#🎾 art donaldson <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ scent of summer — a. donaldson.

synopsis — tennis, college, and everything in between. a celebratory party that leads to the same quiet night, just this time with unspoken words that finally leave their prisons.

genres — friends to lovers, tension, mutual pining, late-night conversations, teasing, friendly banter, admiring, friend of a friend, domestic fluff, tooth rotting fluff.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — mentions of being drunk, if that counts.

word count — 2.4k.

author's note — i love writing oneshots, they are so fun, i swear. and i also love art very much, if it isn't obvious yet. i saw this challengers series here, and i really want to write one now, but i simply don't have enough time, i've realised. i had to put another one on hold, and over that, it requires planning. i might just die. anyways, happy reading!

masterlist.

The crowd cheers, and Marion’s ears won’t stop ringing, no matter how hard she tries to make it stop. She’s also trying to act like this isn’t totally hurting her (it is, but Art can’t know that). Art’s mop of blond hair is glistening, shining even, under the sunlight. It beams down on him, the warmth spreading under his palms. Every time he gets a bit too close to where she’s sitting she’s almost sure she can count the sweat droplets rolling down his forehead, the skin wrinkling in focus and his lips forming a pout. Every time he spares her a glance, she feels the smile bloom all over, and instead nods at the court. 

Don’t get distracted, she thinks. Tashi sighs beside her.

Tashi, her superstar-model of a best friend turns towards her, giving her a tired look. “I don’t know if you being here gives him a confidence boost or if it distracts him more—”

“I’m hoping it’s the first.” Marion’s eyes are glued onto Art’s fluid movements. He hasn’t glanced at her once since the last time their eyes met, and she’s glad. Because he looks like he has the upperhand right now. And she hates how mushy his grunts of focus make her feel. They make her feel all fuzzy and her brain turn into pathetic mush. She huffs, turning away from the teasing eyes that Tashi has focused on her. She stares at the way Art practically bounces from one place to another, his eyes darting back and forth. 

Marion’s leaning forward, breath caught in her throat as Art goes for the winning strike, his groan full of so much relief Marion has to grip onto Tashi’s hand. Her best friend grins, laughing and throwing her hands up. Marion topples back onto her seat, laughing out in relief alongside Tashi, eyes stuck to Art’s approaching figure as he jogs up to them. 

“Must’ve helped him loads, with you in his sweatshirt,” Tashi whispers into her ear when she notices the general direction Art is walking in. She slips her hand out, sitting up straight.

All while Marion feels the warmth pool in her face. She huffs, looking away.

“Hey—” Art has to stop and take a deep breath, his voice is shaking slightly. 

He’s not been that unfit, surely.

“Not hitting the gym recently?” Marion says, standing up so she can ruffle his hair. He grins at her like he’s not seen her in ages. She shakes her head when he tries to wrap his arms around her. She is not hugging him while he’s got sweat all over him that makes him look like he could be the ultimate beacon of light, with all the reflection and the gleam of his pale skin.

“I want a hug,” he says, his racket hanging at his side.

Marion looks behind him, his sulking opponent storming away, she fights back her grin, focusing her gaze on his, smiling softly. “Not until you get a shower. You better scrub off that stench, Mr. Donaldson.”

He grumbles in indignation and hands her his racket, telling her he’ll be back soon. She knows exactly what to do. She waves off Tashi who’s already talking to Patrick, animated as she narrates the game that Zweig has also just watched anyway.

Marion weaves her way through the retreating crowd, she walks into the quiet of the campus walls, walking up to the room where Art camps out before games. She drops his heavy bag onto the floor, and stuffs the racket into it. She frowns at the crumpled tissue paper she forgot to throw away, dropping it into the dustbin stowed away in a corner, hidden from the public eye. She closes her eyes and lets her behind hit the chair stationed next to a metal closet. Her eyes flutter close and she relaxes into the cold of the room. 

And then footsteps echo outside, quick as they came, the door is thrown open and Marion opens her eyes to meet Art’s gleeful face. 

“Hey,” she whispers, smiling up at him.

“You good?” He stops in front of her sitting figure, looking down at her. She nods, standing up. “How was the game?”

“Shouldn’t I ask you that?” she mumbles into his shoulder, momentarily forgetting that he’s yet to take a shower. “You better let go of me, Art.”

“Why?” he mumbles, almost whiny while he tightens his grip around her waist. “I want to celebrate with my favourite girl.”  

“Later?” she cards her fingers through his messy locks of blond hair, unintentionally melting in his arms. He pulls her closer, supports her full weight against him, somehow not wanting to collapse onto the floor. 

Marion doesn’t get him sometimes, but she doesn’t question it. She hears him mutter something, and let go. She smiles. 

“By the way,” he starts, rummaging through his bag, “Tashi, Patrick and I will be having a little party at our dorm later tonight, you should—” 

He’s interrupted by her phone pinging incessantly. She glances at him apologetically, and pulls it out. Lo and behold, it’s Tashi. Talk about the devil. She skims the message, it’s something about what Art was just mentioning. Marion laughs.

“Tashi mentioned it,” she says.

Art raises an eyebrow at her. “Well, I was doing it before her.” 

Marion grins, shaking her head as she steps up to him, planting a gentle kiss on his jawline before she takes the run, sprinting out of his room, and towards her dorm. She makes a mental note to reply to Tashi later. She expects her best friend to probably be with Patrick, either dissecting the game, or eating his face. And either way, she doesn’t want to deal with them, not just yet. 

Whenever they have these little parties, they’re timid, alright, but it never fails to end up with Art and Marion alone, the former listening and Marion speaking to her heart’s content, spurred on by Art’s nice gaze, and his interest, and the late hours of the night that ask her to open the windows into her mind.

To him. 

But the next day, neither of them talk about the way they’d end up curled in each other’s embrace, smiling like they’re on cloud nine, holding each other’s faces, pressed together.

When Marion reaches her dorm, she’s not surprised when she’s greeted by silence. She unlocks the door and steps in, a steady flow of sunlight flooding in from the window that she’d left open earlier in the morning. The air is humid, Marion now feels sweaty. She blows air into her t-shirt, shivering as she stares at her reflection on the mirror on her closet. Tashi’s tennis attire is thrown across their beds. Marion grins, picking it up and tenderly placing it on a corner. 

Now, she has to get ready. She wishes Tashi was there, to help her. 

She isn’t the best with things like this, and she would appreciate the emotional support.

Well, it never appears. 

The night air clings onto her skin as she wades her way through campus, feet carrying her down the same path that leads her back to his place. And Patrick’s place. Tashi had called her earlier, letting her know that she’s already with Patrick, that she didn’t realise the time passing when she was with her boyfriend. Marion laughed it off.

And now she treads through silence, the stillness of the quiet night making her stiff, but she continues anyway. 

She’s ever grateful to safely reach her destination. Her wrist reaches upwards to place three measured knocks on the door, she waits, bouncing from heel to heel. And then the door cracks open, locks of blond greet her before a face does, then Art appears in his entirety.

A smile breaks onto his face the second his eyes set on her. Oceans crash against the shore, a forest dances in the distance. She smiles back at him. 

“I hope I’m not late,” she says, scratching the back of her neck.

He shakes his head, “not at all, don’t worry.” He holds his hand out for her. She accepts it graciously, letting him tug into the threshold of his dorm room. Laughter caresses her senses, her eyes immediately straying towards the direction of the sound. Tashi and Patrick are on the floor, grinning as Marion approaches them.

She notices Tashi taking a swig out of a beer can. And then her eyes inch upwards, and when she notices her best friend, she starts grinning. Marion sits down beside her. Tashi places her hands in Marion’s lap. The Brit holds them gently, playing with her fingers.

“Mari’!” she says, smiling, brown eyes staring into hers. 

She blinks at her, “Hey, Tashi—” Marion starts, but is rudely interrupted by Patrick. Who is somehow slurring his words already.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He wiggles his eyebrows at her.

Marion shakes her head, face-palming. And suddenly the pressure of two palms are on her shoulder. She turns her head around and she’s nose to nose with Art Donaldson, kneeling behind her. He smiles. Marion sighs, tapping his nose, making him move back.

“Mari’...” he elongates the last vowel, pouting.

“You’re not drunk, are you?” she asks, glancing at the other two, who look considerably wasted, for the measure. 

“Not quite.” Art nuzzles his nose into her shoulder, breathing deeply. She turns around to him fully and wraps her arms around him. 

She laughs softly, “I can’t be the only one who isn’t drunk,” she whispers, eyeing the other two with mock disdain. Patrick grins, giving her and Art a look that plainly goes ‘just kiss already’, Marion looks away, trying to ignore the way her cheeks flare up. 

Tashi on the other hand, is staring at Patrick, and then glancing at Marion. And she shrugs. 

One thing leads to another, a cigarette break for Patrick has him going with Tashi to who knows where. But they’re not back, and it’s been a while.

“Don’t think they’ll be back any time soon,” Art mutters, face pressed into the crook of Marion’s neck. The latter nods in agreement, running her hands on his bare skin under his thin cotton shirt. His hands are on her waist, also under the warmth encapsulated by his sweatshirt that’s hanging loose on her skin. His hands are warm to the touch, and she shivers, but doesn’t ask him to let go. 

At some point through the night, the window was thrown open, and it’s been like that since. Warm air wafts through the open window, the scent of summer lingering in the room, clinging to their skin. Marion’s chin rests on Art’s head, he’s tracing random shapes onto the skin of her sides, her eyes flutter close.

She feels shuffling, and suddenly warm air—No, a warm breath is fanning right against her face. She opens her eyes a sliver, to meet Art’s eyes, his lips inches away from hers. His hands have her caged against the headboard of the bed. She stares up at him. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks him, voice barely above a whisper.

“Nothin’, you jus’ look pretty,” he mumbles, pressing his forehead to hers. She has to reach up, wrap her arms around his neck. She wants to turn her face away before she’s sure she’ll bloom into a scarlet mess, but Art’s fingers find their way onto her right cheek. She instinctively leans into the touch, how she does often, more often than she should.

“I don’t,” she breathes into his fingers, turning her head slightly so she can place kisses on his fingertips.

“You always do,” Art counters, turning her face back so he can look at the entirety of it. He breathes softly, she’s back to counting every smile line, eyelashes, stray strand of hair, anything, so she doesn’t have to stare at the way his lips are parted.

The way he looks incredibly kissable. 

And the way that makes her heartbeat stutter. 

She shakes her head, Art tilts his head.

“Please,” he whispers.

Her breath hitches in her throat. She thinks she knows exactly what he’s asking, but she’s scared to say anything, to just say yes. 

“Please what?” she breathes out with a shaky voice. He shuffles, pressing closer against her. Her eyes close.

“Look at me.” His hands trace the expanse of her face, cupping it. 

She opens her eyes. The look in his eyes is so plain, she nods. 

He leans down, captures her lips in a gentle kiss, pulling her as close as he can. She wants to crumble in his arms, he tastes like summer, or whatever she thinks it tastes like. His lips are warm, but soft, his breath makes her heady, tint of peppermint making her head spin. His hair is tickling her face as he presses ever closer, trying to seemingly memorise the way her lips move in sync with his. Her arms are pulling him closer by the neck until they’re practically moulded into one another. Hands weave into his hair, tugging at it. 

He groans softly.

The butterflies erupt in her stomach. 

When he pulls away, her chest is rising and falling quickly, shaky breaths slipping past as she stares at his red face, eyes barely open. He’s grinning. She chuckles.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers.

“You’ve said,” she whispers back, reaching out and pulling him closer by the nape of his neck. There’s no resistance, he just crumbles onto her, his head nuzzled against her shoulder, where he’s now peppering feather light kisses. 

She presses her face into his hair, drinking in the scent of… the beach that infiltrates her senses. He is summer, to some extent. She reckons.

“No but, you just…” he trails off, breathing softly against the crook of her neck. She glances at the clock hanging on the wall, 01:44 it reads. 

“Mhm, whatever you say,” she hums, closing her eyes, relaxing, Art’s weight pressed against her. He snakes his arms back around the skin of her waist, under the sweatshirt. She relaxes into his grip more, feels the exhaustion tugging at her consciousness.

“Wear my sweatshirt more often,” he whispers, voice quiet, the tiredness lining every syllable. 

She nods against the headboard, holding him closer. 

The strong scent of summer is wafting in from somewhere now, and she can hear a door creaking open, can hear the quiet murmurs of people from somewhere, but she ignores it. Marion’s mind is consumed by the urge to sleep and by Art’s comforting weight, and the way his chest is rising and falling against hers. 

Summer surrounds them, and sleep speaks in quiet whispers to her. She smiles against the top of Art’s head, doesn’t care if there are obscenely loud giggles echoing around her, she’ll deal with it later.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[kisses4kaia]

i think…i think about art fucking me…but then patrick fucking art…sandwhich style…yk?

get out of my head anon.

it would be art’s idea, 100%. he’d be fucking you so stupid while patrick had you suck on his cock, getting it nice and messy and wet for him. the thought came to art as he watched patrick tap his cock against your pouted lips, mesmerized by the glossy coat of saliva dripping from the entire length.

“pat—pat,” art slowed down the movements of his cock into you, completely ignoring the whine and squirming of your hips and the begs to ‘keep going!. “what’s up, man?” patrick says, a little breathless but flushed in the cheeks, lips, and chest, turning him godlike in any mortal’s eyes.

