to the floor beside you, and he bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as you kissed over his chest, down to his abs, leaving little flushed, shiny spots behind.

“oh, fuck me,” he exhaled as you ghosted your lips over the bulge in his shorts, his hips involuntarily rocking at the contact, however subtle it was. he pulled you back up to him, fumbling to push down your scrubs with shaky hands. a soft laugh left your lips as you slid off the table just long enough to take them off, and he was more in awe of your beauty in that moment than he ever had been before.

he pushed his shorts down eagerly, biting the inside of his cheek as you settled back into his lap in just your underwear, kissing him like you were starving for it. “wanna fuck you so bad,” he panted against your lips, reaching between you to slip a hand between your thighs, “fuck- oh, you’re so wet,”

he watched in awe as you moaned in his lap, back arching as you all but rode his fingers, grinding against him desperately. “want you to fuck me,” you practically whined, “art, please,”

“wanna get you off first,” he sat up enough to press his face to your chest, mouthing at the skin greedily, slipping his free hand into your bralette and rolling your nipple between two fingers as his other hand worked at your clit.

your head fell to his shoulder, muffling your moans into the sweaty skin, panting and writhing as you came undone with a tremble. “there you go,” he hummed appreciatively, smoothing down your hair as he pulled his hand from your bra, kissing the side of your head softly, “want me to fuck you now, hm?”

“god, yes,” you nodded eagerly, pushing him back down flat on the table, discarding his boxes and your underwear into a little pile. his hands were on your hips as you slid over his cock, a soft hiss leaving his lips at the feeling. “oh, baby,” he groaned, watching your facial expressions like he could sear them to his memory, “feel so good on me,”

your hand slipped between your thighs, lining him up and sliding just the tip in at first, just enough to have him bucking his hips and whimpering beneath you, “baby, oh, fuck, please,” he was a mess from the smallest bit, neck flushed, eyes wild as he looked up at you.

“art,” he was dizzy at the sound of his name on your lips as you slid down his cock, taking all of him, so warm and wet around him, “you’re so big, fillin me up so good,”

your hands came to his chest, balancing as you rode him, alternating between messy kisses and burying your face in his neck. “you feel so good,” he moaned, fucking up into you, his hands on your thighs to hold you there, “like you were made for me, baby, oh my god,”

he was a babbling mess, praises and curses pouring from his lips constantly, kissing anywhere he could reach. “so close,” he mumbled, pushing your bralette down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, biting just enough to have you clenching around him, “fuck- are you on birth control?”

“mhm,” you nodded, pulling at his hair gently as he buried his face in your chest again, pulling you impossibly closer as he fucked you closer and closer to the edge.

“oh my god,” he whimpered, “fuck, i’m gonna-“ he moaned your name as he came, hips bucking wildly as he fucked you full of his come, panting and whining beneath you.

you let your head fall to his chest as you both caught your breath, his fingers stroking your hair gently, almost absentmindedly. “we should clean up before anyone comes,” you mumbled, pressing a chaste kiss to his bicep as you rolled up and off on him into trembling legs.

he watched, dazed, as you went to the office bathroom to clean up, returning with your scrubs back on, not a hair out of place. the only indicator that he’d ever been there was the dark bruise he’d sucked into the base of your neck, flushed and purple. he eyed it with a smile, getting dressed lazily, not wanting to look away from you.

“so is this, i mean, like, a regular thing?” he finally managed to spit out, feeling awkward like a teenager all over again, “or do you just want to pretend it didn’t happen, or-?”

