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samfieldd · 10 days ago

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Art Donaldson x Reader | 1940s AU | Inspired by The Notebook

Summary: He was all splinters and sunburn. She was porcelain and pressure. One reckless summer, then silence. 365 letters that never reached her. Now she's back, engaged to someone else and he's still building the house they once dreamed of... white with blue windows.

Georgia, June 26, 1940

The white dresses of the ladies fluttered in the summer breeze as they fanned themselves beneath the magnolia trees. The tennis club was buzzing with soft applause, silver spoons clinking against porcelain teacups, and the murmured approval of old money in crisp linen suits.

Art Donaldson had no business being there.

He knew it. They knew it.

The only reason they let him play was because he made them feel entertained. Like some backwoods miracle boy, scrappy, sunburnt, and too talented for his own good Something to gossip about later.

He didn’t wear white.

He didn’t own a pressed shirt.

And when he walked onto that court with his tanned arms and secondhand racket, people didn’t clap, they smirked.

He didn’t care. At least, he told himself he didn’t... until he saw her.

Sitting with her friends under a parasol, her legs crossed neatly, her gloves resting in her lap like she’d been born knowing how to wait pretty. Her hair was pinned back, her lips soft and disinterested. But her eyes, they cut him clean in half.

He won the match, of course. Made it look easy.

Some of the old men clapped politely. One of them scoffed, “Shame he doesn’t play for a real club.”

He was wiping sweat from his neck with a rag when he caught sight of her again near the bleachers. He didn’t even think twice. Just walked toward her, cocky, barefooted, and already halfway in love.

“Well, I reckon if I’m riskin’ my neck for a girl, I oughta know her name first.” He grinned, lopsided and crooked, like he was used to trouble. “Name’s Arthur Donaldson but you can call me Art. And you are, darlin’...?”

She looked him over with a glance so quick it almost didn’t happen.

Then she turned back to her friends, unbothered.

So he did the next logical thing, he climbed to the top of the bleachers.

All the way to the top in front of everyone and yelled: “If you don’t say yes to a date with me, I swear to God I’ll jump!”

Heads turned, gasps flew, laughter sputtered and her friends stared at her in shock.

She looked up, eyes wide with embarrassment or curiosity, he couldn't tell.

“I mean it!” Art called out, arms stretched like a maniac. “I'll do it! I’ll go splat right here on your pristine little tennis court!”

“You’re insane!” she shouted back, flushed with half anger, half… amusement?

He grinned, full of trouble “Then save me, say yes!”

And for the first time, she smiled, just a little.

“Fine!” she screamed, “One date"

He threw his arms up like he’d won the lottery. “Praise Jesus! I live!”

The next day she walked through Main Street with two friends at her side, their heels clicking neatly on the cracked pavement. The sun was beginning to set, casting a honey colored light over the storefronts and porches.

And then, there he was.

Standing in the middle of the street with sawdust in his hair, a hammer tucked into his belt, and his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His shirt was loose and stained, and his hands looked like they belonged to someone who never stopped building things.

He had no business looking that good, but he did.

Her heart jumped in her chest, traitorous and wild. Still, she looked straight ahead and kept walking.

“Hey!” he called, she didn’t stop.

“Hey, don’t ignore me now.” She sighed.

One of her friends whispered, “Isn't that the boy from yesterday?” “No” she lied.

He jogged ahead, stopping right in front of her, breathless, grinning. “You promised me a date.” She folded her arms “That was before I knew you were insane.”

He shrugged. “And now that you know, you still owe me” “I don’t owe you anything”

He stepped closer, eyes locked on hers. “Look, I’m not asking for forever. I’m asking for one night, one conversation, one moment.” She hesitated

“I swear to you,” he added, voice lower now, steadier, “if I disappoint you, you can pretend I never existed. You can walk past me every day for the rest of your life and never say a word. I’ll let you. But if there’s something about me that’s worth your time... I don’t let go of things I want. Not ever.”

She looked at him, the grit under his nails, the scar on his temple, the truth in his voice and that stupid, hopeful smile.

“Fine” she said “One night”

He showed up that evening in a truck that coughed and wheezed up her driveway. She climbed in, expecting to be driven to some diner or dance hall.

Instead, they parked in front of an old traffic light at the edge of town.

“What is this?” she asked, confused.

Art smiled. “This is where I used to come with my dad. We'd lie on the road until the light turned green, then run for our lives. Stupidest thing in the world.”

She stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You’re completely out of your mind.”

“Probably, but come on live a little.”

She laughed, half nervous, half delighted. “You want me to lie down. In the street.”

“Just until it turns green. Then we run, or scream, or both.” “You’re unbelievable”

“And yet,” he said, stepping out of the truck, “you’re still here.”