“i want you to fuck me.” the blonde was blunt, unwavering as he stared stone into his best friends eyes. patrick doesn’t trust his own words after feeling his cock twitch against your face at the ask, so instead he just nods. slowly. “like—like at the same time?” he clarifies, hand moving down to massage at the fat of your tits, less in hopes to please you and more trying to keep himself grounded. “mhm.” art nods once, eyes fiery as though they were offering a challenge.

patrick cursed at his friend with a smile. his attention is drawn down on you as he placed a little peck to your lips, a promise to return, all before his weight is lost at the head of the bed. very soon, however, you feel it redistributed behind art, gentle kisses pressed onto his shoulder blade as patrick pumped two saliva-lubed fingers into his friends taut asshole.

gently, he eased the blond’s hips back into yours and encouraged the pistoning of his mean cock into your pussy through the push of his digits in and out of art’s ass. “so pretty,” patrick cooed at both of you into his best friend’s ear, forcing him to whine and nod as his eyes, glued onto the mesmerizing giggle of your tits through every pump, fluttered shut in pleasure. he found himself very close very quickly, warning patrick through breathy huffs and curses. “fuck, pat, i’m gonna—“ his sentence trailed off as all he could do was whine when patrick’s fingers found themselves missing from his hole, which now pulsed and breathed with want.

“i’ll take care of you, baby, don’t you worry. hey, dont stop fucking her, understand?” patrick placed a biting kiss onto the lobe of art’s ear which burnt bright red as he kept fucking into you with a certain and desperate rigor and adoration. it seemed art’s entire world flipped upside down as he let out the sluttiest moan probably ever conceived at the delicious stretch of patrick’s envy-inducing cock into his asshole. “god! please, fuck, i need it, need it so bad,” art begged as he pulled nearly all the way out of you and backwards onto patrick’s dick.

“i said, don’t.” thrust. “stop.” thrust. “fucking her.” thrust. patrick’s needy, incessant, sloppy, pounding into his best friend had the blond falling on top of you, sucking on your tits as the unforgiving ramming of his brunette’s hips into his did all the work for him. “that’s so good,” art whimpers at both you and patrick, practically drooling all over your chest.

cumming came fast for all three of you. you were first, and also priority for both the men. as art nipped at the fat of your areola, patrick reached around art’s body to make a mess of the arousal drowning your cunt. your orgasm came over you in twitches and tears, biting down on art’s shoulder—unintentionally triggering his own climax.

“gonna cum!” art hardly warned through the spurting of white ribbons painting your insides, washing over his body in shakes and tremors. “fuck, you’re so tight,” patrick’s voice is up nearly 2 octaves, his clearest sign of being close to his peak, and art swears he can feel his cock twitch inside of him.

“please cum, pat. for me.” your eyes were round and pleading, his fucking kryptonite, and you knew it—so it was no surprise that with a whine and a curse, patrick is pulling out and splurging his load onto art’s back.

falling down next to you and easing you in between the both of them, art and patrick don’t bother cleaning up as they let their exhaustion win and pull them under, responsibility a mere, distant, irrelevant, obligation.

[endless-ineffabilities]

backhand stroke (18+)

tennis coach!Aemond x tennis player!reader

Rivals on and off the court, things come to a head between the two when Aemond crosses the line and sabotages the reader's relationship.

themes : challengers inspired, Art Donaldson is featured <3, a lot of cussing, smut!!! (minors dn fckin i), the reader and Aemond hate each other (but if they hate each other why are they fcking), reader may or may not be a cheating bastard, Aemond has a glass eye + he calls the reader ace

a/n : initially I was about to write a fic where Aemond and the reader are actual rivals themselves, but quickly remembered how tennis works 💀 so in this one, Aemond is a coach and reader is a player 🎾

word count : 8k ▪︎ masterlist

The Westeros Open is the biggest and most prestigious tennis tournament in the country. 

Anyone who wants to be someone in the sport aims to qualify for it. 

For you, it is everything. You have devoted your entire life to tennis. It started as something that stemmed from your parents' neglect. Rich folks who signed their young daughter up for extensive tennis lessons just so they can be free of her and galivant off to wherever. 

You had sat there, staring at your shiny, brand-new white tennis shoes. Holding your unused top-of-the-line racket. Hair kept away from your face with a headband that still smelled like the store. 

Mostly left alone by your family, you gathered your strength, and dragged your weak eight-year-old legs across the tennis court day in and day out. 

Through the years, you found yourself. You found home, and you gave everything you had to make sure you would never lose it.

As luck would have it, you found romance along the way in Art Donaldson, who became your coach after your previous one decided to quit. He used to be a player, until he fell out of love with the game, and chose to coach up and coming players instead. 

You had been wary of getting involved with him, but eventually you couldn’t resist. He turned out to be the perfect boyfriend - caring, sweet, attentive to your every need. He became your partner in both tennis and in life. Truly, you couldn’t want for anything else.

You shouldn’t. 

So why does it feel like there is something missing?

And why is that void one that only Aemond Targaryen can fill?

The gigantic poster propped up in the inner courtyard of the country club lets everyone know that your next qualifying match in the Westeros Open is against none other than Helaena Targaryen. 

Your image looms up to around twenty feet, with Helaena’s lithe figure on the other side. The perfectionist in you can’t help but scrutinise the details in your expression and your form. Was that really what you looked like mid-serve? You laugh dryly, feeling silly at your misdirected concern.

You like Helaena, and she’s always been cordial to you outside of your matches. The issue lies with her more brash and calculating brother and coach. 

Something - or rather someone - shuffles behind you. Close enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stand on attention. 

"I wish I could say that you look good up there, but we did once promise not to lie to each other.”

Think of the devil and he shall appear. You don't have to turn around to know who it is. 

Aemond fucking Targaryen. Once at his prime, known for his freely expressing his passion and rage on the court, earning him the title 'the bad boy of tennis'. It was this drive, this relentlessness, that propelled his game. Unfortunately, it also served to be his downfall. After a few years as the sport's #1 male player, his career came to an end after an off-court altercation with an opponent that took his eye.

Now he is the coach of one of your top rivals and upcoming match opponent, his sister Helaena. 

Which is why it should come as no surprise to you that he has made it his mission to get under your skin, with all his unwarranted flirty remarks, constant staring, and how he tirelessly interacts with everything you post on social media. 

It used to be tame, by his standards anyway, with things like, ‘You need to work on that backhand’ or ‘I’m guessing Donaldson doesn’t train you well enough.’

But then the messages took a different turn. You once posted a picture of you in a fancy, revealing gown when you attended the annual gala, and he responded with, ‘It’s easy to see that all your training has paid off, ace.’

You chocked it all up to playful aggression. He’s just trying to get you to lower your guard, and distract you. You knew better than to look too much into the apparent interest he gives you. 

He is notorious for being a playboy, after all. Dirty blonde hair perfectly tousled, designer tracksuits he wears with such snobbishness, a presence that can command an entire room. You’ve grown to heavily dislike the seemingly permanent smug sneer on his lips, and how he sometimes treats others like they’re nothing but gum stuck on the soles of his fancy tennis shoes.

A handsome rogue who possesses a lot of talent and who is aware of his status as a hot commodity can be dangerous indeed. If he can say that Helaena Targaryen’s best opponent is nothing but another notch on his bedpost, then he will never let that live down. 

More importantly, you are already spoken for. Aemond knows this - not that he cares - but whatever he thinks about your relationship doesn’t matter. 

“Aemond.” You don’t turn to face him, continuing to scrutinise the gigantic poster. “Is that the best you got?”

He shrugs, positioning himself right in your line of sight, clearly demanding more attention. “You don’t just look good. You look good enough to fucking eat, ace. Too bad about the shitty attitude.”

Hot then cold, nice then nasty. Aemond will never change. Rolling your eyes, you say, “I thought I told you not to call me that. Shouldn’t you be somewhere else training your sister? She’s gonna need it.”

He steps closer, invading your space. You look him directly in the eye like you’re squaring up with an opponent. This has always been your dynamic. Neither one backing down, neither one ever really dealing a blow. 

Just constant dizzying electricity. 

Sooner or later, it will all come to a head. Whether it will be your fault or his, the jury is still out on that. 

“Oh, I’m sure she will,” he patronises, his deep blue almost violet eye sparkling. On the opposite was his glass eye, only adding to his intimidating nature. He hadn’t opted for one that resembled his real eye, but rather a hazy white apparatus, making him appear ghoulish, almost ghostlike. Nestled in his left eye socket, framed by a faded maroon gash, it made him look every bit like the charismatic rogue of tennis that he is known to be. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere receiving instruction from Donaldson? Not that you’ll get much out of it.”

“Art and I are on top of our training, not that it’s any of your damn business. You should concern yourself with your sister’s game.” 

“If only that were actually true, ace, but unfortunately I believe that your sweet Art wastes too much of his fucking time being on top of you.”

“Fuck off, Targaryen,” you respond, trying to push the allure of his scent out of your mind. Pungent cologne and cigarette smoke, a blend that you’ve come to associate only with him. “Stay out of my business, and quit messaging me.”

“You like how we talk.”

“Trust me, I don’t.”

“Does Donaldson know?” Fully aware that Art has never had a liking for him, he knows that will hit a nerve. 

Your face falls, like you’ve been caught in the act. Even though you've done nothing wrong. Occasionally caving in and responding to Aemond’s messages surely isn’t crossing the line. What started out as a couple of offhand fuck offs from your end turned into actually sharing private jokes about the other matches and training and - heavens forbid - small talk about the goddamn weather. 

You’ve come to know that his favourite colour is green. Not the neon of a tennis ball, but a bluish-tinted pine. 

Not that it matters. 

Encounters such as this one also don’t mean anything. Never mind however much you find him attractive. Who wouldn’t? You have eyes, and you’re only human. Nothing more to it. 

Never mind how, some nights, in what can only be construed as momentary states of delirium, you have imagined him in Art’s place. 

Never mind just how much he gets under your skin, like no one else can, and how you can’t admit to yourself that you might actually like it.

Oh, you might actually be making yourself sick at all these thoughts. 

“There’s nothing for him to know.” You step to the side, indicating that you want to walk away. But he has you cornered and you both know it. 

He smirks, “Keep telling yourself that, ace. But you can’t deny - ” He steps close again. He suddenly tilts your face toward him with one hand, but you shake your head and his fingers lose their hold. “ - this. Us.”

Damn him. And damn the shiver that just ran up your spine. 

You stand still, entranced by the look he’s giving you. Trick or not, Aemond sure does have a way of looking at you as if he sees you for who you really are. Not the tennis prodigy. Not the public personality. You remain a shell of that broken kid that poured everything she had into this sport, much like he had, only to come out the other end still not whole, still searching for something inexplicably out of reach. And he sees just that - just you.

You feel like Art holds you up on a pedestal, not seeing the flaws that make you who you are. But you’ve always been happy to play the perfect girlfriend. 

Until Aemond. 

But he’s too much. Too forward, too brash, too intoxicating. You can never know what he’s going to do next. You can’t like him. You have to be certain that you don’t.

But then again… love and hate have always been two sides of the same coin.

He whispers, clearly pleased with the effect he has on you, “Match point, ace.”

Match point. You could have him. He could have you. He makes it evident that the next move is all yours. “Don’t go out of bounds, Targaryen,” you warn him lowly. 

“What if I want to?”

You have him. He has you.

And you… have Art. 

Clearing your throat, and your head, you finally step back. His head snaps up to follow you, disappointment evident on his face. 

“See you around, Targaryen.” You spin on your heel, walking away, immediately feeling lighter. Emptier, feeling like your body begs to drift closer to him, two equal magnets. 

“Ace,” he calls to you, walking after you when you don’t turn around. “Wait a second,” he reappears right in front of you, effectively halting your stride.

You grumble hastily, “God, you really have a space issue, don’t you, Aemond?”

“Meet me in the courtyard gardens,” he says, a new intensity lacing his voice, “tonight. After dinner. Or whenever you can. Just - ”

“No.”

“Come on, ace.” His tone is insistent, with no trace of his usual bravado and cockiness. “I think… I need to tell you something.”

Part of you wants to cave in, and just agree to whatever it is that he’s proposing, but that nagging voice in the back of your mind is adamant that it would not be right. What would Art think? But what if Aemond truly just wants to tell you something?

“So tell me now.”

His jaw clenches hard, and you can’t help but admire the taut edges of his face. “No, I want to do this, just you and me. When we’ll be alone - ”

“Aemond - ” you start to shake your head, trying hard to come up with a refusal that he will actually register. 

“Donaldson doesn’t need to know,” he almost pleads. “This is between you and me, ace. You just have to hear me out.”

You take a deep breath, unable to understand just what it is he means. “If it’s something I have to hide from my boyfriend, then it’s not gonna happen. You have to see just how messed up that is, Targaryen.”

Either he can’t hear you, or he just does not want to accept your response. “I’ll wait for you. Right around midnight then, ace? Should give you plenty of time to sneak out.”

Before you can say no, again, he hastily plants a kiss on your cheek. Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, in surprise and perhaps pleasure at the softness of his lips, and when you open them once more, he is no longer flooding your space. 

You spy him entering a set of glass doors, leaving you there stunned.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Aemond kicks at another pebble, the sound momentarily breaking the silence in the gardens.

He’d checked his watch just seconds before, the face of it spitting on what remains of his eagerness. 

Twelve fucking fifteen. 

Either you just got held up by your whiney rat-faced boyfriend, or you’re a no-show.

Aemond doesn’t know which one is worse. He did not know what he was expecting in the first place. Did he actually think that you would do as he says? You never were good at following orders, much less those from someone whom you likely view as something of a nuisance.

Is that really what you see him as? Isn’t there something more at play here?