“art,” you laughed softly, coming over to press a kiss to his cheek, “i’d love for this to be a regular thing,”

the first time you'd seen art's band live, you'd been half drunk and unable to tear your eyes away from the bright blonde daydream of a guitarist. he was captivating in a way no one around you seemed to notice, pulling you into a trance with each movement of his fingers on the chords. the show was at a shitty dive bar littered with posters peeling from the walls and discarded cups decorating the floor, but he played like he was somewhere else, somewhere bigger. ever since that night, you found yourself seeking them out, snagging fliers from bars and asking around within your friend group. nearly every friday night, you found yourself at the edge of the stage, screaming along to the lyrics like you'd been a longtime fan. and each time, your eyes lingered on art, on his bright eyes and smug grin, like he knew he was the highlight of the evening. your friends kept pushing you to make a move, to make him see you among all the other girls in the crowd. eventually, you worked up enough liquid courage to try.

as their set ended, and you watched him unplug his guitar, the thought of approaching him pushed to the forefront of your mind. "hey!" you surprised even yourself by waving at him, feeling embarrassingly giddy when he turned to eye you curiously. "me?" he asked with one brow raised, resting his guitar against the amp. you just nodded, smiling in a way you hoped was sultry. "what's a pretty thing like you doin' talking to me?" his tone was light, teasing, as he jumped down off the stage, standing just inches from you. "i just wanted to say you guys are cool," you tried to ignore the heat in your stomach at the height difference between the two of you, "i've been coming to the last few shows," "i know," he grinned, "i've been wondering when you'd say something. what's your name, pretty?" you told him, unable to stop the flush from spreading across your face. "i like that," he hummed, "i'm art. art donaldson,"

you got swept up in the conversation, asking him a million questions about the band just to hear him speak, to watch his lips curl around the words. "little loud," he glanced up at the band that had taken the stage, "wanna get out of here?" you hesitated, but nodded anyway, following him as he grabbed two beers from the bar and led you to a side door, pushing it open with one arm as he held your drinks in the other. “you smoke?” he asked, handing you your drink as he fished a pack of cigarettes from his jean pocket. “yeah,” you nodded, watching as he placed one between his lips. he lit it with ease, taking a drag before passing it over to you, the smoke casting a fog over his features. “so how’d you like the show?” he asked, tipping his head back and letting it rest against the wall, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “oh, it was good,” you smiled, “i liked that cover you did, teenage dirtbag is a classic,” “yeah? you like that?” he grinned, watching you through lidded eyes, “hey, why don’t i show you our van? give you a little sneak peek into where the magic happens,” you knew it was bullshit, a plot to get you alone, but you went anyway, giggling as he pulled you along.

he made it through approximately two minutes of showing you around the equipment filling the back of the dingy black van before his lips were on yours, his hands fumbling with the door as he closed it behind you, laying you down on the floor of the vehicle. “god, you looked so pretty out there in the crowd,” he mumbled against your throat, littering it with kisses, “like watchin’ me, baby? hm?” “yeah,” you exhaled, your hands in his air, “yeah, i like it,” “my little groupie,” you could practically hear the smirk in his voice, “you gonna let me fuck you in my bands van, hm?” you responded by pulling him back into a kiss, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer as you pulled at his shirt. it grew more heated, needy sounds leaving the both of you as it got messier, more desperate, gnashing teeth and tongues laving at each others. he pulled away slowly, sitting up on his knees to look down at you, his pupils dilated as he traced the shape of your hips. “pretty thing,” he murmured, his voice thick and raspy. “want you,” you practically whined, reaching for him. he grinned, not even hesitating before pulling at the sheer tights you wore under your jean skirt. you gasped as you heard the material rip, swatting his hand, but relaxed as soon as his fingers slid beneath your underwear. “soaked for me,” he hummed, one hand on your clit and the other fumbling with his belt, undoing it clumsily and pushing down his jeans.

he pulled a condom from somewhere you didn’t even see, putting on with practiced ease before leaning down to kiss you sweet and slow, like he wasn’t about to fuck you in the back parking lot of a dive bar. “oh, art,” you gasped softly as he slipped inside of you, tentative and gentle at first, letting you adjust. “you feel so good, baby,” he mumbled in your ear, one hand resting lightly around your throat, the other busy between your thighs. as soon as you relaxed around him, he sped up, his thrusts getting rougher as you gasped and moaned beneath him. “there you go. fuckin take it,” he panted, his hand around your neck tightening just enough to have you clenching around him, “look so good, pretty,” you let out a mewl as he hit a particularly deep spot, your eyes rolling back. “god, art, right there,” you scratched at his back, nails snagging on the cotton of his beat up old t shirt, “m so close,” “let go f’me, i got you,” he panted, nearing the edge himself, “come on baby, show me,”

