𝓒𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 .ᐟ small mention of insecurity/self-doubt ◞ age gap ◞ mostly just fluff! ◞ fem!reader ◞ reader being pregnant mention ◞ reader is in college! ✦ ♯
꒰ ֶָ ♥︎ : 𝓘𝐋𝐋𝐈'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐙 ⸝⸝ layout creds: @/jacksabbotts ⸝⸝ divider creds: @/cursed-carmine ⸝⸝ haven't written 4 challengers in a good minute...also do we see his pout in the first pic? he's so cute i can't, also YES i'm on like a dilf train rn or something and I do not plan on getting off...
𝓓𝐈𝐋𝐅!𝓐𝐑𝐓 Who's so sweet and giving it makes your heart ache. Years of feeling like he wasn't enough with Tashi left him with this quiet determination to make you feel everything. You never doubt how much he wants you since he's always reassuring you–even in the most smallest ways. Kisses on your cheek before you go off to uni to making you dinner after a long day of classes, he's always made sure to display his affection one way or another.
𝓓𝐈𝐋𝐅!𝓐𝐑𝐓 Who keeps a toothbrush for you at his house right along with Lily's in her little pink holder in the bathroom–without you even having to ask. And on one particular day you noticed–and tried not to cry as you got ready for school.
𝓓𝐈𝐋𝐅!𝓐𝐑𝐓 Who loves the relationship that you and Lily had formed ever since you two had gotten together. You're so gentle with her. Patient. Kind. It gives him vivid images of what it would be like to have a real kid with you, see you swollen with his baby inside of you–but it was just a silly dream. He could barely handle Lily–even with you around. Though, he likes to think about it sometimes whenever he can't fall asleep. What'd it be like.
𝓓𝐈𝐋𝐅!𝓐𝐑𝐓 Who's extremely cautious about PDA whenever you go out with him, claiming that "you'd be embarrassed" when deep down you know it's the opposite. So what if he gets a little insecure out in public? He knows he's older. He knows it looks odd–but don't worry, you'll be there to kiss his worries away.
𝓓𝐈𝐋𝐅!𝓐𝐑𝐓 Who is sooo touchy in private,like when I tell you they man is starved...I mean it. Always a hand on your waist, hips, thighs–anywhere you'd let him really. He just likes to feel you, like to bury his face into the crook of your neck and hold you until you'd force him to let go.
𝓓𝐈𝐋𝐅!𝓐𝐑𝐓 Who sends corny texts like "Goodluck on your exam, baby! 🩷🩷😎😎" But you'll always heart them, sending him back a photo of you smiling and a "Thanks, Art :)"
𝓓𝐈𝐋𝐅!𝓐𝐑𝐓 Who secretly loves the rants you go on whenever a class doesn't go well since then he'd finally get a little peek into your life whenever he's not in it–always adding his own commentary that never fails to make you smile.
"Wouldn't have happened if I was there."
"Art, you're like 33."
"So...?"
𝓓𝐈𝐋𝐅!𝓐𝐑𝐓 Who loves when you call him "Mr.Donaldson"–it's so innocent yes so filthy at the same time it drives him insane.
𝓓𝐈𝐋𝐅!𝓐𝐑𝐓 Who is 100% a giver, always making sure you're satisfied first before focusing on his own needs–in and out of the bedroom..
𝓓𝐈𝐋𝐅!𝓐𝐑𝐓 Who's gets so embarrassed whenever you tease him about his age, whispering things about he was your "mature man", the pet name never failing to turn his cheeks pink–but don't worry, he calls you "kiddo" just as much.
𝓓𝐈𝐋𝐅!𝓐𝐑𝐓 Who sometimes confesses he thinks he's holding you back. You're a bright, young college student and he's...a retired tennis player. You'd be better off without him–but you always make sure to dismiss him before he even fixes his lips to bring it up. Whispering soft praises and reassurances against his cheek until he finally stopped.
"But you could go so much farther–"
"Art."
"But–'
"I'm not leaving you. I never will. I want you..I want a real life with you–and Lily. So stop talking or I'll make you stop."
⋆˙⟡ don’t you dare stop: art donaldson x afab!reader.
summary: how can dinner with some friends turn this way? as soon as everyone was out, you were straddling art’s hips to grind onto him. tease him, torture him just because he’s so pretty when he begs for you.
cw: +18. mdni. established relationship. teasing. degrading / praising. dry-humping. coming in underwear. begging. submissive!art. reblog is a creator’s best-friend, thank you! (this is a repost from my previous blog, i am not stealing it!)
You were supposed to be at dinner with some friends, something civil and respectable. One hand resting politely on your wine glass while you and Art pretended like you weren’t thinking about the way your thighs brushed every time he leaned close. But dinner ended and everyone left. And somehow the dim lights of his apartment, the afterglow of cheap wine, the slow hum of the record player spinning something bluesy—it all shifted.
And now you were here; straddling him on his living room couch, your dress hitched up over your hips, lace panties soaked and rubbing against the bulge straining in his jeans. His hands gripped your thighs like he was holding onto the edge of a cliff, and his breath hitched every time your hips rolled down, dragging your heat over him again and again.
He wasn’t inside you but you were going to kill him all the same.
“Fuck,” Art gasped, voice already wrecked, head thrown back against the couch cushion. “You’re gonna kill me.” You smiled slowly and rocked your hips again, deliberately slow, just to hear him choke.
“I’m not even doing anything,” you said sweetly, hands braced on his shoulders, your mouth grazing the shell of his ear. “You’re the one all worked up, baby.” You could feel the tension, the hardness of his cock under through the layer of clothing.
“Don’t call me that,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut. “Not when you’re doin’ this. Not when I’m this close already—fuck—you’re evil.”
You ground down harder, your clothed pussy dragging over the ridge of his cock through his jeans. You felt how thick he was, how wet the fabric had gotten with both your arousal, how close to breaking he really was. “But you like it,” you whispered, the slightest of mocking in your tone.
Art shivered beneath you, his hands twitched on your thighs like he wanted to move them; grab you, flip you, pin you, but didn’t dare. You’d set the pace, you’d told him not to touch. And he, sweet thing that he was, was still trying so hard to be good for you.
“You’re a menace,” he said through his teeth. You rolled your hips again, slower this time, your clit catching just right on the curve of his zipper. It made your lashes flutter, your mouth drop open with a curse. “Oh,” you moaned softly, letting the sound break loose and land right in his ear. “You feel so big, even like this. Poor thing. Can’t even help it, can you?”
Art whimpered; full-body, actual whimper.
And it lit you on fire. “Oh my God,” you whispered, grinning. “Did you just make that sound for me?”
“Stop teasing,” he said, voice strangled. “You want me to stop?” You froze your hips entirely, smug. “You sure about that?” His hands tightened on your thighs. “Don’t you fucking dare stop.” You tsked, your breath hot against his flushed cheek. “Now, now. That doesn’t sound like asking nicely.”
Art’s eyes snapped open, wide and pleading, pupils blown dark with lust. “Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t stop. I’ll be good, I swear. Just… fuck, please keep going.” Your lips brushed his, just the ghost of a kiss. “Good boy.”
He whimpered again. And you started moving—slow, torturously, dragging circles of your hips against his, your slick of your pussy soaking through the lace and smearing onto the denim of his jeans with every grind. Your clit rubbed against his zipper, stimulating every nerve.
“Does it hurt, baby?” you murmured, watching his face twist in pleasure. “Being this hard, and you still can’t come?”
“It’s torture,” he said, voice cracked. “You’re fuckin’ torturing me.”
“I thought you liked that.” You replied with amusement on the edge of your voice. “I do.” His hands shook where they gripped you. “I fucking love it.”
You rocked harder, more purposefully now, grinding down like you meant to make him come just like this; hands off, clothes on, utterly helpless beneath you. And oh, he was helpless. His mouth hung open, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded and glassy with lust, his hips twitching like they wanted to meet yours but couldn’t quite find the rhythm. Like he wanted to thrust, wanted to fuck; but didn’t know how when you weren’t letting him do anything.
You grabbed his chin and forced him to look at you.
“Feel that?” you said, rolling your hips with extra pressure on the downstroke. “That’s my pussy rubbing all over your cock. You’re not even inside me and I’m still fucking you through your jeans.”
“God!” Art gasped, eyes rolling back. “You gonna come like this?” you taunted, voice syrupy sweet. “Like a needy little virgin with his first girlfriend grinding on his lap?”