Something that keeps Aemond up at night, when he can no longer deny that it is not because he dislikes you that you plague his thoughts, but because he admires you. He does admire you, he sees no shame in admitting that. 

As a tennis player. As a competitor. Anyone who feigns ignorance at your insane potential would just be lying to themselves. 

As a woman? A… partner? No. It has to be no, doesn’t it? You hate him, you make it clear now and again. You disagree with him, challenge his views, point out his flaws. Surely, he can’t be attracted to you in a way that commands his heart. You are beautiful, he doesn’t deny this, but so were the dozens of other girls he had run through. 

Each time he watches you perform your signature backhand stroke, with that sensual growl escaping your lips and the lewd grace with which your body bends, Aemond feels his sanity slipping away.

You drive him crazy, but he can't be crazy about you. 

The only reason he asked you to meet him, is because he wants to propose that he replace Art as your coach. Helaena has expressed that she wants to retire, and focus on some other creative pursuits. Something insignificant to Aemond, that he can’t remember what it was exactly. A pottery business? A fucking flower shop? He doesn’t care to know. 

It’s perfect, he thinks, because your game is superior anyway. It’s what first got his attention, and now he can take part in your process. He can direct you, shape you. He can do so much better than Art Donaldson, and he’s sure you know this too. 

Maybe then you might actually open up to him the way you opened up to Art. With your absence tonight, it dawns on him that he might actually have to resort to other measures. Did he seriously think he would be able to simply reason with you about this? 

He sits for another half-hour on a bench nestled among the rose bushes. Surrounded by flowers of deep scarlet, a maroon he distinctly remembers as being your favourite colour. He fools himself into believing that he’s using the time to craft a plan for what’s to come, and not that he’s wasting it on the hope that you might emerge from the tall hedges, out of breath and eyes glinting eager to find him. 

Well, you played your hand. Now he knows what he has to do.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

You wake up groggy the following morning, having tossed and turned the entire night, thinking about Aemond.

Had he been out there, waiting for you? Your mind came up with the different possibilities of what he has to say. Or if he had nothing to say at all, and it was all just another ruse. 

You told yourself that you didn’t want to meet up with him, but you had an alibi prepared. One of your old tennis club mates agreed to cover for you and say that you were having drinks together, just in case Art ever checks up. 

But as you were about to deliver the excuse, Art had said something about you and him not getting to spend as much quality time anymore. The past few weeks have been occupied with nothing but tennis, and though it’s a shared activity that you both value, he wanted to stay in for the night with you. He ordered room service, downloaded two films that were on your watchlist, and whispered sweet nothings in your ear until you eventually gave up on meeting Aemond. 

It can wait, whatever it is. 

Besides, isn’t this the right thing to do? Did you seriously consider having a midnight rendezvous with the guy who you claim to dislike the most? Someone who encourages you to keep secrets from your boyfriend? What good could possibly come out of that?

With a heaving sigh, you push all thoughts of last night from your mind. There are bigger things at hand. The biggest tennis tournament of the year, for one. 

You make your way to the dining hall of your hotel. Art had woken up before you, pressing a loving kiss to your cheek and explaining how he had to discuss some matters with your physical team. He wore the skin of a tennis coach as perfectly as that of a boyfriend. 

And here you are, regretting that you were unable to meet up with another man the previous night.

The art deco layout of the lobby extends into the spacious dining hall, the interior of the hotel filled with geometric patterns and rich jewel tones. You once bid Aemond guess what your favourite interior design was, and he got it in two tries, complete with a spiel of how it reflects your personality. Art, on the other hand, had been adamant that your favourite was minimalist. That was the first time you realised that his perspective of you was different from Aemond’s. 

You hadn’t yet reconciled with who is more accurate, lest it shine a light on something deeper. 

The hostess is cheerful and full of pep as she leads you to your table. You know it’s coming - she’ll ask you for a picture in just a moment, and you’re proven right when she reaches in her pocket and her phone materialises inch by inch. She seems shy to ask, ready to turn on her heel with a stiff smile if you refuse, so you do your best to be encouraging.

When the photo is taken and she finally lowers her phone, you spy someone out in the distance and you make it out to be none other than your boyfriend. Leaning by the outdoor terrace, appearing to be speaking to another person you can’t yet make out, their face obscured by the decorative shrubbery scattered across the area. 

You walk to the side to get a better view of who it is. That tall figure, clad in a black tracksuit… a familiar head of blonde hair… and the unmistakable cut of his jawline. Realisation sets in. Art is speaking to Aemond. 

Your stomach sinks, the thought of breakfast no longer enticing. Frozen in the middle of the dining hall, you begin to attract the attention of others. 

Aemond turns his head, perfectly timed for his gaze to meet yours. Like something out of a grim movie, your anxiety spikes as his smug smirk materialises in slow motion. 

If there ever were a match at hand between you two, that smirk makes it clear that he has won it. 

Art follows his gaze, also meeting yours, but without any trace of satisfaction. He looks at you accusingly. You shake your head at him, but you already know. 

This is not going to end well. 

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“Is it true?”

You had wordlessly followed Art back to your hotel suite, the air around you thick with dread and anticipation.

“What did Aemond say?” You stand in front of him as he calmly sits by the window, as if you’re on the trial stand. You just might be.

“Guess,” Art spits mockingly. “Why don’t you tell me? You seem to know him quite well.” You bristle at his tone. He’s never spoken to you like this before. 

“Whatever he told you, it’s not what it looks like, okay? You know Aemond. He likes to mess around with people, especially us.”

Art shakes his head in disbelief, “He even showed me some of your messages. Some of them you must have sent - what, at 3 or 4 in the fucking morning? When you’re lying next to me in bed? Not getting a lot of sleep apparently. It must be why you’re not on top of your game.”

He’s not playing fair, and you deserve this. 

“There’s nothing going on between us,” you say through gritted teeth, making the statement sound as firm as possible, because it’s not just Art you’re attempting to convince. You want to believe it too. 

“He’s said some things about me.”

“And I defended you.”

“Not well enough,” he shakes his head. “It sounded almost normal for you. Spewing bullshit to each other.”

“It’s just… it’s all just banter.” God, you sound so terrible. “Riling each other up to get into the mindset before matches.”

“All that… all that, I can kind of understand. It’s the other things. The intimate things that get on my nerves.”

“What - ” You can’t form the proper response to that. 

“I missed talking to you, he once said. To which you replied that you do too.”

“That’s nothing.”

“You said that he inspired you.”

“That’s… that… he’s a great talent,” you stammer, as the statements he throws worsen. “He always has been. Even you can’t deny that.”

The argument goes on for an uncomfortable length of time, with Art reminding you of things that you and Aemond had apparently messaged each other, and you trying to play them off as insignificant. 

Gradually, you convince Art that Aemond is just a thorn in your side. That Aemond was just overplaying the messages to get under his skin. That letting this break your relationship would be giving Aemond what he wants. 

But everything he said - the messages he brought back to the surface, the encounters that were brought up - made you realise the depth of your involvement with Aemond. 

You are fooling yourself, just as much as you are fooling Art.

He finally stands, heading towards the door. “I’ve spoken to our physical team. Meet us at the gym in 15.”

“Art.”

He halts, but he doesn’t turn to face you. You’re worried about what you’ll see in his face if he does.

“Are we okay?” you ask.

He turns to the side, and you catch a glimpse of the man you love, his once blithe demeanour reduced to a brief, forced smile. He nods once, and you sag in relief. When he is finally out the door, you collapse onto the bed and press your knuckles to your eyes. 

You feel it all at once. 

Anger. Frustration. That fear of inevitability coming to fruition. This was bound to happen and a part of you knew it was coming.

Aemond screwed you over, and it’s high time you put an end to everything.

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The gardens. Midnight. 

The message had been sent. The last one you will ever send to Aemond Targaryen if things go as planned. 

You have it rehearsed and perfected in your mind - how you will give him a piece of your mind, how you will tell him off and tell him to fuck off for good. 

As long as you think of Art…  As long as you don’t lose yourself, then…

“You’re lucky I’m not standing you up, Ace. Not like what you did to me.” The bastard has appeared directly behind you, as per his custom, so close you can feel his breath on the nape of your neck. 

You immediately turn to face him, and he stands calmly in his signature black tracksuit, his lips curled in their usual manner. “I never agreed to meet you that night.”

His smile is derisive, the sight of it sharp and cruel under the moonlight. “I thought we had sort of a code of honour, you and I. That we’d never lie to each other. Never let the other person down.”

“Honour?” you say mockingly. “I call bullshit. Trying to ruin my relationship… is that part of it?”

He looks away, shaking his head at your accusation. “I only did what you don’t have the fucking guts to do. Your relationship with Donaldson was ruined the moment we…” He trails off, brows furrowing. His gaze meets yours, revealing the truth that sits underneath his mask of arrogance. One that only you are allowed to see. He appears to take on a different smile this time, softer and less pronounced. The curses you want to hurl get caught in your throat when he looks to your lips and hums faintly to himself, almost as if he’s forgotten that you are in the middle of an argument. 

You take a step back, and it shakes him out of his reverie. It shakes the both of you out of it. 

“Well? Let’s fucking hear it then.” You raise your arms in a gesture, egging him on. 

“Hear what?” he says, having the gall to be confused.

“What did you want to tell me that night? Tell me now, because you’ll never get the chance again.”

He straightens, getting his thoughts in order. He completely forgot about that issue, and talking is increasingly becoming the last thing he wants to do right now. He wants to put his lips to better use. Something more worthwhile. “Helaena’s retiring,” he finally decides on saying, “and I think I should be your coach.”

You’re dumbfounded for a moment, his proposition whirring in your head. It makes sense, it does. He just gets you. But then again… 

“That’s rich,” you reply. “Do you think I would ever give up Art? He’s always been my coach and he’s damn good at it.”

“You’re not compatible,” he counters, “in the court and out of it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He doesn’t see you,” he affirms. He would never lie to you, and he isn’t about to start now. He repeats, “He doesn’t see you, but I do.”

His words strike true, and it feels as if he’s just pulled the rug from underneath you, and you’re falling, falling… 

Right into his arms. And the impact is jarring, because it’s real. 

“We can’t.” It comes out as a hoarse whisper, a reflection of your weakening restraint.

“Yes we can, ace.” He takes a step closer, and he lifts his hand as if on instinct, reaching for your face. But he’s frozen, unsure of how far he can toe the line that already lies fragile between you. “It should be you and me.”

Your eyes follow his movements, because you know you want him to give in and hold you. To touch your face. To kiss you.

And it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. 

“I have to go.” Your voice carries no emotion. You avert your gaze at the last second and catch the defeat that flashes across his face. It should come as a surprise that it pains you to see him like this, but then again, you see him as he sees you. You always have. Which renders your next words among the most painful to come out of your mouth. “We can’t do this anymore. Art already doesn’t trust me, and if this goes on, it’s only going to make things worse. I can’t talk to you - ” 

“No.” 

“- and I won’t be responding to anything- ”

“Stop fucking talking.” His anger is fledgling, rising to the surface. There is no way he will calmly accept these terms. “I said no, ace.”

“It’s… it’s the right thing to do,” you murmur, still unable to look at him. “I’m sure I’ll see you around. We run in the same circles. But we can’t be… us.”

“Forget it,” he seethes, trying to catch your eyes, and growling low when you don’t relent. “Forget him, ace. Or do whatever the fuck you want. But not this, I’m not having this.”

You exhale, having gotten the worst of it out of your chest. It’s over now. But it’s not a relief that you feel. It’s remorse. 

“Goodbye, Aemond.” With that, you finally take him in once more, and one glance is enough to shatter your resolve. His heightened ill temper shines clearly across his distinguished features. Under the midnight moon, he resembles a fallen angel, long dark blonde lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. His shadowy, glass eye strangely adding to the appeal. 

Beautiful. And just not yours. 

One last, lingering look - then you walk away. The silence is deafening, and you feel numb all over. Your knuckles are taut at your sides, fingernails digging in your palms to keep those pesky, errant tears at bay. You’ve suffered defeat before, but this is much worse, because it’s coming solely from your own hand. How easily you give him up, someone who was never yours, and how badly it stings. 

“No,” you hear him say again, and you pray he shuts up so you can keep walking. 

He doesn’t. He repeats the word - no - over and over like some mantra under his breath. One second you feel nothing. Nothing at all. But then the wind whooshes around you and you’re being spun around to face him. 

And then, his lips claim yours, and you feel everything. 

Sounds come rushing back to you. His ragged panting against your lips, the pads of his fingertips kneading the back of your head, the wet smacking of his mouth on your own. The empty pit in your stomach is filled with those clichéd butterflies. More so when one of his hands travels down to grasp your waist and press your body against his. 

“Aem - ” Your mind catches up to you, and you try to say his name to get him to pause, but he slides his tongue past your teeth. 

“Shut up and kiss me, ace.” He breaks free for but a second, then hungrily kisses you again. You let him. You give in completely.

“Mmm, Aemond.” Your hands reach up to cradle his face and he takes that as an opportunity to pull back and openly admire you.

“You’re my ace,” he professes, connecting his forehead to yours. “And I’m not fucking losing you.”

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

You rush through the lobby of the hotel, hand in hand and giggling like schoolchildren as you duck your heads so as not to get recognised by the night concierge. 

With reckless abandon, your entwined bodies stumble into his suite, which just happens to be on the floor below yours. You once thought you would have to be inebriated beyond belief to surrender to a sin like this, and in a way you are. You’re high off of him - Aemond in his entirety, six feet of lean muscle, notorious foul-mouthed one-eyed libertine. 