With a groan, she climbed out and followed him to the center of the empty intersection. The asphalt was still warm under their backs, but the night air was cool. They lay there, side by side, watching the light dangle above them, red against the stars.

“This is ridiculous,” she whispered.

“You’re smiling,” he said.

“No, I’m not.” He chuckled.

They stayed quiet for a moment, both of them staring up, then she asked, “Why tennis?” He exhaled. “My father found an old racket in the trash, broke as hell, strings half torn, I fixed it with fishing wire. Used to hit balls against the barn door until my shoulder went numb I didn’t even know the rules just knew I liked the sound it made.”

“That’s... quite interesting.”

“I guess. Most days it just felt like trying to hit something that kept running away.”

She turned her head toward him. “Do you still have that racket?” “Made a new one. With my own hands. I use it in tournaments.”

She smiled. “So you’re not just stubborn, you’re sentimental too.” “Dangerous combination,” he said.

She looked up again. “I envy that.” “What?”

“You talk like you chose your life. Like you built it with your bare hands.” “I did.”

She swallowed. “Mine was chosen for me. Everything I wear, everything I say. I’m a list of expectations that someone else wrote. My entire life routine was designed by my mother, from piano lessons, horse riding, the books I should read... absolutely everything.”

Art went quiet, then, softly: “What would you do if you weren’t afraid?” she blinked. “I don’t know.”

“Well, let’s start here,” he said, pointing up. “When it turns green, we run. You don’t think. You just move. Can you do that?”

She bit her lip, nodded. Before they could react, they heard a car honking and a raspy voice yelling obscenities at them for blocking the way.

They ran towards the sidewalk, while she laughed like a crazy woman, he just watched her, as if her laughter was the sweetest melody...

That summer felt like it would last forever. The air smelled like peaches and rain, the sun took hours to set, and the fireflies came out just in time for their fights.

They did everything young lovers did: bike rides through the dirt roads, shared ice cream cones dripping down their hands, swimming with friends in the lake until their skin pruned. They kissed behind gas stations, danced barefoot on the hood of his truck, and argued like it was a sport.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even healthy, most days.

They fought over everything, over nothing. Over glances, over jealousies, over what love meant and who deserved more of it. Their love was like a struck match: bright, hot, and gone too quickly.

“You never listen to me!” she’d yell.

“Because you never say what you actually want!” he'd shoot back.

He'd pace, fists clenched at his sides, while she sat cross-legged on the hood of the truck, tears in her eyes but refusing to cry.

“You think yelling makes you right?” she asked.

“No. But at least I fight for you. You just run away!”

One night at the diner, she smiled at a boy from town, an old friend and Art’s entire face shifted. “Who was that?” he asked sharply once they were outside. “A friend. Why?”

“He looked at you like he wanted to take a bite out of you.” “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not. I just don’t like being made a fool of.” “Then stop acting like one.”

He’d gone silent for hours after that, driving with one hand, knuckles white on the wheel. Later, he kissed her like he was trying to reclaim her.

And with them it was like that all the time, heated arguments that ended with kisses so intense that their lips ended up numb.

One afternoon in late July, she asked him to come to a luncheon at her family’s estate.

“I want them to meet you,” she said. “My parents and their friends.”

He hesitated, thumb tapping against the wheel of his truck. “You sure that’s a good idea?” she smiled, pressed her forehead to his “If they can’t handle you, that’s their problem.”

He wore the only nice shirt he owned, a brown one that didn’t quite fit right. She wore white, like everyone else at the table, the contrast burned.

The food was too quiet, the wine too bitter and the questions too sharp.

“So, Arthur,” one of the men said, “is it true you built your own racket?” “Yes, sir.”

“How… quaint.” Another lady chimed in. “I suppose that means you didn’t attend a proper academy?”

“I learned in my barn,” he said, jaw clenched.

Her father smiled politely, her mother did not. “Well,” her mother said, dabbing at her lips with her napkin, “it won’t matter much soon. We’re leaving next week, she’s been accepted into a fine academy for young ladies up north.” Art froze, she hadn’t told him.

Her eyes fell to her plate, he didn’t say much the rest of the meal.

To make it up to him, she asked to go rowing at the lake. He rowed in silence for a while the boat creaked under the weight of everything unspoken, she reached for his hand. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want it to upset you.” “I’m not mad,” he said.

“You are.” “Maybe.” They drifted toward the bank, and she leaned into him “Come on let’s not fight tonight.” he nodded, kissed her forehead “I know a place.”

After they dried off, they drove to the edge of town where Art’s father lived, a small house with creaky floors and too many tools.

“Pop, this is her,” Art said nervously.