That broke him. He groaned so loud it echoed, his hips bucking once before he slammed them back down into the couch, visibly trying to hold back. His fingers dug bruises into your thighs, but still... still—he didn’t break your rules. “Oh my god,” you breathed. “You are gonna come, aren’t you? Just from this?”
“Please let me,” he begged, voice hoarse. “Please, I’ll do anything... fuck, it hurts, I need it! Please let me come in my jeans, I need to, I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it.” You leaned in close, nose brushing his, lips barely grazing. “Do it.”
His body snapped like a rubber band; one harsh, shaking grind up into you and he was gone: moaning deep, ragged, hips twitching as he came hard in his pants, completely undone beneath you. You felt the heat spread through the denim, the throb of his cock trapped against his boxers and your soaked panties, the way he panted like he couldn’t get enough air.
“Jesus,” he breathed, eyes wide, chest heaving. “That was…” You smirked. “Hot?” He laughed, ragged and dazed, cheeks pink and eyes still half-lidded. “I was gonna say humiliating, but yeah. That too.” You rolled your hips one last time, teasing. He groaned, sensitive now, squirming beneath you. “Look at you,” you whispered. “Came in your jeans like a teenage boy... just for me.”
“You’re evil,” he said, eyes dark. “You know that, right?” You kissed him then, slow, filthy, claiming. He melted under you like he always did, hands finally lifting to rest on your hips. Not controlling and not demanding but just there.
“You know I’m not done with you, right?” you murmured against his mouth. He smiled against your lips, dazed and breathless.
・・・ wanna send in a request .꜄ 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 .
𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐀𝐂 ꪑ
𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑑𝑠𝑜𝑛 . ⒅+
⠀· ⠀eighteen plus obviously ! 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐃 . ۶ৎ
𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐀 ׅ⎖ ⠀ ◟ ⠀ 𝑤𝑐 4.7k ۪ ⠀ 𖥨 ݃ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Art missed you so much. Won’t you tell him it’s not weird he’s now wearing your panties after you found out he’d been using them to jerk off? But, it definitely is. It’s also quite predictable. Of course he’d go that far considering how his brain operates. He’s weirdly obsessed with needing you like you’re his personal aphrodisiac. But, whaddaya do about it?
❛ ＿＿ּ smut, some plot not just straight p*rn fem!reader stanford art is solely used for visuals so imagine whichever era of him you want established relationship dirty talk use of “̲ good boy ”̲ praise kink cum eating x2 making out gluttonous cunnilingus nipple sucking and biting ( and groping ) ྀི clitoral stimulation fingering power play switch dynamic orgasm control / orgasm denial unprotected p in v internal ejaculation / creampie dry humping overstimulation art’s a vocal guy degradation kink handjob cowgirl position detailed aftercare . reblogs are greatly appreciated, discretion is advised.
⠀ ₊ ⠀ ݁ ໃ՞ vanity left a 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑔𝑒 . . . 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐏 ׅ⎖ ᭡◞ can’t believe I’m finally back on here !! Just in time for my 20th bday too tehe . I hope everyone enjoys finally getting the second and likely final part of this unless yall want him back by popular demand tbfh .
The sun hardly did a thing to cut through the crisp air and you swear it hasn’t been this cold out since the ‘90s when you were a kid. Yet you navigated the crowded sidewalks on the street today with half your ass hanging out in the dark wash shorts you’re donning and your pumps with no socks in sight. Beauty and glamour over practicality, you guess. The wind that kicks up soon afterward nearly topples you over and whips your hair around like a scene from a cheesy musical. Your arms were already heavy with a half a dozen glossy boutique bags, each fattened with either a purse and wristlet, lace lingerie number, or high end perfume and jewelry. You had been repeating how you needed more things to fill up your closet until Art finally told you that you could go and buy it with his money. Such a good boyfriend. Stepping into a local quiet café to escape the noise, you pulled Art’s credit card out of your wallet. You ordered an iced coffee, checked your watch, and thought about texting Art but ultimately decided against it since you’d be back within the hour anyway.
Back at their apartment, the hours dragged by at a morphine pace for Art, especially with him half listening to the droning on of the TV after tiring himself out. He had tried to distract himself—he trained for the day, jacked himself off lazily while sniffing maniacally into the crotch area of your panties with his sweatpants slung low (and was disappointed when he came dry)—but it didn’t matter what he did as his mind got drawn back to simply missing you and he whined like the clingy lapdog he is when you didn’t even bother calling him or shooting a text message. You’d been out all day and nothing? Come on.
Art finally decides to do something else and abandons the couch. His feet carry him directly to the heavy door of your walk-in closet. He swings it open and the cool air inside carries the thick scent of your laundry detergent, smelling exactly like powdery floral bar soap. He hones in on the gold mine of your underwear drawer. His hand hovers. He hesitates for a split second, but he shrugs that brief blip off and slides the drawer open with a quiet scrape of wood. That nagging little thought whispering in his brain is now front and center and he wants to satiate it. He doesn’t even know if this will work out. Will your panties actually fit his dick or will it have to sit uncomfortably against his leg?
He thumbs through them like a deck while his eyes scan the color and fabric coded rows, looking for the perfect fit with his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth. His finger stops on gray boyshorts, an elastic pair that looks like it has some give. His heart is like a drumbeat in a rainforest against his ribs as he pulls them out of the drawer carefully and steps into them, pulling the waistband up. The fit is incredibly snug, holding his cock firmly against his skin. It isn't entirely comfortable, but the slight restriction only heightens the buzz of the boundary he just crossed.
He misses you like crazy. He’s been reminiscing about times when you rode his dick and left him a nonsensical sexually overstimulated mess. Each roll and bounce of your hips had him making these desperate noises, beyond the point of being able to moan properly. Even though you didn't make fun of him when you realized he was jerking off with your panties, he wonders if you'd laugh now. The bulge he’s got while clad in your gray boyshorts panties has his lower belly starting to warm up as he palms himself while thinking of you. He even spritzed more of your perfume on a worn shirt of yours prior to slipping it on and desperately nosing around in your hamper again to sniff right into the crotch of your panties right before climbing into your shared bed. He’s so disgusting like that. It turns him on more imagining you strolling around the streets of the metropolis that is Boston and going shopping for more panties just so he has fresh options to choose from next time. You hum an unknown tune off key as you shut the front door, lock the bottom and top lock, hang up your denim jacket on the deep brown coat rack, and slip off your pumps. You slide them over next to the credenza. It’s a typical circular but not necessarily nebulous routine nowadays. You’d go on a shopping spree with yours and Art’s card and return home after pampering yourself.
You drop your shopping bags onto the living room couch with pep in your step still. You briefly consider wandering barefoot in the kitchen for a drink, but beeline for the bedroom instead, fully intending to drag your boyfriend out to watch you try on everything you just bought.
He’s in too deep even to hear the front door unlock, let alone notice you pushing open the bedroom door. “…Art?” You speak up as both of your eyebrows rise at the sight of him being evidently lost in his own pleasurable world. The ache in your soles is almost forgotten and your grip on your clutch purse nearly loosens. His hand stills and a violent flinch wracks through his body hard as his nerves were set ablaze for a whole different reason now. Embarrassment flashes across his features, then washes entirely through his body. His brain races for a sorry excuse as he realizes the inextricably mire situation he’s in while you blink at him. He doesn’t know if you were judging him, laughing inside, or disgusted. Maybe amused? Maybe all four at once. What he did know is your silence bothered him. His hands fidget—one still half covering his big problem, the other nervously picking at a loose thread on your panties. The fabric clings to his boner like a second skin.
“Babe…” he starts, voice smaller than usual, hardly frantic. “I could take them off.” But he doesn’t move. He had been sitting here palming his dick while wearing your underwear like a lonely puppy with separation anxiety. And yeah, okay, that sounded pathetic, even to himself right about now. So he tries for something else when you hadn’t yet responded. His heart thumps so hard it feels like it wants to break through his chest with the adrenaline kick he’d gotten. “I just missed you so much. Please don’t think I’m weird,” he begs, reluctantly peeling your graphic oversized shirt off of himself and tossing it on the bed beside him. He stands up and makes his way over to you without missing a beat. “Please. I promise I won’t do it again.” His eyes flicker between yours and then across your countenance, desperately searching for a sign of understanding.
“You’re so stupid,” you lightheartedly state with amusement laced throughout those three words. “What are you getting so worked up about? You look like you’re seconds away from crying.”