“Fuck, ace.” He has his arms wrapped around you from behind, and he nips at your exposed neck. His touch roams and finds the mounds of your breasts, kneading mindlessly over your shirt. The sound that reverberates from his throat is carnal, and you feel it echo through your whole body. It drives you to press your ass against him, taking full notice of his hardness straining from his sweatpants. 

Feeling mischievous, you do it again, gripping his arms to anchor yourself while grinding against his cock. 

“Foul play,” he whispers against your neck, “you fucking minx.”

“There are no rules now.” You face him, running a finger along his jawline as you walk backward and he follows suit. Stopping at the edge of his bed, you strip out of your shirt, careful to keep your eyes locked on his the whole time. 

The movement is too slow for Aemond, and he desperately needs more. He pushes you onto the mattress and climbs on top of you. He slides your sweatpants off your legs, then lets his hand drag from your ankle to your inner thigh. He promptly undresses, graceless and in a rush, until all his clothes are left in a heap on the carpet. 

His cock stands on attention, taut and goddamn long. You feel an ache below that compels you to rub your legs together, but he beats you to it and slides your underwear right off. “I’ve always wanted to taste you,” he croons. “Bet you taste so sweet.”

You take your bra off and you’re finally left completely bare. He spreads your legs and positions himself in between. He uses one hand to squeeze your breast and the other to keep your legs propped wide open. 

His eye meets yours, before he settles in, lowering his head until he’s breathing cool air onto your pussy. “Match point, ace.” 

You have him. He has you. 

When Aemond’s tongue plunges deep into your throbbing core, swirling inside like he wants to consume you whole, you have to bite your tongue to hold back a scream.

He knows what he’s doing, of course he does, and he’s so fucking good.

“Yes - yes - keep going, baby, fuck -  ” you moan, words breathy and irregular. 

He sticks two fingers into your wetness, using it to spread you wider, leveraging his tongue ever deeper. In and out they go, faster than the fuck, fuck, fucks coming out of your mouth in blissful sputters. 

He suddenly stops, a guttural hmm echoing from his lips, and you look down to see his lips coated in a mixture of his spit and your pre cum. “Not so fast, ace,” he taunts. “You’ll come when I say.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, still widespread and exposed to him. “What, are you coaching me through it?” 

He hums in affirmative and leans in to kiss you, juices still dripping from his chin. 

“You gonna follow my orders, ace?” he asks, and your mind spirals at how utterly lewd it sounds. 

“Wouldn’t you like that, Targaryen?” You let out another moan, biting your lip when he hungrily sucks on your breast. “Let’s see what you got first.”

He smiles at your playful instigation. It’s always come natural, this riffing back and forth. But this midnight dalliance - he wants it to be honest. He needs you to realise how much he wants you. 

“Yes, ma’am.” He gets on his knees, a hand braced on each of your thighs, his hardened cock at the ready. 

“Ma’am?” you breathe, a laugh dying in your throat when you his tip prods at your entrance.

“I can be agreeable under the right circumstances, ace.” He torments you by pushing his cock in but an inch. 

“Fuck me, Aemond,” you cuss in frustration, then, literally, “Fuck me. Please.”

His eyes take you in, one darkened blue and one ghostly pale glass. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” he says. “You good for it, ace?” He nods once, referring to whether a condom is needed and you take the hint right away.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “Perks of having a top-of-the-line physio team. They hook you up on other things too.” Your cocky-athlete way of stating that you are on the pill. 

The lights are dim in the room, but you clearly see the resolve settle on Aemond’s face. He parts his lips like he wants to say something more, and you tilt your head questioningly. 

He feels the need to make some sort of declaration. Something true. It doesn’t seem right to say those damned three words at this moment, no matter how much he means them. You could think he’s trying to trick you in order to get what he wants. A good lay and nothing else. So he doesn’t say anything and lets the silence speak for itself. If you know him as you claim to, then you’ll see. 

You’ll see just how much this means to him.

You nod, and it’s an unspoken plea. 

He thrusts his cock into you with such force, stretching your walls with a sudden and blinding ache, until he is buried to the hilt. He reaches and cradles your face with one hand, the other keeping your ankle propped by his shoulder. 

“Move, Aem.” You buck your hips against him, his cock squelching in and out again.

“Yeah, baby?” He complies with his hips in response. “That feel good?”

“Yes. God yes.”

A switch flicks inside of him, and he almost snarls through his teeth. “You feel so fucking good, ace. Your pussy takin’ me so well…” His hips buck faster, in abrupt snapping motions, burying his cock each damn time. He connects your legs together and turns you to your side, altering the position slightly. 

You look behind your shoulder and see that feral look etched on his face. His grip is tight on the flesh of your hips and the curve of your ass, having it raised slightly for his convenience. He smacks your behind with an open palm, and it elicits a lusty moan out of you. 

“Fuck, baby,” he rasps. “So beautiful like this, dripping around my fucking cock, huh? My good girl.”

The noises you release as a result are unintelligible. You press your face against the pillow in sheer pleasure, muffling your sounds. 

“I wanna hear you, baby,” Aemond protests. With practised ease, he repositions you so your ass is propped high before him, your body bent forward as you have to lean on your forearms to keep from planting your face on the sheets. 

He doesn’t ease up on his relentless thrusting, and you’re left squirming and cock-drunk. Your eyes rolling to the back of your head, you’re blissed-out on what only Aemond can give you.

“Does he fuck you as good?” he spits in obvious distaste. “I don’t think so, baby. Can’t fuck this pussy like I do.” 

“N-no,” you whimper, without any trace of guilt. “Only you, Aem.”

“Hmm,” he simpers. “Come for me, ace. Be a good girl now. Come around my cock, yeah?”

“Mhhmm,” you pant, growing weaker and weaker at his statements, your walls tensing for that release you crave.

“You’re mine, ace. Mine.”

Your whimper comes out sudden and unrestrained as you let go, and feel your warm juices leaking down your thighs. The sounds of his cock growing noisy and sloppier. He releases not long after, with a few sharp spasms, decorating your insides with his cum. 

Marking someone who is not supposed to be his. 

But nothing else matters as he crumples against you and pulls you into his arms. If something is to be reconciled with, it won’t be for tonight.

With these things, regret always comes along with the sunrise.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

“40 - 30.”

The crowd cheers at the umpire’s announcement. You can barely make out the faces morphing together into one homogeneous mob, but you’ve observed enough to know that Aemond isn’t among them. Rivulets of sweat drip down your face and you walk to the side as another break starts. 

Helaena nods at you from the opposite side of the court, and you respond with a terse smile.

She resembles him so much - the one you’ve been avoiding for the past three days. With that same distinct shade of blonde hair and deep blue eyes, but possessing an aura of tenderness about her. If Aemond wasn’t lying about her plan to retire, then it makes perfect sense. She seems too good for the sport, too pure, whereas you fit right into its cruel constraints.

What sort of person would have done what you did, some nights ago, and be able to walk with their head held high? You want to believe that you regret sleeping with Aemond, that you would reverse your actions, given the chance. But the pain that eats at you is that you might have fucked things up for good, abruptly leaving before he woke up that morning. 

It’s ironic - you may just get what you said you wanted. To end things. Never to be the same with him again. 

You slump in your seat, wiping at your face with a towel, pushing all thought of Aemond from your mind. 

From your periphery, you catch Helaena gesturing to you. She smiles, and you think that your emotions must show so clearly on your face that she feels bad for you. 

She nods, and tilts her head to the side, so that you follow her gaze. Standing courtside, partially hidden in the corner just behind the barriers, you see Aemond closely watching you. 

He came after all. You turn back to Helaena, unable to hide your surprise, and she sends another smile your way. She knows. Of course she does. 

With renewed excitement, the match continues. It only takes one more point, one final ace, and you emerge triumphant. The court fills with cheers and sounds of celebration. It is declared that you are advancing to the next round of the tournament. You meet Helaena in the middle and she firmly shakes your hand, exhibiting no sign of disappointment. 

“Congratulations! Very well played.” She drops her racket and grasps your hand with both of hers. She leans closer, and adds, “You know, I also consider it a win for myself, because my last ever match is against the girl my brother is in love with.”

You forget where you are, the revelation rendering everything else moot. The cheering crowds disappear, and it’s just you and Helaena as she dips her head comfortingly, assuring you that you heard her words true.

“I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” she lets go finally, with a cheerful, “go celebrate!”

You feel yourself being whisked away, cameras flashing from all sides. Art appears in front of you and he pulls you into an embrace. Several onlookers gush at the sight. You barely take notice of them, your eyes already drifting to where Aemond was standing. 

There he remains, casually leaning against the barriers. Some audience members realise that the great Aemond Targaryen stands among them, and one by one a small crowd forms around him, asking for pictures and autographs.

He continues to hold your gaze, his usual smirk making an appearance, ignoring a guy waving a camera at his face. You shake your head at the scene, a genuine laugh bubbling from your lips.

You nod to each other, as if acknowledging the absurdity of it all, and leave it at that. There’s a lot more to be said, for another time. Art wraps his arm around your waist, and Aemond takes it as his cue to look away, relenting to the eager fans surrounding him.

You direct your gaze to your boyfriend, immediately seeing the recognition in Art’s eyes. He’s seen everything. 

He doesn’t need to be as acutely perceptive as Helaena to realise the truth. That of the one-eyed rogue and his ace. You’ve been drifting from him for so long, that it was only a matter of time. 

He was your friend first, and he always will be. You’ve watched each other grow, through endless mistakes and challenges, and there’s a fire in you he cannot match. 

But Aemond can. He knows this now. 

He extends a hand out to you, one which you accept with poorly masked caution. He understands how woeful it must be, to tear yourself apart from being in love with someone else. The shame and uncertainty that must entail. 

For both your sakes, he decides that he has to be the bigger person and do the right thing. 

“What do you say?” Art offers to you. “Post match treat?” he asks, referring to your tradition of sharing a large strawberry sundae after games. 

“Okay.” Your smile is sweet and unguarded, and it reminds him of when you first met, nearly six years ago. That day, he knew he had made a lifelong friend. 

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

“I wish I could say I’m happy to see you here, but we did once promise not to lie to each other.”

Aemond swivels toward the sound of your voice, cigarette smoke billowing from his lips. 

“Vile habit, Targaryen.” You wrinkle your nose, and he just shakes his head and crushes the butt of his cigarette under his shoe.

“Yeah, well.” He merely shrugs. He was dead set on quitting, but something came up the past couple of days, causing his anxiety to reach new heights. When you ignored him after the night you shared, he can’t fault himself for reaching for depraved solace in nicotine. But no substance would ever be enough to erase the precious memory of watching you come undone. 

“Not happy to see me, ace?” he refers back to your greeting, not bothering to hide the hurt he feels. 

You walk closer to him, trying to hold back a smile. “Well, I lied. But it’s not like I haven’t lied before.” You stop when you’re right in front of him, the remnants of his smoke making you feel woozy. “I also lied when I said that we can’t keep being us anymore. When I said goodbye.”

“Hmm,” his lips curl at your confession. “Judging by how wildly you fucked me after you said that, I could already tell.”

You roll your eyes, but you already feel so much better, like things are falling right back into place. All it took was some teasing from the apparently callous, sharp-tongued, ambitious-to-a-fault boy standing before you. 

A boy who revealed the true depths of his compassion only to you. He let you thaw out his cold heart from its confines and declared it yours. 

“Something more to say, ace?” he asks.

“You first.”

“Are you kidding? Why don’t you play this game with your boyfriend?”

You share a lingering look, effectively answering his question. The unabashed shit-eating smile that breaks out on his face is enough to tell you just how he feels. 

“Don’t gloat,” you warn him, but he’s already pulled you flush against him with both arms. “I also need a new coach.”

“Mhmm,” he nods, not really in response to your statement. “Save that for later, ace. Please shut the hell up and kiss me.”

He can’t help but smile through kisses, his lips chasing yours when you make an effort to pull away and say something more. 

“Aemond, will you - ”

“Fuckin’ - ” a cuss slips from him when you manage to break apart, depriving him of your lips. He answers impatiently, “Yes of course, I’ll be your coach, ace. Of course. Happy? I’ll be anything you want me to be.”

Before he leans in once more, you say, “Don’t you dare fuck this up, Targaryen.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my love.”

You lean back in mild surprise.

He laughs, “I mean - ace - or my love. Either one applies, really.”

"I... I prefer ace," you say weakly.

"Now, now, my love. I thought we promised not to lie to each other?"

taglist (all who commented on this post - surprise double feature incoming!) : @odeioemail @sapphossongbird @toodlesxcuddles @sinistersnakey9419 @fan-goddess @jhroseok @diannnsss @dixie-elocin @tostadasdetinga @1-800shootmeplease @goldyfishsstuff @pineappleicelostmary @raging-panda

Should you wish to be added to the Aemond (or Daemon) taglist, please comment on this post!

[bratrick]

˚ ༘🎾 ೀ⋆🎾｡˚ HAPPY CHALLENGERSVERSARY BRATS! ˚ ༘🎾 ೀ⋆🎾｡˚

🍏 i know it’s been ages since i have updated. yes, i am very much alive. just went radio silent for a few months. enough about me, it’s our favorite movie’s day! happy one year to the movie that has brought us all together <3 our favorite brats, art donaldson, patrick zweig and tashi duncan, have buried their fictional selves into our lives through just one sexy ass film. they live within us and through lil’ memes, fics, and whatnots. without our beloved silly little film, i wouldn’t have made this account and got to interact with you, my fellow brats <333 a life update will be coming soon (remind me, please?) happy challengersversary to everyone celebrating!

