#Pughbug

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not a day goes by that i don’t think about this photoshoot …

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Needy

One shot

sub Art Donaldson x dom reader - smut

This was so fun to write! I hope you all enjoy and please let me know what you think it genuinely means so much just getting one comment - also if you want to be tagged in all future Art x reader fics let me know <33

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“You can’t be serious.”

It was Art…again. Ever since you’d slept together he’d been knocking on your door more and more. The confusing thing was that his visits didn’t concern sex, he’d want help with things - little things like finding his phone or keys. When that got ridiculous to redo he started faking illnesses, some more convincing than others, asking you for medicines or bandages. Now here he was again, puppy dog eyes gazing at you - desperate for some glimmer of hope or affection. How you pitied him.

“Patrick beat me again.” His eyes turned to the floor.

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

No part of you was surprised, Art had been getting beaten by everyone recently. You’d stopped coming to his games to save yourself the embarrassment. The boy needed pushing, or motivating somehow. You looked at his little head, bowed in shame like a dog. “Come in then.” He practically jumped at that.

Once Art had gotten comfy, sitting cross legged in his shorts on your bed awaiting orders, you sighed. “You can’t keep letting Pat beat you, coming here and looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

You took in his slightly flushed cheeks, his doe eyes under the pile of blonde curls and the slight craning of his neck to show he was listening.

“Like that.”

Art smiled a smile you almost returned but couldn’t quite bring yourself to. He was demanding to be lead on - begging for it. Well, you wouldn’t.

“If I’d known you were gonna be this needy I’d never have fucked you.”

His smile didn’t falter at that. He was annoyingly positive sometimes, full of complaints when he wanted attention but never cross when he was being told off. Art just wasn’t one for giving up. You shrugged off your jacket and sat next to him on the bed, ignoring the way his eyes admired every inch of you.

“I’m glad you did.” Art grinned, feeling proud as he remembered you stripping in front of him and swallowing his cum as he whimpered. He saw it as his greatest achievement, far more impressive than any dusty tennis trophy. All he wanted, more than Wimbledon - more than fame more than anyone was you. You consumed him, you had since first year. Since he first plucked up the courage to ask you to a Stanford party and your friendship with Patrick had given him a doorway. One he refused to step out of.

“You’re beautiful.” He whispered, staring at your face in awe - his hand edging towards your own on the bed. You felt something at how earnest he was, something akin to warmth but something you couldn’t deal with just yet. “Careful.” You warned. “Just think before you speak.”

Art shook his head, moving closer to you. “Mmm, can’t. Not around you.” God, he was cute when he was desperate. His little wriggly movements, his wide eyes and puffy lips. He’s probably hard already, you thought trying not to smile. Poor baby, it had been a week since you’d touched him and for Art a week of pure longing. He’d touched himself to the thought of your kisses so much he’d forgotten how to finish without you in his head. Without the flashing images of your lips round his cock or your grin at his moans he felt nothing.

Sensing a ‘no’ coming, Art did what he did best. He begged. “Please,” he moved your hair off your ear to kiss under it. “I miss you.” You asked him how that was even possible when he’d been practically living in your room but time meant nothing to this star player. A second without you was a second too long. “Need you now mommy…please.” Your stomach flipped at the honorific, how it dripped off his tongue so deliciously. It suited him. You wanted him to say it again.

Before you could say anything Art was planting eager kisses up and down your neck. You let him, told yourself you were giving him a much needed win but really you were loving it. With Art so preoccupied with your neck you could safely squeeze your thighs together. You both knew how desperate he was to fuck you again, everyone knew. Patrick knew. His trainer. Your trainer. Everyone in a 10 mile radius. What you didn’t both know was how likely it was to happen again if he’d only beg a little more.

To Art’s dismay you gently pushed him off you, looking into his pleading blue eyes trying not to break. “You realise I’m not your girlfriend right?” It was harsh but a fair question. The boy seemed unsure. When he didn’t answer you narrowed your eyes. “Because I’m not fucking you if you answer wrong.” Suddenly the tent in Art’s pants hardened and his pupils grew a few millimetres. He got all wriggly, like an animal caught in a trap. A horny, desperate one.

“You’re not my girlfriend.” Art sighed but it was clear he was still hoping for your approval. He knew it should disgust him, how much he craved and desired it, but it didn’t. Your hand on his thigh only spurred him on, reminding him that he’d follow you anywhere and that he’d be or do anything for you. Anything you asked.

“Art,” you could tell he’d retreated into his head. Nothing a hand down his shorts wouldn’t fix. “I need you to relax okay?” Art melted into your touch and at the gentleness of your voice, the care in it. You found his cock immediately, hard and desperate, and felt the weight of it in your hand for a moment. If you’d been feeling mean you’d have teased him but something told you if you didn’t touch him now he’d cry.

As your hand worked its magic Art closed his eyes, leaning his head ever so slightly back. He needed this and fuck did he look angelic taking it. His little breaths and fluttering lashes spurred you on. It didn’t take long for him to start bucking up into your touch desperate for you to go faster. You refused, ceasing your movements to pull him with both hands into a kiss. He practically gasped when your tongue entered his mouth but that was followed by a moan at the intrusion. He tasted like spearmint.

“You’re so,” you gasped in between kissing him. “Fucking cute.” Art felt charged up at your compliment. You usually avoided giving them out finding it easier to show your affection rather than state it. He treasured those moments where you let slip how much you really liked him.

“Mmmm!” He was close you could tell.

“You gonna cum for me?”

Art started nodding aggressively, eyes closed and hips bucking.

“You can’t wait till you’re inside?” You cooed in that patronising tone he found so sexy and hurtful. Art tried to think straight, though his body was betraying him as it chased the orgasm you were yet to give. You asked him again, playing nice, and it sunk in the second time. Art stopped bucking. He stopped moving at all. All he could do was watch in a mixture of sorrow and excitement as you let his cock go.

“Take your shirt off.”

Art knew an order meant sex was on the table - not even on the table it was guaranteed to happen. He didn’t let on how gleeful he felt at that fact, instead he obediently threw his t-shirt off. It landed in the pile of clothes on your floor but his eyes didn’t linger for long, they couldn’t not when you were taking your own shirt off. Art gulped at the sight of your bare chest, your tits that begged to be kissed and sucked and the line of your neck and shoulders. God he was obsessed with you, truly he felt almost in love.

Art’s mind raced with possibilities. Were you going to let him eat you out? Sit on his face? Were you simply going to straddle him without any foreplay and sink your warm, wet pussy down onto him? His cock twitched at the image. You hiked up your skirt and let him hurriedly pull down your soaked panties with wide eyes. He couldn’t believe that was for him - because of him. The most beautiful woman in the world is turned on…because of me.

“You’re so b-“

You promptly shut him up by sinking down onto him, his eyes grew even wider with shock. No warning, no words just pure lust. Art was inside you again, finally, and it felt so good he thought he could cum already. “Shit…” he moaned and you hadn’t even started to move. His size was an adjustment, especially seeing as you hadn’t let him pleasure you beforehand, but you felt deliciously full. Full and smug.

“I might just stay here,” you teased, rocking your hips painfully slowly. “Forever.” It was torture for Art, your painstakingly light movements and your gleeful smirk. You both knew what teasing him did to you - how powerful it made you feel. “Mommy…”

“I’m right here.” You cooed, gazing down at his eager face and lust filled eyes. He hadn’t bothered to take his shorts off, you’d just shoved them to the side, and somehow that turned you both on more. All that mattered to Art was you. Your bare skin so close to his own and your heavy breaths, those he could hear even over his own moans. Although you wanted nothing more than to torture Art and bring him to the very precipice of pleasure just to snatch it away you had to think about your needs. Your cunt was leaking already, your skin was hot and there was a fire inside you that needed him. So when he moaned:

“Fuckkkk…”

It seemed only right for you to say:

“Yes that’s it, fuck mommy.”

Art groaned, indulging his lust and carnal needs he’d usually feel embarrassed of. Before you Art had always hidden his desires from partners and even himself. He’d been raised conservatively, this you knew, so you found it gratifying to pull his real self out. It made you wet to see his cheeks redden when you said such things and you couldn’t help the smile that filled your face when you felt him harden even more inside you. He started to quicken his pace.

As Art closed his eyes to focus on how good you felt you stared at him, watching him. Studying him. The way he clamped his arms around your waist to easily thrust up into you, how his eyes were scrunched shut so he didn’t cum early and that one bouncy curl hiding his left eyebrow. He was beautiful, you had to admit. In your horny state it was easy to get lost studying Art and forget everything else. He felt the same about you.

Art didn’t wait too long before opening his eyes, not wanting to miss too much. Your tits were so close to his face as your chest heaved up and down up and down. It was driving him insane - you were driving the poor boy insane. How could he still need you when he was inside you?

The bed creaked under Art’s rabbiting movements, groaning under the strain of his excitement. He was groaning too, whimpering whenever you kissed or bit his neck and struggling not to cum. It was all too much, your warmth, your tits, your thighs wrapped round his own and your lips open to let out angelic moans. He wanted to give you everything, everything he had. All Art desired was to make you happy.

“Mommy!” there was a tinge of panic in his voice as he stared at you, awaiting permission but still fucking you hard and fast like you wanted. Feeling sorry for him you awed in his face, circling your hips to meet his movements and brushing the sweaty curls off his forehead. He wanted to cum. “Already?”

Art nodded frantically, feeling his release draw closer and closer. You were on the pill, he knew that, but he still needed permission. With every thrust he sheathed himself to the hilt and yet you still both needed more. “You gonna cum for me?” Art’s mouth started opening as he edged himself, not wanting this moment to end but needing release more than anything.

“Cum inside mommy, I want to feel it.”

That did it.

Before you could finish your sentence, Art was holding your waist impossibly close to him and releasing inside you. “Oh fuck…fuck mommy I’m cumming, I’m cumming!” His little whimpers and blushing skin sent you over, within seconds you were cumming too. The two of you were panting like animals, bucking into each other with all the energy you could muster. Art’s cum started to drip out of you, down his sensitive cock and onto the bedsheets but your focus was him. He was breathing heavier than last time, heavier than you’d seen him after matches.

“Are you okay?” You asked after a moment, with genuine concern. Not wanting to startle him you chose not to move, instead you held him in your arms and kissed his cheek. The softness of it made Art feel safe but more sorrowful that you wouldn’t date him. “I’m okay.” He looked out of it so you squeezed his hand. “You can sleep here.” The boy practically jumped for joy. He thought he’d won.

“No, no.” You laughed at his presumptuousness. “This doesn’t mean what you’re thinking.” But Art slept wonderfully well that night believing there was hope yet.

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Masterlist

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Permanent Art taglist:

@theynothem @amorisxx

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why does he look so hot when he’s in emotional turmoil

my poor baby

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Marooned

Art Donaldson x ex wife reader

Part 2 of 2 - read part 1 here

Word count: 2,235 words

Warnings: smut , viewer discretion is advised. 🔞

Finally posted! I hope you enjoy, I loved writing this and I think you can tell because I don’t normally write this much in one chapter. Obsessed with these two and their messed up co dependency. Let me know if you wanna be on my tag list for ALL Art fics 🫶🏻💕

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You watched Art stand up to refill your glass as if this dangerous accident had been a planned date all along - as if you weren’t here by chance. He was being chivalrous. That meant he wanted something.

“Do you love him?”

It was Art who had been your way of life for so long, been your reason to get out of bed on bad days and never leave it on good days. If someone were to ask you if that feeling of devotion had been felt for another, could you look them in the eye and say what wasn’t true?

“Not enough.”

It came out as a whisper but he heard and if you thought he’d be amused by your little confession you were mistaken. He was frowning, still standing over you, checking his watch.

“It’s half 1,” There was shame in his voice as he spoke suddenly. “There’s a spare bedroom down the hall - on the left. You should rest.” Not once did Art’s blue eyes meet your own. A part of you knew he hadn’t called for the coast guard and that part of you was relieved but to ensure you stayed the night just to give you the spare room…what an odd decision. It was too late to question it.

