#this was for valentine's day but i finished it so here | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

artdcnaldson · 5 hours

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okay but PLEASE elaborate on Olympics!Art AU

TeeHee

Rating: E (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v), feral obsessive behavior, infidelity

A/N: And you would do it too, that’s all I’m saying. Also IMPORTANT note: I love Tashi, she is a mother to many. However this fic has a very obsessive reader who just wants to fuck a married man, at Tashi’s expense

Maybe you were a bad person.

You’d met Art and Tashi Donaldson before— a year back at an event held for Tennis’ rising stars. That was you, some other guys who had done well in the Juniors, a girl from an Ivy League, and more people that fell into the blind spots of your interest..

You must’ve looked so sweet in your formalwear, approaching the couple with shaking hands so you could say just how big of a fan you were. You had no ill intent then, not when you were face to face with two people you’d idolized since you were twelve and watching the Junior US Open. That night you’d taken a deep breath as you stared at the ceiling of your home, feeling like you’d made it.

Sure, Art was handsome, and you’d lived the past decade harboring a massive celebrity crush on him, but he was married, he was untouchable. Art Donaldson oozed that sweet, devoted husband shtick. Anniversary posts, birthday posts, Valentine’s Day posts, Mother’s Day posts. He had a daughter, he posted about how much he loved being a dad.

You were fine accepting that your fantasies of fucking Art Donaldson were strictly fantasies. But that was before you qualified and had to see him every fucking day.

Art Donaldson, who held open doors for you, who talked to you casually, like he might an old friend. Art, who stood in the long line in the food court with you, ate something he probably shouldn’t have, and asked that you don’t tell Tashi.

And you’d smile conspiratorially, and assure him his secret was safe with you. The implication being that you’d keep that secret, and more. As many as he’d ask you to, really.

You’d see him on a practice court, running drills with his wife, and feel the heat of jealousy in the pit of your stomach. You’d turn away, focus on your own game, practice until your hands were aching and sore.

“Where’s Mrs. Donaldson?” You asked one night after you’d been sexiled and had to sit out in the hallway waiting for your roommate to finish up. Art leaned against the wall, standing tall above you, so you had to crane your neck. You liked that point of view, on your knees looking up at him, you wondered if he liked it too.

“Oh, she’s staying in a very nice, very expensive hotel room with our daughter right now,” he said with a grin. “As soon as my events are done, that’s where I’ll be too.”

“Oh,” you said, bringing an easy smile to your lips. “Well, we’re all glad you’re here now.”

“We?” He questioned.

You gave a coy smile, batting your lashes so sweetly. “Maybe just me.”

There was a strange expression on his face for just a moment. Then he laughed like it was nothing. He wished you a goodnight and good luck in your matches the next morning, and disappeared into his own room.

You medaled in women’s doubles. They published photos of you and your partner biting the silver between your teeth. That same day, Art Donaldson took home gold. You were there to see the very end of his last match— every single collision of racket against ball, every step, every grunt of exertion. Your thighs clenched as you watched, fists balled up in the fabric of your skirt.

You wanted him in a needy, desperate sort of way. Like a groupie for a rock band, or a virgin being sacrificed on a mountaintop. You watched him celebrate with a kiss from Tashi and felt that same need like an open wound. Jealousy was festering in you like a rot.

The dive bar wasn’t what you’d expected. Something Art had found with a quick google search and a few minutes with a translation app. He’d knocked on your door to invite you, wearing the beaming smile of someone on top of the world.

“So you’ll come?” He asked after he told you all about it.

“Mhmm,” you said, heart hammering against your ribs. “I’ll come.”

And there you were— in a dress that hardly qualified as such— standing so close to him that you could smell his expensive cologne. His arm would brush yours, he’d glance over and apologize with a warm hand to your arm. You’d clench your thighs together and peer at him through your lashes. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.

A few of the other players disappeared to play darts, or watch the late night coverage of the other sports still competing. You stuck by Art’s side, happily allowing his attention to fall on you completely.

“I saw parts of your doubles final,” he said finally. He was drinking a brand of beer you’d never seen before— something local, you supposed. “You looked beautiful out there.” Your eyes lit up, and then he added. “The way you were playing, I mean— it was phenomenal.”