you came with a gasp of his name, your nails digging into his back hard enough to have him groaning as he filled the condom, his hips bucking. “oh, fuck,” he groaned, his head falling to your chest as he caught his breath, his hips stilling, “god, if i woulda known you felt that good i woulda called you out at the first show,” you smiled to yourself, humming, “well now we’ll just have to make this a regular thing,” he sat up, pulling out of you slowly and tying off the condom, tossing it, “yeah, maybe. i don’t really do the whole commitment thing, but i definitely wanna see you again,” you ignored the sting of rejection, sitting up and adjusting your skirt that he’d shoved up around your waist, “yeah, we can keep it casual. sounds good,” “you gonna come to my show next week?” he asked, passing you the clip that had fallen from your hair with a grin. “mhm,” you nodded, kissing his cheek, “wouldn’t miss it,” “just like i said, my little groupie,” he grinned, pulling you into a quick kiss, “here, i’ll even give you my number,” he made it sound like a favor, humming to himself as he typed it into your phone before passing it back, “get home safe, pretty girl,” “yeah, mkay,” you let him help you out of the van, straightening out your clothes. he reached around his neck, pulling at one of the necklaces before unfastening it. you furrowed your brows when he brushed the hair from your neck, putting it on you carefully. it was a short black chain, with a guitar pick dangling from it. “there ya go. somethin to remember me by till next week, hm? it’ll keep those other guys from messin with you,” “oh, thank you,” you smiled up at him, your fingers tracing the shape of it, “goodnight, art,” “night, baby,” he pressed a chaste kiss to the side of your head, patting your ass with a grin as he waved you off.

he met you outside, flowers in hand, a nervous smile on his face as you stepped out of the suv, looking around curiously. god, if you were beautiful in scrubs, you were downright lethal in a dress, your long legs on display for him, leaving him speechless. “you didn’t have to do all this,” you smiled up at him, admiring the flowers, admiring the way he looked in his suit, “you’re so sweet,”

“pretty flowers for a pretty girl,” he looped your hand around his arm as he lead you inside, nearly shivering at the feeling of your skin, “reservation for donaldson,” the hostess led you to a secluded table, a bottle of wine and two glasses already out, just as he requested. he pulled your chair out for you, reminding himself of all the ways he’d been taught by his grandma to be a gentlemen, smiling as he sat across from you. “this place is gorgeous,” you smiled, glancing around, “you really did not have to do all of this, art,”

“i wanted to,” he shrugged, “you deserve to be taken out somewhere nice, anyway. it’s the least i could do,” “you’re just sayin that because you like how i massage your shoulders,” you teased, sipping your wine, “oh! speaking of, i found my replacement. he’ll be starting next week,” “i didn’t want a replacement,” he rolled his eyes playfully, “but i suppose i trust your judgement,” “well if i was still your therapist, i couldn’t do this,” you took his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, “and i certainly couldn’t go back to your apartment tonight,”

“who said i wanted you to come home with me?” he taunted, but you both knew he was bluffing, could tell from the way his eyes trailed all over you near constantly. “be a shame if you didn’t,” you grinned, “you look really nice, by the way. i didn’t say that before,” “you look beautiful,” he smiled softly, “really. you look absolutely perfect,”

the entire night was perfect, really. your conversation never slowed, and he found himself, not for the first time, in awe of how easy it was with you. with other women, he’d overcompensated, always feeling like he had to prove something to them, or to himself. with you, though? words flowed out of him like it was the simplest thing in the world, never once concerned that you’d think he was weird or not funny or anything other than just himself.

you stayed so late the restaurant had started closing around you, other tables being cleaned off quietly as you two chattered on, oblivious to anyone but each other until the server very kindly informed you they needed to close up. art laughed, apologizing and leaving a $100 on the table, making you even more confident in your opinion that he was the kindest man you’d ever known.