You knew a hot shower and fresh clothes was what you really needed but whisky driven tiredness had hit you hard. “Well,” You stood up slowly, trying to catch his eye and failing. “Goodnight.” Art didn’t return the saying until you were down the hall and even then it was barely a whisper.

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The bed was pristine, fit for royalty, you were equally overjoyed and horrified that this was the ‘spare bedroom’. Art never talked of buying a boat when you were married, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was a mid life crisis purchase. If it was it was worth it. You eyed the wardrobe, feeling too freezing to sleep naked.

“Something…please…” you mumbled, rummaging through the piles of spare bedding and sheets until you found - “Jesus…” It was your nightdress, you were sure of it. He’d bought it you as an anniversary present, along with some ridiculously expensive earrings, and even in low lighting ten years later you knew it. The slight rip in the hem from when he’d gotten too excited that night, the barely noticeable fading from the wine removal disaster. It was your dress sitting in the spare room on a boat you’d never been on. Why?

You checked the time: 1:44am. Art was awake, you were sure of it, why not ask him? He’d certainly asked you enough questions tonight. After slipping on the dress you tip toed, bare foot, back to the hallway. There were two doors but one was clearly marked ‘Closet’ so the answer was clear. Art was in bed behind the door inches from you. You looked to the boat walls for guidance, as if someone was about to come out of hiding and advise you on the situation. No one came so the boat remained silent.

Knock knock

The pounding in your heart began to fade as the moments passed. He’s asleep, he hasn’t heard, good, it was wrong, you tried were just some of the thoughts swimming in your head as you waited, your face mere centimetres from the door. I need to go to sleep, it’s late.

“Y/n?”

It only took Art a few seconds to notice your attire. His hair looked the same so he’d been awake. Art’s hair always went spiky whilst he slept.

“I was cold, care to explain?” You gestured to your dress and Art inhaled deeply at the sight of you so bare. He refused to take too long gazing, sensing your anger. “I,” to lie did cross his mind but you’d call his bluff you always could. “Kept it after everything.”

“Why?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes widening in disbelief at himself and your question. “I just…”

“Just what?”

“I couldn’t throw it away.”

The man looked crushed, his eyes begged for your forgiveness and understanding. It reminded you of that night, how he’d begged then and how you’d refused to concede. It was all too much and too odd. A tear threatened to fall from your eye as you shook your head at him. “Why am I here?” You whispered as you begged Art for some cosmic answer to your sadness, he wrapped his arms around you and held you. Tightly. You held onto him, your bodies melting into one another as if the embrace was enough to fix everything. In that moment it almost was.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered gently, stroking the hair on the top of your head as his other arm held you right against him. “I missed you.” Your ears pricked up at that. Wiping your eyes you pulled away, trying not to look as shocked as you felt. “You missed me?” You wanted to be annoyed, to be horrified at his words and that look of devotion plastered on his face. It wasn’t fair - not after everything that had happened.

You’re not allowed to miss the woman you cheated on and divorced. You’re not allowed to stand on your fancy yacht pretending like you’re just a guy and not a grown man - grown tennis player - who dominates the sports world for a living. All of this you knew to be true and yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to be angry. You’d almost died, alone, in the middle of the ocean and who was there to save you?

He held you like he’d missed you, almost rocking you side to side as you inhaled his familiar scent. “You didn’t call the coast guard.” You mumbled into his shoulder.

“Hm?”

Knowing you needed to see his face, you pulled away again to look up at him. “You didn’t call,” his eyes were transfixed on your mouth and your eyes as you spoke. “The coast guard.” Art’s face was impossibly close to yours, his lips not quite touching one another. You knew if you had decency your mind would be with him back home. Back home in your perfectly comfortable little life. Your modest house filled with modest, pleasant memories.

“Ah…” Art exhaled, his cold breath causing your eyes to flutter. You could still get him to call someone, you could still go home to your life and pretend none of this had happened. Nothing had happened, you’d done nothing wrong. As your mind flipped and circled, Art’s arm snaked up your back to move your hair off your neck. I can still go home but of course you couldn’t. Standing in front of you was the only man you’d ever felt taken by, pulled toward and pushed away all at once.

Sensing your unavoidable guilt, Art pulled away. You felt the loss of his body against yours immediately and swallowed a sigh. He stared at you, willing you to say something but what neither of you knew. “Do you want me…to g-“ but Art had no time to finish, you’d already pleaded a ‘no’. Within seconds his lips were on yours, his hands were in your hair and yours were round his neck. He still kissed the same, still with feverish need and unquenchable desire. Your heart was pounding loud enough for him to hear and all the guilt ridden worries had dissipated.

Somewhere you’d locked away the moment Art kissed you were the words this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong playing over and over. It was a shame you couldn’t hear it. All you heard were yours and Art’s desperate, quaking breaths and the sound of the door closing as he pulled you into his room. You only broke apart when he lowered you onto the bed, the sound of the mattress creaking and his frantic movements to rid you of your dress filled the air.

Art left you kisses down your neck, chest and waist until finally he kissed your core. You knew you were wet but you hadn’t realised quite how much of a mess was between your thighs until you heard the unmistakable sound when his finger entered you. The boat was rocking gently enough to send you to sleep but Art’s increasingly eager movements had your eyes wide and your heart thrumming. He licked a long strike up your pussy before beaming up at you. “You taste the same.”

Hastily you sat up, not letting him ravage you like he so wanted, and pulled off his shirt. He whined at the loss of your thighs around his head but calmed when he realised what you wanted. He could always tell what you wanted from him, even if you didn’t use your words or even gesture he intrinsically knew. He knew your body and all your tells even after so much time spent woefully apart. When someone knows every inch of another that knowledge never really goes away.

To oblige your impatient nature, Art took off all his clothes and pulled you onto his lap. You sank down onto him without hesitation, Art’s arms closed in around your back. There wasn’t an inch between any of you, not even your head which was resting in the crook of his neck. Your eyelids were heavy but you could still make out the blackened waves rising and falling through Art’s window. Art exhaled…he wanted you to move.

After kissing his neck you began slowly, painstakingly slowly, riding him. Your legs were thrown over his thighs, making it easy for him to stay as close to you as possible. His chest rose and fell as you began to speed up. Little gasps and moans fell from his lips as he watched you in awe, through lust tinted glasses. To him you were an angel. In that moment you were his reason for being. As you arched your back, pushing your breasts closer to his face and closing your eyes he knew he’d do anything for you.

It didn’t take long for Art to thrust up into you, feeling every inch of him inside you suddenly pulled a loud moan from your throat. He wished he had his phone so he could hear you again - play your moans and gasps again on a loop relentlessly. He’d never get sick of pleasuring you, of feeling you drip onto his thighs and claw at his hair.

“I,” Art grunted as he met your rocking hips with his own, quickening his pace again. “Missed you so much.” He barely finished his sentence before you sank back down onto him, impossibly fast, and kissed him - not letting him speak. Don’t ruin this, you wanted to plead, don’t make me think anything through. Your high was coming quick, you just needed him to keep touching every inch of you. Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop.

“I’m…” You opened your eyes for a moment to stare at Art’s while you bounced up and down, feeling your thighs ache from the effort. To distract you perhaps, Art began biting and kissing your neck knowing where your pulse was and how sensitive you were. A blissful moan left your lips as he kept hitting that spot deep inside you where you needed him most. You’d almost forgotten how big he was. Almost.

“Art!” You exclaimed as just when you thought he couldn’t go any faster he did. All that training had given him impressive stamina and you were reaping the benefits sinfully. His moans grew louder, as did yours, and every few seconds you’d kiss again and muffle the desperate “I’m close” pleas.

Without warning, Art clamped his arms tightly around your waist so hard you knew he’d leave bruises and pounded up into you with desperation. The noises were pornographic, the bed creaked under the strain of his frantic movements and all you could do was writhe in his tight grip and take it. That familiar tightness began to feel louder in your core. Suddenly your toes curled and your eyes rolled back as a wave of unrelenting pleasure hit you from deep within. You’d known nothing like it, you felt high.

Art, not far behind, kissed you one last time before his thrusts faltered and you felt his warm cum spurt inside you, coating your walls. “Y/N…” he whispered into the night like a prayer, overcome. The two of you stayed like that for some time, his arms wrapped round your waist and your hands caressing his face. Neither of you spoke until he slipped out of you, sighing at the loss of your warmth.

“I’ll have to leave tomorrow.”

Art refused to look at you, his heart aching from your cold words. Of course you had to leave, you weren’t his wife. You weren’t his.

“Art?”

He looked at you. Your hair was unruly, your face flush and your lips swollen from the forcefulness of all that kissing and you’d never looked more beautiful to him. Ignoring the seriousness of your tone, Art gently pulled you into his arms so he could spoon you. His arm rested on your belly as he left gentle kisses on your neck and shoulders. It was his turn to stop you from ruining the moment, from letting reality bleed into his bedroom.

Reality could wait until morning.

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Masterlist

Resources 🇸🇩🇵🇸🇨🇩

Art fic taglist: @theynothem @amorisxx

[pugh-bug]

Marooned

Art Donaldson x ex wife reader

Part: 1 of 2

Word count: 2,488

This was supposed to just be a one shot but I got carried away! If you want to be added to my permanent taglist for all Art Donaldson x reader works please let me know 🫶🏻

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A seagull flew over your head, narrowly missing your ear with its wing as it passed. What were you doing here out at sea alone? It was reckless and you hadn’t done reckless for quite some time. You thought a boat ride alone might clear your head after the argument. He meant well, your boyfriend, but he could be a naively hurtful prick when the mood was ripe for it.

The engine moaned and groaned as you got further out to sea, the waves rising and falling gracelessly. Night had fallen and you had no signal and no way of knowing the way back to shore. It hadn’t seemed so far away moments ago but now every edge of the world seemed to be filled in with ocean. You tried to steady your heart rate as a large wave approached your modest boat and the engine whirred and creaked with fear. Just as you braced yourself for the wave a loud horn announced itself nearby. When you opened your eyes you were looking at his.

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‘Art?’ Your voice was hoarse as you looked up at the man pulling you up. The wooden, glossy floorboards told you you were no longer on your own boat. The man tried to explain to you what had happened and where you were but all you could focus on was the icy water dripping down your skin.

‘Let’s get you inside Y/N.’

You followed him into a lavishly decorated, wood panelled room. If it weren’t for the rocking beneath you you’d swear you were on land in some hotel. The lamps were Tiffany and the tables were mahogany, as expected your ex husband had done disgustingly well for himself. Even the scent in the air was rich.

Art fetched you a wool blanket and a towel before guiding you to sit on the inviting leather armchair opposite him. You shivered as he poured you both what appeared to be whisky, no doubt some 100 year old stuff no one had access to but him.

‘Do you need anything else?’ He asked as he sat down, his voice steady. You could hardly believe your eyes, 10 years it had been since Art Donaldson had been in your presence. 10 years since the divorce. Life had been kind to him, he looked older yes but he still had a youthfulness to his face. He was still handsome, still no doubt the tennis player most young female fans had posters of in their bedrooms.

‘I’m okay,’ you breathe, gathering yourself. ‘Thanks for pulling me out.’ In truth your memory of the night was already hazy and cloudy, almost in black and white. You remembered the gurgling of your engine dying and the size of the wave coming for you but nothing more. A familiar voice?

‘I couldn’t believe it was you when I saw your face. What the fuck were you doing in that out here on your own?’

Art was equally appalled as he was amused. Perhaps he was impressed with your attempt at independence and bravery, something he hadn’t got to see much of throughout your marriage.

‘To clear my head.’ It came out as more of a question. You needed alcohol to settle your nerves, a few more drinks would satisfy.

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‘Are you still writing?’

‘About tennis?’