A shaky puff left his lips, something of a breath of relief. “Do you even really want to take them off?” You ask as you busied yourself with setting down your purse. The question was so simple. He knows his answer already. He craves your approval, but he was touch starved. The latter trumps the former by miles right now. He just stares at you. At the way your lashes frame those warm eyes, how your lips part slightly like you were about to say something gentle or maybe kiss him senseless. “I don’t wanna take ‘em off,” he whispers.
He gets closer and leans his face toward yours. “Just wanna touch you,” his lips press softly against yours, hushing the murmur that leaves his mouth. Every press of his lips is soft. For a second, he bites down and tugs on your bottom lip, then goes right back in for another. His hand slides up against the prickly stubble of your happy trail growth, then he cupped your boob over your crop top. You’re not even wearing anything underneath, he thinks to himself, and a smile curls up on his lips in between kisses, fading a smidgen as he pulled back.
His gaze is steady and those eyes of his are hungry staring back at you. It's anything but a soft weight against your skin when his hands slide down your thighs and he lowers himself down onto his knees before you. On the way down, he quickly kisses the side of your neck and then your navel. You let out an undignified whine as he burrows his nose right into your crotch, inhaling deeply, exhaling out a breathless sound.
He unbuttons your jeans and helps you pull them down. He gives you little time to step out of them; the moment your lace panties come into view, he spreads your meaty thighs and flattens his tongue right against your clothed slit. His jaw flexes as he hungrily sucks the sopping arousal clinging to the fabric, his saliva only dampening it further. His hand slides up to the waistband, tugging the scrap of cloth down your legs. His throat bobs and his pupils dilate as you’re fully exposed to him now, your fat clit already erect just for him.
‘Course he’s seen it more times than he could count, but he can never get tired of the view. His cock is dribbling with pre-cum as your heat throbs with a rapid, erratic heartbeat of its own the moment his tongue latches onto your coveted pearl. A heavy groan sounds from deep within his chest. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, only to fix back on your face as you buck your pussy against his mouth, needing to see the moment you’d cum. Your hand slides into his hair, your fingers threading through his locks to grip them tight as a moan filtered through your lips. “You nasty fucking weirdo,” you huff out, feeling him humping against your leg closest to him as he lifts your opposite thigh so you could rest your foot upon his shoulder.
There’s a playful scrunch of his nose in protest to being called that but he never really minds when you get a little mean. Having his mouth completely occupied with your pussy right now makes it a major win in his book. The lewd sounds of him devouring you accompanied by a low vibrating thrum in his throat like a muffled “mhm” while he rolls his tongue and sucking on your clit makes a plea of his name leave your lips. Pulling away from your button with a soft smack of his lips, Art captures it again with harsher suction for a moment then letting up on the pressure when he heard you softly hiss. His hand that was supporting your thigh gripped onto it a little more as he slid his other hand to liberate his cock from the confines of the underwear.
It practically springs free—thick pink head with a string of arousal oozing from it, girthy with a slight left curve and a thick vein roped along the side of it. His knuckles flex as he wraps his hand around it and began pumping his cock while his tongue finally dips briefly inside of your weeping entrance just to tease. A second later sliding back up and curving his tongue in while bobbing his head and sucking. A moan broken off into a gasp leaves you, an involuntary shudder wracks through you when you cum relatively quicker than usual. It’s only been a couple of minutes, but the attention on your clit was too much and you rolling your hips down on his face assisted.
You jolt and your pussy clenches and unclenches rhythmically as he continues flicking his tongue while your cum dribbles down his chin and neck. He attempts to stroke his dick at the same pace as his tongue works, but his tongue was much quicker than his fist, and he was trying to focus on you more. The pressure intensifies tenfold right as your toenails bite into his shoulder when your toes curl; you still tremble but keep your hips down even though your nub is sensitive and pulsating like crazy. Your perspiring stomach tenses in a stutter in time with your breath, culminating in you finally tug his head away slightly by the hair. You look down at him and your eyes flicker down to his lips first, then down his chin and neck, and finally meet his eyes. He looks so effortlessly absorbed in doing this and blissed out with a pleasure drunken grin, pushing aside all his thoughts just to be buried between his sweet unforgettable girl’s plush thighs. His hand still worked at getting himself off. He leans his head forward and his tongue delves inside your hole unperturbed with how your walls were still somewhat convulsing.
His tongue makes these deep strokes inside with slow curls that make you grind your hips down hard enough to damn near break his nose, still trying to greedily chase that feeling. You are just as shameless as him. He pulls back even when you try to keep humping and he licked his lips. He huffed out a breath of amusement when you actually bumped the tip of his nose and a soft smile crept onto his features making smile lines appear onto his face. “A little help?” He asks to get your attention, setting your thigh down and carefully standing up. His knees ache, forcing a small grunt from him when the sting caught up to him, but he doesn’t even bother looking at the reddening skin. He simply rubs the shoulder where your foot just rested and doesn’t hesitate to pull you into a kiss. You could taste your slickness coat your tongue from his. It was honestly hot. A hand squeezes his throat and he exhaled through his nose as his hand gripped his cock and he’d begun pumping it again. Your thumb scored up from the base of his sensitive neck, rubbing just below his Adam’s apple while teeth and tongue clashed messily. It’s utter perversion how even during a kiss, the two of you can’t keep your eyes off of each other. Your lust filled half-lidded eyes and blown out and black pupils are watching him.
“Hah. Oh fuck…fuck,” he pants out shakily, completely losing track of the kiss while his toned abs glisten with the beginnings of sweat and his cum that spurted wildly up the lower half of his stomach and all over his hand. Your eyes flicker to his stomach going inward and out while he continued to stubbornly pump himself until even he decided it was too much. The last few squirts landed on his hand and he sighs. He was about to pull away from you to go and wipe his hands clean, but you gripping him by the wrist pins him, stopping him from taking another step. Art’s release was still oozing down in the ridges of his stomach, trickling down his defined v-line and dripping from his fingers.
“Ah-ah. Clean it right here.” A spark shines in his eyes as they widen a fraction. He thought you were joking at first. A chortle left his lips as an awkward smile appears, his eyes flickering up and down your face like he was hoping to find the answer through your expression.
“You serious?” He tries, his eyes flickering between yours.
“Deadly.”
His cock was softening a smidgen already, but he swears he felt it twitch to life. Art leans down toward his open palm and flattens his tongue against it, licking the skin clean while maintaining direct eye contact. He licks his lips as if it will lessen the saltiness that resting on his taste buds. “Good boy,” a low coo of approval leaves you. Art whimpers a little at being praised, then tugs you closer by the wrist and kisses you hard. His burly hands slipped down to your plump ass that always filled his hands out once he got you close. His nose knocks against yours a few times as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss impossibly further, all while stepping back toward the bed until he planted his socked feet in time to avoid slipping. You settle down on his lap the moment he sits, thighs bracketing his.
Your hands work at slipping off your top as one of his hands slides all the way down for him to bully two thick fingers into your pussy from behind. A shared gasp slips between the both of your lips and it nearly got lost in the kiss until he pulled his swollen lips back. You tweak your brown nipples as they harden, groping the fat of them while rubbing your thumb over the pebbled peaks. If this were lazy, sleepy sex, you might’ve been embarrassed by how obscenely wet your pussy was and responding to Art. But it’s hard to be when he’s looking you dead in the eye. It’s distracting, making this feeling linger like cigarette smoke and slow a little. And then the syrupy slurring of words starts, your brain being carnal-addled becoming just as evident. “Mmm s-shit, jus’ like that,” you slur. His fingers curled just right inside of your heat that ached and throbbed for him. Your arousal stuck in transparent strings to your trimmed curly bush that framed your pussy every time he dragged his fingers out enough, plunging them deeper than before.
His skilled wrist begins to ache in no time but he didn’t let up. Not even when the pads of his fingers began to prune mere minutes in and he could feel your walls sucking him in more. “Don’t cum yet,” he breathes out, like those fingers of his weren’t trying to best the speed of a rabbit in heat. The strong urge to whine out Why? hits you like a motherfucker because he seriously chooses now to attempt to deny you and flip the script? No way in hell. But the complaint dies on your lips just as he unexpectedly slips his fingers out.