he walked you to his car, opening the door for you and watching idly as you slid into the leather seats, his hand coming to your thigh the second he got in beside you. “do you want me to take you home?” he asked, tracing shapes on your knee absentmindedly. “we could go to yours,” you suggested, goosebumps over your skin, “if you wanted, i mean. i’ve never seen your house,” “you’re not missing much,” he laughed softly, “but i’d love for you to come over,”

the drive was quiet, music playing in the background as you hummed along just loud enough for him to hear, a small smile on his lips the entire way. he led you to his house, giving you a half-effort tour, watching as you looked around, taking in his space. “you’re like, really rich,” you finally said, laughing, “i guess i didn’t realize, but your house is insane,” “i’m not that rich,” he blushed, “i mean, i do well for myself, but it’s not insane,” “art, how much did you even pay for this?” you grinned, smoothing out his blazer, your hands pressed to his chest. “800,” he rolled his eyes, leaning down to press a kiss to the back of your hand, trailing his lips down to your wrist. “600 thousand?” you repeated incredulously, “that’s insane, art,” “mm, maybe,” he didn’t care anymore, abandoning the conversation as he kissed up your forearm, up the crook of your elbow to your shoulder, “does it matter?”

“well, no, it doesn’t matter,” your voice had gone all light and breathless, “i was just wondering,” “do you like it?” he hummed, pulling you flush against him by your waist. “of course,” you nodded, cheeks warm as you looked up at him, took in the way his eyes were half lidded. “then i guess it does matter,” he smiled slightly, brushing your hair from your neck, ghosting his lips over your pulse, “i like it much more now,”

“oh,” a soft, surprised sound left you as he nipped lightly at your neck, “should we- do you wanna go upstairs?” “thought you’d never ask,” he grinned, not hesitating as he looped his arms under your legs, picking you up to carry you through the house. “art!” you squealed, slapping his chest lightly, “put me down!” “and why would i go and do something like that?” he teased, pulling you up closer so he could kiss your forehead before starting up the stairs, ignoring your protests. he dropped you gently on the bed with a huff, smiling down at you as you pouted, taking your jaw in his hand lightly, “pretty girl,” he hummed appreciatively, “don’t pout,”

“maybe i don’t appreciate being thrown around,” you huffed, the smile in your eyes giving you away. “somehow i don’t think i believe that,” he teased, repositioning to you to join you on the bed, eyes and hands everywhere, “i think you’d like it quite a bit if i threw you around,” he grinned as you shivered slightly, leaning into his touch, “don’t be a tease, art,” “who said i’m teasing you? i’m just talkin to you,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder, “am i wrong, baby?” “mm, maybe,” you giggled lightly as his breath fanned over a spot on your neck, “you’ll have to find out,”

“now who’s being a tease?” he grinned, a satisfied hum leaving him as you took his arm in your hand, massaging it gently. “can tell i haven’t seen you in a week,” you tsk’d, “you’re so tense. you’ve been working it all week, haven’t you?” “been running drills, yeah,” he nodded, wincing slightly as you worked out a knot in his bicep, “just practicing,” “what did i tell you about pushing yourself?” you scolded softly, “you need a warm shower to loosen all this up,” “did you forget you’re my date and not my physio?” he teased, “but yes ma’am, i promise to take a nice warm shower tomorrow,” “you should do it now,” you mumbled, brows knit in concentration as you massaged up his shoulder, over the old surgery scars, “i can wait here,”

“you can’t possibly expect me to pause our date to shower,” he rolled his eyes, sighing softly as you hit a particularly tender spot, “i can wait,” “i’ll come with you,” you didn’t think twice before you said, the words sparking the space between the two of you. a boyish smile crossed his lips, “yeah? gonna shower with me, doctor?” “art, don’t be gross,” you whined, scrunching up your nose, “i’m not showering with you as your doctor,” “yeah? you showering with me as my pretty little date?” he hummed, still grinning as he kissed your jaw, “come on then,”

his bathroom was just as impressive as the rest of the house, all marble and soft lighting, a small sauna situated in the corner. he started the water, unbuttoning his dress shirt and hanging it over the door, smiling to himself as he watched you slip off your heels, setting them by the vanity. “you’re so beautiful,” he said almost to himself, taking off his slacks and undershirt, now just in his boxers. “can’t get this off,” you huffed, looking at him over your shoulder as you fought with the zipper along the back of your dress, “can you?”

