dilf! art donaldson x physiotherapist! reader for anon xx
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,”
“oh, thank god,” he let out a relieved laugh, “maybe we could get dinner, or something like that?” “a little backwards, but yeah. i’d like that,” you smiled up at him, “we might have to find you a different therapist, though,”
