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India Love
🦋
sepia shoot >.<
🤍🩶🖤
10th May 2026
post shower pic ♡
Fresh Face
sub!Art Donaldson x reader (pt1)
Littered was the word you’d use to describe your desk. Not only was your office filled with crap, not only was your head devoid of ideas but your coworkers were arguing amongst themselves about nothing.
“How could you have missed it? I texted you so many times.”
Was amongst some of the boring sentences thrust into the room as you hung your head. You thought you loved your job - you did love your job - but you couldn’t stand to be employed another minute in that moment. The clock was ticking too loud, everyone’s fucking watches were pinging sending announcements begging for your attention whilst the crow outside cawed.
“That’s Miss Y/L/N’s department…I think.”
Your ears perked up at the sound of your name but if they possessed the ability to droop they would have done at ‘I think’. Nine years with the company and they didn’t know what department you worked in. Fuckers. You cleared your throat. “Allison is coming to speak to us after lunch so I want everyone to be-“
“In here at 1 sharp yep we know.”
The condescension dripped off of Sarah like honey off a stick. Lunch came and went with you eating at your desk scouring through email after email and clock watching. The silence offered little reprieve. Before you knew it Allison was waiting for everyone in her office early giddy to say her opening line: ‘All late again I see.”
She proceeded to announce that the next issue of your magazine would revolve around men in sports, something you knew nothing about but were tasked with organising.
“I expect you to bring in the most culturally relevant people Y/N.”
You didn’t nod at her remark, you simply got to researching.
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After a weekend of painstaking organisation and arse kissing you managed to convince ten of the hottest sports stars into your office for a ‘meeting’ of sorts. Collins you knew through your Dad, who’d been so excited at your WhatsApp announcement he’d spilt his tea down his front. The others were complete strangers to you and the building: a mixture of footballers, gymnasts, sprinters and tennis stars including Art Donaldson who you’d been told was a ‘big deal’ by your assistant.
You stood up from your desk, the tightness of your skirt suit making you regret eating lunch at all. Collins replied to a text before making eye contact with you. The boredom was obvious, no one wanted to be there.
“I’m Y/N Y/L/N, I’m in charge of picking the right person for the magazines next issue. The focus, as you know it’s why you’re all here, is sports. Today we’re keeping it fairly informal, I just want to have a chat with each of you.”
You went on to briefly explain the order (alphabetical) and where they could go while they wait not knowing the man who came next would change your career forever.
“Donaldson.” Your voice carried from your office to the waiting room down the hall. A few moments later you saw the boy enter, dressed smartly but with messy curls you couldn’t not notice. He had a pretty face, one worth remembering, and the build of a player who trained tirelessly.
“Sit down.”
Art smiled at your order, as if it both amused and excited him so you decided to test him before his arse hit the seat.
“Not that chair.”
There were four chairs so naturally he looked confused. You felt a slight lift in your spirits as you watched Art’s brow furrow and his eyes dart from chair to chair. He chose the one furthest from the door, so obedient. You looked at your notes, mostly for effect, before staring across at the star player.
“Do you have any questions?”
“Are you married?”
You blinked at his inappropriate comment before fixing your expression.
“About the issue.”
Art’s eyes were fixated on you as if he was taking notes on every aspect and detail of your face and attire. He clocked that your shirt was ironed, that your jewellery was a mixture of designer and tat he assumed you kept for personal reasons. He enjoyed the intensity of your eyes even when you weren’t speaking and the manner in which you held your pen: like a weapon.
“Who’s the photographer?”
There was genuine intrigue in his voice the previous men hadn’t shown.
“Diane Renning, she’s worked with Williams and Federer. She has an assistant and I’ll be sitting in on the shoot.”
Art nodded intently, as if every factoid you provided was incredibly interesting and not just the basic notes you had to get through. You started wondering how old he was to be so easily impressed.
“How old are you?”
“23.”
Eleven years between you but he hadn’t made you feel old - not in the slightest. You subtly adjusted your blouse, as it was clinging, and tried to picture the boy before you playing tennis. You watched his arms and his fingers closely for a moment, picturing a racket clutched inside them and a look of determination on his face as he served. Truthfully you’d never been interested in sports, you found the idea of being glued to a screen watching sweaty men hit a ball for hours laughable but Art playing…that just might intrigue you.
“When did you start playing tennis?”
Art shuffled in his seat ever so slightly before asking softly:
“I’m sorry is this an interview?”
Perhaps he wouldn’t intrigue you after all.
“Just an informal chat.”
You thought that might have eased him but his face didn’t change. “When I was si- seven. Guess it stuck.” He waited for your seemingly inevitable praise, your reassurance that it had all worked out wonderfully for him but it never came. You looked at your list of names and sighed under your breath. “You can call in the next pe-“
“I’d like to work for you.” Art blurted out, his eyes slightly wide as he took in his own words. Flustered he lowered his hand, that he had instinctively raised to grab your attention, and curled in on himself.
For…
His choice of words struck you. Art Donaldson wanted to work for you whilst the previous sportsmen hadn’t wanted to hear you speak.
“Why?”
It was your turn to sound insecure. Art knew that whatever answer he gave better be good or he might never see you or your office again. He thought how best to phrase it, how to come across as self assured and not at all desperate but he needn’t have worried.
“I want your eye, I trust your judgement and I actually respect you - unlike the idiots waiting out there. I want to see what you do with the story, no one else. I want you to represent me.”
You tried not to show how much his words and the enthusiastic, genuine quality they rang with had warmed you.
“Is there a story?”
Feeling elated that you hadn’t immediately shut him down Art nodded. “Definitely M’aam.”
M’aam…
“I’ll let you know my decision in the next few days.” You extended a hand for Art to shake, which he did ecstatically before you walked him to the door.
Art took one step into the hallway as you held the door before adding “And no, I’m not married - to answer your previous question.”
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