he was all too eager, coming to your side in an instant, one hand settled on your low back as he unzipped the material, looking over every inch of your back as he let the fabric fall to the floor. you stood in front of him in just your underwear, a bra apparently not suitable for that dress, and shivered as he traced his fingertips over your spine, humming quietly. “go on, i’ll be there in a minute,” you said softly, missing his touch the minute he left. “don’t take too long,” he said playfully, stepping out of his boxers before stepping into the water, closing the shower door behind him. you joined him soon after as promised, pupils dilated as you took in the image of him under the falling water, “hi,”

“hi,” he let out a breathless laugh, pulling you under the water with him by your waist, “you get more beautiful with each second, i think,” “i don’t know about that,” you laughed softly, shaking your head, “here, let me-“ you took the shower head from its mount, letting the water run directly over his shoulders and upper back, smiling to yourself at his sigh. “gotta start taking better care of yourself,” you murmured, one hand guiding the shower head and the other massaging his back, “y’hear me? gonna end up havin to get another surgery if you keep on,” “i know what i’m doing,” he argued tiredly, back arching into your touch, “i’m not that old,” “didn’t say you were old,” you grinned, “just worry about you. i know how hard you push yourself,” “you keep touching me like that i’m liable to do anything you say,” he hummed, his head tossed back, “god, baby, you’re so good at that,”

you clicked the shower head back in it’s mount, your free hand going over the taut muscles of his mid back, the other reaching around to rest on his abs, “just like taking care of you,” you said softly, resting your chin on his shoulder as much as you could reach, “can feel those muscles relaxing,” he took the hand rested on his abs, gently guiding it lower, biting his lip as you exhaled a surprised, quick breath as your hand wrapped around his cock. “d’you always get so hard when i work on you?” your voice was low, teasing but sultry. he pulled you around, pressing you against the shower wall easily, “are you teasing again?” he pressed a warm kiss to your jawline, “be nice, baby,” “

“i’m always nice,” you protested, eyes falling closed as he trailed his kisses lower. “mhm,” he hummed into your skin, open mouthed and greedy as he worked his way lower. “i’ll show you,” you lowered to your knees before him, grinning up at him at his surprised expression, “i’ll be so nice, art, promise,” he sucked in a breath as you took him into your mouth, glossy lips parting just for him, all warm and wet and his. he kept a light grip on your hair as you took him deeper, humming around him as he brushed the back of your throat, your eyes watering slightly. “oh, fuck,” his eyes rolled back, thighs tensing, “you’re so good f’me, baby,”

a low, satisfied hum left your throat again, vibrating around him enough to have him gripping your hair harder, his hips bucking forward. your tongue swirled around his tip as you pulled back to catch your breath. your hand pumping the rest of him, watching his reactions intently. “need to fuck you,” he managed to get out between pants and broken moans, “god, you’re doing so good,”

he pulled you up gently, desperate to be inside you, pressing you against the wall until your cheek was flush against it, looking at him over your shoulder as he kissed you hungrily. he placed one hand on your low back to keep you steady as he slid inside you, a sharp hiss of breath leaving him, his brows furrowed, “oh, god,” he leaned over you, warm against your back as he thrusted slowly, snaking his arm around your waist to hold you up, “that feel good, baby?” he buried his head in your shoulder, kissing the taut skin absentmindedly. “so good,” you moaned, clenched tight around him, thighs shaking. he dragged his hand lower, pressing his index finger to your clit as he fucked you faster, “such a good girl,”

