summary: after divorcing Tashi, Art is left hollowed by years of quiet shame over his erectile dysfunction, something that still makes him flinch at the idea of intimacy. But when he finds love again with a new partner, softness and patience replace pressure. On the night you finally decide to be together, you don’t expect him to perform, you only want him, just as he is. With slow touches, gentle praise and the kind of worshiping that asks for nothing in return, you help Art rediscover what it feels like to be wanted.
pairing: art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.
cw: +18. mdni. 3.8k words. emotional trauma / low self-worth, past relationship fallout, performance anxiety, vulnerability, ED (erectile dysfunction), praise, gentle sex, handjob, worship (Art receiving), touch foreplay (kisses), crying during sex (Art), aftercare.
taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket
The divorce papers had been signed at a table that still smelled like disinfectant and stale coffee. Art had worn a collared shirt that didn’t fit right and tried not to fidget while Tashi sat across from him in something clean and white and almost offensively composed. He couldn’t remember what she said when it was done. Maybe she hadn’t said anything at all.
He remembers that, because he’d driven back to the condo alone after kissing Lily’s forehead from the backseat of Tashi’s car and sat on the edge of their—no, his—bed for a long time, staring at a racket propped in the corner like it had something to say. The silence was louder than anything he’d heard on court.
The next few months were a blur of returning to familiar routines, but without the warmth they used to hold. Seeing his daughter every week-end, being friendly to Tashi because it wasn’t like they hated each other; no. He still played, still trained, still ran drills and went through the motions like muscle memory could save him. But even the crack of the ball didn’t land right anymore. His rhythm was gone, and it wasn’t just physical.
It was like someone had scooped something out of him and left a hollow space that refused to fill.
Art hadn’t wanted to admit it, but something had been wrong with his body for a while. It started during the first year with Tashi, quietly, and he hadn’t wanted to face it then either. At first, he’d chalked it up to stress, to exhaustion, to pressure. There were always reasons. Athletes knew how to push through pain. That was the gig.
But when it kept happening—when he couldn’t stay hard, when he couldn’t finish, when even the idea of touching her made something in him seize up, after Lily—he’d stopped trying. And so had she.
That made it worse, somehow. Like he wasn’t worth trying. Like his body had betrayed him and her. Like he was just one more disappointment she had to learn to tolerate.
Tashi never said anything outright, but Art could feel her eyes sometimes, heavy with something he didn’t want to name. Pity, maybe. Or worse—confirmation. Maybe that made him think of Patrick, because surely Pat never had this problem. Art had always been the weaker one. The less brilliant one. The one who needed someone else to move first.
After the three of them imploded—no, fractured; it was always fractures with them, never clean breaks—Art carried the guilt like a second spine. And the shame. The shame of a body that wouldn’t cooperate. Of desire that flickered and stuttered and died out when it mattered most.
Even now, alone, that fear clung to him.
Because it wasn’t just about sex. It was about his manhood. About his worth. About the ability to be chosen and to keep being chosen. To be loved, to be seen more than a racket and a court and a win.
He met you at a friend’s fundraiser. One of those events where everyone stood around with glasses of white wine and tried not to admit they were all a little tired of pretending they liked mingling. You hadn’t been trying to talk to him. You were laughing at something someone else had said, a soft sound he heard over the hum of the crowd. He remembered the way your eyes crinkled, the way your voice carried lightly, like the first warm breeze before spring really arrives.
He wasn’t trying to flirt. Honestly, he barely knew how anymore. But you had asked him a question about tennis—not the rules or his stats, just something simple: Do you still love it?
And he’d paused, startled by the honesty of the question.
You didn’t push. You just nodded, like you understood something in that. That’s what stuck.
It took a few weeks before you saw each other again. Another friend, another event, this one smaller. You ended up sitting on a couch in the corner, both of you trying to avoid the spotlight. He asked about your work. You asked about his injuries. There was a warmth to the conversation, casual but not shallow. When you laughed, it didn’t feel like you were trying to impress him. You just found him funny. Or maybe just easy to be around.
For a moment, Art remembered not even thinking about Tashi anymore. Not even about Patrick. Not about the vulnerability in his chest; how badly he wanted to be seen.
The first time you kissed, it was outside a late-night diner, a few days later. You’d split fries and talked about terrible movies, and when he leaned in, you met him halfway, soft and sure. It had been a long time since someone kissed him like that—not with hunger or demand, but with quiet affection.
He’d gone home shaking and his head full of thoughts about you.
Dating you was different. There was no game to win, no invisible net he had to serve over. You didn’t prod at him. You didn’t seem to want anything from him except him. Which scared him more than he’d like to admit.