“Well, I’m no gold medalist,” you said. You let your hand rest on his arm, and looked up at him. The fingers on your other hand toyed with the edge of the medal, warm from where it had been flush against his chest.

He swallowed. You felt his muscles flex beneath your touch, but he didn’t discourage it. Not one fucking bit.

It wasn’t lost on you that Tashi wasn’t there. Not that it was really her type of venue, from what you had gathered. It wasn’t lost on you that Art Donaldson was at a dive bar, drinking random Brazilian beers, instead of celebrating with his wife, with his daughter. Fuck all those posts on his instagram— if he really was a good husband, a faithful one… that’s the only place he’d want to be.

“I saw your match too. I ran right over after my ceremony to watch,” you confessed. It was hard to concentrate on anything else— you were standing so close to him that you were nearly pressed completely into his body.

His lips twitched in interest. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Mhmm. It was incredible. You were so dominant out there, just taking what was rightfully yours.”

He swallowed again, gravitating closer. Your tits were practically spilling out of your dress— he probably got the perfect eyeful when he eased you closer with a firm hand on your lower back, when he looked down at you through blown pupils.

“You looked so fucking hot out there, Art,” you said, lips brushing against his jawline. “You can’t even imagine how it felt sitting there, watching you win. How turned on I got… how wet.”

Art exhaled a shuddery breath. “Jesus Christ.”

It must’ve been a while since he had someone want him this bad, you thought. Clearly he needed it— needed a pretty, sweet thing to tell him just how much they wanted him. You could be that. You could do that.

“I’m not wearing panties,” you whispered in his ear. His grip on you tightened and you had to suppress a giddy smile. “You can feel if you want. I won’t tell.”

He swore under his breath and glanced around. Everyone was too occupied or drunk to give a shit about what the two of you were up to.

He grabbed your hand, pulled you away into the bathroom. You looked pretty even then, in the flickering lights, sat up on the edge of the sink eagerly awaiting his attention.

When he wrenched your thighs apart, he was greeted by the pretty sight of your glistening cunt— sticky with arousal and need. His hand fit there perfectly, right where you needed it.

“Fuck,” you gasped. His fingers rubbed through your slit— wet and hot and aching for him. Your head fell back, knocking against the dirty mirror. “Want you to use me— whatever you want, just take it.”

And you meant it too. This was your teenage idol— a man you’d touched yourself to the thought of countless times. He owned your body, your sexuality, as much as you did. It was only fair he took from it whatever he pleased.

You watched with hungry eyes as he fumbled with the button of his pants, then shoved them down just enough to free his dick.

Your mouth fucking watered with the need to feel it on your tongue, nudging against the back of your throat. You weren’t opposed to begging— you nearly started before you got it into your hand.

Warm, thick, pulsing. Precum beaded at his tip, so you smeared it around the sensitive head of his cock with your thumb. He groaned, bucked into your fist once, twice before he moved your hand.

“Spread your legs wider for me,” he said, slapping the inside of your thighs. You obeyed wordlessly, spreading yourself out invitingly. He pressed closer, so you felt him rutting his dick against your pussy, coating it in your arousal. “God, you’re so fucking wet.”

The words came out with equal parts disgust and awe. He probably thought you were a slut with the way you were throwing yourself at him. You wished he’d just call you that, spit it in your face.

Your cunt pulsed with need, aching to be filled up finally. The culmination of years of fantasizing. Art pressed himself against your entrance, sinking himself into you with the slow reverence of a man who liked making love.

He buried himself inside of you and had to stop moving to keep from cumming then and there. He was a perfect image of restraint— the way his fingers dimpled the flesh of your hips in a bruising grip.

Art wanted to be a gentleman— to give you time to adjust to the size of him, to ease you into it and let the pleasure be a slow, soft burn. He pulled out nice and easy, slid himself into your wet, throbbing cunt. That was all fine and good, but you knew it was just pretense. You were laid out and wanting, begging for him to use you as his own personal toy.