He maintains eye contact while putting those same fingers in his mouth and slurps them clean. Your breath hitches and your walls clench around nothing. For a moment, you swear you see him smirk, but then he gently maneuvers your hands away from your bare breasts. He replaces your fingers with his mouth, his hands returning to your ass to spread one of your cheeks while you reach behind yourself, your hand gripping onto the base of his dick beneath you. Your bottom lip gets caught between your teeth again when you sink down, then you move your hand. Your face twists in pleasure when he bites and then sucks your nipple just right and thrusts his hips up at the same time. Another snap of his pelvis makes your lips part to let out another pretty sound just for him.
He steadily works his hips in a pace he mentally set—not too fast, no, you didn’t like that and he wanted to savor this—angling each thrust to knock sort of sideways as that always churned a moan or expression too precious for him to handle. Your walls are practically sucking him in; you couldn’t help but instinctively bounce your hips to fuck him back just to gain a bit of your standing back. He lets a nipple out of his mouth with a string of spit briefly connecting him to your skin still. Your tits bouncing in his face over and over was hypnotizing alone, but he snaps out of it when you firmly cup his jaw and pull him into a kiss.
The desperate fevered movement of your lips string a guttural moan from his chest, his tongue tangling with yours as his hands slide down to grip your hips to help you ride him at the right pace. "F-fuck, more. I want more,” he pants against your mouth, breaking the kiss just enough to look down between you both at how seamlessly he fills you and how sticky his dick looks from how wet you are. Your stomach flutters with a whirlwind of butterflies at how desperate he sounds even while he’s taking everything he wants. Then almost suddenly he’s merging into these heavy jagged plows that bury him balls deep inside you, driven carnally by the tight, milking suction of your walls alone. He’d been so impatient all day and needed this. You whine as your toes curl and your eyes briefly roll back, you can feel that familiar feeling rising in your stomach. You know he feels it deep in his too when he started blathering—something along the lines of “I wanna…stay right here. Like this. All day, baby,” he slurred, the t’s and d’s almost disappearing. Each word sounding like it weighed on his tongue as his thrusts got sloppy—followed by a pathetic moan right after. You kissed him again to hide your own whimpers and broken moans.
His breath hitches once, then hitches again, heavier, a moan filtering through his lips right as you gasp and fall silent. Your thighs tremble while his tense and his hands loosen their grip on your hips entirely, coming to rest there, his thumb rubs your stretch marks as he catches his breath. You rock your hips subtly, chasing that feeling a little longer, but then he grunts and clamps down on your hips to hold you still. Shaking his head, he lets out a trembling exhale.
A thick silence settles over the room, thick with a scent of salt, musk, and the lingering heat of each other’s skin. It is not a suffocating or empty silence. You don’t move away from Art immediately. Instead, you collapse forward, your full weight pressing him straight into the mattress, your forehead resting against the sweat slicked damp curve of his shoulder while the aftershocks refuse to subside, making both of your bodies jolt involuntarily. Your breath puffs ragged against his neck before you shift just enough to bury your face in his crook, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of him. It’s crazy how even now you can smell a mix of his body wash and your perfume clinging to his skin.
Your thighs burn from the effort of riding him, the muscles tight and feeling completely like jelly from the sheer intensity of your pace. His hands slide up your spine in slow, trembling strokes, trying to soothe you now that the high is passing. You can actively feel the tension draining right out of his muscles, leaving behind a boneless exhaustion that mirrors your own, his chest rising and falling heavily beneath your palms while you find yourself absentmindedly rubbing his chest. "You okay?" he murmurs. The words are thick with fatigue, vibrating right against your skin rather than just reaching your ears. He lifts his head slightly, his eyes searching yours in the dim light now that it’s gotten darker outside. Reaching up, his fingers are clumsy now but gentle as he brushes a damp strand of hair from your forehead, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone to wipe away a bead of sweat.
He seems to notice your dry throat before you even do when you swallow too thick, the sound loud in the quiet room. Breaking eye contact, you carefully withdraw, the sudden loss of his warmth making you shiver instantly despite the lingering heat. You reach for him instinctively, but he only moves to the edge of the bed, fumbling in the dimness. There is no perfect glass of water waiting; he just grabs a half-empty plastic bottle from the nightstand, the label crinkling loudly under his grip. He unscrews the cap and brings it right to your lips, his hand steadying the plastic as you take greedy, desperate sips. The water is lukewarm and tastes faintly of plastic, but it feels like salvation. He takes a quick drink himself, then tosses the empty bottle on the floor beside the nightstand with a careless clatter.
"Come here," he murmurs, pulling you back down. You don’t dismount him fully, instead you settle your weight back onto his lap, but softly now, no longer working your hips, just resting. He pulls the rumpled sheets up, tucking them around your shoulders and his own with a clumsy, protective fierceness, creating a tight cocoon against the cooling air. Then he pulls you forward, settling his chest flat against yours, his arms draping heavily over your waist to hold you secure. Your legs remain straddling his hips, tangled together under the sheets, a continuous line of contact grounding you both.
He lets out a long, shuddering breath, his forehead resting against yours. "That was..." He stops, shaking his head as if words are too heavy to lift. His thumb begins a repetitive, soothing motion on your lower back, tracing a scar there, over and over, as if trying to ground himself through touching you. "Just... don't move yet. Please." The room is quiet save for the syncing of your breathing and the distant sound of the TV still going in the living room. He nuzzles his nose deep into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple that lingers, his lips soft and heavy. When a cool draft hits the room, he simply tightens his hold, sharing his body heat and rubbing your back until the chill passes. It isn't polished or perfect. There are no candles lit and the pillows weren’t fluffed like usual, just the viscous reality of sweat, the tangle of limbs, and the desperate, clinging hold of two people because this wasn’t planned. But it was so good. Better than good. And you wanted to do this all over again even though it was unexpected.
But as the minutes stretch toward ten, the cozy weight of his body beneath you begins to shift from grounding to pressing. The water you just drank hits your system faster than expected, and the lingering pressure from the friction against your bladder ignites an undeniable urgency. The warm cocoon suddenly feels restrictive; every small shift of his hips sends a jolt through your lower stomach, reminding you of the much needed release. You squirm slightly, trying to ignore the growing ache, but the pressure builds relentlessly.
Art catches on. His hands pause their soothing rhythm on your back, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes clouded with sleepiness but alert to your discomfort. You shift your weight, wincing as the movement emphasizes the fullness in your bladder.
Understanding dawns on his face, softening the exhaustion in his features. He doesn't say a word, just slides his hands down to your hips to help you lift yourself off of his dick. The separation is slow, makes both of you make an unfiltered noise. As you rise, the air feels freezing against your overheated skin, a stark contrast to the furnace of his body beneath you. He watches you, his gaze heavy and adoring, as you carefully step onto the floor, your legs wobbling slightly from the exertion.
He watches you find your balance, before he finally exhales, a sound that is half-sigh, half-reluctant surrender as he lies back and lets his eyes shut. "I'll be right here," he murmurs, as if he won’t likely be sleep with his flaccid dick still out by the time you’re out of the bathroom.
⠀ʚ𓈒⌒⠀ ｡⠀ perv!boyfriend!art who can’t rid of his habit of sniffing your panties! ⠀⊹⠀˚ ◌ ⃘ 𓈒 and you’re so mean once you find out…
𖬺 CONTENT WARNINGS .ᐣ .ೃ❜ ˖ ׁ ˚ EIGHTEEN+ ⒅ ╱ art being an obsessed weirdo, mutual masturbation, multiple instances of oral (fem!r), bodily fluids (spit, cum), real NASTY fem!reader. part 2 out now !
perv!boyfriend!art who’s nervous around you. You sit on his lap and straddle him, his big hands hesitate before resting on your hips and gripping. He looks as if he’s about to have a comical bead of sweat roll down his temple and his adam’s apple bobs with a harsh swallow when you practically purr every word while maintaining eye contact before kissing him. He swoons and whimpers as if he were a love struck puppy. It’s not like he was listening to a word anyway. If he had a tail, it’d be a blur behind him. You’re his first real girlfriend! Guys get like this when they’re with the woman they’ve introduced their grandma to and get their first apartment with. He believes you’re sexy even when you’re wearing no makeup, hair tousled and messy from sleep, and a hint of morning breath on your plump lips. Just the thought makes his smile lines cut into his cheeks as he grins boyishly. Cute, right? No telltale signs yet.
perv!boyfriend!art who’s not a virgin, but hasn’t done anything with you yet. His tip is dribbling with pre at the memory of you walking around in your panties and a fitted crop top with no bra earlier. When you’re off to the nail shop for the day with his wallet, he claims he’s too exhausted to tag along to keep you company while palming himself underneath the sheets as discreetly as possible. You pout and leave him behind when your convincing doesn’t get through to him.
perv!boyfriend!art who’s rushing to the en suite the moment the front door clicks shut to reach his hand into the dirty clothes hamper to pull out a pair of your most recently worn panties he’d bought from Victoria’s Secret. A lace red thong and hiphugger panties in the shade fresh jam. He inhales both deeply right in the crotch area and can’t help the groan that filters through his lips. It’s obvious you had just slipped off the thong. It still smells like you.
perv!boyfriend!art who’s getting himself off with the other pair wrapped around his dick beneath his tightened fist while burying his nose in the lace panties. His loose shorts and boxers are barely tugged down from how impatient he’d been. He instantly cums hard when he hears your voice. His skin prickled with heat and his eyes nearly rolled to the back of his skull like he’s finished experiencing heaven itself.