Because what was left of him, after everything? A man with knees that ached in the mornings, who couldn’t get it up half the time, who’d lost the only two people he ever really loved in the same breath, the same passion, the same pain.
He didn’t feel like a man anymore. Not in the way he used to.
He felt like a ghost wearing the skin of a tennis champion. Still broad-shouldered, still strong, still tall. But hollow in the places that used to burn. With a heart empty of a passion that used to devour him whole.
You never brought up sex. Not once. Even after weeks of dating, of kissing slow on his couch and curling up under blankets during thunderstorms. You never reached under his clothes without asking. You never made him feel like he was failing you by being cautious. That terrified him too, in a way. Because it meant you knew he was afraid.
You were being gentle because you saw the cracks. And instead of recoiling from them, you stayed.
One night, he lay beside you in bed, the two of you tangled in sheets and quiet breath. Your hand was resting lightly on his chest, your thumb stroking absently over his sternum. His heart beat too fast.
“I need to tell you something,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. You didn’t move. Just waited. He swallowed hard. “I’ve… had trouble. For a while now. With—” You didn’t make him finish. You just nodded, your hand still warm on him.
“Okay,” you said softly. Like you knew; or like you didn’t care because it wouldn’t change anything.
“I don’t know if it’s going to be any different with you. I want it to be. But I don’t want to let you down.” You turned your face to his. “You’re not letting me down.”
His throat tightened. “It’s not just physical. It’s—it’s shame to me. It makes me feel like I’m not—fuck, like my body is falling me sometimes.”
You leaned up, brushing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “You are alright, Art, you don’t have to worry.” His eyes burned. He hated that he was getting emotional, but your words cut through something cold and deep, through shame and vulnerability.
“I don’t need you to perform,” you said. “I don’t want the tennis player or the guy everyone stares at on court. I want you. All of you. However you show up.”
Art had no idea what he’d done in life to deserve that kind of gentleness. But he knew he wasn’t letting go of it.
That night, you held him tighter than usual. Not sexually. Just close. Your hand on his jaw, your lips brushing his cheek, your voice low and steady in his ear. “You don’t have to be hard for me to be close to you,” you murmured. “I want to make you feel good. Not just get you off. But hold you, touch you, love you. All of it.”
He exhaled like it was the first real breath he’d taken in years.
That was the moment he knew he was going to trust you. Really trust you. Not because you fixed anything, but because you weren’t asking him to be fixed. You just wanted him. Soft, scared, healing. You wanted him.
The first time you touched him in bed, really touched him with intention, it was raining.
Soft, steady drips against the windows, the kind of rain that made the whole world feel like it was wrapped in cotton. You’d both been reading on the couch, legs tangled, your feet on top of his thigh, Art’s hand resting absentmindedly over your shin. At some point, your book slid shut in your lap and your head tilted against his shoulder.
“You tired?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse.
“Not really,” you said. Then, quieter, “I just like being close.”
Art glanced down at you. The golden light from the floor lamp softened everything—your features, the curve of your lips, the glint in your eyes when they flicked up to meet his. He felt the pull of it then. Not lust. Not urgency. Just the slow, thick draw of wanting to be near you in ways that meant something.
“Do you wanna lie down?” you offered gently.
He nodded. Said nothing. Just followed you to bed, his pulse already starting to rise. Anxiety, want, love; he didn’t know.
He kissed you for a long time before either of you even got under the sheets. Standing at the edge of the mattress, your hands sliding up under his t-shirt, Art let himself lean into the feeling of your mouth. You kissed him like there was no rush. No script. No performance. No rush at all. By the time his shirt came off, he was shaking.
“Cold?” you asked, brushing your fingers over his ribs. “No,” he murmured. “Just nervous.” You looked up at him, so close, your noses almost touching.
Art swallowed. “To not fuck this up.”
“You won’t.” You took his hand, laced your fingers through his. “Let’s go slow. Let me love on you a little. Just that. No expectations.” It was everything he needed to hear.
And still—his body didn’t cooperate right away.
You were so patient. You always were.
Lying beside him, half-draped over his chest, your lips soft against his collarbone while his shirt was gone, you whispered things into his skin that made him ache in new ways. Not the ache of shame or failure—but the ache of being seen. The ache of being wanted.
“You’re so good, Art,” you whispered, kissing down the center of his chest. “So warm. So beautiful.” His breath caught. “You don’t have to get hard for me to be proud of you.”
He closed his eyes. “I’m already proud of you.”