“I’m not your wife, Art.” You met his gaze, locked your ankles around his waist. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

The first thrust, the first real one, knocked the air from your lungs. That silence didn’t last long— because you got what you wanted— he was really fucking you, bullying his cock into your pussy with the same need and desperation that you felt.

“Jesus Christ, you’ve— fuck— you’ve got no fucking self respect, huh?” He pounded into you, leveraging his grip to pull you against him, really impale you on his dick.

The moan that escaped you was pornographic. If he kept talking to you like that, if he kept fucking you like that, you’d cum.

“You don’t even care, do you? This fucking pussy’s squeezing me so tight— you fucking love this,” His voice was strained, interrupted by groans and pants.

You moaned, eyes rolling back. “Love this,” you echoed. When you looked down, at the sight of him splitting you open, of the ring of creamy arousal circling the base of his dick, you felt dizzy. Like you were standing on top of a tall building and looking down. Sort of out of body, tethered in the present by brutal thrusts into your pussy and the wet, slapping sounds of your bodies joining.

Your fingers moved between your thighs, rubbing needy and insistent at your clit. So close to finishing that you wanted to cry and just ask to start over again, that you’d savor it more a second time.

“Gonna cum,” he groaned suddenly. You felt him start to pull out, to leave. It wasn’t fucking fair.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck— not yet, you didn’t want it to end like that. “I have an IUD,” you lied through your teeth. You used your legs, pulled him closer, deeper. “Just keep going, don’t stop. I’m right there.”

He moaned against your throat— holding you tight, fucking into you with animal need. Your fingers moved against your clit with an insistent need. It didn’t take much to push you over the edge. Your moans so loud that Art had to put his medal between your lips to shut you up.

And you were so pliant— letting him drill into your aching, used cunt, your mouth tasting like metal. You felt his rhythm falter— one, two harsh thrusts that knocked muffled moans from you until he came, painting your insides thick, creamy white.

He stayed buried inside of you for a while— panting, doing his best to catch his breath. You spat out the medal and it fell back against his chest, spit slick and shining. You reached up, ran your fingers along his face, reverently, sweetly. A lock of hair fell into his eyes and you tucked it away with delicate fingers.

When he pulled out, you felt that sinking feeling of loss and jealousy in your chest. He redressed in silence, turned away like he couldn’t stand to look at you, or the mirror. Shame rolled off of him in waves that you wanted to brush away.

It wasn’t bad, you’d assure him. You’re a tennis star, you’re the greatest in the world. You should have whatever you want, whenever you want it.

But you didn’t say that. You just tidied yourself up as best as you could and slipped back out into the bar. If anyone noticed, they said nothing.

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #challengers fanfic #challengers x reader #art donaldson fanfic #art donaldson smut

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laundrybiscuits · 1 year

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(purify our misfit ways tag | AO3)

Sure enough, around midnight, Steve Harrington tumbles through Eddie’s open window.

“Shit,” he says, stumbling to his feet. “Why doesn’t that thing open any wider, christ. Think I ripped my sleeve.”

Eddie’s just glad he had the forethought to move his acoustic out of the way earlier in the evening.

“Hey,” he says, setting down his book. “Keep it down, will you? Wayne’s usually a pretty heavy sleeper, but these ain’t his normal hours and he needs his rest.”

“Yeah, sure,” says Steve. “It’s nice. That you care about him like that.”

Eddie shrugs, uncomfortable. What’s he supposed to say? He’s mostly a shit excuse for a ward, so he tries to make up the difference where he can.

In the lull, Steve seems to realize that he’s standing awkwardly in the middle of Eddie’s bedroom and that this is maybe the second time they’ve ever been alone together. It’s extremely obvious that he has not thought this through past the window thing.

Eddie takes the opportunity to look Steve over, keeping his face carefully neutral. Steve’s hair’s kind of a wreck and yep, his sleeve is ripped; there are shadows under his eyes that look even more pronounced in the lamplight than they did earlier in the day.

Yeah, Steve probably needs this just as much as Robin.

“This is kinda weird, huh,” says Steve, pushing his hair back from his face. “I’m—just gonna go.”

“You can go if you want.” Eddie picks up his book again. Careful, careful. He adds, nonchalant as he can: “Or you can stick around and hang out for a while. If you want.”