His dad stood, wiped his hands on his overalls.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he chuckled “How did a girl like you fall for a troublemaker like him?” She laughed “Still trying to figure that out.”

His dad winked. “He’s got charm, I’ll give him that, none of my smarts, though.”

They had sweet tea on the porch, his dad told stories about young Art falling off roofs and chasing chickens barefoot.

She loved every second of it.

That night, he took her to the abandoned mansion.

Vines hung like curtains over the crumbling porch, the lake glimmered nearby.

“This is it,” he said “I want to buy this land someday, fix it up, make it ours.” “Ours?” she smiled. He nodded “I’d build it with my own hands.”

“I’d paint it white,” she said dreamily “With blue window frames and I want a room with a view of the lake, a studio for painting I love it I always have, I just... never had the freedom” He grinned “So you love art” She rolled her eyes “Don’t even say it”

He smirked. “Too late, lucky for you, that’s my name” She laughed, cheeks warm “That was terrible” “You’re smiling”

They walked through dust and broken boards, laughing, he kissed her against a wall where moonlight streamed through a hole in the roof. Their mouths found each other again, and again, he kissed down her neck, over her collarbone "Are you sure about this?" Due to the overwhelming pleasure she could only nod and whisper a small "yes." He only needed her soft nod before he slid the straps of her dress down her shoulders, slowly, reverently like unwrapping something sacred. Her bra followed, delicate against her flushed skin for a moment, he just looked at her, breathing hard, his eyes wide with something between awe and hunger.

Then he leaned in.

His mouth found her neck, kissing gently at first, then deeper, slower, trailing downward until his lips met the swell of her chest. He kissed her skin like he was memorizing it when he took her left breast into his mouth, she gasped, arching slightly into him.

His hand moved to the other, brushing across the peak with his calloused thumb.

“Art…” she whispered, her fingers gripping the back of his hair, “please… be gentle.”

He slowed his breath hitched against her skin but he didn’t stop, just adjusted, softening his grip, his tongue slower now, savoring the curve of her, the taste of her.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured between kisses “You always were.”

She whimpered, her head falling back against the floorboards, her chest rising and falling beneath his mouth. His name slipped from her lips again like a prayer.

But just as his hand slid down her stomach, just as the tension in the room was about to snap

Knock, knock, knock

They both froze.

Heavy pounding at the door shattered the moment.

“Art!” a voice called, it was his friend, out of breath “The cops are lookin’ for her, her parents called the sheriff! You gotta get her home!”

He pulled back, breathless, chest heaving.

She sat up quickly, holding her dress to her chest, her heart slamming against her ribs. The magic of the moment vanished, replaced by dread.

They barely had time to fix their clothes. The weight of what almost happened still clung to the air between them as Art drove fast, too fast, down the winding road from the lake, her hair was still damp from the night air, his hands still shaking on the wheel.

By the time they pulled up to her family’s estate, the porch light was on.

And her mother was already waiting.

Arms crossed, mouth tight, eyes cold.

"Inside, Now!"

She hesitated, but the tone in her mother’s voice left no room for protest.

Art followed a few paces behind, unsure whether to stay or turn around. She glanced back at him briefly, just once, and it was enough to make him stay.

Her father was already inside, standing in his study. The door was open, the room glowing with the soft golden light of a desk lamp.

“Come in” he said simply.

She walked in slowly. Art lingered in the foyer, hat in hand, he heard the door shut behind her.

What followed wasn’t yelling, it was worse than yelling. It was controlled, quiet, precise.

“She’s a child!” her mother’s voice came through the walls like a dagger.

“I’m seventeen!!” she snapped back.

“Exactly, and he is nothing!”

A pause, the scrape of a chair. Her mother again, sharper now: “He will be nothing”

“He loves me!!”

Her mother scoffed “He built a tennis racket in a barn, is that supposed to impress us? This boy has no future, no education, no name. What do you think your life will be with him? Raising babies in a shack by a lake?” Art flinched

In the silence that followed, he stepped back toward the door, but her voice stopped him.

“I don’t care!” she yelled “You’re not me you don’t know what I want!”

“You’re throwing everything away for a boy with calloused hands and an old racket”

“Better than marrying someone with money and no soul”

That silence again

When the door opened, she came out red eyed, trembling, fists clenched

Art looked up, startled she moved toward him, but he stepped back.

"Hey, hey, wait," she said gently, placing a hand on his arm “I’m sorry you heard all of that, didn’t you?”

His jaw was tight “Yeah”

“I didn’t mean for you to”

“She’s right”

“What?”

He pulled away from her hand “They’re right I don’t have anything I ain’t got a house or a name or money, just some tools and a messed up dream.”