Art pulled a face to say about anything, as if he didn’t believe you had the guts to write at all anymore. He wasn’t wrong.

‘No, didn’t have much opportunity after the divorce.’

Art raised an eyebrow at your comment, and the casual way you sipped your whisky afterwards. He watched you fade from view, metaphorically of course as you were in fact only inches away from him, as you remembered something. A memory from long ago that you’d tried to forget but couldn’t. It lived in the line between your eyebrows, the downturned smile you gave when you were concealing a lingering sadness and the constant sipping of your drink.

‘That day,’ you suddenly weren’t looking at Art across from you, you were looking at the memory of him ten years younger. ‘I was waiting for a call before you came home from Aidan - my agent - about the new book,’ Art nodded, remembering the man in the Prada suit who insisted on interrupting his time alone with you with phone calls about blurbs and font sizes. ‘And he picked up, must have rang him twelve times before he did, but when he did he told me he didn’t want me as a client - that my writing was average and he wanted better representation.’

‘Isn’t that supposed to be your line?’

You shrugged, still looking through your ex husband not at him, and sipped once again. ‘He got angry when I asked him why, started ripping apart my last articles and my last book. I think the word that came up,’ you pursed your lips at the memory. ‘The most was disappointing.’ As the boat bobbed, you pictured your old desk in yours and Art’s home where you’d received that call and you pictured Art arriving quite suddenly finding you staring at it.

After a long pause Art sighed a simple: ‘I never knew.’ because he didn’t. Of course he didn’t, why should he? That day had been painful enough without your failures as a writer coming into play. ‘Well, it’s not what stands out the most from that day anyway.’ You smiled, your down turned smile, at Art’s pensive face.

‘No, I think the toaster you smashed still wins.’ Art chuckled and you let yourself laugh at the absurdity. How were you on his boat? You didn’t believe in fate, it was all too simple an idea for you to take seriously, but something about it being almost ten years exactly since that day was alarming. Perhaps satisfying too, if you’d admit it to yourself.

Art stood up to fetch himself his jumper. ‘For what it’s worth, I always liked your writing.’ This you had to hear.

‘Really?’ It had come out even drier than you’d intended. ‘Because I seem to remember you selling any copies I gave you.’ That was only partially true. Twelve years ago Art had been spotted outside a hotel the two of you had been staying at by a desperately excited kid. Art had had nothing on him to give the poor fan but a copy of your latest book he’d planned to read in bed that night. Being the sweetheart he pretends not to be Art gave it away - only for the kid to pass him his last note and hightail it down the street smiling. Maybe sold wasn’t the right word afterall.

Art sat back down. ‘Adrian was a miserable agent and clearly stupid to have fired you.’ The whisky had started to have an affect because his words warmed your heart more than they had the right to.

‘You just never liked him because he didn’t find you funny.’ A playful smile edged itself onto your face, mirroring Art’s. He placed his glass down on the mahogany table, his eyes gleaming and not leaving your own, before scoffing. ‘He was alone in thinking that.’ Arrogant bastard.

‘I think, if you refreshed your memory you’d remember that I was the funny one.’ You couldn’t pass up the opportunity to swill your glass like a Bond villain to add some flourish to your comment. The atmosphere on the boat had shifted completely. You were starting to feel ten years younger and if it weren’t for logic you’d swear Art was looking ten years younger too.

‘You looked pretty funny flailing around in the ocean.’ Art quipped, enjoying himself a bit too much. You had to disagree. ‘You’d have felt bad if I’d have drowned!’ A giggle threatened to escape your chest.

He considered that for a moment, how bad he would feel if his ex wife was nothing more than a memory. Would he be allowed at the funeral? He didn’t know how badly the divorce had affected your scathing parents. The only thing your Mother had said to him on the day of the wedding was ‘Take care of her’ and that had felt more akin to a threat than advice. ‘Not sure your parents would have forgiven me.’

You scoffed, taking another rather large sip of whisky. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, my Mother thought a lot of you. She’d probably bail you out of prison.’

‘I didn’t mean her.’

The insecurity and guilt was evident on your ex husbands face, even through the slight haziness of your whisky lenses. You knew what he was remembering and it wasn’t just the offhand snide comments your Father would make at family meals or New Year’s parties, no. He was remembering that day.

‘Well…it doesn’t really matter now does it.’

Art adjusted in his seat, not ignoring your frown. He wanted to ask you something while he had you to himself for the first time in a decade. He might regret it. He might wish not to hear the answer, if you’d even be gracious enough to allow him one, but he had to know.

‘Can I ask you something?’

You shot him a just go ahead look.

‘I was always confused about - I mean about why you married me.’

‘Hmm.’

It took you a moment to figure out the right answer, an answer that was a mix of honesty and restraint. You’d already had a shitty, stressful day but something about him even daring to ask that after such a long time of no contact made you curious. Perhaps you needed closure for the ending and he needed closure for the beginning. You had to allow him that, he had saved your life after all.

‘We were twenty two I mean, doesnt everything seem like a good idea at that age?’ But giving closure was harder than you thought as that was a bullshit answer and you both knew it. You didn’t think you’d ever see Art again, let alone be trapped on a boat with him in the middle of the ocean discussing your marriage. All of your feelings, strong as they were, had been buried with the divorce papers and the box of his stuff he’d never come back for.

You had another sip, a nervous one, feeling Art’s eyes on you growing increasingly frustrated. He wasn’t going to let you change the subject that much was clear. If you were staying the night on his boat you were going to have to open up about this.

‘Okay,’ you sighed. ‘When I first met you you were the only boy who even tried to understand me, in any capacity. You didn’t want me to be your cheerleader and you didn’t treat me like a sexual exploit. I actually,’ this was harder than you thought. ‘Laughed harder around you than any of my friends. You made me feel great pretty much all the time and you listened to me. I didn’t have to fake anything with you. When you asked me to marry you I didn’t have any doubts.’ You looked at his eyes pointedly. ‘Did you?’

Art was stunned but he knew he believed you. He’d never forget your face when he proposed, not if he lived a thousand lifetimes. ‘No.’ Without question the answer was no.

‘Then-‘

‘Then why’d I do it?’

You’d never asked so he’d never told. He wasn’t sure he had a proper answer. No answer would rid him of the decade long guilt that festered its way through his veins like a cancer.

‘It was only once, I know that. Just tell me why.’ You kept your voice calm but the hurt revealed itself anyway. Even after all the promises, all the if I ever see him agains here you were showing your decade long pain to the man responsible for it.

‘I think the ‘forever’ part of marriage had started to feel like pressure. More pressure I couldn’t fucking handle.’

He’d lost the U.S Open the week he went to her flat behind your back. While you were watching the results on tv in the family room, shedding tears for your beloved husband and all the work he’d put in, he was with her.

‘It just sort of happened when-‘

You raised your hand, almost like a lawyer. You suddenly didn’t want to know, didn’t want to picture that woman - that girl really - writhing while she road your husband into the bed.

‘I’m good.’

Art was relieved at your gesture. He didn’t want to relive that life changing mistake. The mistake that lost him you.

After a long and cold silence, you let Art off the hook with a quip about her. About if they were still together - which of course they weren’t and you knew anyway. As much as you’d tried to avoid Art like any other ex, Art was no ordinary ex. His face was plastered on magazines, your television and your phone. You’d know if he sneezed, what time and whom he was with.

‘No,’ Art smiled at you knowingly. ‘We didn’t really gel as it happens.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘She wasn’t-‘

‘Tennis?’ You raised an eyebrow at him, knowing the only real threat to your marriage had been sport not another woman.

‘You.’

He let you sit with that for a moment, looking pensive as he drank more. You took a large swig of your whisky yourself, as a way to fill time more than anything else. Art’s eyes were fixated on your face and on your features, comparing and contrasting them with your younger self you imagined.

‘You haven’t changed much.’

‘Is that a compliment or an insult?’

In your marriage it had gotten increasingly difficult to decipher the two. When he referred to you as ‘Mrs Donaldson’ it was once clear that he found you particularly alluring that day but the honorific had become sour. Patronising on occasion towards the end.

‘Compliment.’

…and yet you missed being Mrs Donaldson.

‘Is this where I tell you whether I’m single or not?’ You sat back in your chair, analysing his reaction. Wanting information. Wanting him to give a shit who was with you, touching you - holding you at night. Art’s eyes flickered at the subject you’d brought into question, feeling your daring nature come into play.

‘Are you?’

‘No.’

His jaw clenched as you smiled sweetly, as if you’d just informed him you were now a nun and only had eyes for the Lord. ‘Why wasn’t he with you on that boat?’ Art questioned, leaning forward slightly.

‘Argument.’

‘Who won?’

‘We never finished it.’

That seemed to amuse Art even more.

‘We always finished ours didn’t we?’

You smiled at his wistfulness and the strange pride he seemed to take in that fact. Suddenly you felt very far from your boyfriend and new life indeed.

‘I won almost all of them.’

———————————————————————

Taglist: @amorisxx

Part 2

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Voiceless

Paul Atreides x servant reader

SFW, quite angsty with some fluff

Word count: 2,105

First Dune fic, I hope you enjoy! I know people follow me for Challengers content mostly but this was so nice to write for a change. I hope everyone has a great New Years <3

——————————————————————

You had been Paul’s servant for two years. He’d hand picked you out of a line up of seventeen and kept a close eye on you from the moment you began washing his suits. It was no secret to Jessica, his Mother, that her son harboured certain feelings for you but if kept at bay she knew you posed no threat. Despite that unshakable belief, you’d catch her commanding stare several times a day. The one that said you are nothing, never forget it.

It took several months of unprofessional, longing looks and delicate hand touches before Paul finally kissed you and since then your life had been consumed by a need for him. Sometimes it frightened you. The hours in between seeing him stretched on endlessly, you’d find yourself staring at walls waiting. You did a lot of it and it only got worse the closer Paul became to inheriting his Father’s title. His duties were greater, his training was longer and the weight of responsibility was heavier. You had to make the most of every minute spent together and those were becoming few and far between.

“Gurney should be more careful.” Paul flinched as you caressed his bruised rib, your fingers barely grazing the blackened flesh. “You should dodge, you’re just giving me more work.” You gestured to the rip in his tunic, already dreading the needle work. His shirts were getting so frayed there was barely enough sturdy fabric to stitch together. It used to hurt you to see Paul so beaten but two years of licking his wounds and kissing his scars had left you numb to the sight.

“Can you do something for me?”

Paul didn’t miss the tightness in your voice and the insecurity brewing in the room as he awaited your request.

“I can’t take another evening of being your servant and nothing more in front of your family. Please… please ask for Milena.”

Milena was the ‘middle man servant’, her job was to be on call incase any Atreides needed a temporary replacement. Paul never asked for her, he always found her incessant desire to please irritating.

“Paul?”

He hadn’t spoken for a few moments.

“Milena’s serving Feyd. His servant is still missing.” Missing but presumed dead was the rumour. You hoped for her sake that she was. Whether she was or wasn’t didn’t help your dilemma however. Paul squeezed your hand, his eyes scanning your reaction despite knowing your thoughts. He knew you inside and out, it was unnerving how much power he had over you. What you loved was how little satisfaction that truth brought him. He did his best to ignore it - to level the playing field. Impossible of course but try he did for you.

“I could-“

You raised your hand in polite protest, feeling a sigh come on.

“No. I’ll endure it.”

Paul brushed a piece of hair off your forehead before gifting you a tender kiss. You’d see him in the morning.

——————————————————————

“Quickly.”

To keep up appearances you’d had to sleep in the servants quarters and were paying the price for the hard beds as you poured drinks. Course after course you brought out, feeling Paul’s eyes on you at every turn but Feyd’s as well. Unwelcome as his attention was, it did provide Paul a reason to show his possessive side. That was welcome.