You took your time with him, letting him feel your hands first—just your hands. Stroking his arms, his chest, the dip of his waist. You didn’t go for his member. You didn’t even hint at it. You just touched him like he was something sacred.
When you kissed his stomach, he made a sound low in his throat and gripped the edge of the mattress. “You okay?” you asked.
He nodded, unable to speak. “Too much?” You asked him quietly.
“No. Just… not used to this.”
You smiled against his skin. “Then I’ll teach you.” At some point, you sat up and guided his hands to your body, both of your clothes had been discarded on the floor for a moment now but you still took your time. “You can touch me too,” you said. “If you want to.”
But even then, he went slowly. Ran his fingers up your side, over the swell of your hip like he was searching for a treasure on your skin–the map of Love. His hands were huge on you, and you didn’t flinch or squirm or giggle. You just breathed, steady and open, like you had all the time in the world for him.
You let him kiss your neck, your collarbone, the top of your breast. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, reverent.
You smiled. “So are you.”
His cock stirred slightly, tentative and uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a pass/fail test. It just felt like… curiosity. Like his body was starting to remember what it was like to want and not be afraid. And still, you didn’t grab at him.
You leaned down instead, pressing your lips just below his navel, and murmured, “Can I touch you now?” His voice broke a little. “Yeah.”
The first time your hand wrapped around his cock, he nearly cried. Not from arousal. Not exactly. But from relief. He wasn’t hard in the way he’d have liked, not soft enough to feel ashamed but in the middle that made him feel like it was alright.
From the way your palm cradled him like he wasn’t broken. Like there was nothing to fix. Just warmth, skin to skin, fingers stroking him with care and reverence, not pressure.
“You feel so good in my hand,” you whispered, pressing kisses to his chest. “I love touching you.” His hips twitched, breath stuttering.
“I want you to feel loved, Art,” you murmured, voice heavy with affection. “I want you to know how good you are. How worthy. How beautiful.” And just like that, something in him unlocked, like his brain was finally sending signals to his length–to say he was safe. He was loved. He was enough.
His cock started to harden beneath your hand, slow and unsure, but undeniable. He gasped, stunned. “I—”
“Shh,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re doing perfect. You don’t have to rush.” Art had never cried during sex before. But your praise was undoing him. Your gentleness, your unwavering calm—it was dismantling every wall he’d built around his shame.
He turned his face into your neck, his voice cracking. “Thank you. I’m sorry it’s been like this.”
“Don’t be sorry,” you said, threading your fingers through his hair, not pulling; digits making ways through his dirty blonde strands. “You’re not a machine. You’re a person. And I love this body. Every inch of it. Even when it’s scared.”
His cock was fully hard now in your hand, twitching slightly, leaking at the tip. You looked at him, beaming, and said it like a blessing: “There you are, baby.” He laughed—wet, trembling, disbelieving.
You worked him slowly, deliberately, lips on his jaw, your breath warm against his ear.
“You’re so good for me,” you murmured. “You make me feel safe. Held. Seen.”
His hips moved again, this time with more confidence. You met his rhythm with your fist, curling your hand just right, your thumb brushing over his tip. “Can I…?” he asked, voice shaky.
“Whatever you want,” you said.
“Can I be inside you?” He asked like he was afraid all of this was a dream, like all of this would disappear at any given minute. Your smile was all the answer he needed. You helped him settle between your legs like he was something fragile and beloved.
Art's body trembled as he hovered above you, one hand braced beside your head, the other pressed to your waist like he needed to make sure you were real. You were warm and soft beneath him, your thighs cradling his hips, eyes half-lidded with affection, not lust. Not hunger. Just care.
He looked down at you, cheeks pink, eyes glassy. “Are you sure?”
“I want you,” you said simply. “I want you like this. However you are.”
That was the difference. That had always been the difference. You weren’t waiting for him to impress you. You weren’t expecting the Art who used to dominate the court or light up cameras. You wanted this Art. The man who shook in your arms. Who needed to be told he was enough.
Who was learning how to believe it.
He moved slowly. Everything about this was slow.
You guided him with your hand, lining him up at your entrance, your body slick and ready for him—not because of some pornographic fantasy, but because you’d wanted him. Because you’d been touching him, loving him, coaxing him open like the petals of something that only bloomed under moonlight.
His cock slid in an inch, and he froze, gasping.
“You okay?” you whispered, brushing a thumb across his cheek. He nodded, nearly overwhelmed. “Yeah. Just—feels like a lot.”
You smiled and kissed him softly. “Then take your time.”
Bit by bit, he pushed inside until he was sheathed in your warmth, your body pulling him in like he belonged there. Like he’d never belonged anywhere else.