[angelbunnyprincess]

Art Donaldson moodboard 🐁 🎾

I rewatched challengers and I'm obsessed again! Theres no challengers agere content on tumblr so I'm here to change that >:3

(pls interact if u like challengers) <333

[sincerelystarry]

( ☆ ) . * starry's taglist ˎˊ-

hi i'm stealing this from charlie so! comment w/ the corresponding emoji-to-fandom to be added to a fandom taglist and if u want u can like specify what characters too :3

🎸 daisy jones & the six

billy dunne, graham dunne, eddie roundtree, warren rojas, daisy jones, karen sirko, camila alvarez

🏹 the hunger games

peeta mellark, finnick odair, katniss everdeen, haymitch abernathy, johanna mason, effie trinket

🪶 the ballad of songbirds & snakes

sejanus plinth, lucy gray baird

🧇 stranger things

steve harrington, eddie munson, jonathan byers, nancy wheeler, robin buckley

🎾 challengers

tashi duncan, patrick zweig, art donaldson

🔪 scream

billy loomis, stu macher, tatum riley, sidney prescott

📹 spree

kurt kunkle

tagging some of my moots so they're aware i posted this but feel free to ignore : @nozhdyved @slfglow @imsogonesposts @daisyjonesgf @allisluv @cr3stawrites @camilaswife @emmynemm @joluvsfinnick @ivymirrorball768 @echoesintheravyne @loveution

[imperishablereverie]

︵゛᳂ CHALLENGERSVERSARY BOT DROP ˎˊ˗

10 bots total

BOT 1: art donaldson ─ kiss me

BOT 2: art and patrick ─ room 206

BOT 3: art donaldson ─ preachers son (au)

BOT 4: tashi duncan ─ country club

BOT 5: art donaldson ─ i was made for lovin' you

BOT 6: patrick zweig ─ forgive me for i have sinned (au)

BOT 7: tashi duncan ─ dont tell your boyfriend

BOT 8: art donaldson ─ mentor

BOT 9: patrick zweig ─ crash at your place

BOT 10: art tashi patrick ─ the perfect fix

bot linked in the title of each post

i'm actually kinda proud of these so if you use them i hope you like them!

c.ai did in fact shadowban like half of them soo i'll get to reuploading them

happy challengers anniversary!! 🎾🫀

[t1ts-4-donaldson]

Navigation <3

I'm Hanna, mid 20's, queer I write sometimes but this is just for fun. Ask my anything!

MDNI most of my content is 18+

other blogs are @howlixg

My Main @enterthebadlandss

TAGS:

✨#hanna's brain rot:

Random ramblings just general shit posting into the void

✨#hanna's musings:

Short Blurbs + Headcanons

🏴‍☠️ Pirate!Art Donaldson x Mermaid Reader

🎥 Camboy!Art Donaldson

🛸 Alien!Art Donaldson

🤠 Dodge Mason

🌃 Riff Lorton

💐Florist!Art Donaldson

🎾 Tashi Duncan

🎾 Art Donaldson

Frat! Art Donaldson

Perv! Art Donaldson

Dilf/Dad! Art Donaldson

Eater! Art Donaldson

🎾 Patrick Zweig

Pirate!Patrick Zweig

Dilf/Dad! Patrick Zweig

✨#hanna interacts:

Showing love for my favorite posts and blogs on here

[blckbarbiedoll]

Million Dollar Baby

Chapter 3-Off My Game

CONTAINS NSFW CONTENT (p in v sex, oral fem receiving, kissing, etc.)

July 29, 2019-New Rochelle, New York

"Fix your face." You told your fiancé. "You did good today."

"I almost lost."

"But you didn't. That's all that matters." You kissed his cheek and finished your drink. "You need a shower."

"Wanna join me?"

"You have fun. I'm gonna stay down here and answer some emails."

"Okay. Don't work too hard."

He walked to the elevator and gave you a smirk as the doors closed in front of him. You opened your laptop and scrolled through the countless emails you had gotten in the past few hours.

"A cosmopolitan for you, ma'am." The waiter placed the drink down on the table next to you.

"I'm sorry, I didn't order this."

"It was a gift from that woman over there."

You looked over at her as she smirked and raised her glass. You shook your head and scoffed. You raised your glass back and took a sip. She got up and walked across the empty lobby until she got to you.

"Hi."

"Hi, Tashi."

"Patrick was good today."

"I know he was."

"He buy you that ring?"

"My mom's."

"I'm happy for you."

"No you're not."

"Wow." She chuckled and threw back the rest of her drink.

You followed suit and finished yours. You grabbed your stuff and stood up.

"Thanks for the drink."

"Hey."

"What?"

"Make sure Patrick stays away from Art. I don't need him getting distracted."

"I agree." You sternly said as you pressed the elevator button.

"Good." She stood next to you as the elevator opened. You both stepped in and looked straight ahead. "You look good."

"I know." You smirked slightly. "So do you."

"I know."

You both turned your heads to each other at the same time. She looked at you with a longing that you hadn't seen from her in years.

"Tashi..."

"Don't." She shook her head and looked at the floor.

You placed your hand under her chin and lifted her head up. Her caramel eyes flickered between yours and your lips. You began to pull away but she leaned forward and kissed you. Her soft lips felt like home against yours. But that comfort only lasted for a moment. The doors opened on her floor and you pulled back and caught your breath. She quickly walked out, leaving you alone with an empty feeling in your heart.

🎾SIX DAYS LATER🎾

The first game was almost over and Patrick was leading. You saw Tashi's hand ball up into a tight fist. It took everything you had not to reach over and hold it.

Art missed another hit and shook his head as it passed him.

"Game and first set, Zweig. Zweig leads. One set to love." The umpire announced.

Tashi got up and walked out of the stands. You looked at Patrick who was smirking. Then to Art who looked like a kicked puppy. You wanted to hug him and tell him it would be okay. But you knew it didn't work like that. Not anymore. Just when the set break was over, Tashi came back and sat next to you again. You slipped your shades on so that she wouldn't notice you glancing over at her.

"Time. Second set. Donaldson to serve."

🎾TWELVE YEARS EARLIER🎾

"I wish you were here." You said to Art over the phone as you walked to the plane. "I miss you guys."

"We miss you too."

"I'm gonna come out there as soon as I can."

"Hurry. I need a distraction from my math exam."

"I saw Patrick."

"How is he?"

"Living his dream."

"Yeah, I bet."

"I'm about to get on the plane, but I'll call you when I land."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

You hung up and slipped the phone into your pocket. You handed your luggage to one of the attendants and went up the steps.

"When are you gonna stop messing with that white boy?" Your mother asked as she sat next to you.

"I'm not messing with him. He's my boyfriend and I love him."

"He's a distraction, Ayesha. You've been a little off your game lately."

"I won the fucking open, didn't I? I won the Australian open."

"Yes, you did."

"I'm doing exactly what you wanted from me. I'm carrying on your legacy. So don't tell me I'm off my damn game. I'm on top of the fucking world."

Normally she would've snapped at you for talking to her like that. But right now, she couldn't have been more proud.

🎾

The California sun hit you as soon as you stepped out of the car. You slipped your sunglasses on and grabbed your bag out of the trunk. As you walked through the campus, heads turned in your direction. Even after all these year of people watching you, it was never something you fully got used to. 

"Who is it?" Art asked from the other side of the door after you knocked.

"Come find out."

You could hear him jump up out of his bed and rush to open the door. He had on a red t-shirt and some jeans. His curls were loose and messy, just how you liked them.

"You're here."

"I'm here."

He wrapped his arms around you and dragged you into his dorm. It wasn't messy by any means, but it wasn't as neat as you would've liked it to be. His red Stanford cap was sitting on the desk next to an open text book. His racket and tennis shoes were next to the door right by your feet. He had really made it his home.

"I missed you so much." He smiled as he set your bags down on the floor.

"I missed you too." You wrapped your arms around his neck. "I thought about you everyday."

"You did?" 

"Mhm." You kissed him softly as his hands traveled to your hips.

He led you to his bed and laid you down while he hovered over you.

"You are so beautiful." He whispered into your neck before he kissed it.

You whimpered as he softly sucked on your neck. His fingers trailed down your body and under your skirt. He softly rubbed your clit over your panties as he continued to mark your neck. 

"I need you." You whispered.

"I know, baby. Can I taste you first?"

"Yeah."

You grabbed the bottom of his shirt and lifted it up. He tossed it onto the floor as you followed suit with your top. 

"So fucking gorgeous."

You unclipped your bra and threw it down with the other clothes. His hands immediately went to your breasts. He leaned down to kiss them and he began to lightly suck on your nipple.

"Fuck." You sighed as you raked your fingers through his curls. 

You lifted your hips up when he went to pull down your skirt and panties. He lifted your legs up onto his shoulders and kissed the inside of your thighs. He pulled you closer and slowly licked your clit.

"Oh my god." You sighed and grabbed the bedsheets.

He switched between licking and sucking for a few minutes until you pulled him up.

"I need you inside me."

He smiled and pulled his jeans off. He tugged at the waistband of his boxers and threw them on the ground. His smile faltered and he cursed to himself.

"What?"

"I don't have any condoms."

You leaned over the edge of the bed and reached into your bag before pulling out a golden square.

"I picked some up on my way here."

"You're amazing."

He opened it and slowly slid it down his hardened shaft. He leaned down and kissed you lovingly as his hips found yours. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he slowly slid himself inside you.

"Fuck." He groaned into your neck. He began to move in and out of you at a slow pace.

"Art." You moaned while gripping his shoulders. 

"You feel so good, baby."

"Don't stop."

He began to pant as he picked up his pace. One of his hands slid down your body and found your clit. He began to circle it at the same pace of his thrusts.

"You're gonna make me cum, baby." You whispered in his ear.

"Me too." He grunted. "You're so fucking good."

His fingers sped up, causing you to hold his shoulders tighter as you got closer to your orgasm. You could feel him twitching inside you, about to let go.

"Cum with me." You pleaded.

He thrusted into you a few more times before he was releasing into the condom. You joined him soon after, throwing your head back against the pillow and moaning his name. 

"Holy shit." He gasped as he pulled out of you and lied down next to you.

You laid on his chest as you both caught your breaths, a light layer of sweat now covering you both.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

🎾

Later that day, you and Art had headed to the court to watch Tashi's match. You wanted to surprise her before the game started, so you snuck into the locker room and hid behind the open locker door. She closed it and jumped when she saw you.

"Hey, stranger."

"Ayesha!" She lunged forward and embraced you. "I can't believe you're here!"

"Believe it!"

"I missed you so much." She held your face in her hands and rubbed your cheeks with her thumbs.

"I missed you too." You placed your hands over hers. "So fucking much. We should do something after the match. Get dinner."

"Yeah, of course."

"Art and Patrick too. I heard he's in town."

"I don't know."

"What happened."

"I'll tell you later. I don't wanna think about him right now."

"Okay. I'll let you go. Good luck out there. Not that you need it."

You gave her a wave before heading back to your seat. Art was texting Patrick when both teams made their way onto the court.

"Is he not coming?" You asked.

"They had a bad fight or something. He seems pissed."

You tried not to worry about it as the match started.

"On court one, Maria Foster from Pepperdine, and from Stanford, Tashi Duncan."

You two clapped with the rest of the crowd as Tashi served. She had always been a ruthless player. But now, it seemed like there was something more fueling her. This anger that drove her to play harder. You were on the edge of your seat when she lunged forward to hit the ball. It seemed like everyone in the audience had the same reaction when it happened. Hundreds of gasps were followed by her painful cry as she fell to the ground.

"Tashi!" You and Art yelled as you ran down the stairs and down onto the court. You kneeled on the ground and lifted her head up to rest it on your knees. 

"It hurts! It hurts!"

"I know, I know." You whispered as you wiped her tears. "Just breathe. It's gonna be okay." 

You had taken her to the infirmary where they wrapped her knee until they could figure out another form of treatment. You and Art sat on each side of her, holding her hands. Footsteps approached the room and Patrick rushed in.

"Oh my god, Tashi."

"Out!" She yelled at him.

"I'm sorry, Tashi! Listen!"

"Out, Patrick!"

"Listen to me!"

"Patrick, get the fuck out!"

He gave up on trying to defend himself and walked out of the room.

"Let me talk to him." You said as you walked out after him. "Patrick."

"What?"

"What happened with you two?"

"What, she didn't tell you?"

"No."

"I come back after months of not seeing her, all she wants to do is talk about fucking tennis and how I suck at it."

"She's probably just tryna motivate you."

"No, she was being a narcissistic, judgmental, bitch."

"Don't talk about her like that."

"It's true. That's what she is. You're just too busy on her dick to notice." He walked down the hall and out the door.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ warm — a. donaldson.

synopsis — their hearts know who they beat for, and they're done waiting. every moment they spent away from each other, they will make up for it, some way or another, yearning never truly dies out, does it?

genres — friends to lovers, tension, mutual pining, requited yearning, admiring, best friend's friend, domestic fluff, requited love, fluff.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — none! all fluffy!

word count — 1.5k.

author's note — this took me a bit to write because i've been busy and so horribly tired, but i've got a new idea, and i have something planned, so bear with me, i hope you enjoy!

masterlist.