“Have you been practising Paul?” The harsh tones of Jessica silenced the jolly table. Duncan, suddenly mesmerised by the door, ceased his chatting and braced himself for the voice. Jessica used the voice on you at least once a week, when Paul was away, to punish you for the sin of being you. It never became a force you grew accustomed to, in fact on occasion it felt stronger. The first promise Paul ever made was that he would never use the voice on you. A promise he’d never break for anyone.

“Yes.”

Liar.

Jessica stared Paul down across the silenced table of hungry guests. Everyone’s eyes were fixated on the pair and what they were going to do next. Who would they choose as the recipient? Standing behind Paul, as was traditional for servants, you avoided his Mother’s smug gaze. As the white hand of Feyd Rautha snaked tightly around his glass, Paul stared at Milena.

“SIT DOWN.”

Immediately Milena found herself sitting on the cold, unforgiving stone of the hall - her face in shock. You didn’t miss the elation in Feyd’s face. Fixated on Paul’s movements, he stood up from his chair and demanded to ‘see it again’. Paul refused.

The rest of the dinner went smoothly. You did your duties as expected, paying Paul no mind and taking plates away as swiftly as you brought them. Milena wiped the sweat from her brow on the back of her hand before serving Feyd his final platter, earning her a disgusted look from Jessica. Nothing was out of the ordinary until later.

“What’s your name?”

Everyone had left: the staff, the guests, the hosts and Paul. He couldn’t wait for you as it would arouse suspicion. You and the man before you were alone.

“Do you like being Atreides cattle?” The man circling you, asking probing questions, was Feyd. His eyes ran shamelessly over your face and body, you had to suppress the shiver of disgust surging through you.

“I’m sorry?”

Feyd loomed over you, his wolf like intimidation efforts reminding you of an old rhyme. One your Mother had once read you.

“For she could not move whilst she did know of the rumbling, thundering beast below.”

The beast before you spoke in a husky voice you found repulsive but words spoken with black tongues often lose their charm. “You’re wasted as a servant,” Oh. Paul would be beside himself. “I could look after you,” spoken by a man who fed off the suffering of others. “If you were my mistress you’d belong to me.” He ceased his predatory circling so his feet almost touched your own and his eyes could soak up your horror. “Belong only to me.”

“The beast knew only of her pain

And the suffering he brought her again and again.”

You steadied your breath refusing to look at the floor, tempting as it was. Feyd’s eyes chilled you. “You have two days,” he whispered before grinning unpleasantly. “There’s a lot of women who’d die to be in your position.”

——————————————————————

“And then what?”

Paul faced the bed, not you. His voice was unreadable.

“I left! I felt like an ant, what am I supposed to tell him? A servant turned mistress is seen as a great opportunity by so many here that I-“ you felt your blood pressure rise with every word. “I fear I can’t say no to him - if - if I do I need a reason. A proper reason. I can’t say no for the sake of it, I’d need to be diseased or married.”

You pictured Jessica’s smug face watching you drag your used body from Feyd’s room to the kitchens, knowing you were apart from her son. Knowing she’d won.

“Surely it’ll pass, he has the attention span of a gnat. He has a reputation-“

“I’m well aware of his reputation Paul, why do you think I’m panicked?”

Paul looked at you with a mixture of pity and fear. Though he tried to minimise Feyd as a villain in his mind he couldn’t ignore the very real risk he posed. He was becoming worse, the walls were whispering about it. He wasn’t just an arrogant boy playing with others for his own entertainment anymore, he was psychotic.

“I-“

Knock knock

Your heart sank knowing someone was about to pull Paul away and as was routine you’d have to look busy when they did.

“Paul? Gurney is waiting for you.”

You didn’t bother to watch him leave, knowing he’d run after anyone who needed him but you. His love but always his servant.

——————————————————————

The sun hit your face reassuringly the next morning with the promise of something good on the horizon. What it was you couldn’t think or dare to guess.

“Y/N?”

You turned your head to see Paul, he must have climbed into bed without waking you. A difficult task. He looked beautiful in the morning with his mop of curls and slightly confused expression. His dark eyes met your own as you curled into his warmth. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?” Paul smiled down at you, snaking an arm around your shoulders. Smug.

“I want it to.”

His eyes held sadness in them at your words, at the disappointment on your face. He’d let you down again, he knew that much. Being a Duke’s son, inheriting an empire and the knowledge of the Bene Gesserit didn’t align with you. As much as the two of you denied it the truth was you didn’t belong in each others worlds. Thinking just that, and resenting it, Paul ran his fingers through your hair and kissed you.

“So beautiful…”

You melted at his morning voice and his words, the way he looked at you as if you were all that mattered. If only that were true. You kissed him back with all the love in your being, pulling him close to you. You wanted to keep him with you ‘always’ as you had once said in the night unbeknownst to sleeping Paul.

“I love you.”

As soon as the words left your lips you felt assured you’d needed to say them. They were always bound to burst out of you at some point and the day before Feyd took you in his clutches seemed as good as any. Paul beamed at you and with only the smallest bit of hesitation, as he had to take in your words, returned them. “I love you.” Your heart could have sang but instead the door flew open and the frenzied face of Jessica stared at you.

Paul jumped at the sight of his Mother, grasping for the duvet to cover you both. “Stand up.” Jessica snapped, only looking at you with more disdain than ever. You wrapped the covers around yourself, trying to keep some dignity intact but you knew what was to happen. You watched the floor and waited for the inevitable, feeling the happiness of the morning dissipate all too soon.

“Am I dismissed?”

“You must think me an angel.”

Jessica clasped her hands together before taking intentionally slow steps towards you. “You’re to be banished…” Another step. “You’ll never see these halls or anyone in them again.” Paul’s eyes grew wide as his Mother dulled out her punishment. “I’ll ensure no one will hire you as a whore least of all a servant.”

“You will not speak to her like that Mother.”

Both of you turned to Paul in surprise, neither of you expecting him to defend you but never the less his face was defiant. There wasn’t an ounce of regret in his eyes. Jessica pursed her lips in disappointment. “Don’t be so naive. You know who you are Paul, you’re above this. You’re above her.”

“SILENCE.”

The voice…

His own Mother…

“Y/N is my future wife.”

Your ears must have deceived you, or were you dreaming? Had you fallen asleep in Paul’s arms again? ‘Future wife’…Your heart felt as though it were vibrating, not pounding but spinning inside your chest. You didn’t dare look at Jessica, whose face was surely enraged, instead your eyes met Paul’s. There was nothing but tenderness in them.

You were going to be free.

As if his Mother was gone and of no importance, Paul rushed to you. He squeezed your hand and smiled reassuringly. “Y/N…” It had all become so clear, so simple. Paul had loved you quietly but he wouldn’t anymore. “Will you have me?” Such a modest request from the second most important man of Caladan. You hardly registered the sound of Jessica’s footsteps of retreat as Paul spoke, all you heard were his words. His proposal. Finally a proposal.

You couldn’t speak, you were out of words. All there was for you to do was throw your arms around his neck and kiss him breathlessly. When you finally pulled away Paul was beaming, feeling almost as free as you. No one could harm the wife of a future Duke, he wouldn’t allow it. Feyd would rot and so would his Mother’s hate and you would never clean a plate again.

“I’ve never loved anyone else, I never will.”

No longer would you be a dutiful servant, waiting in the wings for a moment that never came.

“I’ll love you forever.”

——————————————————————

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Tease

Art Donaldson x reader

Part 1 of possibly 3

You’re Patrick’s unofficial girlfriend but Art Donaldson can only find it in him to care so much. You’re everything to him.

Warnings for this chapter: none

First fic of 2025, hope everyone’s January is going good. Let me know if you wanna be added to my Art tag list 🫶🏻

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Art’s life mission was to please you, it had been since you’d first met. It didn’t matter that you were Patrick’s on again off again ‘not really serious’ girlfriend and not his. It didn’t matter that you had plans to move away after graduation and would likely never return and it didn’t matter that he was supposed to be practising. With you near nothing else mattered.

“Why’d you stop?”

You cocked your head at your friend who didn’t look tired - in fact he’d barely broken a sweat - but wasn’t moving. Pat served again with a fresh ball, flashing you a ‘what’s with him?’ look which you shrugged at. Art caught the ball in his hand. “Just don’t feel like playing anymore.”

“Because I’m winning?” Pat grinned.

More than you know, Art thought in dismay. His best friend, his only true friend and yet he was harbouring feelings for you. Naively he’d assumed they’d disappear after a few dates with the many nice girls who asked him out between matches but nothing had worked. Not avoiding you entirely, not trying to see you in a bad light and certainly not sex. All he thought of when he made some girl cum was you: what you’d look like, how you’d taste and what your moans would sound like.

“Art? Help me carry this would you?”

He was tortured.

That Spring he trained almost daily with Patrick and a few other tennis friends winning half of his matches, always losing with you present. Once Spring turned to Summer the three of you were together everyday, you being in your gap year had free time, and everyone knew something was off. Even you knew after one particular game.

The sun was cooking the court and you found yourself surprised you could stand at all, let alone speak. It was Patrick’s turn to serve, he locked eyes with Art whose attention was on you and your unsteadiness.

Thwack

You watched with half lidded eyes as the pair battled it out for three sets. Your skin felt on fire, melting under the oppressive rays you couldn’t evade. Shade was out of reach. The water bottle in your hand felt cold for only moments before it heated in your sweaty palms. Patrick and Art were still playing but you only knew from the sounds. Your vision was blurring. Everything turned to static and the bench you were perching on no longer supported your body as it sank and sank and sank…

“Y/N!”

Were you underwater?

Who was speaking?

“Y/N wake up, it’s ArTh! Please wake up, can you stand - can you stand Y/N? Open your eyes. Please…”

Someone placed a bottle of ice water in your hand and something squishy, rounded off at the edges. You opened your eyes to see Patrick passing you fruit pastels whilst Art’s eyes checked you over for signs of life. The boy looked distraught, as if you hadn’t just fainted but instead had been hit by a truck or something more traumatic he didn’t want to imagine. Patrick frowned at his doubles partner, narrowing his eyes before rubbing your back and asking if you could stand. His voice was steady, he’d seen you faint before.

Once you’d downed some sprite and more sweets, you focused your eyes to see if they’d recovered. The buzzing, muffled sounds had ceased and Patrick and Art no longer looked miles away. You were okay. “Right,” Patrick exclaimed rather suddenly. “She’s fine, let’s just call that a draw.” Before you could interject Patrick pulled his friend to one side. What you then heard was whispered.

“Are you okay?”

They both shot you frantic glances you caught but pretended not to in the corner of your eye. Art looked at Patrick with glassy eyes, fearing the worst.

“Patrick I-“

“Can you control yourself?”

Art didn’t respond.

“Don’t get me wrong it’s entertaining and look…I get it but just chill out a bit.”

He flashed Art a charming smile and patted his shoulder. You didn’t have time to mull anything over much before the three of you were on your way out but one thing was clear: Art Donaldson was no friend.

——————————————————————

The following day you ran into Art whilst shopping, staring at the cheese aisle to calculate the best offer holding a lot of items. Too many. Your bare arms were coated in goosebumps from the intensity of the fridges’ air. He watched you and glanced round for a moment but saw no sign of Patrick.

“Y/N?”

You almost dropped the cheddar you were holding.

“Jesus Christ!”

Art had feather light footsteps, it was a gift for tennis and apparently also sneaking around. His eyes were wide at your reaction but he quickly adapted a facial expression that better suited talking to someone he adored. “Sorry.”

You exhaled deeply, returning your attention to the aisle of cheese. “We should get you a bell.” Art blushed at the immediate image of you adorning him with a collar and using it to pull his face towards yours.

“Art?”

He looked out of it - he was out of it.

“Should have gotten a trolley…” You mumbled, struggling to hold everything. At your words Art snapped into action, marching all the way to the entrance to fetch you the cleanest trolley available. He came back with an eager look on his face which you were growing fonder of every-time you saw it. “Thanks,” you smiled, a laugh playing on your lips.

