AUTHORS NOTE - mueheheheheheh i need him. also can we talk that WE as a community wrote fics for these pictures not even a day after they came out?? we're truly the best community i fear... also! this is also a reqs someone sent for husband!art for the pic in the middle! (i lost the req sorry but yk who you are!)
"good morning," he whispered against your temple after walking through the door.
he thought retirement would be better; more time for you and the twins, more time for himself. less time in the public eye.
he was so wrong.
he did spent most of his time with you and the twins.
he does have time for himself. which helped him change alot of things about him.
his diet, his time management, his hair.
but when he wasn't he was out for photoshoots, promo photos, advertisements. it was less grueling than hours of daily practice, tasteless, dry meals. but it was still alot.
but that's what came with being a prodigy at tennis, with being a household name.
"mornin'" you groaned, stretching your arms as he walked to your vanity to check himself out. "how was the event?" you asked tiredly, resting your cheek against your arms as you watched him look at himself in the mirror.
"boring, like usual." you hummed at his response, curling up further into the sheets. "you know..." he turned to you, a slight frown on his face. "do you think i should cut my hair? an interviewer asked about it." he murmured, walking up to you, kicking his shoes off, unbuttoning his shirt before laying down beside you. "but like in a condescending way, i guess."
you took his position as an invitation, scooting closer to him, resting your forehead against his. "i think," you whisper, brushing one of the front pieces of his hair off his face. "you should think about what i think about your hair more than what an interviewer said."
he grins, closing his eyes, relishing on the warmth your body is radiating. "and what do you think then?"
"that you look so fucking hot."
he groans, getting ontop of you and catching your lips in a sloppy, wet kiss. his hands dropped down to your breasts, giving them a slight squeeze before his lips descended onto your neck. "yeah? you like my hair that much?" he growled, parting your thighs so he could easily fit inbetween them.
you nodded, breathlessly moaning as he bit your neck. his kisses continued going lower and lower until finally reaching your stomach.
"art.." you whined, arching you back.
your fingers go tangled up in his hair. and you tugged.
he would be lying if he said he's keeping the length just for that. you pulling at it when you feel needy, when you want him to stop because he's overstimulating you. but also when its just you and him in bed, and your fingers go through his hair as he rests his head on your chest.
he moans without him realizing, his cock throbbing already.
but he cant.
he needs to please you first.
"lift up your hips for me baby." and you do, ofcourse you do.
he tosses your panties away, his eyes locked in your wet cunt. you tug him down, pressing his face into your core. he groans, taking in your smell he became so, so familiar with before going absolutely crazy inbetween your legs.
he's slurping, sucking, licking and spitting. the sounds both you and him are making are straight out of a porn video. "f-fuck!" you yelp, tugging harshly at his hair, bucking up your hips against his face.
"are you coming baby?" he says against your pussy, the vibrations making your body tremble. you nod, your free hand gripping the sheets. "do it all over my face. come on."
meanwhile, he's full on humping the bed, his cock is throbbing painfully. aching to be inside the person he adores and loves more than anything else. you.
you groan loudly, your eyes watering as you come. "fuck fuck fuck.." you moan out, body going limp from the feeling of the orgasm. he slurps every drop of your orgasm, softly rubbing your hips before giving your cunt tiny kisses. "there there."
you tug at his hair, again. wanting him to hold you. and he does, taking off his already loose buttoned down shirt before kissing your cheeks. and you bury your face into his chest, nuzzling your cheek against his chest hairs while your hand is still in his hair, but instead of pulling, you're now caressing his scalp.
"so i guess this means i shouldn't cut my hair then?" he whispers, tucking his chin ontop of your head while chuckling. "you think?" you giggle,running your finger up and down his abdomen.
"do you... to go again?" he whispers, already unbuckling his belt. and you nod. your hands already inside of pants. "before the twins wake up."
I kept seeing some confusion in the fandom regarding the timeframe of certain events in the film, so I started working on this as a way to clarify theories and map out everything as accurately as possible. If you notice any mistakes, or know of a canon event that I missed, please don't hesitate to let me know!
Relationship-o-metric:
Art and Patrick were friends for approximately 6 years, 6 months and 16 days (2391 days).
Patrick and Tashi were in a relationship for exactly 5 months and 20 days (173 days).