The warmth of Art’s hand is encapsulated in Marion’s as he holds her pressed close to his side. His arms are tense, Marion can tell. She always could. Even when he used to play tennis. Marion isn’t necessarily wearing anything light, so even with the breeze teasing her, she shouldn’t be too cold, but Art wants to take his chances anyway. Marion looks up at Art, he’s staring ahead, but smiling softly. She misses his fluffy hair, flowing with the wind. Of course it made sense to cut it short for him to play tennis, but she misses seeing it get in his face when they’d have walks in the morning breeze while it assaulted them. She doesn’t realise she’s been smiling at him until he turns to her, and he raises his eyebrows. She looks away.

“Nothing,” she whispers. He isn’t convinced, he brushes a stray strand of hair out of her face, and then he leans down, so now they’re eye-level. “Art!” 

He continues grinning. Even at thirty one, he’s still acting like he did at twenty. “What’s wrong?”

“Hm,” Marion hums, feigning confusion, and then she flicks his forehead. He gasps softly and she erupts into laughter. This feels a bit immature, but it feels nice, to have him back, to just be, with him, in his arms. He still hasn’t let go of her waist. He pouts softly and Marion’s knees are about to give out. “Nicely cropped hair? Not really like you, Donaldson.”

“Hey…” he whispers, nuzzling his nose into her shoulder. She chuckles, wrapping her arms around his back and holding him close. The night hides them away from any prying eyes and it’s like being eighteen and going out together for the first time all over again. Just this time, she’s not in his sweatshirt and a random pair of jeans she stole from Tashi. This time, she’s still in her work outfit, courtesy to Art arriving too early to pick her up. 

Just like the day they reconciled. 

Marion presses a kiss to the side of Art’s head, and he melts in her arms. “I love you,” she whispers into his neatly cut hair. “Miss your messy hair, though.”

Art turns his face in her direction and their noses brush. He grins, leaning in until his lips are lightly grazing hers. Marion feels like mush in his hands. One of his hands slides up her body, and then cups her face. His palm is a warm contrast to the wind that’s ebbing and flowing between their bodies, entangled in the middle of the footpath. 

“I love you more, Mari’.” He gently moves back, instead opting to snake his arms around her shoulders, still covered by his jacket. He himself is in a casual shirt, a bit formal, a bit unlike him, but Marion knows he’s just trying to impress her, as if there’s any reason for it. “Do you want me to grow my hair out?”

“Art,” she starts. “You don’t have to ask me what do with your own hair, if you want to grow it out, you can, if you don’t want to,” her voice has grown to a hushed whisper even in the emptiness of the streets they tread and her hand finds its way to his as she intertwines their fingers. “You don’t have to.”

Marion shouldn’t be surprised, but she can’t help but notice the way Art relaxes, he squeezes her hand and then raises it gently to his lips, pressing feather light kisses to her knuckles.

He meets her eyes, her heart flutters like she’s a teen still. “Do you want me to grow it out?”

“Art.” Marion shakes her head. 

“Mari’,” he whispers back. 

She huffs, looking away, but smiling nonetheless. 

“Yeah, I do.” She sighs. 

“Then, I’m growing it out,” says Art, tone definitive.

Marion just shakes her head and stares ahead, at the streets, the singular cars that pass by every few minutes. It’s getting closer and closer to midnight, but these two are seemingly in their own world. And Marion personally, wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Art—”

“Want to get ice—”

Both of them start speaking at the same time, Marion stops, but so does Art. She nods. Art’s face breaks into a grin and grips her hand tighter. And then suddenly, he’s picked up pace, and Marion laughs, all surprised, but she’s not opposed to the idea of running with her Art down a random pathway on a random Tuesday, when the clock’s close to spiking midnight. He’s got that athlete strength and she’s close to losing her breath already.

“I can’t breathe—” she begins, voice breaking from holding back her giggles, she’s clinging onto Art for dear life. She doesn’t get how this old man with a whole daughter has the ability to run like this. So much for being an athlete. And so much for her having played tennis at college.

Slowly, Art comes to a halt, and Marion almost tumbles into him, “didn’t you play tennis with Tashi during Stanford?”

“Yeah, but I’m not some pro like…” she has to stop to forcefully inhale more air. “Like you.”

“You flatter me,” Art says, wrapping the jacket around Marion’s shoulders again. He’s standing in front of Art, brushing his hands over her shoulders, up her neck. A shiver crawls up her spine when his warm hands find the plains of her face, and he holds her gently. Her eyes dare flutter close, but only momentarily, and then again, she’s looking at him, like he might have hung the stars for her, like he is the moon she adores. Her eyes drop to his lips, but they don’t linger long enough, she looks away, at the space separating them. 

“Look at me,” Art’s voice is soft as he whispers the words, his hands hold her firmly in place, and then he brushes thumb over her lower lip. Marion’s heart rate skyrockets the way it did the first time they looked at each other at anything, anything but friends. 

They were never just friends. Art, with his neatly cut hair, and slightly cherry-tinted face looks at Marion, eyes looking almost glazed over, and she’s staring, lips parted. Her heart is a cacophony in her chest and she’s scared he can hear it, and hates it. This feels reckless, like being in love but not knowing if your heart is ready to settle. If they will, too. But now, they do know.

They’ve spent what feels like a lifetime tip-toeing around the feeling of knowing they’re made for no one else, but now, after so many years, they’re finally giving in. Marion brings her hand to hold the nape of Art’s neck tenderly, using her other hand to brush his cheek softly before she leans in, pressing her lips to his. Right outside a door, leading into a parlour. 

Art breathes into her mouth, pulling her closer, for a moment. His lips are perfectly moulded to the like of hers, and he knows where her mouth ends and his begins but not where their breaths end because they’ve become one.

When they pull away, Art’s grinning, and Marion laughs softly. And her eyes flutter close for just a moment, but then she feels a gust of much colder wind brush against her legs. She looks at Art, and he’s holding a door open for her. She steps through, and his arm latches around her waist again, and he leads her into the parlour. 

It’s that one ice cream parlour.

They’d visit when they were younger. 

Was Luke still the owner? Was he alive?

He was, much to Marion’s relief. She jogged up to the counter, smiling at him.

“Marion! Look at how you’ve grown,” he begins speaking, rather tenderly, as he had then too. 

“It’s not been that long,” Marion says, smiling as she glances at Art, who greets Luke too. 

The corner of Luke’s eyes crinkle as Art’s eyes wander to the ice cream under them. “Still the same, after all these years too, hm?”

“Yeah,” Art’s voice is calm, it’s almost quiet. 

“Same?”

Art nods.

Marion watches the interaction, and something fills her heart. In the quiet of the night, she’s watching the lights of the ice cream parlour reflect off Art’s face, and Luke has more wrinkles, but he’s so enthusiastic. She can’t ignore the way he’s looking at the both of them and she’s so glad her and Art’s intertwined fingers are hidden behind the counter. And then a small cup of ice cream is being pushed to her.

Cookies & cream, how’d he know—

“You two are still the same, don’t change.”

By the time the ice cream is done, they’re staring out at the ocean. The moon glimmers above their head and the stars twinkle for them. Art is holding Marion’s hands in his laps, and she plays with his fingers. The wind hums in their ears, and there’s this warmth blossoming in her guts. 

“I missed you,” she whispers, head pressed to his neck, drinking in his cologne.

He laughs softly, and his body shakes slightly from the force of it. “I miss you.”

“I’m right here.” She presses a tender kiss to a vein on his neck. 

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t.”

He encircles his arms around her, his warm body pressed to hers, heartbeat steady under her arms. She missed him.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[kisses4kaia]

And if request Art and Patrick threesome during a camping trip then i’m the issue

anon!! how dare you ?!??!! unacceptable—thank u for 1.7k🫂. (fwb!patrick, fwb!art, handjob, etc. mdni.)

summer was always a haze with the three of you. spending each night in a stuffy motel as you traveled vast distances for tournaments, leisure, or whatever needed tending to, got tiring—fast.

with school out of the way, you made the most of your free hours with your two best friends. but now, after two months of back-to-back games on a multitude of continents, you were all in need of a break. and according to patrick, a forest camping trip was as good as any—sexier, too, whatever that meant.

the roadtrip was an endeavor of its own, patrick’s jeep he’d gotten for his 17th birthday 3 years ago transporting the trio of you out of the suburbs of town into the outskirted woods.

and well, you may or may not have been intentional when letting them make out with you, grope, pet, and bite the whole way to the wooded mountains outside of town. however, their greedy hands were always stopped just above the golden crest of your belt. annoyingly, you’d push them off of you and hop into the passenger seat, leaving them hard and frustrated. “c’mon,” patrick groaned your name. “what’s going on, man?” he’d beg, but you’d only shrug. “just not feeling it right now, that’s all.”

but finally, when the sky was making its daily transition from enlightened to dusk, the jeep was parked in a clearing within the forest and the back was opened up. the seats were pushed down to allow for all of your car-camping gear to be set up: a thin mattress laying down the floor, pillows, throw blankets, chargers and other necessities all strewn about the stuffy car.

and after dinner (leftover wingstop from the drive), the three of you retired to your pillows, the boys’ bodies on either side of you, legs tangled in with yours.

finding serenity in the warmth of the blankets and pillows and man-sized cuddles sandwiching you, plus the owl’s call and nearly audible twinkling of the stars in un-light-polluted night sky, you found yourself latching onto a dream of a US open trophy. but, all your hopes were cut short by a soft pair of lips sticking onto your neck, sucking on your jugular.

another mouth found its way onto your wrist, kissing up your arm til it found your shoulder, at which it then moved from the blade to your shut eyelids, finally to nipping at your earlobe. you knew that had to be patrick, him never being one to stay put in one place for long.

art was needier, kisses on your neck intensifying as his middle grinded up against your thigh, whimpers leaking through desperate nips and wet pecks. “please, can you touch me?” art whispered in your ear, and you found your hand gravitating towards his waistband. “‘course, baby.”

“thank you, thanks so much,” art muttered as he felt your hand wrap around the base of his cock, starting slow as you began to pump and then sliding up to circle your thumb around the achy weep of his tip. patrick whined, feeling slightly neglected as he indulged in the lovely sounds you were pulling from his blonde friend. you were quick to move your hand from art’s hair to patrick’s need, sliding past the confines of his sweats and boxers.

you stroked them both with equal vigor, speeding up and slowing down at the same time for both boys. you knew what you were doing, and so did they. somehow, the synchrony, the knowing that the two best friends were feeling equally as good together, everything, made it so much hotter, and that much more erotic.

the best friends locked eyes with each other, nodding with that look in their eye. there was a mutual understanding between the two mindless, whimpering, males, and all it took was an unspoken three, two, one… and they were spilling their loads into their boxers and onto your hands with obscenely loud, lost in the night moans.

pulling both your arms out of the pants of your best friends, you licked both clean before sliding under the thin fleece throw blanket barely covering half of each of the boys’s bodies. “night night.” you bid sweetly, as if you hadn’t just given the pair the strongest orgasm they’d experienced in a long time.

“yeah, night, baby.” “goodnight.”

[liebeangels]

stanford —> seattle masterlist

—☕️🎾—

summary: sandy brendan is a senior at stanford university. a barista at the small coffee shop on campus, Coffea Cafe, she knows nothing about the school’s sports teams. art donaldson and tashi duncan are the two most well known tennis players on campus. frequent customers to Coffea Cafe, for both the coffee, and the cute girl who seems to work pretty much 24/7. four years later, the three are reintroduced with the help of patrick zweig, tashi’s ex-boyfriend, and sandy’s favorite customer.

—☕️🎾—

character profiles:

—☕️🎾—

stanford

part 1

part 3 - coming soon!

seattle

part 2

[findroleplay]

💥🎾 hi folks! i'm 21+ and looking for 21+ writing partners! i'd like for either an arcane or challengers rp. when it comes to arcane, i'd like to write as either jinx or cait. i'm not particularly choosy about what other characters you'd like to toss at me. i'm honestly open to anyone! and for challengers, the party may have ended an hour ago but yes i am still here. in this case, i'm looking to write as art donaldson. i'm mostly looking for someone to write either tashi or patrick opposite my art but if you have an oc you'd like to throw at me then feel free to! regardless, all i ask is to please actively participate in the plotting process… it just breaks my heart a little anytime i get curt responses that don't really add much. discord only, and no doubling please! leave a like and i'll reach out! thank you! <3

-

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ time & wounds left — a. donaldson.

synopsis — a dreadful day leads marion to a night at art's. with a doubt-filled mind, she finds her conscience speaking more than she is, but he is there to always remind her that she's more than what her cover page shows.

genres — friends to lovers, tension, mutual pining, requited yearning, admiring, best friend's friend, domestic angst & fluff, requited love, hurt/comfort.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — mentions of doubt, and scars, fear of intimacy, if that counts?

word count — 1.2k.

author's note — i love writing but sometimes i'm just too drained, and it kills me, because i really don't want to be, but at least i finished this. :) happy reading!

masterlist.

Art is tracing mindless shapes on the dips of Marion’s skin, cold air brushing past his fingers, under the thin fabric of her sweatshirt, that isn’t truly hers. It’s his, but neither of them remember the last time they mentioned that. And now of all times, was more inappropriate than ever. Words didn’t escape Marion as she lay corpse-still in Art’s arms, letting the latter thumb her skin and provide her with a stabilising presence. He doesn’t talk. She’s been in his bed for the better half of the past three hours, and he hasn’t left her. 

He didn’t leave for a second. It’s like he knew from the second she walked in, hands shaking, and words not leaving her mouth that she just needed that stability, in some way, shape or form. She just needed to stay wrapped up in someone’s arms, not be asked for anything. And for some reason, Art can provide that perfectly. At first, he asked her if she’d like to be held.