Art stayed by your side, despite having only wanted a cereal bar, for your entire shop. He placed any item you looked at in the trolley for you and he pushed it tirelessly when it got heavy. Never patronising but always helpful. You tried your hardest not to take pleasure in his incessant helpfulness but failed. Especially when he paid.

“Art no, it’s my food I’m paying.”

Unconvinced, Art swiped his own card and bagged your groceries for you with the intensity of someone late for a wedding. Your lips parted at the sight, you were no longer breathing through your nose.

“Where are you parked?”

He followed you, bags in hand, to your humble Fiesta at the end of the lot. It wasn’t until he’d finished placing each one into your trunk that you offered him a lift home. “Or wherever you’re going.” Art was supposed to be going to a house warming party but he was already late.

“Yeah just going home, no plans today.”

His phone vibrated, flashing with messages of ‘where are you’s and question marks but he ignored each one to ask what your plans were. “Movie night. Patrick said maybe a Scream marathon.” Your eyes were fixated on the silent road in front of you whilst Art found himself wishing there’d be traffic. His mind played images of Pat sitting beside you, arm snaked around your waist and a sultry look in his eye. He tried not to picture the two of you clinging to each other, sharing popcorn and the occasional kiss that might turn into more. He tried and tried and tried.

Truthfully the three of you only ever spent time apart when Patrick was missing…certain aspects of his relationship with you. Everything else you did together, including movie marathons. Art spent the entire red light wondering if he was allowed to come now he’d ruthlessly cancelled his own plans.

“You into scary movies?” You asked, eyes shifting from the old lady at the crossing to the cyclist hurtling past. Every movie marathon the three of you had had covered every genre but horror, even on Halloween when Pat insisted you watch ‘The Meg’. It had ‘big shark’ as he had so eloquently put it.

“Not massively.”

Art didn’t want to tell you how easily scared he was, especially by the supernatural. It wasn’t that he believed in ghosts and demons as such but the idea of an otherworldly being that wouldn’t conform to physics terrified him. How could you defeat something not bound to logic? When his friends had made him watch ‘It’ he’d had to leave the theatre early. Clowns on top of his psychological fears had been too much to sit through.

“We weren’t gonna watch anything disturbing.”

Art watched you watching the road and smiled, suddenly feeling hopeful. “Like I said I have no plans.”

——————————————————————

1 hour into ‘It: Chapter 2’ you found yourself slumped against the cushions with Patrick’s shoulder digging into one arm and Art’s knee against yours. None of you had paying much attention, just talking and shovelling in popcorn at record speeds when Pat exclaimed “Fuck!”

He jumped off the sofa like a spooked cat and raced to his bedroom before returning with his keys. “I was supposed to cat sit for James I was meant to be there an hour ago. Shit!” Art raised an eyebrow, wondering when Patrick had last done anything for James that wasn’t beating him at tennis.

“Keys, wallet…”

As you watched your boyfriend grabbing tirelessly at every object in the room Art focused on how close the two of you now were without him.

“Bye!”

Door slam

“Jesus…” You breathed, trying to take in the chaos of what had just happened. “I hope they’re not too hungry when he gets there.” They Art thought, having no idea what animals James even owned. He chewed on the inside of his mouth as you took a swig of water. “I can’t imagine having cats at our age,” You played with a piece of hair that was hanging in the wrong place. “It’s like having an actual kid.”

“You don’t want kids?”

“Patrick doesn’t.”

Art took in your solemn expression for a moment, before leaning closer to you.

“And what do you want?”

Your throat felt blocked as you struggled to swallow a breath. How long had it been since you’d been asked that? Relationships were so difficult for you. Not only did you entangle yourself so disastrously with anyone who showed interest but you rarely separated your needs from theirs. You thought back to your parents questioning why on earth you were taking a gap year after always saying you knew exactly what career and degree you wanted. Patrick, it was always Patrick. His apartment, his University, his interests and his tennis dreams.

“I know it’s not really my place-“

“It isn’t.”

You’d said it without thinking and your voice, in an attempt to conceal the emotion, had sounded harsh. Cold. Art retreated into himself, turning the movie volume up to fill the room with something other than his regret.

He left as soon as it finished.

Patrick ended up cat sitting for three consecutive days that month, leaving you lost. It wasn’t that you missed his jokes, his kisses or even his company as much as you missed someone filling the silence. You hadn’t heard from Art since he’d left post credits. No texts or missed calls.

Like an unplugged appliance you dragged yourself uselessly from one shop to the other not buying anything. Aimless, directionless like you so often were. You cursed yourself for not having made more of your own friends, instead of absorbing Patrick’s to keep him happy. When it grew dark you swallowed your pride.

Hey are you busy?

Delivered 9:48pm

What’s wrong?

Delivered 9:52pm

You stared at Pat’s empty apartment, the unwashed dishes, the pile of recycling and the black screens playing nothing.

Bored

Delivered 9:53pm

The fridge groaned in tune with your stomach. There was nothing good in either.

Wanna come over?

Pizza?

Delivered 9:54pm

I’ll be there

Delivered 9:55pm

——————————————————————

Part 2

Masterlist

Permanent Art taglist: @theynothem @amorisxx

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@ art donaldson

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thinking about them today

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Green Ethics

Bruce Banner x reader

Part 1 of 2

Warnings: none

Word count: 2,061

Bit angsty, reader is over 21

I’ve been a bit obsessed with mcu Bruce since I was a kid and I don’t know why I’ve never written for him before. I loved writing this, I know it’s not Challengers like I’m sure some of you purely follow me for but I hope you enjoy it. Part 2 soon 🫶🏻

——————————————————————

“Right, what are we thinking? Truth or dare?” Clint grinned childishly, with a worryingly large drink in his hand. You’d been playing drinking games, the seven of you, for once enjoying the freedom of not having a villain to defeat.

“Are you twelve?” Nat sat beside Thor, looking unimpressed. You, however, thought it might be fun to learn some of your friends’ secrets especially those belonging to Bruce. You’d harboured a childish crush on the scientist since you’d first met and he’d shown you his lab. He was so intelligent, solving and creating calculations far beyond your brain capacity. You liked that he was older than you, despite Nat telling you older was too old, and that he was mature and kind. Rare traits for men, you thought. Part of you wondered if he had a dark side, one other than the untameable green monster he hid so well.

“I am not familiar with this game.”

Once Thor had been filled in on the concept of truth or dare he belly laughed, raising his glass in excitement. “Ah! Let’s play this truth game I want all your secrets.”

After a few turns, learning that Tony had slept with a former Vice President was the biggest surprise, you thought of what to ask Bruce. Your plan was soon thwarted when Tony stole your idea and used it on you.

“Y/N truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

“Have you ever, and we won’t hold it against you or make fun of you too much, thought about one of us in a saucy not safe for work or Steve’s ears way?” Tony grinned at the reaction his question created. Where embarrassment should have been, alcohol induced confidence was. Perhaps too much. Everyone but Bruce leaned in closer, eagerly awaiting your answer.

“She has and it’s me. It’s definitely me.”Thor nodded to himself confidently.

“I have.” As the words left your mouth you coyly smiled, ignoring the drunken excited ‘woo’s’ from your friends to read Bruce’s emotions. He had barely made eye contact with you all evening but your reply had made him raise an eyebrow atleast.

“Y/N if it’s me- and it has to be I mean come on- then I’ll have to tell you that my first and only love is science.” You ignored Tony’s jabbering and tried to find Bruce’s eyes. When he finally looked up and locked your gaze you just smiled “It’s not either of you.” It didn’t take long for everyone to catch on. Steve grinned at Clint commenting on how he’d had a feeling you felt this way. Nat held her hands up saying she didn’t want to be a part of the game in the first place whilst Clint ran his hands through his hair complaining that it was Banner and not him. “Green twat.”

Bruce adjusted his glasses and smiled at the floor, widening his eyes for a second. You’d surprised him but in true Banner form he was downplaying it the best he could. He thought the combination of you being tipsy and perhaps bored made you imply it was him as a joke. He was used to people looking down on him in that way and had expertise at brushing off insults. He wasn’t the Avenger with thousands of fan accounts.

Once Nat had changed the subject everyone fell back into a comfortable rhythm of casually reminiscing. Missions mostly, old scars, worst villains and other topics. It seemed your little ‘indiscretion’ had become old news already. That was for the best.

After a lot more drinks and stories from Thor everyone began to crave bed except you who offered to clean up by yourself. You weren’t tired in the slightest but you were fairly drunk. Bruce was the last to remain in the living room with you watching you clumsily put away glasses in your tight dress without speaking until you’d finished.

“So, what was that?” His voice came out deeper than usual and you turned to face him, praying you weren’t blushing. The way he held eye contact with a hint of a smile on his lips made you swoon. You were already not thinking straight from drinking.

“I thought…wasn’t it obvious?” You questioned before laughing, alcohol making you giggly and honest. Bruce shook his head a little but he couldn’t help but be amused by you. He crossed the room to get closer and chuckled “Y/N,”

“Hmm.” you closed your eyes, grinning.

“Y/N?”

You weren’t listening.

“Why do you have to be so attractive? It’s ver-it’s very annoyingg.” You sighed. Sober you was going to be so embarrassed but in your state Bruce had to be embarrassed on your behalf. All your brain could focus on was the thought of kissing him and his lips repeating your name wasn’t keeping you at all quiet. He looked so fucking good.

“Y/N stop talking for a moment,” he tried to stop smiling but couldn’t help it. You were leaning backwards gazing at the ceiling looking like someone hallucinating. In one hand you held your heels and in the other your head as you winced as if in pain. Your charming laughs to yourself told Bruce you weren’t. He thought about leaving you to your own devices, dropping the subject and going to bed. You weren’t in any danger, you didn’t need him but you’d made him curious so he wanted to stay.

Something about you had always intrigued him. The way you took genuine interest in his work and respected him, as so few did. The way you spoke when you were pretending to be coy but he knew you weren’t. Your unique laugh that lived up to the cliche of being infectious. It really was. Your sultry lips and eyes and how you always felt the need to bend over in tight dresses when he was around. How your thighs always looked so soft. Your hips. His barely containable desire to grab them. Your youthfulness. It was all intoxicating to him. You were intoxicating.

He watched you almost fall into the hard edge of the living room table and went to help -

“I’m okay, I’m fine - hand- handling it.”

He laughed at your drunken confidence. “Yes, as well as you’re handling your liquor.” You threw daggers at him but you weren’t really annoyed, it turned you on when he was a little cocky around you. No one else brought that side out of him.

“I’m sorry that was mean.” Bruce quickly apologised, a grin threatening to appear on his face from the sight of you blushing. You were so easy to read for him. He wanted to flirt with you, he wanted to do more than that, but he was more than aware of the age difference between the two of you and of course there was the other problem. Hulk.

Unburdened by those worries, you skipped over to Bruce until you were stood in front of him. Chest to chest. Your flirty fingers found his hair, twisting a curl above his brow around your finger whilst smiling. “I’ve thought a lot about you you know.” Bruce couldn’t help but feel excited at your comment but he had to restrain himself and face the facts. If he could do anything it was understand the logistics of any scenario.

“You wouldn’t be saying any of this if you weren’t drunk.”

Your response was as he expected: dismissive and amused. Instead of agreeing, you spun away from him and dropped yourself with a thud onto the couch. While you stretched your bare legs out onto the table and slouched into a comfortable position, you closed your eyes and grinned. “I’ve thought about you at night.” Bruce looked at the door as if he was thinking of leaving but had no real desire to. Instead he listened from across the room hardly believing a word you were saying.

It was wrong for him to stay. Immoral even, letting you continue talking when he knew realistically you’d be horrified in the morning. He should tell you to stop. He should calmly and respectfully escort you to bed and leave. He should forget the entire night happened.