“Art, I forgot my phone. Is it in there?” You called out and your face contorted with confusion when you hear him elicit one last pathetic moan and sniff. “Are you okay?” You sounded so worried. It almost makes him feel guilty for what he’s doing behind the locked door.
“Mmfh– not in here. But…I’ll help you look.” He said before placing both back into the hamper and fixing his clothes accordingly.
You don’t miss how he smells like he’s been touching himself. But, you don’t breathe a teasing word about it because you’re busy.
perv!boyfriend!art who pouts and claims he isn’t when you didn’t take his advice of riding his face—using him as a home remedy when you’re stressed out. Can he be blamed for wanting your pussy in his face? His nose nudging your clit everytime you rock your hips while he’s burying his tongue deep inside, drunk off the taste and huffing through his nose so he won’t have to come up for air. The one time you do take him up on his offer is when you’re playing a video game and you’d been losing back to back an embarrassing amount. He doesn’t waste time crawling underneath the desk of your computer setup and disappearing face first between your spread thighs.
He tucks your panties away into the pocket of his adidas shorts. Your head cants rearward as your eyes flutter shut, a sharp intake of breath when he wraps his lips around the pearl before pulling back with a soft smack of his lips. He spits with precision before rubbing it on your clit with his thumb, his dick throbs in his boxers when he sees your cunt flutter around nothing and his eyes flicker up to catch your expression through his strawberry blond lashes.
His tongue is fucking you and working like he’s making out with it while you roll your hips greedily to take what he has to offer. The thought of you cumming on his tongue and you moaning is all the motivation he needs to get you there. His tongue licks a strip up to your clit, swirling on it, then sucking it into his mouth, flicking his tongue over and over. Even when your thighs begin to tremble and your abdomen clenches he won’t spare you. Your breath hitches, moans getting even louder til’ you’re over the edge and he moans while you make a mess on his face. It could be delirium burning through you but you swear it sounds thankful and it has your brain feeling fuzzier while his mouth pushes you through your orgasm.
perv!boyfriend!art who goes weeks without you noticing he’s using your panties to masturbate until his luck runs out by not doing laundry when it was his turn since he had tennis practice abruptly.
Art crosses the threshold of your shared bedroom, you’re walking out of the adjoining bathroom to meet him halfway with one of the panties he used (now washed and dried) in your hand. Another piece he’s gotten you. The moment his blue eyes widen, it’s crystal he realizes he’s been caught and can’t deny it. You’re physically holding his nasty little secret in the palm of your hand. He doesn’t want to seem sick to you of all people, but frankly, this situation he’s found himself in is bad. He sets his tennis bag down, taking a hesitant step forward and attempts to speak only for nothing to come out.
“How long have you been using my panties to jerk off?”
“I’m sorry,” Art says almost instantaneously.
His stomach flips thinking you’re going to laugh at him, that he’d be scarred and would have to take this entire situation with him to the grave and pray you would too. Then you bite your lower lip and cover the distance in three strides and he realizes you’re not mad. Especially now that he registers your blown pupils and hooded eyes. Any trace of malaise leaves him quicker than he can process.
perv!boyfriend!art who’s parting his lips for you without asking why when you say “open” while holding his jaw between your fingers.
You spit into his mouth, right on his tongue, while some rolls down his chin as he stares up at you, and then you finally settle down on his mouth. Your pussy spread right on his flattened tongue.
perv!boyfriend!art who’s surprised when you say you want to try something new and it ends up with your freshly tugged off panties stuffed in his mouth while you stroke his dick agonizingly slow.
“Fuck. You like that, don’t you?” You say in between soft gasps and a stuttered moan, his middle and ring finger pushing in and out of your pussy rhythmically trying to keep up with the pace you’ve set on him. He wants to go faster, make you cum before he does. He’s using every bit of effort to be patient and hold back since it’s your call. He nods, maintaining eye contact while your fingers are pushing the panties a little further into his mouth. You grin before it faltered for your expression morphed into pleasure and your lips are forming into a soft oh. His head slumps back and he lets out a muffled groan because you both can’t help but push each other’s limits.
♥︎ ꒰ ❝ֹ ֹ⠀𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬! ꒱⠀ ౿ ݁ . ︵ @mitchesmoon @222col @musingsofheaven ╱ to be added. 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃
authors note: not proofread..also this is a repost from my old account hehe
wc: 0.8k
🐇
it was late, practice had gone over time—you flopped into art’s bed, his dorm was always cold and it felt so good you nuzzled into the sheets. not bothering to take your sweat soaked clothes off.
art walked in not too long after you, he flopped on top of you, hands wrapped around your waist as he kissed the top of your hair, smiling.
“hi baby,” he grinned, getting off of you completely. art sauntered over to his closet, throwing his shirt to the ground. his abs flexed, and you could feel yourself getting embarrassingly wet. he could you feel checking him out, your gaze roaming around his body.
you were sitting up now, and he had climbed back into bed—shirtless. your hands traced over the lean muscle of what were his shoulders, chest and arms. you turned over and had art grabbed the back of your thigh, lifting you up to sit on his lap. you giggled and leaned in for a kiss.
it was messy, spit drooling down both your chins—all teeth. you could tell he was hard because you could feel him against your underwear and now you were completely drenched. art could feel that you were wet—just the mere fact that you were soaking through your underwear was just enough to tell that you craved him bad.
his hips lifted up to grind against you agonizingly slow, the clothed friction giving a different kind of feeling. “art” your voice was shallow, breathy—and completely filled with lust.
art needed you so bad, he craved you. he grabbed your hips, bunching your skirt up to your waist. he pulled your underwear to the side not bothering to take it off. he was tired and way too lazy to even undress you or himself properly.
he pulled his shorts off, then his boxers—they were spongebob boxers..but it didn’t really matter. “you’re so pretty” he caressed your cheek, his hands going to your hips once more before slowly settling you onto his cock. “fucckkkk—“ he let out a groan, throwing his head back into the pillow.
🎾
his hands lazily moved your hips, bouncing you up and down, his eyes watched the creamy ring form against the base of his thick cock—watching as your cunt completely sucked him in, you could feel him against your cervix.
“art, artt..fuck fuck fuck—“ your moans were obscene and pretty. if he could he’d take a picture just to show tashi, you were gripping him so tight he could cum inside ya right then and there.
his thumb lazily traced over your clit, he was barely putting in the effort and it was driving you insane.
you didn’t really remember when he flipped you over, face down ass up—pounding into you deep—like there was no tomorrow. the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room.
god he was making you feel so full, and you could feel yourself getting insanely drunk on his cock.
a couple more thrusts and art could feel himself getting close—it was so pathetic—his hips snapped up into you, releasing hot thick ropes of cum inside you, he heaved—his breath ragged, uneven and jaw clenched as he slumped against you.
you found it cute that anytime he came his jaw would clench, he caressed your cheek—rolling you over onto your side, wet, lazy kisses trailed up your neck then downwards, his head making his way down to settle between your thighs, art kissed the inside of your thighs mouth nearing towards your pretty cum filled pussy, and when he got there his tongue didn’t let up—he dived in like a starved man.
your legs locked around his head, fingers running through and gripping his hair. art grunted in appreciation, you could feel him smirking against your folds, that stupid dorky smirk. he lapped at your clit, spit dribbling down his chin, he could taste a mix of his cum and yours. it made him hard.
art fell back on his knees to admire your fucked out state, your hole fluttered. “cmon babygirl —you got one more in ya’—please?” art bat his pretty eyes before rubbing fast circles around your clit, “you got it—jus’ one more..”
his name fell out your lips like a prayer, “o-ohh!! fuckkkk..” your voice went up a pitch and he watched as you came all over his fingers. the sight was a pretty one, you body writhing on the bed, legs shaking and quivering.
his head went back down in between your thighs to collect your juices, as soon as he finished he climbed up on top of you, removing the sweaty hair strands out of your face, you let out a breathy sigh as art smothered your face with kisses.
he got up shortly after to get a towel,to clean you up. he wiped the insides of your thigh, changed your clothes and kissed your forehead. “you did so well f’me sweet girl..”
you let out a soft hum and it didn’t take long before you dozed off completely.
art mumbled a soft goodnight, pulling the sheets over you both before shutting off the light.
summary You’re Tashi’s prodigy – her golden player, her project, her obsession – and every serve, bruise, and whispered command in the humid courts brings you closer to the greatness she demands and the dangerous devotion you crave.