She did, she really did. With his window thrown open, and her back facing the world, she’s more than content (Well, as much as she can be) to just bask in his warmth. The autumn air feels like nothing when compared to the way his arms flex as he shifts her gently so he can access more skin on her back, to rub away at the tenseness.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles against his chest, voice muffled. His fingers still, he squeezes her waist.

“Why, baby?” he whispers against the top of her head.

She sighs, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. “For being so…” she considers her words, letting silence dance in the emptiness in the air between them. Art doesn’t push, he waits patiently. “Pathetic.”

“You aren’t.” He’s quick to say it, as if he truly knows, as if he could form it into a concrete concept that will forever linger, even as time decays. Marion laughs softly, nose buried into the space between his shoulder and his neck, breathing a bit shallow. He starts rubbing circles on her back. “Never.”

“Even if they say it?” she asks. She feels childish, for confirming like that, but, she doesn’t know what else there is to do. She can feel the pressure as he presses his lips against the top of her head, nodding.

“Yes.”

They spend a few more minutes in pure silence. Marion is subconsciously shifting closer to Art. He knows, he notices, and he’s been carding his fingers through her hair, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead and the tips of her fingertips, and every inch of her face that she allows him to touch. The moon glows down on them, and Art is breathing softly. Marion doesn’t want this to end. It feels better than the way she’s been feeling all day, dreadful. He’s holding her like he doesn’t intend to let go, and she likes that more than she’s ready to admit.

“Art?” she breathes against his collarbone. Her hands find their way around his shoulders, and she’s pulling him closer. Even though they’re pressed right against each other. She leans her head upwards, just a bit, his curls start tickling her head. A laugh escapes. 

Art shifts, glancing down at her. Their eyes meet, for probably only the second time the entire night. “Yeah, love?” his voice is a breath, a whisper in the night breeze. It might’ve passed her if she wasn’t intently listening, eyes glued to the way his skin and his features are illuminated by the moon. The way his nose dips, and the shadow cast over part of his face. His hand is rising higher on her neck, she inhales sharply, but doesn’t pull back.

“You…” she starts, but her courage dims. Until he’s cupping her face so she can’t look away. He leans closer, his forehead pressed to hers. “You don’t mind, right?” Marion closes her eyes because she’s far too scared to actually look at his expression. She’s scared he’s disappointed. She doesn’t want him to be. 

“Hey,” he whispers, tracing her jaw with his thumb. “Open your eyes, please.”

Her eyes flutter open. Why does he sound like he’s begging? Why is he frowning, softly? Marion gulps. She doesn’t know what to say, or what to think, she thinks she’s just a bit scared of what he might say, just a bit. A bit—Not a lot.

“No, I don’t mind, not at all,” he says, pushing strands of hair out of her eyes. 

“Even when I can’t seem to… just relax?” She’s referring to every time his hands rose anything above her stomach when they’d just been cuddling. And the way she tensed. And when his apologises tumbled right after. She remembers holding his hands and pressing them to her face, and the way they fell to his shoulders.

“Mari’,” he begins. He pouts, pressing his lips to her forehead. “That doesn’t change anything.” 

But it should. It should. “Really?”

“Really.” He intertwines their fingers, squeezing her hand. “No matter what we do, or don’t, I don’t see you as any different.”

Marion sighs, shoving her face into his neck. Art mumbles sweet nothings into her ear. The moon shines down on them. One of Art’s hands is under her shirt, rubbing shapes into the skin of her back. A smile blooms on his face at the way gooseflesh erupts on her skin. 

“I love you,” the words slip out in the most casual of senses, but they don’t mean anything casual. Marion wraps her arms around his neck, whispering back her own confession. Something about how she barely stutters it out, about how her voice shakes. 

When Art pulls her up, she’s looking right at him. She notices that his face is blooming into a shade of scarlet, he’s smiling, softly. Her heart flutters, she reaches with one hand, and cups his face. He snakes his arm around her waist and pulls her flush against him again. 

He whispers the words again, like they might dissolve into nothingness if he doesn’t keep on repeating them like a prayer. Marion laughs softly, smiling at him, her head being the only part that isn’t pressed right against him. She brushes her nose against his, and his lips part. His breath is warm against her lips. She leans in, gulps.

He raises his head so their lips meet for the better half of two seconds, and then she turns her head away, blushing. Her face feels warm, really warm. She giggles, grinning.

His hand cups the back of her head, presses her forehead to his.

“Love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too, so much,” her voice comes out muffled, but he gets the point.

His chest rises and falls quickly as he laughs softly, relaxing completely against the crumpled sheets, covers thrown aside while his limbs are completely tangled with hers. He’d have it no other way.

Neither would she. His hands run over every dent in her skin, every rough patch, and every spot that is still weak from years and years of the hardening it underwent. He runs his fingers over every healing wound reverently, every second passing by slower than the last because this is a feeling neither of them want to forget. 

And they hope they won’t.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ eighteen — a. donaldson.

synopsis — marion misses him dearly. how she always does, but she doesn't expect to see him, until he decides to reach out first, and who is she to deny? one thing lead to another, and eighteen is happening all over again, but this time, he promises to be hers.

genres — friends to strangers to lovers, tension, mutual pining, requited yearning, admiring, best friend's (ex-)husband, domestic angst & fluff, unrequited to requited love, hurt/comfort.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — mentions of medication, and insomnia, that's about it.

word count — 2.7k.

author's note — hurt/comfort now. my friend wanted me to, plus i needed some happiness sprinkled in here, so i'm doing exactly that. i'm pretty stressed, so i reckon i need something nice, i hope everyone's well out there!

masterlist.

Nerves consume her body. Her movements are jittery, the pills making no difference. Her hand on the steering wheel is white-knuckled, shaky. Marion hasn’t bothered checking her phone today. She doesn’t want to. Even if there might be any messages from her manager, she’ll get to work in a few minutes. A few minutes of scolding won’t take her already non-existent morale down that much anyway. Music blares in her ears, the radio is off, but she has her headphones on. When she arrives, she’s quick to lock her car and start walking speedily towards her building. People brush her shoulders, she ignores some whistles. Are any of these people from her past? Are these any of the students she might’ve passed at her campus over a decade ago? It would’ve been wild if they were. 

But she doesn’t figure that out. She watches the glass doors leading into her workplace slide open, her reflection greeting her like a phantom, a rather unappealing one. She blinks the thought away, trudges forward. Some people chirp hellos at her, she smiles at them, holding her head low as she continues to her office. On the way, she runs into her manager.

He glances at her, and when she looks up at him, he stops mid-sentence. She doesn’t like that.

“Take care,” is all he says, and he suddenly leaves. Departs. Doesn’t even bother to look back. 

By the time Marion can find the energy to ask him to finish his actual point, he’s left and she’s reached the door into her office. So, she doesn’t bother. She walks in, closes the door behind her and sighs. Another gruelling day of losing her fight to the scoliosis she probably has now, and to capitalism. She already wants to slump her back against the wall, and stay there.

She doesn’t though, she finds her seat at her desk, starts going through her heaps of emails and paperwork. Nothing is there to disturb her for some reason, but she supposes it might be for the better. It seems to be, until she hears a ping. She turns towards her phone, expects a message from just about a few people, but none of them are who she thought they’d be.

She stops breathing when she reads the name, it’s not Tashi. Not any coworker who’s too scared to talk to her in person. It reads Art Donaldson. Well, not quite. She hasn’t changed the way his name appears on her phone since the time she’d first met him. It’s still Artie, with a smiley face next to it. Whatever eighteen year old Marion was going through, thirty one year old Marion still hasn’t moved on from. But that doesn’t matter, because she hasn’t messaged him since the time of Tashi’s injury. At the start, they’d just do whatever they had to in person, then it turned into Art dedicating most if not all of his time to Tashi, and then everything stopped.

The first few years, it hurt, it really did. He’d become such a staple in her life, so when she had to go through the turmoil of her twenties, and when she thought he’d be there but wasn’t, it truly did hurt. 

But just when she thinks she can finally do it, go through her dreadful life, he walks back in? He walks back in, and he just expects to be accepted? (He will be accepted, even if Marion says she can’t). Even if her mind tells her to not tap on the message, she does. She reads it over, thinks it might’ve been sent to the wrong person. Why would Art Donaldson send her a text going ‘hey, are you free tonight?’.

She stares at the words, they start turning into things they aren’t. She’s waiting for them to disappear, but they don’t. By now, she’s completely out of it, doesn’t care what influx of emails are left, her phone is the centre of attention. 

What should she do? What should she—What is she—Panicking isn’t going to change it. Her immediate instinct is to type a yes. It’s true, she’s pathetic, she’s always free after work. She doesn’t even bother going on Tinder, doesn’t bother trying to get someone. They deserve someone who actually wants to love them, but she’s stuck. A few minutes pass as she sits still as a statue. And then her hands shake as she types yes. She’s free. She asks why. She expects at least a few minutes of silence, thinks she can try to calm herself down in the few minutes it might take for a response to come in. But it takes just a few seconds, and something about it makes her feel a type of giddiness that she can only identify as what she felt back in college. 

‘just want to talk’ reads the message. And then a location pops up. 

Marion smiles.

She asks him when he’d like to meet up. She knows this most probably won’t go well. He could just be drunk—But no, he wouldn’t. He’s got training, surely. He’s got work. It’s literally just scraping the horizons of the afternoon. It doesn’t matter what he’s doing though, because he says seven in the evening. 

Marion agrees. It feels great. It does for the first few minutes. Because first, she’s somehow managed to have a conversation with the man that she’s loved for over a decade, and second, she’ll see him in person, for the first time in a while. Honestly, that one was on her, she’d avoid him like the plague, even though she could’ve seen him at least a few times a year. She just decided not to. For a while, it kept her peace intact, so she couldn’t complain, but at some point, the yearning did win over. It sure did. She’d then spend nights awake, thinking the weight of her sheets are him. 

Which was stupid.

It doesn’t matter, though. She’ll meet him in a few hours time. 

And she can tell him how much she’s missed him. Their friendship. Everything they could’ve been were. 

Her issue is that she doesn’t realise how fast the hours pass when she’s busy drowning in work. When she says it’ll be a few more reports, it can’t take that long, but it does. It takes her well over five hours. But by that point, she’s already meant to clock out. 

When she stands up, she’s sure she’s aged a few decades. She can’t care less though, she switches off her desktop and makes her way to the door. She cracks it open an inch, glancing out and glad to notice that no one is there to question her. She steps out. She can hear distant chatter, but it doesn’t seem to be approaching her. Her bag swinging at her side, she weaves her way through the winding building. 

Surprisingly, it’s rather devoid of life. Usually, it’s not this quiet when she’s clocking out. When she’s at the lobby, she meets at least five people, but there’s not one. That unnerves her. She can hear her own breathing and tries to brush it off as she finally steps out onto the pavement. 

Then her eyes catch on the black jeep in front of her. Waiting, on the pavement. It could be just any jeep, of course, but it isn’t. It has that one specific scratch that Art mentioned but couldn’t afford to get fixed. While she’s eyeing it and getting ambushed by a tide pool of memories, the window rolls down. Neat strawberry blond hair is peeking out. Her muscles tense under her shirt. It feels tight, it probably looks horribly wrinkled.

He smiles and her heart can’t help but skip a beat. He places his arm out, glances at both sides, and beckons her closer. Marion watches him silently as he unlocks his door and steps out. His smile widens. She doesn’t want to wait. She doesn’t wait. With a few quick steps, she’s only a foot away from him.

“Hey,” he starts.

He doesn’t get to say anything, she reaches a hand forward, out of instinct, to brush his shoulder. But then she stops herself. This isn’t college. This isn’t the night after the parties. She can’t do that. If he intended to say anything, he doesn’t. He stops, frowns softly. 

Shit, she hates that she wants to wipe it off his face. 

“Art,” she breathes his name. His eyes flicker up to meet hers and they stare there, for just a second before he’s scanning the entirety of her face, drinking in every detail. Like he might commit it to memory. As if he already hasn’t. His hand reaches for her. When their fingers touch, her hand almost jerks back, but she doesn’t let it. She lets his hesitance wash over, lets him intertwine their fingers, press his palm into hers.

It feels wrong, but so right. She knows he’s married, but this is what she’s wanted for way too long. He tugs her closer, almost has her stumble into his chest, into his warmth, but then he leads her to the passenger seat, opens the door for her. 

“My personal Uber?” She grins. Even if it’s been a few years, she’ll always take the chance to tease him, to joke. That is one thing that’ll always feel natural with him. He seems to melt into her words, he nods, smiling all lopsided, but still appearing as charming as ever.

“As always,” he says, holding the door open and waiting until she’s situated so he can close the door and find his place in the driver’s seat. When he sits down, and shifts the gear, Marion can’t help but stare at his hands, at the veins that seem to be ever more visible now. Her face grows warmer, and she looks away.

“Hey, don’t do that,” he whispers. He doesn’t have to be quiet, but of course he is. That does something to her. She can’t help but turn to look at him, he’s smiling softly, like she can fix all his issues. “I miss you,” he says.

Not I missed you. I miss you. He’s missing her, even though she’s right here. She wants to hold his face, but she doesn’t. 

“I miss you too, I missed you,” she replies. Her voice shakes. This reminds her awfully of when they were eighteen, and couldn’t see each other for a few days. She remembers the way they clung onto each other the next time they saw each other. Whispering ‘I missed you’ and refusing to let go. They rocked back and forth, paying no mind to the outside world. This feels oddly like that. 

But Marion doesn’t mind that, she likes the feeling of nostalgia that washes over her. 