“Nat told me I was silly but- but I have liked you for so longg.” Your word vomit continued. In a strange way you felt as if you were talking aloud to yourself and Bruce wasn’t even present. You felt as if the words weren’t just leaving your mouth but leaking from your entire body. It was freeing for you but a moral dilemma for Bruce.

“Bruce, you are exactly...” your words almost slurred “My type.” With a satisfied nod you finished your sentence and sat up slightly. Your eyes kept trying to close but you wanted to tell Bruce everything while you were alone and still full of confidence. Sleep could wait.

He stood a few paces in front of you, arms crossed listening with an unreadable expression. “And what is your type?” He asked after a moment of silence where the room held its breath.

“Smart, mature…middle aged men.“

“Am I not a bit old for you?” Bruce looked down at you, his voice husky and his tone intrigued.

“Did I not just say middle aged?” You laughed loudly but Bruce didn’t crack a smile, preoccupied with his thoughts. “I should stop talking shouldn’t I?” You rubbed your face, feeling the usual self awareness take seat accompanied by tiredness. Bruce finally spoke when you yawned.

“Tired yet?”

With a childish pout you shook your head but your closing eyes betrayed you. All Bruce caught between mumbles was ‘no’ and ‘so awake’. He watched your head slump further and further into the hard pillows Tony insisted on keeping and his brows furrowed. Taking focused steps, Bruce approached the couch you were falling asleep on and outstretched his hand.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

You couldn’t help the girlish giggle you let out at the mention of going to bed, even if he had meant it chivalrously. The thought of Bruce laying you down on your duvet and joining you beneath it filled you with a warm, cosy feeling despite the truth that he would never do so. In the time you had known him, and the info you’d gathered from Tony, Bruce had only dated powerful beings. He steered clear of romance with ordinary humans, it being too risky. Drunk you hadn’t considered this.

“Aren’t you s’posed to take me on a date furs?” You slurred as Bruce gently swept your body off the couch and carried you in his arms. He was stronger than he looked and lucky too, you were holding your body like lead and too drowsy to do otherwise.

“I can walk- I can walk Brucie.” You insisted several times. “Could have left me on the couch…” Bruce tried to hide his amusement at your alcohol induced charm and focus on carrying you steadily. Your room wasn’t far, a five minute walk if he didn’t drag it out…how he longed to drag it out. The guilt came in waves, it had done ever since he’d gotten to know you. Somehow in that moment, as he reached your bedroom, it was magnified. A voice in his head warned Bruce that it wasn’t just his actions that he needed to stop but his thoughts. You weren’t safe with someone like him.

Meanwhile your mind was at peace, almost empty except thoughts of Bruce and what might happen next. You rested your head on his arm as he carried you to your bed but the moment your body felt the mattress he made to leave. “Wait!” You pleaded so that against his better judgement Bruce would stay. It worked.

“Can’t sleep,” you grumbled quietly. “Not in this.”

Bruce’s eyes travelled down your body, not for the first time that night, and considered the impracticality of your dress. You lazily gestured to your outfit and jewellery but in an attempt to convey your tiredness, shoved your face into the pillow and sighed. The scientist could only imagine what Tony would say if he was there.

He watched you watching him, sensed your waiting. The permission your look conveyed coupled with his beating heart compelled Bruce to let you win this battle. In that moment he’d gladly be the loser and wrestle with the guilt on his own time.

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Part 2

Masterlist

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[pugh-bug]

A summerhouse au!, where both art and readers family's rent or own the same house (or diff- cause honestly they can) and get together every year just for them to bond over (that's the only time they physically see each other)

Imagine unlimited piggybacks wherever and whenever you want- even to the shortest of distance

Honestly just melts my heart thinking about it🫠😍

-🍃

Peachy Promises

Art Donaldson x reader

I’m sorry this is later than I wanted but I loved your request and may have got carried away with it! I hope you enjoy this summerhouse fic 🌻🫶🏻

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Gentle tapping of leaves against the car window woke you from your nap. Your Mum was driving the poor car a little too close to the bushes that lined the twisted paths to the Summerhouse. It had been a family tradition since you were thirteen - or twelve you couldn’t remember - to go there every July and stay for a month.

‘Excited to see Art again honey?’

The Donaldson’s officially owned the property and had for generations and their son, Art, had been your favourite aspect of Summer for years. You only saw him once a year.

‘Yeah,’ you mumbled, face cramped in-between your flat pillow and the car window. The gentle thunk of hedgerow branches hitting the car would have sent you back to sleep if you weren’t so elated to see Art again. When the two of you first met all those years before he’d mistaken you for his friend Alice and asked for you.

‘Alice? Come here, I need to show you this!’

You looked at the short, freckled blonde before you and took in his confused expression with curiosity and glee.

‘You’re not Alice…’ you were indeed not Alice but you did intrigue the boy. His parents were strict about girls - too strict. The gender had become almost entirely fantastical to him, except for Alice who was more like a sister or an annoying cousin than anything else.

‘Go on. Show me what you wanted to show her.’

The boy lead you to the gardens beyond the Summerhouse your parents were so diligently unpacking in. It was beautiful, full of sunflowers and violets but the most incredible sight was the marble statue that depicted two kissing mermaids. It was no shorter than 8 feet tall and towered over the two of you, with you being almost a foot shorter than the strange boy.

‘So pretty…’ you sighed, taking in the sight whilst the boy took in you. After a moment he outstretched his hand ‘Hey, I’m Art.’

The car incessantly moaned for more fuel until you reached the car park and stopped. No one announced ‘We’re here’ because the three of you all knew. You wiped the sleep from your eyes and reached for your beaten up suitcase, the same one you’d used all of those years ago, and looked for Art. Just like the last year and the year before that and the year before that, Art was waiting impatiently by the peach tree. It never stopped growing, in fact it had grown so unruly and proud that it obstructed the Summerhouse mailbox entirely. The fresh scent was worth it.

‘Y/N!’ Art grinned as you left the car, dropping your case as you ran towards each other. Your parents knew the drill. It was the same every Summer. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’ He mumbled into your shoulder, as your parents retreated to their wing of the house. You inhaled Art’s shampoo as his soft curls tickled your cheek, he always smelt of pure Summer in a bottle. It was a hot day.

‘I’ve missed you too!’ Before you could get your case Art was grabbing you, pulling you onto his back. ‘Come on, I’ll carry you.’ Piggybacks were also apart of the yearly drill. You’d both expected him to stop years ago but he never did, Art revelled in carrying you around. It made him feel childish and gleeful, like the two of you had been at 12 - like he hoped the two of you could still be around each other.

Art carried you to your room, which had in the last three years been changed to the one next to his own, and set you down by the bed. The waft of air-con cooled your warm skin. ‘You gonna unpack?’ He gestured to your bulging suitcase but you shook your head. ‘Nah, can we do something fun? I’ve had the shittiest week.’

The Summerhouse visits had began to bring you and your parents closer but ironically, and this was entirely the blondes fault, you never spent less time together than those months. July had become a time for your parents to ‘focus on their marriage’ (whatever that means) and for you to see your best friend.

‘Wanna go swimming?’

Your eyes brightened at the suggestion, you loved swimming more than anything and the heat was palpable. ‘Your parents fixed the pool?’ Art simply nodded, while you frantically looked for the bathing suit you hoped you’d packed. You had. Forever the gentleman, Art left you alone to get dressed but the second you were back he was piggybacking you to the pool outside.

‘Cannon ball or graceful dive?’ You asked, doing your best Olympic swimmer stance. Art tried not to stare too hard at you in your red swimsuit, tried not to think too hard about how much older the two of you were but what his parents had said about your friendship being ‘too important to ruin’. He replied ‘Graceful dive.’

As the cool water enveloped your streamline body, you smiled. The oppressive heat couldn’t reach your sanctuary in the Donaldson pool, god it felt good to be back. Art jumped in after you, taking off his shirt before performing his own graceful dive. ‘Few years ago you’d have said cannon ball.’ You squeezed the excess water out of your nose to punctuate your sentence, feeling the water in your hair drip down your neck. ‘You’ve grown up.’ Art watched the droplets - fascinated for a moment before he frowned at your beaming face. He didn’t want to grow up. Art looked around, taking in the idyllic views: the freshly mowed grass, poppies and ivy coated red brick. ‘My parents are selling this place.’

Your smile dropped.

‘You’re not serious? Why?’

‘I’m going Stanford in September. They only kept this place for me.’

‘You weren’t gonna come back for Summer?’

‘Will you?’

That stung but he was right, in fact you’d been considering going as far as Boston University. Suddenly the water didn’t feel refreshing and the sky didn’t appear so blue.

‘You’ll come back right?’ Art asked, watching you shove your bags into your parents car. ‘Of course,’ You grinned. ‘My parents love it here- I love it here. Might even become a regular thing.’

The boy lit up at that, pulling you into a tight hug. He was the first boy to properly hug you. ‘I’ll be here.’ Was all he said.

‘I’m proud of you Art,’ you smiled weakly, brushing his wet hair off of his forehead as the two of you bobbed in the water. He looked his age, Art had never looked his age. ‘Stanford. It’ll be amazing.’ You meant it, he’d always been an excellent tennis player. He’d thrashed you in too many matches to count, you thought your defeats were some of his favourite moments. Tennis had always been his biggest love. There was no doubt in your mind that he’d be somebody one day, somebody worth telling your friends you knew. ‘I know Art Donaldson.’ Well…you knew Art Donaldson.

He didn’t fail to notice the defeat in your eyes, although your belief in him had always given him hope so your words were everything. Your fingers hesitated to leave his soft skin. ‘Y/N,’ you traced his features with your eyes. Remembering. ‘I need to tell you something and I - I think you might already know.’

‘I know.’

Blush coated his cheeks as Art waited with an intense stare for your next move. He didn’t know what would hurt him more, to have you for a Summer and never again or to have never had you at all.

Before he could speak your hands were cradling his face and pulling his lips to yours. He tasted like peaches. Neither of you said a word as Art’s hands ran down your waist, trying to get closer to you through the drenched swimsuit while he hummed into your kiss. You couldn’t quite explain it but you felt the mermaid statue was watching over the two of you, it too knowing that you’d always miss the boy who gifted you those Summers.

Masterlist

[pugh-bug]

Green Ethics

Bruce Banner x reader part 2

Word count: 2,384

Part 1

Sorry for the long wait! I’ve been really ill, not been able to do anything but cough and sleep. Plus two of my friends moved out and my dad who walked out on us just walked back in , it’s been complete chaos. Writing this was soothing and I’ll definitely be writing for Bruce again, he’s my baby. Enjoy! 🫶🏻

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“Here,” Bruce passed you water from your nightstand. “Drink this while I work on these.” You raised an eyebrow until he carefully held your free hand nearer to his face. Each of your fingers were adorned with rings, some gifts, some precious and some cheap from retailers. Bruce treated them all with care, sliding each ring off and placing them neatly on your nightstand. His hands were softer than you’d expected them to be. You found yourself smiling tiredly at the comfort his touch brought you. As Bruce worked on your rings his eyes wandered over your bed to a scraggly teddy.

“Who’s this?”

Half asleep you turned your head. “Oh, that’s Tia.” You may have been well past the age of teddies but you struggled to sleep without her, you’d had her since birth. Bruce smiled at your innocence, distracted for a moment before continuing what he’d started.

Once you were free of jewellery and had taken several sips of water, Bruce brought you the hoodie you requested. To his horror you attempted to pull off your dress then and there. Jesus Christ he thought, panicking that you could somehow hear his heart rate. You couldn’t and nothing was further from your mind as you got undressed whilst Bruce faced the wall pained. Most of Stark Tower had seen you half naked at some point whether it be strip poker, out of hand parties or your habit of forgetting towels in the shower.

You zipped up the hoodie, feeling even sleepier without the restrictive fabric of the dress tugging at your skin. Bruce slowly turned his head and relaxed his shoulders a little when he saw you were dressed. Dressed and in green. “It suits you.” He smiled after a moment of staring.