Art and Tashi have been in a relationship for approximately 8 years, 11 months and 19 days (3275 days).
Some pointers and notes:
Art, Tashi and Patrick are all confirmed to be 31 years old in the final script of the film.
Lily is confirmed to be 5 years old in the final script of the film, so she would've been born sometime in 2014.
The American school year starts in mid/late August or early September, and ends in mid/late May or early June, depending on state. We do not know where the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy is located.
The majority of boarding schools start their academic program in middle school (6th grade). Art and Patrick would've been 11 years old then. We can infer that they either: befriended each other on their first year at the academy, and later asked to be placed together as dorm mates for their second year, or that one (or both) of them started attending the academy a year later (7th grade), though I think that's unlikely.
Stanford follows the quarter system (not semesters). Most students start the academic year in late September (Autumn Quarter), and must complete 12 quarters to graduate.
Stanford also does not revoke athlete scholarships due to injuries. So it is highly likely that, since Tashi couldn't go pro, and she still had her scholarship, she stayed in college until she graduated.
Since Art was playing a Masters 1000 tournament in 2010 (which require a high player ranking), we can assume that he either: left Stanford to go pro at one point, or he was allowed leeway to skip classes and compete professionally.
The film ends on August 4, 2019. They had no idea what was about to happen in December 2019. In 2020, the vast majority of tennis events were cancelled due to the pandemic, so that's a potential topic to tackle in fic, I guess.
Thinking about being Dilf!Art's free use girlfriend🤤🤤
no bc this is sooo. yeah to me like him just coming home after getting his ass chewed out at practice n you're just so willing to let him do whatever agrhedffjkdsjf
warnings: 18+ smut (p in v), dom!art, f!receiving oral/fingering, free use mentions/mild degradation but not much dialogue
When Art is tense, there's only one thing that really calms him down: sex.
Any form of it, really—whether it's just heavy petting that ends with his boxers warm and damp, a blowjob, or him having you bent right over the kitchen counter in the middle of cooking dinner. At first, he used to whine and groan about it until you relented, but over time you've realised it's just not worth it. It's why you don't even bother wearing panties at home any more; he'll always find an excuse to get them off.
"Hi, baby," you coo as the door clicks shut behind him. You catch a glimpse of his tense shoulders through the open door, his bag dumped alongside a racket that looks like it's seen better days. Frayed strings, the head of the racket crumpled in on itself. You can practically hear the way it must have rang out against the court.
Rough day. Your thighs give an anticipatory clench.
He mutters a cursory greeting under his breath, shoes kicked off before he pads across the living room to join you. Not on the sofa, though—on his knees, palms resting on your own to part them.
In one breath he's kissing up one thigh, then the other, a little rougher each time. It feels like he's getting some frustration out, as if he can work the tension right out of his arms while he holds you open. To fill the hole where his sour mood used to be with just the taste of your sweet cunt.
Impatient fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, shimmying them down your thighs until they fall to the floor. He has the grace to help your ankles out of them, at least.
Art’s breath fans out over you in soft, warm bursts before he's even made contact. "So fuckin' pretty, babe. Waiting around like this just for me." You'd laugh about the first words he's said to you since 6am this morning being about how beautiful your pussy is if your breathing hadn't quickened in excitement.
His tongue presses flat against you, lapping up whatever mess it finds. You’ve been wet since you saw that battered racket upon his entry. He makes a low groan of satisfaction when you sigh softly at the feeling of his warm tongue. By the time the tip of his tongue flicks over your clit, you know his mood is already shifting. He always starts so desperate, licking messy and deep like he's trying to prove a point (if there's one thing that can absolve the feeling of self-loathing after a bad practice, it's making you feel good), but his hands slowly ease on your thighs as he settles into it. His mouth gets a little softer, a little more determined.
The tip flicks over your clit, coaxing it to swell. Just like that, he's relaxing into it.
You reach down and start to scratch at his scalp, fingernails dragging across it. It's just long enough to grip in your fist, and you pull on it to earn an approving hum. His shoulders relax, tension seeping out of him—you can feel it in the way he grips your legs, the way he runs his tongue around your clit with relish.
"Taste so good," he tells you, words breathed into your heat. "You always taste so good."