The first few strokes were almost too much. Not because of friction or sensation, but because of everything else. The way your eyes fluttered shut. The way you sighed his name. The way your hands curled around his back, not clinging, not dragging, but holding.
He pressed his forehead to yours, moaning quietly as he moved inside you, a slow, languid rhythm that wasn’t about getting off — it was about being here. Inside you. With you. Wanted, loved, seen.
“God, you feel so good,” he whispered, voice cracking. “So fucking good.”
“So do you,” you breathed, arching slightly. “You’re perfect.” That word again. Perfect. He didn’t feel like it, but he believed you when you said it. You whispered things the whole time. Not dirty. Not vulgar. Just praise with the soft.
“Just like that. You’re doing so well.”
“You’re making me feel amazing.”
“You’re so gentle. So good to me.”
Every word went straight to his chest. To the part of him that had shriveled under years of cold looks and quiet disappointment. The part of him that used to flinch when someone touched his shoulder too suddenly, that recoiled from compliments like they were traps.
But you didn’t lie. He knew that now. You said what you meant. And what you meant was that he was enough.
His rhythm stayed slow. You were wet around him, tight in that perfect way that made him feel anchored to your body, like he could finally stop floating through his life and just be here. The drag of his cock in and out of you made him shudder, every thrust sending a pulse of warmth through him—not just arousal, but relief.
“Look at me,” you whispered. He did. Your face was flushed, lips parted, your hands moving to cup his jaw. “I’m so proud of you.”
He didn’t know if he was supposed to cry during sex, but the tears came anyway. Hot, stinging, shameful. Until you kissed them away. “Let it out,” you said softly, kissing his cheek. “Let all of it out. I’m here.”
Art pressed his face to your shoulder, thrusts faltering, body shaking as a sob tore from him. Not loud. Not ugly. Just raw. A sound like he hadn’t made since he was young enough to cry into his pillow without swallowing it down.
You held him tighter. Wrapped your legs around his hips. Ran your fingers through his hair again.
“I’ve got you,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”
He moaned against your skin, not from pain or pleasure, but because he didn’t know what else to do with all the feeling. The release. The unbearable sweetness of not being punished for breaking down.
Eventually, he started moving again. Slower than before, but steadier. Your bodies moved in sync now, sweat slicking between you, breath tangled, the air heavy with trust. You kissed him again and again—his jaw, his cheek, his lips, his throat.
He whispered your name like a prayer. You whispered his back like a promise.
You came before he did. Quietly, trembling, your walls pulsing and clenching around him as he gasped, stunned at the sensation of your body squeezing him, holding him. You didn’t scream or cry out. You just shook in his arms, biting your lip and sighing, “Art, oh my god, Art,” like it was the best thing that had ever happened to you.
That’s what did it for him. Not the friction. Not even the pressure. Just you.
The way you looked at him. The way you said his name. The way your voice cracked when you told him how good he was. He came with a groan that was almost a sob, hips pressed deep, his whole body locking up as he spilled inside you. It was messy. It was imperfect. It was the best orgasm he’d had in years.
Afterward, he didn’t move, not right away. You stayed wrapped around him, stroking his hair, kissing his temple. “Still with me?” you asked after a while.
He made a small, exhausted sound. “Barely.” You laughed softly. “That was amazing.”
He nodded against your shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, it was.” There was silence then. But not the kind that used to live between him and Tashi. Not the heavy, brittle quiet of disappointment. This was soft. Full. Complete.
When he finally pulled out, he did it slowly, almost reluctantly, like he didn’t want to lose the connection. You whimpered softly at the sensation, and he kissed your shoulder, your stomach, your hip. He cleaned you gently with a warm cloth, hands careful, reverent.
Then he climbed back into bed and curled around you, his hand on your waist, his face pressed between your shoulder blades. “You okay?” you asked.
“I think I’m better than okay,” he whispered.
You turned in his arms and looked up at him, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. “You were incredible.” He smiled, dazed. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this again. Not like this.” You leaned in, kissed his nose, then his lips.
“You didn’t get it,” you said. “You made it. With me.”
He kissed you back, deeper now, more sure. “I think I love you,” he said, almost afraid of saying it out loud. You didn’t flinch, didn’t move away, didn’t grimace.
“I love you too.” You whispered back at him.
Later, after you’d drifted toward sleep, Art stayed awake a little longer, just holding you. Tracing the slope of your arm with his fingers. Breathing in the scent of your skin.
Trying to remember the last time he felt this calm in his body. It wasn’t that the shame was gone completely.
But for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t louder than the love he had for someone.