With half lidded eyes you took in the sight of Bruce stood over your bed, his warm brown eyes and greying curls. “You’re so,” you yawned before you could finish, “Pretty…” Bruce chuckled at the compliment before his eyes darted to his watch, it was late. She’s had water, she’s in bed, she’s safe just go he assured himself.

Sensing he might leave, you patted the space in the bed beside you. If there was any man you wanted sleeping beside you it was Bruce, even if there was the chance he’d Hulk smash the bed and you with it. Bruce’s eyes fluttered over the sight of your hand and the comfortable looking bed you were so happy to invite him to.

“Goodnight Y/n.”

He just couldn’t risk it.

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You slept till 2pm the next day, thankfully without too nasty a hangover. The same couldn’t be said for Clint, who you eyed drowsily popping painkillers like m&ms. He’s onto something, you thought eyeing the medicine cabinet and thinking of doctors. Doctors…Bruce…

“Bruce been down?”

Clint exhaled but before he could answer your favourite whirlwind arrived. “You made quite the fool of yourself last night I heard honey.” You ran your hands through your unruly morning hair, narrowing your eyes at Tony’s comment. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“Snappy today are we?” Tony tapped a pen against his temple, half watching the coffee maker as he spoke. “He’s in his lab and hasn’t come out all day. You know you should really be nicer to people when you want intel from them.” But you were out the door before you heard his words of advice, fixing your hair as you walked.

Bruce’s lab was intimidating on a good day. Not only was it loaded with cumbersome machinery and equipment you couldn’t pay to replace if you lived a hundred lifetimes but it was vast and difficult to navigate without a hangover. You rarely visited, knowing if Bruce was working the last thing he needed was interruptions.

Knock knock

So the scientist was surprised to find you on his doorstep…

“Y/N?”

You tapped on the glass, feeling significantly less confident than the night before. “Can I come in?” Bruce nodded, his confusion obvious. He subtly eyed your attire, his deep brown eyes rendering you weak as you considered your next words. “I can go if you’re busy…” your voice trailed off as you took in the amount of work on his desk.

“What happened to the confidence from last night?” Bruce asked, looking quite proud of himself for saying so. You wondered if an apology was needed, in fact you wondered what you’d said at all. Only bits had come back to you, something about age gaps and alcohol tolerance you weren’t sure.

“Well,” you slowly circled Bruce. “That’s just it, I don’t know because I can’t remember - not most of it anyway.” Bruce’s smile faded and his eyes fell to his desk. You watched as his hand tensed at his side before slipping into his pocket. “That’s probably for the best.” His voice was tight, restrained.

“Isn’t that more my decision?”

Bruce refused to answer you in fact he acted as if you weren’t there, as if you were miles from his lab and not standing behind him. He refused to acknowledge the scent of your perfume and shampoo or the angered breathing you were struggling to hide. A thought occurred to you as you watched the back of your friend, the closest person to you in the tower:

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No.”

Bruce turned to face you, unable to stand the hurt in your voice. The opposite was the truth and as a result the damning obstacle. His eyes struggled to remain on yours as he spoke. “You admitted something to me that we can nev-“ you waited a moment for him to continue. Bruce’s lips pursed before he allowed himself a moment to breathe, a moment to think how best to tell you the harsh truth. He had to choose between his selfish desires or your safety. “We can never act on this.”

And he’d choose you every time…

“Bruce I,” you moved closer, until his face was mere inches from yours but with great restraint he backed away. “This,” he gestured to the two of you. “Can’t happen Y/n, no matter how much I’d want it to work it couldn’t.” Shame spread through your gut like a conscious disease. All this time you’d been worrying about how to live out your fantasies and almost entirely disregarded Bruce’s reality. Despite that stinging truth his words “No matter how much I’d want it to work.” haunted you already.

“Am I too much for you?” Bruce’s jaw clenched as you moved closer to him. “Or for him?” He wanted to fall to his knees at your question, the insecurity on your face your pleading eyes. How could he form the words? You deserved so much you-

“Deserv-you deserve…so much more.” Bruce let out a shaky breath, struggling to look at your expression. If he had he would have sensed your anger and been less shocked by your sudden outburst. “Bruce are you insane? You’re the kindest man I’ve ever met, do you know how rare it is to meet someone who likes me more than my tits? Who listens to my ideas, takes care of me and doesn’t see me as a chore or - or worse some kind of project?” Your voice raised with every word. Bruce was speechless as you continued.

“You have seven PhDs and you’re an AVENGER who saves the world every other Tuesday but you have the audacity to tell me you’re the one who’s punching here?”

If anyone had been present next door they would have caught every word of your overdue rant. A minute later Bruce hadn’t said a word so you waited, growing less hopeful as you watched him retreat into his thoughts. If he was expecting you to leave he’d be waiting forever, your to do list that day had been pretty short. Instead you did what you did best: talk.

“I don’t know if you think I’m messing with you or-“

“I don’t.”

Bruce inhaled deeply, feeling your impatient eyes on him. He didn’t like to be rushed and of course he did his best to avoid any uncomfortable scenarios that might cause him stress. In that moment you were his stress, his guilt. His reason for sleepless nights. You wouldn’t let him retreat into himself and back to his old ways, you wouldn’t take no for an answer. Unlike him you enjoyed pushing boundaries a little, letting loose and drawing introverts like him out of their shell. All that he could handle but not the other guy being drawn out with it.

“Y/n you’ve made your feelings clear but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not a safe person to have that kind of relationship with. You might think you want this but think it through...there’s no normal life with me.” Bruce trailed off suddenly feeling his heart sink at how much he believed his own words. He was sure they stung him more than they stung you and perhaps he was right.

Taking careful steps towards the scientist, you took hold of his hands in yours. Bruce relaxed a little into your gentle touch, enjoying the softness of you. Sensing his calm, you decided to speak. “You’re saying I can’t have a normal life with you Bruce but look around,” you gestured to the extravagance of the lab. “This, Avengers Tower, all of us in it. None of this is normal - nothing about my current life is normal. I’m roommates with a Norse God and I’ve seen stranger things in the last year that most people see in a lifetime.”

You felt Bruce’s hands slip out of your grasp as he shook his head. “It’s not just that, what about your life? You wouldn’t be safe with me what if I lost control,” his frown deepened as he pictured something horrific. “For a second?…I can’t - I couldn’t live with that. I can’t risk that…”

“If I’m not safe in that scenario then how come it’s safe for us like this? Right now? In the time we’ve known each other how many times have we been alone?” You didn’t wait for him to answer. “Countless, countless times and nothing has happened. You’ve never laid a finger on me, you’ve never lost your temper. I always feel safe with you.” Bruce’s heart could have burst at your utter trust in him.

“I feel safer with you than with anyone.”

As the words left your lips you knew you meant them whole heartedly, no one made you feel as safe and calm as Bruce. He was at a loss for words, as he often was around you, replaying the moment in his head amazed each time that you were real. That any of it was real and happening to him, he who spent so much of his life witnessing the joy of others instead of seeking it out himself.

“You really trust me?” Bruce felt he had to check before his hands found yours once more, pulling you closer to him. “Of course I do.” You beamed, feeling his arm snake round your waist. The moment felt fragile as if one wrong word would silence Bruce forever and he’d never touch you again. There was so much you craved to tell him, so many things he’d never guess you’d want or feel and yet you resisted. He was nervous enough as it was.

The noise of the fan in his lab gained a presence of its own in the quiet that followed. Bruce wasn’t just thinking he was strategising, playing scenarios in his head against each other to judge the best option. No matter what happened he couldn’t mess this up, couldn’t let you slip through his grasp. If you’d truly meant every word he’d have to believe you. Most importantly he had to trust every part of himself with you. There could be no hiding.

“Can I kiss you?”

Bruce almost missed the beaming smile that spread across your face before your lips were on his. He was really starting to notice how impatient you were, not that he minded - he found it endearing. As your hands found his face and his apprehensively closed round your waist, Bruce realised he hadn’t kissed a human since the accident. It was better than he remembered. He wondered how he’d gone this long without tasting you and how he’d cope if it were never to happen again.

When you finally pulled away Bruce was flushed but not green…pink. He looked as relaxed a person can be awake and you grinned at the thought that it was all your doing. “See,” you smirked. “Was that so bad?” Bruce ran his tongue across his teeth, trying to bask in the moment instead of his worries. The way you were seeing him made him feel younger. Calmer. Freer. There was a very real possibility that you might become his drug of choice, someone he couldn’t live without, if you kept looking at him like that.

“You look beautiful.” Bruce finally allowed himself to tell you, after so long of just thinking it every-time you entered a room. You smiled as you felt his arms tighten ever so slightly around your waist, your chest flushed against his. He was always warm sometimes it left you borderline drowsy but not that day. “Gonna tell me what I said last night yet?” Your tone was flirty. “Well let’s see,” Bruce looked up mimicking deep thought as his chin rested atop your head.

“You said I’m annoyingly attractive.”

“Uh huh absolutely.”

“And that you like smart men.”

“Yep.”

“Who are middle aged.”

“One hundred percent.”

You both smiled at each other, pupils wide like a pair of teenagers, feeling as care free as people fighting aliens ever could.

“Anything else I should know?”

“You can’t hold your liquor.”

Bruce chuckled, sending a warm safe feeling through your whole body. He didn’t laugh often but when he did it was wonderful. He was wonderful. You kissed him again, already knowing you’d never get sick of doing so, before resting your head on his chest. “Thank you.” You mumbled.

“For what?”

“For trusting me too.”

Bruce kissed your forehead, his warm hold on your torso bringing both of you a peace you never expected to find.

——————————————————————

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Tag: @aliceblxck

[pugh-bug]

cringe cringe cringe i need him so badly

[pugh-bug]

currently working on a one shot with female reader x ex husband art called ‘marooned’ … gonna be angsty and full of longing and cheating scandals and divorce papers

UPDATE: part 1 is posted here !

[pugh-bug]

this is so important to me

[pugh-bug]

Tease

Art Donaldson x reader

Part 3 of 3

Part 1 - Part 2

Warnings: angst, smut, nsfw

Word count: 3,006

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You woke to the comforting feeling of Art’s arms around your waist and the sound of magpies diving from the trees outside. Not wanting to open your eyes and ruin the peace yet, you curled into his touch. “You awake?” You whispered.

“Yeah.”

Patrick.

His voice sent your nerves alight. Shit. Where was Art? How were you going to explain him sleeping in bed with you all night? The mixed texts… As hundreds of worries fluttered around your brain Patrick yawned and brought his hand to your hair. He ran his fingers through it gently, as if you were his beloved girlfriend and not a liar. You lay there for a few minutes as he caressed you, unsure of what to say so you chose silence. Patrick felt far away, staring through the ceiling seemingly unaware of your anxieties.

“I got back late.”

You didn’t respond.

“Art was here.”

When you bravely turned your head to Patrick’s his was still fixated on the ceiling. His voice was steady and calm when he spoke again, fingers still caressing through your locks.

“Did you plan for him to stay the night?”

“No.”

“Right.”

You noticed Patrick’s jaw clench and wondered what you could say that might prevent him digging his nails into your skull.

“I’m sorry I-“

As suddenly as he’d started caressing you he stopped and for the first time that morning he turned to look at you. “Let’s have breakfast.”

As it turns out Art had left the moment Patrick’s keys woke him up. He’d left you sleeping soundly and rushed out past Patrick’s frowning face without so much as a ‘sorry’. Neither you or Patrick brought this up over breakfast in fact you hardly spoke at all. You felt small sitting at the table across from him. Small and insignificant as he aggressively chewed his food without looking up from his phone.

“Got practice, you coming?” Pat asked with one foot out the door and his mouth full of waffles. You shook your head commenting on the state of the flat and your list of errands to run. He looked convinced enough when he left, enough for you to whip your phone out and ring Art. When he answered immediately you beamed. So reliable, you thought with a smirk.