When he pauses to take a breath, his fingers push between his own lips to coat with a layer of saliva. He runs the two of them over your swollen bud, just enough to make you inhale sharply. If you weren't already worked up, that would have done the trick. His eyes flick up to catch your own, pools of blue studying the way your jaw slackens and your brows peak when his fingers slide into you.
You clench instinctively, and he tuts in warning, fingers crooking cruelly in a way that has you whimpering out apologies. Your eyes are too heavy to catch the way the corner of his mouth quirks up at that reaction. Bingo, you're in for it now.
The first few slow slides of his digits in and out of your tight cunt seem to be perfunctory. After that, he's really going at it. Fingers scissoring and thrusting, curling up against that spot that has your eyes rolling back and moans of his name spilling past your pretty lips. One hand still nestled in his cropped blonde hair while the other grips at the cushion next to you for dear life as he drinks in the way you fall apart around his fingers.
He's clearly enjoying himself at this point, chipping in with the occasional low "right there?" or "someone's desperate today." He can play your body like a fiddle at this point—a curve of his fingers here, a brush of his thumb there. He's even memorised the pitch of your whines to know when you're achingly close, walls fluttering around him as your peak nears.
He pulls away from you, fingers sliding free with a whine of complaint from you, and your hands reach to tangle in his hair to pull him back before he's even had the chance to stand. His knees are burning, but he ignores the pinch of the rug underneath as he pushes himself up.
His hands catch in your hair to yank your head back, forcing you to look right up at him where he's looming over you.
"Need me that bad?"
Your words feel stuck in your throat and he tsks softly at the way your mouth only falls open soundlessly, the grip in your hair preventing you from moving.
"Tongue-tied, huh? All that talk last night just to get you like this." He grins down at you, a flash of white teeth caught between his lips, still shining with your essence. "You know we could just go through the list until you find your voice back."
His hand releases your hair to reach between you. When you can think clearly again, you can't tell if you're grateful, or if you miss the painful prickle of your roots. But you're definitely thankful when his fingers are back between your legs—a reward, of sorts. You let out a low sigh when he brushes against your clit and he groans in acknowledgement, like he's just reminded himself of how wet you are.
"Oh, I think I know where the list should begin."
The pads of his fingers run in a slow circle over your clit, as if the only thing he's interested in the world is how much he can make you squirm. It seems like now, with some of that initial tension drained, he has no qualms with making you suffer. Your fingers dig into the couch instead of reaching for him again, nails digging into the fabric. You can only watch up through your lashes; it’s a lovely sight, his head tilted downwards to look at your body, eyes dark and a look of concentration on his face.
He looks down at you the same way he looks at his opponents' during matches; analysing the way your knees twitch towards each other. Like you're just another opponent to get the upper hand against.
Another hum, like he’s thinking, and then—
Hands on your hips, he turns you around until you’re facing away from him and shoved up onto the couch. You brace yourself on your knees, but he doesn't wait for you to find your footing before one hand is pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing you down with a hand between your shoulder blades—back arched beautifully, cheek pressed into the fabric, cunt dripping with anticipation
Art’s other hand pushes at the waistband of his shorts, boxers dipping down with him to pool at his ankles to free his aching cock. The couch dips under the weight of you both when his knees hit the cushion.
"Fuck. Just like that. I need—" He inhales sharply, hard length pressed against the back of one of your thighs. "I need to be inside you.”
He takes himself in hand and leans over you, free hand on the back of the chair.
"You need this too, right?" He murmurs, low and rough in your ear. His eyes are a little glassy, still hazy with a day's worth of frustration. "Been thinking about you all day."
You moan your affirmation into the cushion.
“Be a good girl and use your words for me.”
“Y-yeah. Need it. Need you.”
Good enough for him. When you finally feel him sink into you—slick, hard, thick—your legs almost buckle beneath you. All you can do is curse out a series of profanities that would make a sailor blush when you feel that familiar stretch as he bottoms out, his hips pressing flush against your ass.
“Say it one more time for me,” he instructs, hand sliding down your clothed spine until it finds your hip again.
You’re barely coherent enough to register that, but you manage a, “I need you, Art.” Breathy and weak, no more than a mewl.