Her words sliced through the thick, humid air of the court, sharper than any backhand you’d returned tonight. You clenched your jaw, fighting back the sting rising in your chest as you adjusted your grip, wrists trembling from fatigue. The fluorescent court lights above flickered once, buzzing low like an insect trapped against glass.
Tashi stood across from you, arms folded over her chest, racket hanging loose in one hand. Her eyes tracked your every movement with cold precision, dark irises gleaming under the harsh lights. Not a single hair had slipped from her braid. Not a single breath came ragged. She didn’t even look like she’d broken a sweat.
“You think anyone cares that you’re tired?” she asked, tilting her head. “You think your opponent’s going to let you catch your breath just because your legs ache?”
You said nothing, swallowing around the dryness in your throat. The air reeked of sweat and ozone from the storm rolling in beyond the courts.
She walked forward slowly, each step echoing on the concrete, until she stopped in front of you. Close enough to smell the faint citrus-clean scent of her perfume. Close enough for her gaze to pin you in place like an insect under glass.
“Show me your grip.”
You held out your racket obediently. She tutted under her breath and grasped your wrist, her fingers firm, nails biting just enough to make you flinch. She twisted your wrist into position, ignoring the small sound of pain that escaped your throat.
“There,” she murmured, voice low and dangerously calm. “Better. You waste so much energy flailing like a child. Be intentional.” Her thumb pressed hard against your pulse point, feeling it flutter quick beneath her touch. Her eyes flicked up to meet yours, and the faintest smirk ghosted across her lips. “Scared?”
You tried to shake your head. You really did. But her smile widened, dark and knowing.
“Good,” she said softly, releasing you with a little shove. “You should be.”
She turned away, braid flicking against her shoulders as she reset the ball machine. The soft whir of it starting up again filled the silence between you.
“Ready position,” she called without looking back. Her voice carried over the court, even and indifferent.
You fell into position. You had no choice.
She was Tashi fucking Duncan.
You remember the first time you saw her with perfect clarity. It was just before summer, at the Women’s Doubles Championship at Stanford. You walked onto the court with your partner of barely a month, racket slung casually over your shoulder, still laughing about something inconsequential.
The stands were mostly empty, early morning sun pooling across the faded seats, but she was there.
She sat near the back, hair braided tight down her spine, skin gleaming under the harsh court lights. Beside her, some guy with dark hair talked animatedly, gesturing with annoyance, but she didn’t even turn his way. Her gaze was locked onto the players warming up across from you, then shifted – scanning you and your partner with cold precision.
For the briefest moment, her eyes met yours. Then she looked away, disinterested. Or pretending to be. Even then, you knew she was weighing you up like an opponent across the net.
You played like a monster that day.
They already called you a prodigy, but you felt it then more than ever – the smooth snap of your wrist on returns, the controlled aggression in each volley, the way you forced your opponents to the very edge before you broke them. You didn’t win by overwhelming force.
You won by erosion. You liked the slow kill. The long game. Watching your opponent realise, point by point, that they could not outlast you.
You saw her watching you as you kissed the trophy for the cameras, your partner practically hanging off your arm, beaming with triumph you felt only in your chest’s hollow ache. Her boy toy was gone by then, bored before the final set even started, but she stayed. Eyes sharp, unreadable. Calculating.
You felt exposed under her gaze, as though she already knew your weaknesses before you’d ever played against her.
After the match, she approached. No introduction. She didn’t need one. Everyone knew Tashi Duncan. Tennis prodigy. Discipline incarnate. Her presence felt like stepping onto Centre Court – blinding, suffocating, electric.
She took your phone out of your hand without asking, typing in her number. Her thumbs moved fast, deft, like she was gripping a racket rather than a piece of plastic.
“I want to teach you how to clean up your game,” she said, eyes flicking over you with faint disdain. “You waste too much energy on theatrics.”
You scoffed, defensive heat prickling your skin. “Why? You trying to retire early or something?”
She tilted her head, braid slipping over her shoulder. A faint smile ghosted her lips. “I think you’re decent,” she said simply. “I like potential. If you don’t want my help, I’ll—”
“—No, no,” you blurted, grabbing her wrist before you could think. Her pulse was steady under your fingers, calm and unmoved. “I… I want it. I want to get better. You’re… incredible. A literal god at this. So… yeah. I’ll take it. Thank you.”
Her lips twitched into a smirk, eyes dropping to where your hand gripped her wrist like a lifeline. “You’re cute,” she said softly, pulling her arm back with clinical grace. “Don’t suck up like that again.”
You blinked, throat dry. “Okay,” you whispered.
It felt like losing a point on purpose – knowing it was part of the strategy to win the game.
You sat on the sideline, sweat drying uncomfortably against your skin as you sipped water. Your arms trembled from the last set of drills Tashi had put you through. She hadn’t spoken when she left to grab electrolytes – just gave you that look. The one that said don’t move.
Your phone buzzed against the bench. Then again. You sighed, thumb sliding across the cracked screen.
Riley K: U alive? Court 4. 10 mins.
Riley was older by a few years, once the academy’s golden child before Tashi showed up and claimed the title with ruthless ease.
Everyone knew Riley hated her for it. Everyone knew Tashi didn’t care.
You found Riley leaning against the chain-link fence by Court 4, idly bouncing a ball off their racket frame.
She always carried themselves with effortless arrogance – sun-bleached hair half-tied back, tank top gaping enough to show the sports bra beneath, tanned arms littered with old, half-faded tattoos that had scandalised the board when she won state. She never moved like an athlete. She moved like someone who already owned the court.
“Hey,” you croaked, voice scratchy from drills. You tucked stray hair back, trying to look composed. “What’s up?”
Riley didn’t bother with greetings. Her gaze dropped over your body, lingering on bruises blooming along your biceps and collarbone like dark flowers. Like proof.
“You look like shit,” She said, half-smiling. The words weren’t a joke.
“Good to see you too, Coach,” you deadpanned.
Riley pushed off the fence, stepping closer. “Been watching your sessions. She’s working you like a sled dog.”
You shrugged, shifting your weight. “It’s paying off.”
“Is it?” She cocked her head, tapping the ball against her strings with a rhythmic thunk. “I see a kid who’s gonna blow out a knee before you even sniff a Grand Slam.”
“I’m not a kid—”
“Don’t.” Riley cut you off softly, stepping in so close you could smell sweat and faint mint gum on her breath. “I know she’s good. Nobody’s saying she isn’t. But her head’s fucked. She pushes until you snap. Then she watches to see if you’ll crawl back together just to please her.”
Something twisted deep in your gut at that.
The worst part was that you couldn’t disagree.
Riley let silence stretch, heavy and humid, before leaning in. Her hand came up to brush sweat-damp hair off your forehead, their thumb lingering on your temple.
“Come train with me,” they murmured. “I know her type. I was her type once, remember?” Their voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. “You don’t have to bleed yourself dry for her. I can get you where you wanna go – without all this.”
Her fingers drifted down to your sports bra strap, tugging it lightly before smoothing over a purple bruise near your ribs. You sucked in a sharp breath. Riley’s eyes flicked up, reading your reaction like they were reading the scoreboard.
“She buy you this set?” She asked, voice tinged with something unreadable.
You nodded, heat flushing your neck. “Yeah.”
“That so?” Riley’s hand grazed your hip, knuckles brushing the exposed skin above your skirt waistband. “Tashi give you a lot of things?”