“Y/N?”

He sounded out of breath.

“Are you at practice?”

“I’m at h- home…”

Was that a whimper?

“Art, what are you doing?” You questioned as if you couldn’t guess. The image of Art’s flushed face as he bucked into his own hand with his eyes screwed shut flooded your mind. You felt your own face grow hot as you weighed how best to play this. The right thing to do was to hang up, maybe call him gross for answering and then tell Patrick you weren’t going to ever be alone with the boy. That would be the right option - the best option. You were not single, no matter how plagued you’d been in the past by Pat’s ‘unofficial’ label. It was wrong. Fucking Art would be wrong, wrong, wrong, wr-

“Come over.”

Art’s little whimpers stopped as he choked out a “W- what?” You held back the urge to tease him on the phone until he came.

“Pat’s out. Come round before I change my mind.” Before I remember my morals, you thought. You hung up before Art could answer.

In the time it took him to arrive you’d gone over every possible option in your head that covered everything from taking Art in your mouth before he’d taken his shoes off and politely ending the friendship all together. When the doorbell rang you could barely stop the ringing in your ears at the density of your own worries. What would Patrick do when he inevitably found out? What if he never found out but the weight of the guilt never left you in peace?

The way he’d said ‘right’, the way he’d ignored you all morning and the way he’d stared at that stupid ceiling was haunting you already.

Ring

You did a quick check in the mirror for hair out of place, food in teeth and any other embarrassing thing that you’d only regret later. If you’d known how Art felt, how deep his admiration for you ran, you’d have felt no such worries.

“Hi.”

It took you a moment to realise Art was waiting to be invited in and to remember why he was so red.

“I’m so sorry about-“

But before he could finish apologising you broke down, tears dropping down your face at an ungodly speed as you cried. Immediately forgetting about his incident and any conversation you might have had around it, Art closed the door behind him and asked:

“Y/N, are you okay? What’s- has something happened?”

“Y/N?”

You felt the world dip and spin around you yet somehow without you all at once. Your heart was beating faster than you thought possible and the guilt that Art’s body next to you caused was painful. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”

“You have nothing to apologise for.” He held you and rubbed slow circles on the small of your back, hoping to bring you back down to earth. “Nothing okay?” You tried to focus on Art’s reassuring words and not your embarrassment. After all, you’d invited him over quite clearly for sex and here you were sobbing before he’d made it past the hall. Art continued to speak calmly to you as you squeezed his hand until you stopped heaving. The tears hadn’t quite stopped however.

“Okay,” he said softly, after a few moments. “Do you want to talk about it?” There was a part of you that for so long had wanted to just explode completely at someone. To selfishly vent for hours and hours to no avail about every thought in your head. Patrick’s indifference. Your parents. Your lack of real friends.

“You didn’t come here for that…” you sniff, hating how pathetic you sounded. Art gently shook your shoulders. “Hey,” he looked into your uncertain eyes. “I came here to see you, nothing else.” It sounded so simple out of Art’s lips, so believable in his reassuring voice. It made you want to cry more…so you did, on his shoulder.

Art was telling the truth, he’d had no idea what to expect when you instructed him to come over let alone time to analyse the situation. He only wondered, as you cried on him, if Patrick had broken up with you but for what reason he couldn’t fathom.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” The softness in his voice made your heart ache. No one was as gentle with you as Art, you doubted if anyone else was even capable. As the two of you embraced you fought the urge to smell his hair but the strawberry scent hit you anyway. He smelt like Spring at home…he felt like home.

“What do you want to do?” Art mumbled into your shoulder, aware of how long you’d been hugging as he pulled away. You didn’t answer, your brain too occupied with analysing why it felt so much better to hug Art than it did Patrick and why you wanted to kiss the wrong person. As if he knew, Art wet his lips with his tongue and watched your eyes shamelessly boring into his.

“Y/N?”

But you didn’t answer, at least not with words, instead you gave into every shameful instinct and pulled Art’s lips to your own. You kissed him with a need you didn’t know you had in you as your hands pawed at his hair, his back and his neck. His lips were as soft as you’d imagined and the little gasp he let out only spurred you on as it turned into a moan. Every thought and worry Art had about your intentions vanished the second you touched him. “My bedrooms,” you whispered in between kisses. “This way…”

“Is it?”

You’d turned his brain off. Leading Art to your bed was easy, he was glued to you. His little movements echoed your own as if he were your shadow.

“Mnghn.” He moaned into your mouth as you threw him on the bed. Your skin felt flushed and hot already, thank god the window was open. Art’s lips were already puffy from your aggressive kisses and you wanted to bite him as you straddled his waist. His kisses were much less messy than Patrick’s, you found yourself humming from the satisfaction of no saliva on your chin. You could make Art messy later…

Gazing up at you, his brain on fire, Art breathed. “I consent to anything you want to do to me…” Your stomach flipped. For once you felt in control and it wasn’t just comfortability you were enjoying, it was power. With every kiss, every desperate lustful look and promise of more you thought of Patrick less.

Art was anything but pushy, choosing to encourage you rather than coerce. He wanted to touch you everywhere, the boy had dreamt of little else since meeting you, but his priority was you. It had to be your choice or nothing at all, he told you. As you pulled his t shirt over his head and saw his eyes burn into your own the word ‘stop’ became foreign. There was no turning back, you were going to fuck Art Donaldson stupid and relish every second.

Nothing could have prepared Art for the sight of you throwing off your top and bra. His mouth hung open as if he were a virgin on prom night, you couldn’t help the chuckle that left your lips. “You good?” Art zoned out for several more seconds, transfixed on your tits and how easily he could take one in his mouth without moving. He only nodded when you snapped your fingers. You looked down at all the fabric between you both, rocking your hips slightly as you did. It was clear you were going to have to instruct him, he wasn’t controlling like Pat. Good. You wanted to boss Art around.

“What do you need from me?” Art asked in earnest but there was a hint of lust in his voice. Hooking a finger under his pants you replied. “These…off.” There were no complaints or regrets, only the rushed movements of a boy desperate to touch you. Once he was almost bare you pulled off his shirt to admire his chest. Art was lean, leaner than Patrick even. Small freckles decorated his shoulders and his ab muscles tensed as you ran your finger across them. So reactive, you thought smugly.

He watched you in awe as you wrapped your hand round his hard, needy cock. Finally. In a hundred years he never thought it would actually happen, not even if you were single. How could a girl like you possibly want him? And yet there you were, tangible and angelic, gripping his length and lowering your mouth to his tip. You thought about teasing him, dragging it out and watching him squirm but you couldn’t wait any longer. The second Art inhaled you took him in your mouth until you felt the pre cum drip down your throat. Your eyes almost watered as you bobbed your head, pained by the fact you couldn’t see Art’s face. His little whimpers were enough until a hand pulled at your own.

“W-wait,” Art gasped before gathering himself. “This is about you. Let me touch you please.” He was begging already, you could hardly believe it but you wouldn’t judge. You wanted him between your legs, you had a feeling he was the type to stay there for hours. Something Patrick had once said as a joke that you’d taken to heart. After waiting for any signs of no and not getting any, Art slid out from under you his eyes on your thighs.

The moment you lay on your back he crawled over you, kissing you everywhere until he reached your thighs. One last look in his eyes asked you if it were okay to take your pants off, you nodded immediately helping him remove them. The moment Art touched your core with his tongue you knew you were fucked. There was no way you were going to be able to live without him down there, no way you could pretend this never happened. His tongue entered you with such skill and desire you found yourself arching into his touch long before was usual for you. It was like nothing else.

“Keep going.”

Art didn’t need telling twice, he was determined to have you cum on his face. If it took all night, all week he’d do it. Your soft moans and whines had him involuntarily rutting into the bedsheets. He felt like an addict, he too knew he was fucked but unlike you he was used to it.

“Art…fuck…”

He moaned into your pussy, lapping up your wetness like it was impossible to do otherwise. Like he was compelled, bewitched almost. The vibrations of his whimpers brought you close, you clamped your thighs round his head and felt your stomach tighten.

“Art,” he noticed the hint of panic in your voice immediately. “I’m gonna cum soon, don’t make me.” You gasped, holding his wrist to draw his attention back to your face. “Do you want to st-“ but before Art could finish, you messily pulled his face up to yours. “I just need you inside me.” He could have came just from that.

Art didn’t realise his shoulders had tensed up at your panicked gasp until he entered you and felt his body turn to jelly. He struggled to concentrate on keeping his chest from crushing yours and not letting his arms buckle, something he’d never experienced before. The warmth and wetness of your walls fluttering around him had him powerless. He doubted he could move without cumming.

“Art,” you warned.

“Start fucking me.”

Any guilt either of you may still have harboured vanished the moment Art’s length dragged across your walls. His thrusts were slow but deep, you could feel him in your stomach. It was a satisfying, full feeling you didn’t want to lose. Art whined as you clenched down on him, struggling to continue.

“Y/n…ohh…fuck.”

You pulled his face to yours and kissed him, swallowing his words. All you wanted was the moment, nothing outside of it, nothing before or after it, just a bubble for the two of you. You didn’t know how long the bubble would last but you were more than willing to savour it, as Art savoured you.

His eyes fluttered closed as his thrusts quickened, his mouth open to let out his moans. As he continued you felt yourself floating, his kisses and gentle taps on your clit leaving you breathless. You were no longer certain the bed wasn’t ten feet below you. Art’s eyes flickered open to look at yours, almost as if he sensed your absence. Your only response was to wrap your legs round his hips so you could guide his movements.

“Jesus…” Art whimpered, before planting gentle kisses up your head and cheek. He was sure you were going to kill him, whether by stopping or continuing he couldn’t decide. His hips snapped faster and faster, under your control, rendering the two of you desperate. The air was thick with sex and the mattress creaked under the strain of your writhing bodies. Desperate to make you cum, Art rubbed circles on your clit watching your reactions intently. He loved how shaky your breaths were, the rise and fall of your chest and the darkness of your blown out pupils. All he needed was to see you finish and for him to be the one to get you there.

“Don’t stop- don’t stop…”

Inside he was grinning at your words but his face was too fixed on your own and the fluttering of your pussy around him to show it. He was close himself, too close, he just needed to…

“Art!”

You cum with a cry of his name, your back arching as your thighs tensed. Art wasn’t sure what got him there closer, your moans or your writhing but he finally allowed himself to let go. “I- oh fuck- fuck- I’m-“ Art choked out as he spilled inside your walls, coating them white.

Tiredness overcame you, your legs limp from the otherworldly orgasm. “Just..” you whispered, sensing Art’s uncertainty. “Stay a minute.” More than ecstatic to oblige, Art didn’t pull out, he simply held you. His head sat comfortably in the crook of your neck as you held him impossibly close. Neither of you knew how long had passed before Art spoke.

“When’s he back?”

Patrick. How silly of you, how naive to have almost forgotten. You were in his bed, you’d just fucked someone else in Patrick’s bed.

“I’m not sure.”

Art’s face was unreadable so you caressed his hair to make him look up at you. His mouth opened to speak but once again you silenced him with a kiss.

“I know I shouldn’t ask but…”

You both knew he meant ‘what now?’ Was there a grand plan? Would it be better to tell Patrick the truth? Lie? Pretend nothing happened and never do it again or give in to it and become something more than a traitorous one night stand? Art felt your heart beat quicken as you racked your brains in vain for the best solution.

“I love you.”

Your thoughts ceased, your entire nervous system set alight. Had you just heard those words?

“And I think Patrick knows.”

You felt your eyes brim with tears.

“He doesn’t know I feel the same.”

Art felt high as you kissed him, somehow proving with it how you loved him too. He told himself as he held you that under no circumstances would he hurt you. Not for any reason, not in any context. No matter how you decided to handle the mess he’d be there by your side, expecting nothing yet doing everything. You’d always been his.

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