He withdraws then, tip still pressed into you, before sinking in again. A punishing rhythm right from the get go, enough to have your couch rocking dangerously beneath you every time he snaps into you. Skin on skin, your moans reaching new octaves to harmonise with his grunts of effort as his cock drives into you.
Relentless, precise, deliberate.
And you’re content enough to just let him use you like this. An outlet for all that stress.
“You get off on this, huh?” He rasps in your ear. “Just sitting around waiting until I’ve had a bad day?”
You moan something that vaguely resembles a slurred “yes” into the cushion, senses clouding entirely by the brutal onslaught of pleasure when the hand on your hip slides down to rub at your clit.
“There’s my girl. Always so eager to be of use.”
The praise is condescending but it makes you clench around him nonetheless. You love when he gets like this—just a little bit mean, using the way your bodies collide together to relieve his tension.
Everything he moans into your ear blurs together after a while.
“So fucking tight. How’s a man supposed to be angry when he comes home to this?”
“Fuck, you were made for this. Perfect little slut for me.”
“Just you lay there and take it. That’s right. Atta girl.”
You think you reply, but all he can make out is senseless babble into the pillow your face is half-pressed into. He still has a hand between your shoulder blades to hold you in place while his fingers, coated in your slick, continue to circle mercilessly at your aching clit.
He can tell by the way your walls flutter around him that you're close, knuckles curled into a death-white grip on the back of the sofa. He doesn't have it in him to make you beg—not when his own orgasm is so close. His place slows down a little. Slow, deep, tip nudging that spot inside you that has your vision whiting out. The deliberate drag is enough to push you over the edge with a cry of his name.
Art groans in satisfaction. "Fuck. That's what I wanted. That's it."
He fucks you through the intense wave of pleasure, fingers finally stilling to grip your hips again. Another few sloppy thrusts and it's impossibly not to cum with how your cunt is gripping him just right.
His moan is guttural right by your ear. Inhumane, even, as he rocks into you to prolong his pleasure, spilling into you until your thighs are sticky. The pair of you stay there for a while. You still arched forward, panting into the pillow. Art massaging your hips, murmuring words you can't quite make out into the back of your shoulder. It's almost comedic the way his own shoulders have relaxed since he first sunk into you.
"Can you move? My knees are killing me," you manage eventually, tilting your head to catch a glimpse of him pressing a kiss to your shoulder over your shirt.
"Yeah, sorry."
It's the same way he says 'sorry' to the chair umpire when he smashes his racket against the ground—a quick apology, a flash of an almost-there smile. You know there's no remorse behind it at all. Not when he gets to see you so thoroughly wrecked and he's too blissed out to remember why he'd came home in such a mood in the first place.
He pulls out of you (and takes a moment to admire the way you look with your back arched and your cunt dripping with his release), and then helps ease you up.
"Wanna talk about it?" You ask, voice still wrecked as his arms circle around you and a kiss is planted to the top of your head.
"No need. I feel better."
You can feel him smiling against you as he gives your middle a light squeeze. All you can do is roll your eyes fondly and usher him off to fetch something for the mess between your thighs.
Congratulations on 300 followers love!!! You deserve this and more, I'm so so happy for you. ❣️
What do you think of Art being readers tutor, except she's actually just faking not understanding anything because she wants to spend time with him.
"i just don't get it!" you huff for the fourth time while mulling over the same problem for an hour. of course, the answer is 47%, and the equation is pretty straightforward, but he doesn't have to know that you know that.
you're great at statistics. art is... average. but when you saw him sitting front row of your stat 202 lecture on the first day of classes you knew you had to have him. golden curls sitting so prettily above that sharp nose and blue eyes sparking behind those slutty glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
after class one day in the second week, you tap him on the shoulder and ask if he understood anything the teacher was talking about.
"uh, yeah, sure," he answers, turning around to lean over your desk and explain confidence intervals while you stare at his cute pink lips the whole time instead of listening.
"you're really good at explaining things," you compliment despite not having listened to a word he had said. you learn that you really like how he looks when his face gets all warm and flushed.
"really? um, thanks," he pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose bashfully and you catch yourself wondering how that nose would feel buried between your thighs.