you were clawing at nothing, nails scratching over the shower wall as you struggled to stay up, his pace relentless. “i got you, baby,” he hummed, feeling your knees nearly give out, beneath him. he pulled out briefly, nearly grinning at the whine of protest you gave him, before pressing your back against the wall, looping his arms underneath your thighs. “what’re you-“ he picked you up fully, sliding you down on his cock, your legs wrapped around his torso, “oh, art, fuck,” he pounded into you, gripping your thighs tight enough to bruise, catching your lips in a needy kiss. he was obsessed with this new angle, the way he could kiss you and look down to see himself inside you, almost overwhelmed by it. your back arched off the wall, pressing your chest against his, your nails leaving searing scratches down his back, “oh,” he panted between kisses, “you’re grippin’ me so tight, baby, you gonna cum f’me? gonna cum on my cock?” “yes yes yes-“ you were a babbling mess, your legs tightening around him, pulling him impossibly deeper, “art- daddy, fuck!”

it probably wasn’t a great idea to have you practice at his home court, admittedly. it was so close, too easy to just have you inside for lunch breaks, to have you sitting on his couch, so pretty in his space.

it started out innocent, as most things do. he’d have you inside for lunch, or if you needed a quick shower after practice, or if it was just too hot to stand outside any longer. anyone else, he’d tell them to muscle through, that heat was part of the game. but you always asked so nicely, a sweet little pout on your lips, “coach, i just need a few minutes, please?”

you had been out for hours, running drills, preparing for your upcoming tournament out of state. he knew you were tired, could tell from the way your form got sloppy, your serves not going quite as far. little huffs left your lips with each swing of the racket, your frustration and exhaustion growing.

one missed ball, and you were throwing down your racket, cursing under your breath as you smacked it against the court. “hey, hey,” he said, at your side in an instant, “just relax, take a minute,” he coaxed the racket from your hand, setting it to the side carefully, watching as you sat down with a huff, your cheeks red. “i’m tired,” you mumbled, rubbing your shoulder, “and i’m sore,”

his brows knit in concern - he couldn’t have his special girl sore - and his hands found your shoulder like a second nature, working at the tight muscle with his calloused fingers. “oh,” your eyes fluttered closed, your head tipping back as he worked out a knot, his eyes trained on the blissful expression on your face.

“is that good?” he asked softly, moving over to your other shoulder, watching you intently. you just nodded, your bottom lip pulled between your lip, your chest rising and falling slowly. all the blood rushed between his thighs at the sight, his own face red as he watched your every reaction, gauging how far he could push this. “anywhere else?” he asked, feigning the innocent, doting coach act, “don’t want you to be hurt,” “my quads,”

his heart dropped at that, eyes falling to the sweat sheened skin of your thighs, his hands itching to touch them, to work out any tension, to make you feel so good. he hesitated before letting his hands drop, working up past your knee slowly, watching you cautiously for any reaction. you weren’t looking at him, eyes still closed, but your lips had fallen open, soft pants leaving them as he worked up your legs.

“coach,” it was innocent, he told himself, though he could’ve come right there from the sound of it, half moan, half plea. “i’ve got you,” he murmured, trailing his fingers higher, just below the line of your tennis skirt, “just relax for me, okay?” you nodded, shifting slightly, your thighs parted just enough to make his mouth water. you were so close, he could just reach out and touch, just take you right here and now.

but he was good, he was a professional, he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize your upcoming season. but maybe you’d want it, after all. he was so desperate, watching as you panted beneath him, eyebrows drawn together in pain or pleasure, he couldn’t tell which. he wasn’t sure he cared anymore.

“that feels so good, art,” you said under your breath, and he lost it, grabbing at your thigh entirely too rough for it to be innocent. “sweetheart, you have to stop talkin like that, or i’m gonna lose it,” he nearly groaned, squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn’t climb over you and kiss you until you cried for him, so he wouldn’t do something irreparable.

you’d gone still, and when he opened his eyes, you were looking looking up at him with wide, confused eyes, “what did you say?” “nothing, i’m sorry- i didn’t mean anything by it-“ but you were already pulling away, standing and adjusting your clothes, your cheeks a dark red, “i should head home, it’s late. i’ll see you tomorrow, coach,” “wait, i-“ “goodnight!” you called over your shoulder, already halfway gone, leaving him pent up and desperate on the court.