You swallowed hard, throat clicking. “I… I guess.”
“She’s turning you into her project,” She whispered, leaning close enough for her lips to brush your ear. “Her little toy. You’re too good for that. You’re too good for her to use up and toss aside.”
Her words prickled something defensive and guilty inside you all at once. Before you could speak, the air shifted.
You didn’t hear her approach. You just felt it. That oppressive gravity she carried everywhere.
Riley’s eyes flicked over your shoulder, their hand dropping from your skin like they’d been burned.
“Tashi,” you breathed, turning before you could stop yourself.
She stood just inside the court gate, arms folded across her chest. Her braid was still perfectly tight, her expression carved from stone. Her eyes locked onto you first – sharp and dissecting – before sliding to Riley like they were barely worth noticing.
“Didn’t realise we were holding career counselling sessions tonight,” she drawled softly. Her lips curved, but there was no humour there. “Still trying to poach my players, Riley? Thought you’d grown out of that.”
Riley opened their mouth, but no words came. Tashi barely glanced at Riley again. Her gaze pinned you where you stood. You knew that look. You’d seen it across the net before you’d ever felt her touch – the look of a player calculating where to place the kill shot.
“You done here?” she asked, voice calm and flat, but it cracked like a serve against your chest.
You nodded before your brain even caught up. Riley let out a helpless scoff, muttering under their breath, “Puppy on a leash.”
But you didn’t turn back. You didn’t dare.
You followed Tashi off the court, your stomach coiling with something hot and shameful and thrilling all at once. The silence between you thrummed like taut strings.
“I’m sorry, Tashi, I didn’t even—”
“I don’t care.” Her voice was dead quiet, dead calm. The most dangerous tone of all. “Have a shower. You smell like shit.”
You swallowed, words dying in your throat. “But, Tashi, I didn’t—”
She spun so fast you almost crashed into her chest. Her eyes burned into yours, flicking between your pupils like she was reading your thoughts, your guilt, your arousal, your fear.
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her silence pressed down heavier than any insult.
You dropped your gaze, shame prickling your skin like sweat. “...Okay,” you whispered.
You turned away, walking toward the locker rooms on shaking legs. You felt her eyes on your back with every step – like the promise of a match point she’d already decided she would win.
You sit in the locker room, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a faulty line judge’s call. Six months. Six months of drills until your lungs burned, serves until your shoulder threatened to tear, footwork until your arches felt like cracked glass. Six months of her.
Her words echo through your skull like a rally you can’t end.
“I like potential.”
“You’re useless.”
“Like a puppy on a leash.”
Your palms drag up and down your thighs, sweat and anxiety slicking under your touch as you try to steady your breathing.
You remind yourself: inhale on toss, exhale on contact. But there’s no racket in your hand right now, only the phantom ache of her grip around your wrist, twisting your form into perfection whether it hurt or not.
You could fire her.
You could walk away from her borderline verbal abuse, her impossible demands, her mind games that danced the thin line between flirtation and degradation. You could find another coach. One who called you “champ” or “kiddo.” One who didn’t look at you like an opponent to break down point by point.
But they wouldn’t make you great.
She made you great.
Before Tashi, you were a 70% chance. A strong player. A promising junior. Since Tashi?
You’d become a 90% guarantee. A name whispered with envy and fear across academy courts.
And when you lost – if you lost – she made sure you felt it was her loss too. Her rage simmered colder than disappointment, like a serve slicing the line with millimetre-perfect accuracy.
But God, she got off on your failures. On your ragged breathing, your trembling knees, your whispered pleas for a break that never came. Her taunts cut sharper than any forehand.
“You’re kidding, right? You’re paying me to watch you play like a fucking loser?”
“Come on, sweetheart. Don’t you wanna win? Don’t you wanna tell your parents you’re worth something for once in your life? Or is that too much for you to handle?”
You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on your breath. Ball toss. Contact. Follow through.
You stopped going out. Friends messaged less and less until silence became your pre-match routine. You didn’t care. Tennis was all that mattered. Winning was all that mattered.
No – she was all that mattered.
Tashi dictated your entire game.
What you ate, how you slept, who you spoke to, where your eyes went in the locker room, when you were allowed to take water. Every hour spent with her off-court felt like another drill. Another conditioning set. Another test of obedience.
And God help you – you loved tennis. But you wanted to be great not just for yourself. Not just for the trophies lined up like headstones in your future.
You wanted to be great for Tashi.
Because with her, every rally was power. Every serve was submission. Every match was another chance to prove that you deserved her control.
Between winning and losing lies everything that matters.
That was the first thing she ever told you that wasn’t instruction. Not feedback. Not critique. Philosophy.
“Winning is transient,” she’d said one quiet evening after drills, both of you sitting cross-legged on the court, backs pressed to the chain-link fence as the sodium lights flickered overhead. “It’s a peak. A single breath. But potential…” She glanced at you, sweat-damp hair sticking to her temples, eyes sharp and dark and impossibly tired. “Potential is infinite.”
You frowned, chest heaving with spent adrenaline. “But isn’t potential worthless if you never cash it in?”
A ghost of a smile. “Only if you think the match ends at match point.”
You didn’t understand then. You do now.
Winning felt good. Briefly. Like coming up for air after too long underwater – sweet and burning and dizzying all at once.
But what she gave you… what she drilled into your bones every night under buzzing court lights… was a taste of that liminal space. The place between victory and defeat. Where possibility stretched out forever, as long as you kept moving forward.
“You’re not losing because you’re tired,” she said once, voice carrying over the mechanical rhythm of balls ejecting from the machine. “You’re losing because you don’t want it enough to kill for it.”
A ball whistled past your ear, missing by millimetres. You barely reacted in time to return the next.
“Footwork!” she barked, her voice slicing through your scattered focus. “I don’t care if your lungs are on fire – move. Again!”
You panted hard, sweat dripping into your eyes, the court blurring under the glare of harsh lights.
“You think your opponent cares if you die on this court?” Her voice dropped low, almost tender, almost cruel. “Do you think the trophy will cry for you?”
Another ball slammed into the net.
“Pathetic,” she spat, racket slamming down against the ball machine shut-off. The sudden silence roared in your ears.
She strode forward, gaze pinned to yours, her sweat-slicked polo clinging to toned shoulders, chest heaving only slightly from exertion. She stopped inches from you.
“I don’t train winners,” she said quietly. “I train champions.”
Your throat clicked as you swallowed, muscles trembling so hard you could barely stand. “What’s the difference?”
Her smirk was small and cruel and unbearably beautiful. “Winners want to beat the person across the net. Champions want to beat God.”
Your knees almost gave out at that, something burning deep in your chest. Fear. Shame. Awe. Love.
She reached up, fingers tangling into your damp hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp in a touch too intimate to be discipline and too cold to be affection.
“You want it, don’t you?” she murmured, leaning forward so her breath ghosted across your lips. “You want to be more than good. More than great. You want to be inevitable.”
“Yes,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Yes, I want it. I want it so bad.”
Her lips brushed yours, almost not a kiss at all. “Then stop crying.”
She shoved you back toward the baseline, picking up her own racket with infuriating grace.
“Again,” she ordered. “Until you become what I see in you.”
You stood under the hot water, letting it scald your back as your forehead pressed against the cool tile. Heat rolled down your spine, easing the ache in your calves and arms, but it couldn’t touch the deeper ache gnawing at your chest.
All you could think about was her. Tashi. Her bruising corrections. Her gaze that pinned you to the court as easily as a racket pins a ball to its strings. Her voice, low and venomous, curling around your throat tighter than any chokehold.
You dreamt of it too often—her touch rough, her touch gentle, her hands moving over your body with the same ruthless precision she used to guide your footwork drills.
You dreamt of touching her back. Of slipping your fingers through that perfect braid, tugging just to hear her gasp. Of seeing her come undone beneath you, just once, so you could know she was human.
You swore under your breath, trying to shake it off like sweat from your brow.
The door creaked open behind you. You didn’t need to turn. You felt her before you heard her.
Tashi stepped inside, the quiet click of the lock echoing in the empty locker room like the snap of a racket string breaking mid-serve. She moved around without a word, her presence cutting through the steamy air, a force as heavy as gravity itself. Only the thin vinyl curtain separated you, and even that felt like a lie.