“Art, stop”

“I’m not good enough for you,” he said, his voice quiet and raw “And I never will be”

“That’s not true”

“I love you too much to watch you ruin everything”

She shook her head, tears in her voice “Don’t you dare do this”

“I’m not what you need”

“I don’t want what I need,” she said, her voice rising, “I want you!”

He stepped back again, fists clenched.

“Don’t make this harder”

“No… you don’t get to do this, you don’t get to push me away and pretend like it’s some noble sacrifice”

“I’m not pretending!” he yelled “I’m being real, maybe for the first time.”

She stared at him for a long time, trembling

Then she whispered, “If you’re gonna leave… just go”

His face twisted like it physically hurt him but he nodded and walked out the door.

She didn’t sleep that night, not really and when she woke, the bags were already packed.

Her mother was waiting by the car.

“You’re leaving today”

“I’m not going” she said softly, trying to hold her ground.

Her mother didn’t argue, just said, “You don’t have a choice”

She ran barefoot to the carpentry shop, heart pounding, praying he’d still be there.

But he wasn’t.

His friend stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag. “He’s gone. Don’t ask where. He just… couldn’t stay” She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out, her throat was tight, her heart was destroyed.

She turned and left, the weight of it all dragging behind her like an anchor.

To be continued...

Author's Note: English isn't my first language, and I have to use a translator as a tool, so if you see any mistakes, feel free to let me know. I accept requests, and feel free to share any ideas you have.

Tag: @museboos

#challengers #mike faist #art #art donaldson #art donaldson fanfic #art donalson fic #samfield #art donaldson x female reader #art donaldson x reader smut #art donalson x reader #the notebook #fanfics #1940s #au #alternate universe #panic #hell is a teenage girl #teen girl

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samfieldd · 14 days ago

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Author's Note: This is my first time writing a fanfic, so any criticism is welcome. English isn't my first language, and I have to use a translator as a tool, so if you see any mistakes, feel free to let me know. I accept requests, and feel free to share any ideas you have.

Art Donaldson x Fem!reader

Warning: a bit of smut, Art is a very needy boyfriend

"Close your eyes!" came a shout from across the room, while hurried footsteps echoed closer, accompanied by nervous laughter. Art held a small Walkman in his sweaty hands, the one he'd worked hard for all summer. It was a 18th birthday present for a special person—for his special someone.

"Can I open my eyes now? I've been like this for five minutes, and the other guests will be here soon." It was a lie; she'd only been covering her eyes for about fifty seconds, but her impatience made her exaggerated, a quality Art loved like everything about her: her impatient nature, her need to be perfect and for everyone to notice it, even though she already was in Art's eyes.

"Stop exaggerating, the party will start in three hours, we have plenty of time."

"Well... you can open them now." With an expectant look he watched as she slowly opened her eyes and a look of joy formed on her face. Art would never understand how this girl who simply appeared in his life one day and from then on he knew he couldn't spend another day without her presence could melt him with a simple smile.

Without a second thought she threw herself at him and wrapped him in a hug of gratitude and he reciprocated by linking his arms around her waist closing the little space that remained between them in which the beats of both hearts echoed in their chests, both Art and she loved those intimate moments where only they existed where the weight of being perfect did not mortify her and the weight of being one of the best tennis players did not torment him.

To Art's displeasure, she slowly moved away from the embrace to take a closer look at her gift. It was a Sony Walkman. When she opened it, she saw a small cassette with a tape that said "Mix tape 1: Close to you." That was her favorite song, the Carpenters version. He knew it, he knew everything about her. "Oh my god, you're such a corny jerk. You always know what I like," she said, laughing. "That's what I live for. I don't know what surprises you. And instead of insulting me, you should kiss your boyfriend."

She didn't hesitate to carefully place the Walkman on her bed and break the distance, erasing the limits between her body and his, placing her hands on Art's warm and blushing cheeks while he held her by the waist and pressed her closer to him, it started as a tender kiss that was then corrupted by Art's hungry tongue that wanted to explore every corner of her mouth, it transformed into a wet and messy kiss, while Art's hands slowly went down from her waist to her butt, massaging and squeezing it as if he were trying to leave his hands printed on it while he felt her bury her hands in his golden curls. The more the kiss increased the more she could feel the bulge that grew and collided with her stomach, how Art's desperation consumed her more and more, until the unfortunate sound of the doorbell brought them out of their trance forcing them to separate their already swollen lips. "Fuck, the party starts in three hours, what the hell is anyone doing here now?" Art huffed as he tried to fix his pants on his aching erection, "You'll have to take care of that yourself, I have to go down and see the guests" and without saying anything else she left before Art could react and stop her, leaving the poor man like a needy puppy in the middle of her room.

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