"do you think you could tutor me on this?" you ask sweetly, twirling your pen into your hair. "i'm like... so bad at math," you explain simply, lying through your teeth.
you can see him considering the situation in his mind. pros and cons, how much he really wants to see you every week or so. the answer is clearly a lot when he answers "yeah, i could do that. i have tennis practice pretty much every day, but i'm sure we could find time," he clears his throat when he's done like it took effort to get that many words out when you're looking at him like that.
"really? perfect!" you clap your hands together, a pleased grin breaking out onto your lips. "here, give me your number. so we can.. plan where to meet and stuff," you hand your phone over to him and he seems to get impossibly redder. how cute.
for the first few meetings, you'd meet at the library. you tell him with a pout that you got a c on the first test despite nailing it and you lean in extra close when he comforts you and tells you that you can still pass the class with grades like that, but that's why he's here to help!
you memorize his features and the inflection of his voice when you're supposed to be learning the central limit theorem and always ask him questions about home and tennis and his other classes to get him off track when you get bored of that.
you sit extra close to him, your thighs and your elbows brushing as you make him draw models on your notebook to show you how they work, even if his numbers are slightly off, you can't correct him.
you always wait for him to finish his tests in class first, doodling stars in the margins after you finish so that it doesn't look suspicious. you slowly work up to telling him your real test scores so he can feel accomplished as your tutor. once, when he asks you what you got on an exam, you slip up and casually say 95.
"what?" he asks, eyes wide, clearly astonished, "that's.. awesome."
"all because of you!" you cheer, quickly wrapping him up in a hug to distract him.
eventually, you convince him to start meeting in one of your dorms. it's so much easier than going all the way to the library after all. you lay on your stomach, head practically in his lap as he sits with his back to the wall, notebook or laptop conspicuously hiding the semi he's been rocking ever since seeing you sprawled out on his sheets.
it all comes crashing down one day when you're idly scrolling on your phone as he searches through your desk for some flashcards in preparation for the final exam. what he finds instead is your very first exam from the semester, a big red 100 penned at the top.
"what's this?" he asks, his heart pounding in his chest as he holds it up for you to see. it's unmistakable. your name penciled in at the top next to stat 202, section 4. and a fat red 100. even circled for emphasis and a little great job from your professor. the test you had told him you got a c on. the test he had barely scraped by with a b.
you glance up casually, your heart stopping in your chest as you register what he's holding. your eyes flick up to his, the expression on your face making it clear to him that you weren't expecting him to find that. "i.. um..." you start, not quite sure how to explain it away this time.
"what's the square root of 196?" he asks suddenly, like he's quizzing you. you can't tell if he's angry or not, his expression stony as he looks at you, only his blue eyes giving away the hint of betrayal.
"14?" you answer correctly, knowing you can't go about fooling him anymore.
he sighs, his hand holding the test falling to his side and his head falling back to look up at the ceiling.
"i'm sorry, art," you're immediately sliding off your bed to approach him, a regretful look on your face. and you really are. you didn't want to lie to him, not really, but you just had to get to know him.
"why did you lie to me?" he asks, finally looking down at you again, the hurt clear on his face this time.
"i'm sorry," you repeat, softer this time, intertwining your fingers with those of his free hand. "i just... i wanted to talk to you. to spend time with you," you try and explain, knowing it's still not exactly justified.
"you couldn't have just talked to me like a normal person? asked me to hang out, get coffee or something?" he asks and you cringe at the accusation in his tone.
"i just.. it was the first thing i thought of. and then i liked spending time with you so much, i just had to keep up with the lie or i thought i'd lose you and..." you trail off, looking down at your feet in shame. you know you betrayed his trust, you're simply praying he'll give you another chance.
he sighs softly again, his hand gingerly coming up to you jaw to tilt your head up to look at him again. "you're not going to lose me," he insists, his eyes looking much softer now as he takes you in. "but i think maybe you should be the one tutoring me," he teases, a small smile gracing his features that makes you sag with relief.
"i'm sorry," you sigh again as he pulls you into his chest. you wrap your arms around him, breathing in his scent and thanking whatever it is out there that's clearly on your side.
"shh," he shushes you gently, placing a kiss to the top of your head. "i forgive you. this time," he adds with a chuckle that inflates your chest. a second chance is all you need. statistically, you had to be much more likely to get it right the second time.
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