“Is that—” Steve starts. “Do you—”

Eddie risks glancing up. Steve’s got a complicated expression on that Eddie can’t quite read, but he’s not making any move to leave. He’s favoring his right side, where he got two bruised ribs that should’ve healed by now, and Eddie would bet good money that he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Eddie sighs.

“Look, man, you could clearly use the sleep. It’s fine, I do this with Robin all the time. Just sit down for a minute and I’ll read to you or something.”

“Oh,” says Steve. “Okay.” He sounds lost, like nobody’s ever offered to read him a bedtime story before; as he stumbles out of his shoes, Eddie flips back to the beginning of the book.

“On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays it was Court Hand and Summulae Logicales, while the rest of the week it was the Organon, Repetition and Astrology,” he starts, making his voice as clear and smooth as possible. “The governess was always getting muddled with her astrolabe, and when she got specially muddled she would take it out of the Wart by rapping his knuckles. She did not rap Kay’s knuckles…”

It doesn’t take long for Steve to pass out. He starts out sitting awkwardly upright on the edge of the bed, but by the time the Wart meets a mysterious knight in the woods, Steve is curled around a pillow, breathing slow and even.

Eddie sets the book on his nightstand and flicks off the bedside lamp. He’s not sure whether it’s too much to get Steve settled under the blanket, but the insulation in the trailer is total shit; even on a July night, Steve might get cold.

Nothing like what you’re used to, huh? he thinks wryly. But Steve chose to leave his two-story house with fancy bedsheets in order to squeeze through the window of Eddie’s trailer and sleep in his bed, so the least Eddie can do is try to be hospitable.

Steve doesn’t even stir when Eddie cautiously tugs the edge of the blanket out from under him, so Eddie takes a self-indulgent moment to arrange the blanket carefully around Steve’s shoulders and smooth back his hair.

It’s so stupid to let himself have this, but he’s never had a knack for the smart choice. All his report cards say lacks discipline and struggles to control impulsive behavior, and they’re not wrong. He’s gotten a little better about it over the years, but sometimes it’s like his body’s reaching out for something before his brain can catch up to tap the brakes. It’s gotten him in trouble his whole damn life.

There’s something really wrong with you, Munson, he thinks at himself. There’s been something wrong with him for a long time, maybe forever. He’s learned to live around it, to lean hard into his fuckups, because it feels like the only way to keep stumbling through is to build up a kind of momentum. He’s okay, he can keep being okay, just as long as he doesn’t have to exist in the present; just as long as he can let his past propel him into the future.

People keep telling him he’s young, he’s got his life ahead of him. Wayne says it a lot. Teachers say it, usually in the context of telling him not to screw up. He knows, on some level, that it’s probably true—unless he goes out early in a fiery implosion, which is definitely a possibility—but it doesn’t feel that way.

Eddie doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up, his bed’s empty. He’s not too surprised about that, though it makes him ache a little bit in a childish way.

He rolls out of bed and stretches. He can smell coffee, which is making his stomach sit up and beg, so he wanders out to the kitchen.

“Hey,” says Steve. He’s wearing an Iron Maiden shirt that Eddie’s pretty sure was on the bedroom floor. “Wayne already left, so I—do you want some coffee?”

Eddie’s not remotely awake enough to handle this. He just stands there, gaping dumbly, as Steve pushes a mug into his hands.

“Hey, so I was thinking,” Steve says. “We should—hang out. If you want.”

“Okay,” says Eddie slowly. “Sure. I don’t have any plans today. Let me call Robin, see what she’s—”

“No—I meant, just the two of us. Like, uh.” Steve pauses, running a hand through his hair. He steps a little closer. “Like a date.”

#fic: purify our misfit ways #still needs an overhaul for thematic consistency but I can't look at it anymore so here we go #this is probably the end of the chapter so it'll be up on AO3 whenever I finish editing #the next and probably final chapter will be Steve's POV finally #just trying my best to write him as a total disaster!!#anyway happy valentines day to those who celebrate (not me lol)#(I am enjoying the deluge of cute fan content today tho)

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