“I know I’m a bit early for seven.” Art laughs, scratching the back of his neck as he’s driving through the city. “But I just couldn’t wait.”

Friends don’t say that kind of shit about each other. Marion blushes anyway.

“Of course not,” she says.

He pouts at her. “You aren’t excited to see me?” he asks.

She laughs, “of course I am, dumbass.”

His face breaks into a smile. Most of the ride is spent in silence. He hums under his breath and Marion stares out the window, drinking in the sights she just never had the time for, and didn’t want to see previously. At some point, Art’s hand finds its way onto her thigh. She feels the guilt immediately.

She lets a few minutes pass. “What about Tashi?” she asks then. Her voice is shaking far too much for her liking, but she can’t stop it. Art squeezes her thigh. He’d always do it when he knew she was nervous. How has he not forgotten?

“We’re…” he starts, stops to inhale, and looks down, they’re parked on some backroad. Marion looks at him, tilts her head to the side. He shakes his head, laughs sadly. “Getting a divorce.”

Marion gasps. “No…” she says, not able to believe it. 

“Yes,” Art affirms, turning to face her, his lips trembling.

Oh. Marion doesn’t care anymore, she reaches out, cups his face, and shifts so she’s closer to him. He melts into her hands. She rubs her thumbs over his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, I’m so… sorry,” she repeats the apologies. As if this was caused by her. 

“It’s okay. It wasn’t working out, anyway. She’s goal oriented and she’s here to do things, to achieve heights. I’m past my prime. I just want my family… and to retire.”

Marion smiles, even if her heart breaks a little.

“Oh, Art,” she says, presses her forehead onto his.

“Missed you so bad,” he whispers. Her heart skips a beat.

She nods. “I missed you too.”

“You know,” he starts… His hand finding the nape of her neck. Her eyes are caught on his. She stares into the endless pits of cerulean. Oceans that swirl wildly, that glisten under the warm glow of the sun. She nods, asking him to continue. “I miss eighteen. I miss us, what we were. Then.” He breathes, inhaling deeply. 

His warm breath brushes against her face. She feels the gooseflesh erupt all over her skin.

“We’re not that young anymore, Art,” she says. Both of them know this very well, but they don’t care. It’s like when he mentioned that he’s getting a divorce, whatever restraint either of them were holding fell apart. They look like they’re two seconds away from kissing each other, relearning each other’s taste after over a decade of nothing even close to touch. 

“I know, but I want us back.” His fingertips are warm, they weave their way into her hair, letting her horribly loose bun fall apart. He cards his fingers through, detangling every knot gently. Just how he used to, when they were eighteen.

It’s like they’re messy teens all over again, sitting in this very same jeep, giggling in the middle of the night after he almost dropped his ice cream all over him. Marion leans closer.

Art doesn’t move back. He smiles. His eyes drop to her lips. And she has to gulp to stop herself from inhaling sharply. His smile widens.

“God, I love you so much,” he whispers, grazing his lips over hers for a moment. He shifts in his seat, getting even closer. It’s a miracle they aren’t kissing already. But Marion doesn’t waste any more seconds. She’s so sick of all these years she spent away from him. 

She presses her lips onto his, the warmth making her feel all dizzy. His lips are soft, they’re warm, they kiss her just the same, just a bit more urgently now. “I love you, I love you too.”

“I…” he pulls away for a second, smiles at her while their foreheads are still pressed against each other. His hair, despite being short, is still tickling her forehead. She giggles softly. “I was such a fool for waiting, for not taking the chance at eighteen.” 

“You were.” Marion smiles. If she’d been feeling any bitter feelings, they’re pushed to the back of her mind. Right now, she just needs to bask in his warmth, in the fact that he wants her again. At how right this feels to her heart. She can think about anything else later.

“I promise I won’t do that, ever again,” he whispers against her lips, diving in for another kiss, another peck to the lips. “I’ll give you everything I could’ve at eighteen.”

“Will you?” she asks. She knows he can, and that he will, but she still asks. The fear that flickers in her eyes for just a split second makes him frown. He kisses her again, finding that it’s just as addicting as it used to be. 

“I promise. On everything.”

Marion smiles. “I better get what I’ve been waiting for the past thirteen years.”

“You will.” 

Art is holding her so tenderly, he’s holding her like he just wants to make up for everything. For not choosing her when he should’ve. He kisses her like he’s going to show her that he’s learnt. That he’s better. He kisses her like she’s the oxygen he’s been deprived of for so long. But, he kisses her just how he used to. He’s just her Art. 

He always will be. At eighteen, and at thirty one. That’s a fact that won’t change. He won’t let it. And Marion doesn’t want it to, either.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024 … do not repost, alter, translate, or steal my work.

[ch4rryc0smos]

⊹ selcouth — a. donaldson.

synopsis — just another car ride with art, but it turns to something more, marion doesn't know that she's not the only one waiting, well, not until he makes it painfully obvious.

genres — friends to lovers, tension, mutual pining, late-night car rides, teasing, friendly banter, admiring, friend of a friend, domestic fluff, tooth rotting fluff.

pairing — art donaldson x friend!self insert, art donaldson x mutual friend!self insert.

warnings — none, it's all fluffy!

word count — 1.7k.

author's note — first oneshot on this account, and it's my beloved art <3 i adore that man so much, and he's oh so pathetic, how can i not? /pos. he's so loveable. also, i still have to introduce my other s/i's, so that's that. one day, i hope

masterlist.

Marion has zero recollection of how she found herself in this situation—Or maybe she does have an idea. And most definitely remembers, but just doesn’t want to recount. Something about sitting in Art Donaldson’s jeep after meeting up with her best friend Tashi Duncan makes her palms grow sweaty, and makes her shirt cling onto the back of her neck. She ignores all the gooseflesh that rises along her skin, eyes straying back to his face every few seconds, heinous gaze meeting the sharp edges of his jaw. He doesn’t even seem to notice the way she can’t keep her eyes off him. He taps his fingers along the steering wheel. She doesn’t know where his black shirt ends and the seat beneath him begins, she’s too focused on the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. 

She doesn’t know what exactly is brewing itself into existence in her stomach, but it’s treading somewhere between regret and giddiness that settles in her gut. How she even finds herself in such a predicament itself is a question of its own. One day she’s accompanying Tashi after her party, and the next thing she knows, her best friend has two lap dogs, one of whom Marion sadly has a soft spot for. An insanely delicate one. 

Sadly for her, Tashi notices, and somehow in some way, she manages to get these two going—Which isn’t actually surprising to Marion either. She’d been gravitating towards Tashi’s blond friend since day one, well, day one of meeting him and Patrick; the overconfident brunette. As luck had it, Art seemed to gravitate towards her too.

One thing led to another, and they’d go out without Tashi and Patrick more often than the other two knew of. Art and Marion never uttered a word though. Quiet car rides, going to Art’s favourite restaurant, ice cream at three in a parking lot. Even spending nights studying together when Patrick found himself tangled with Tashi. 

And all of that led to this. Another car ride. It’s nothing new, Art is ever the same. He took Marion to their local smoothie place, ordering their same strawberry shakes without a doubt in his mind. She waited behind him, and when he turned around, he flicked her forehead before he handed her the drink. 

She’s absent-mindedly chewing on the straw, trying to not stare, rather impolitely too. Usually she talks, and Art listens. This time though, she’s humming, and he’s silent as he taps his fingers on the steering wheel. 

She stops her mindless chewing, turns to him and clears her throat. “Art?” she calls out, voice quiet over the senseless rambling of the radio. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs back, voice almost breathless as he turns his head towards her, eyes still plastered on the road ahead. 

She takes that chance to really catch the entirety of his face, committing it to memory. She knows it’s already there, but she just has to, all over again. She drinks in every feature, the curve of his nose, and the chiselled jawline, and his faint smile lines. The way his eyes crinkle as he evidently smiles because she’s talking to him.

It’s such a simple concept, truth be told, but the butterflies that erupt in her stomach would beg to differ, she knows that. And as she’s caught up in the webs of her mind, he turns to her, icy blue eyes settling on hers. Her breath hitches in her throat. 

She curses herself for it but turns her head anyway, glancing at the window as she ignores his reflection staring at her serenely, or as serenely as he can while he tries to act clueless and fight back a grin. But she can catch the twitch of his lower lip from anywhere, even if that is the reflection in the dark of the outside world. 

“Don’t do that,” he says, placing his hand on her thigh, something he’s always done on their car rides. It’s never felt wrong, or out of place, but now it does. It doesn’t feel wrong per se, but it feels different. And in all the right ways too. Tingles shoot up her spine but she raises an eyebrow at him when their eyes meet again. 

She gives him a mocking look, “do what?”

“Don’t turn away.” He stops at a red light, leaning onto his steering wheel, pressing the side of his face into it. 

Her heart winces, why’s he doing that? He needs to stop—Immediately. 

“I’m not turning away, I’m literally facing you,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

“You’re pretty cute when you try to lie and end up redder than a tomato,” Art begins. Marion hates herself for letting the warmth flood her face at the words, she doesn’t even deny it. “Did you know that?”

He masks it as a question as if it isn’t some sort of confession, or that’s what Marion’s delusional mind is making of it. She gives him an incredulous look. “Didn’t, but I didn’t need to know it either, sometimes sharing is not caring,” she emphasises the not, intensely. 

“But I think it is.” He moves his hand from the plane of her thigh to instead have his index finger tilt her chin up. 

Marion doesn’t like how intimate it is because she doesn’t know how it’ll end. She can either be kissing him by the end of the night, or not talk to him as he drives her back to her dorm. Even if it were to go for the latter, he’d be nice enough to drive her back, she knows that much. 

“It isn’t, Art.” She sighs, even though she doesn’t truly mean the words anyway.

“Really?” She focuses her eyes on his face, not his Adam’s apple for once. 

She hums in response.

“Yeah?” he says, nodding. 

And then he leans in.

Her breath hitches in her throat for the second time that night. He smiles softly, letting go of her chin as he turns back to the steering wheel. That makes her pout, albeit subconsciously. When she catches herself in her rolled down window, she stops immediately. But she doesn’t miss Art’s little chuckle-snort. 

She turns back to him. “Art Donaldson.” 

His back straightens immediately, he coughs, looks away. This time Marion reaches for him, and turns his face towards her. She’s so grateful they’ve driven off into some neighbourhood and she doesn’t have to worry about any crashes. She expects every bit of smugness to have been wiped off Art’s face, but instead he reaches for her wrists and grasps them, holding her in place. 

Really close to him, leaning over whatever of the car that separates them, and eye-to-eye with him.

“Yes, Mari’?” he whispers, leaning closer. Marion tries to even out her breathing because she can already feel the erratic beat of her heart getting louder and louder, banging against the prison of her ribcage, muscles working overtime to provide her brain with blood because it’s all getting a bit fuzzy. Everything other than his face is out of focus to her. 

“Nothin’,” she manages, shaking her head. Then he leans down and closer until his nose is practically brushing hers.

She’s counting every eyelash of his, can count every line in his iris, and feels his breath fanning against her face. She’s so sure he’s doing it on purpose. It’s making her mind spin.

“Really wanna kiss you,” he starts, smiling softly. She wants to kill him. “But ‘m afraid you’ll think I’m the worst friend in the world.” She wants to kiss those lips until he forgets how to breathe. 

“Kiss me, you idiot.” She’s barely breathing, and she can tell by the way she sounds breathless.

“Yeah?” He gulps. His eyes crinkle at the corners. 

He wants to, he wants to kiss her. Her heart swells, she tries to fight back her grin, but when he grins too, she doesn’t stop herself. 

She nods. 

It’s like some dam breaks in Art’s mind. His eyes are raging oceans and no longer peaceful lakes that glisten in the sunlight. It’s moonlight breaking over wild waves as his lips meet hers, rather hungry, asking to swallow her whole, wanting to, even. But she doesn’t fight the waves threatening to have her heart, she lets them wash over her. Her hands weave their way into his hair and pull him closer, as much as possible. Until their breaths become one and he’s holding her neck tenderly as he fights back breaths so he can kiss her for longer. 

When they break apart, their foreheads are pressed together and Art’s eyes are half-lidded, but he’s smiling, and Marion’s hands haven’t left the back of his head. Art is caressing the back of her neck. She leans in closer, nuzzling her nose with his. He huffs a shaky laugh.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he breathes, eyes darting over her face, like he’s drinking in every detail for the first time, all over again. 

She laughs, closing her eyes. Which leads to her not being able to tell when he kisses her again, only this time it lasts just a second. His warmth is engulfing her face for a moment, and suddenly it’s gone. Not gone, literally—But it’s not overwhelming her senses anymore. It feels strange.

For the longest time, it felt strange when his hands would cup her face and he’d tell her she deserved better, now it feels strange because he isn’t holding her face. 

“Should’ve done it sooner,” Marion says.

“Would’ve.” Art shrugs.

Marion reaches up to touch her lips, they feel numb, tender even. Whatever that kiss was, she can say for sure that it was marvellous. Completely marvellous. So much so that she doesn’t even realise when her phone is ringing incessantly. She’s caught up in her mind, Art’s eyes dancing in her line of vision as she relives that memory as much as she can, in her head. 

“You… want another kiss?” he asks her, face tinted red when she turns back to him. 

She nods, grinning. 

Tashi’s call goes unanswered for the next hour. Instead, constellations are found, and one warmth cannot be deciphered from the other. Proximity has become a joke, and it is nothing more than a fickle concept. At least in Marion and Art’s little world they’ve created in the jeep, that is. 

Something unfamiliar, something strange, but so marvellous, Marion thinks that. And she thinks Art does too.

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