“Why was she touching you?” Her voice came sharp and sudden, slicing through the hush like a perfect crosscourt backhand. Dripping with disdain.
You swallowed hard, letting water run over your face to buy a moment. “What are you talking about?”
She scoffed softly. The sound sent a shiver down your spine. “Don’t play dumb. She was feeling your clothes and your arm like a fucking leech.”
You let out a shaky exhale. “Oh. Right. She… she just liked the set, that’s all. Said the colour suits me. And she was…” You clear your throat. “Curious about the bruise.”
Silence. Then the faintest nod behind the curtain.
“I told her you got it for me,” you added quickly, desperate to fill the space between you with something—anything—other than her anger.
Another beat of silence. Your stomach twisted in its emptiness.
“Look, Tashi, I swear, she just… she offered to coach me, said you were a bit intense, but I’m not even considering it. Okay? I’m not.”
Silence again. Then:
“She’s pretty,” Tashi said suddenly, voice flat and unreadable. “Do you think she’s pretty?”
Your brows knitted, confusion cutting through the heat. “Wh—I don’t… I’ve never thought about it.” You scoffed softly, nervously. “No. I don’t.”
“Well.” Her voice turned mild, almost amused. “If you’ve never thought about it, how do you know?”
“Because—Tashi, who cares?” You snapped, tired, aching, humiliated. “We were just talking. It means nothing. And even if it did—it’s not your business, is it?”
Silence. Then a quiet chuckle, dark and low. “Good girl. I didn’t know if you’d ever grow a spine.” A pause. “It’s cute.”
Cute. She always called you cute. Like a pet she was training to heel. Like a player she knew she could dominate across the net, every rally ending exactly where she intended.
“She’s got a decent backhand,” Tashi continued, her tone turning analytical, as if dissecting an opponent’s tape, “but sloppy footwork. She wouldn’t teach you anything you don’t already know. Or know better. She’ll be retired by twenty-five at this rate.”
You heard the curtain rustle. Then the sudden draft of cooler air kissed your burning skin as she pulled it back. Her body blocked the stream of water, the scent of her sweat and faint citrus perfume wrapping around you like an invisible grip.
She was still fully dressed—black leggings hugging strong thighs, academy polo tucked tight at her waist, braid perfect despite the damp heat curling in the air. She tilted her head, eyes raking down your exposed back with infuriating leisure.
You refused to turn around. Your forehead pressed hard against the tile, your arms braced on either side of the faucet. You felt small. Cornered. Vulnerable in a way that went far deeper than nudity.
“But you,” she murmured softly, so close now you felt her breath against your ear, warm and possessive, “you could last so much longer. If you keep listening. If you keep being good for me.”
She said nothing for a moment after that. Just let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating, her presence folding over you like a weighted blanket you could never throw off.
“Tashi,” you whispered, her name falling from your lips like a prayer. Like a surrender. You didn’t even turn to see her.
She hummed softly in response, a low, satisfied sound that sent heat coiling down to your belly. You heard the scrape of curtain rings as she pulled it open fully, exposing you to her gaze.
Her eyes burned over every inch of your wet skin before you even opened your own.
“Turn around,” she murmured.
You obeyed.
The water beat down over your shoulders, dripping from your nipples, streaming down your stomach. Her eyes flickered over every inch of you, slow and deliberate, until you felt like your skin was set alight under her scrutiny.
“You’ve been distracted lately,” she said quietly, stepping into the narrow shower space with you. Her shoes squeaked slightly against the wet tiles. She didn’t care.
You swallowed, chest heaving under her gaze. “I’m not. I promise.”
Her fingers reached out, brushing a wet strand of hair from your cheek and tucking it behind your ear. The touch was gentle. Almost tender. But her eyes… her eyes stayed hard.
“Riley’s not worth your attention,” she continued, her thumb trailing down to your jaw, pressing just enough to tilt your head up to meet her gaze. “You know that.”
You nodded, water dripping from your chin. “I know.”
Her eyes searched yours for a long moment. You weren’t sure what she was looking for, but whatever it was, she seemed to find it. Her hand slipped to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your wet hair, gripping tight enough to make you gasp softly.
“You’re mine,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You know that too.”
“Yes,” you breathed.
And then her mouth was on yours.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t rough either.
It was deep, consuming, claiming – her lips slotting against yours perfectly as the water beat down around you. You moaned into her mouth, pressing closer, your naked body flush against her clothed form, the slick slide of your wet skin over her cotton polo making her hiss quietly against your lips.
Her tongue slipped into your mouth, tasting you with slow, thorough strokes that made your knees tremble. Her free hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone in a rare, fleeting moment of tenderness.
When she pulled back, you chased her lips, desperate, but she held you still with her grip on your hair.
“Turn around,” she said again, this time softer. You obeyed without hesitation, heart pounding as you pressed your palms to the wall, water cascading down your chest, your thighs squeezing together with anticipation.
You felt her hand ghost over the curve of your ass, down to your inner thigh, before sliding between your legs to cup your sex. Her fingers moved with deliberate slowness, parting your folds, feeling just how ready you were for her touch.
“Always so wet for me,” she murmured, leaning forward to press her lips to the side of your neck. You shivered as her tongue flicked out, tasting the droplets clinging to your skin. “Does practice make you this wet? Or is it me?”
“It’s… it’s you,” you gasped out, barely able to breathe as her middle finger slid inside you, slow and deep. Your walls fluttered around her, drawing her in, desperate for more.
“That’s right,” she whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Just me.”
She kissed down your neck, each press of her lips sending sparks through your chest as her finger curled inside you, finding that spot that made your hips jerk back against her. Her thumb circled your clit with perfect precision, not too rough, not too teasing – just enough to keep you trembling under her.
But she didn’t rush you. She didn’t drive you towards release. Not yet.
Instead, she kept her movements slow and steady, her finger thrusting into you with devastating precision, her thumb flicking up to your clit every few strokes before dragging away again, leaving you whining with need.
“Stay still,” she murmured against your shoulder, her teeth scraping lightly at your damp skin. “Let me feel you.”
You tried. God, you tried. But your hips rolled down into her touch, your chest arching forward, forehead pressing harder into the tile as quiet moans spilled from your lips.
“Greedy,” she chastised softly, her voice dark with amusement. Her free hand came up to flatten across your stomach, holding you firmly in place as her fingers thrust deeper, slower, dragging along your walls in a rhythm that made you tremble. “You’ll take what I give you. Nothing more.”
“Tashi… please…” you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as heat coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.
“Please what?” she asked softly, her lips brushing your ear, her breath warm against your flushed skin.
“Please… I need… more… faster… please…”
She chuckled quietly at that, almost fond, before slowing her thrusts to an achingly deep, dragging pace. “Not yet.”
You sobbed softly, your legs trembling so hard you thought you might collapse. The pleasure burned bright and constant, but she kept you just shy of release – bringing you close with a swirl of her thumb before dragging it away, thrusting her fingers deeper to make you choke on a moan, only to pull back and start all over again.
“Tashi—please—” you begged, your voice breaking, tears mixing with the shower spray on your cheeks. “Please… I can’t… I can’t… it’s too much…”
“Yes you can,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear. “You can take it. You’re stronger than this. Stronger than they think. Stronger than you think.”
Her words, quiet and assured, made your chest ache. You let out a choked sob, nodding desperately as her fingers quickened finally, her thumb circling your clit in tight, perfect strokes that made white flash behind your eyes.
“Good girl,” she murmured, her voice low and reverent. “Now come for me.”
Your orgasm tore through you like a breaking wave, your body clenching around her fingers so tight it almost hurt, your knees buckling as your vision blurred with heat and relief. You felt yourself sob her name, the sound breaking and echoing off the tile as her touch carried you through it, slow and grounding, until you sagged forward against the cool wall, gasping for air.
Finally, she pulled her hand away, and you heard the quiet rustle of her wiping her fingers clean on her polo. You felt empty and full all at once, the only thing keeping you upright was the press of her body against your back.
She leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, almost tender. Almost loving.
“Clean up,” she whispered, her voice returning to that calm, cold edge. “Footwork drills in twenty.”
And just like that, she was gone.
You sank to your knees under the spray, chest heaving, your entire body shaking, your heart hammering with something that felt dangerously close to devotion.
In that moment – between defeat and defiance, between exhaustion and adrenaline – you understood. Winning is fleeting. Losing is fuel. But potential is everything.
It was what made her yours, in the only way she’d ever let herself be owned.
