synopsis: you and art donaldson always seemed to be an inch away from each other, cursed by one degree of separation. you finally broke the pattern of near-misses in new york, but you were gone by the time he woke up. when he sees you again at a hotel bar in chicago, he knows he has to take the chance to make you stay.
warnings: smut, kinda sub art but not super, mild angst but not rly, art chasing you he’s down bad, reader is emotionally avoidant lowkey
new york, 2 years ago;
“you killed it out there,” a male voice pulled you from your thoughts, and you looked up from your vodka soda, brow arched curiously.
“that’s a great compliment, coming from you,” you smiled, fixing your gaze on art donaldson, tennis superstar, the golden boy of athletics.
“you deserve to hear it,” he slid into the stool beside you, waving over the bartender and ordering a drink with a quick, almost missable, “put her on my tab, as well.”
“you didn’t have to do that,” you eyed him almost cautiously, your guard up, though admittedly softened by the gesture, “shouldn’t you be asleep, anyway? you have a final tomorrow.”
“keeping up with my schedule?” he flashed you a grin, “it’s not until 11, so i don’t have to be up for prep until 8. i’ve much out much later on days i had to be up much earlier.”
“fair,” you could say the same, though it was a nasty habit, “so what made you want to come and talk to me?”
“come on,” he laughed, easy and rich, and you felt the sound down your spine, raising goosebumps along your skin, “you know why i came over here.”
“to talk about tennis?” you guessed, eyeing him with a little smirk.
“no,” he leaned in closer, just an inch, but you felt it like a tectonic shift, throwing you off your axis, “i don’t think you want to talk about tennis. i don’t need to tell you how good you are, do i? you already know.”
“then what do you want to talk about?” you asked, voice lower, entranced by the newfound depth in his eyes.
“i want to talk about getting to know you,” his words were slow, intentional, “and maybe taking you to my room. i think you’re beautiful, i always have, every time i’ve seen you at competitions. you’re always just out of reach, though, aren’t you?” he flashed a little smile, “but not now. now you’re right here, and i can’t let you slip away.”
you’d never been one to fall for pretty words and sparkling charm, but you let yourself fall into art’s orbit then, closing the ever-diminishing gap between you and pressing your lips to his, the taste of vodka meeting the mint of his gum.
he’s taken his time with you, kissed you like a lover, not like some meaningless hook up. you’d been a tangled mess in the silky sheets of his hotel room, pouring into each other, tearing pretty sounds from the other. after, he’d dozed off easily, with one strong arm around your bare waist. you didn’t sleep over, typically, if you even went home with someone. your lifestyle, the celebrity surrounding your sport, had made you closed off, hard to break through to. art was nearly the exception.
when the first rays of morning light cast across his sleeping face, you were so stricken that you nearly stayed, nearly ordered room service coffee and made love to him once more. there was something in the softness of it, the vulnerability of the moment, that forced you out of the bed, had your hands trembling as you pulled on your dress from the night before and tiptoed out of his room, heels in hand. you didn’t watch his final later that morning. you didn’t think you could bear the sight of him, without running right back.
chicago, current;
you’re sitting at the hotel bar beneath a row of crystal chandeliers, sipping a wine the bartender promised was ‘great for this season’, absentmindedly playing back the live footage from your last match of the day, eyes raking over the winning rally, the height you got on the swing. you’d won, pushed through to the qualifiers, but barely. sighing, you locked your phone, dropping it into your bag and tipping your head back to drain the wine glass. when you set it back on the shiny bar top, a shining head of curls caught your peripheral, your breath stuttering.
“long time, no see,” art smiled, eyes soft and warm, though his smile wasn’t as casual as you’d once seen it, “what are the odds?”
“i’d say pretty high,” you swallowed, “seeing as we’re both competing.”
he laughed, slightly clipped, “nothing rattles you, does it? you’re impenetrable.”
“i don’t think that’s true,” you frowned slightly; the facade you put on must’ve fooled him, too.
“you left,” he finally sat down fully, and a wave of déjà vu rolled over you as he flagged down the bartender, ordering only a seltzer, and requesting to put your wine on his tab, “2 years ago. if you remember.”
“obviously i remember,” you said sharply, offended, “i don’t make a habit of sleeping with men and forgetting.”
“no? just me, then?” he grinned faintly, sarcastically, “why did you? leave, i mean.”
you shook your head, looking down, “you had a match, anyway.”
“come on,” his hand brushed your arm, and you ached for him to reach out and touch you again, “you left hours before that, and you didn’t come to watch. you didn’t intend on seeing me again.”
“i didn’t watch your match because i needed to pack up for my flight,” you said tensely, “i hardly assumed you’d want to see me again, either. things like that don’t usually blossom into anything.”
“well you definitely didn’t give it a chance,” he laughed, but it was hollow, “i meant everything i said that night. you’re beautiful, you’re talented, and i feel like i’ve been chasing after you for years, hoping for a shot. i guess i blew it.”
“you didn’t blow it,” you said quickly, “look, art, you didn’t do anything wrong, okay? it just wasn’t meant to be anything more.”
“it felt like more,” he touched you, then, and your body came alive as if you’d been in a slumber, “you didn’t feel it too? there was something between us, y/n,” he leaned in, so his mouth was just a breath away from your ear, “you let me fuck you like it was more.”
you shivered, goosebumps rising on your skin, your face flushed, “art, we shouldn’t talk about this.”
“give me another chance,” he murmured, and then his lips brushed your shoulder, the bare skin exposed by your thin strapped dress, “do you need a reason to stay, is that it? tell me how to take care of you.”
“it’s not about you,” you swallowed, biting your lip to hold in a breathy sigh, “i’m just not good at getting close to people.”
“you were pretty close to me that night,” he said, “just tell me what i need to do, please? give me another chance. say the word, tell me i’ve got it wrong, and i’ll go. but i can’t help but feel like you think about that night just as much as i do.”
it sent a thrill through you, to know he’d been thinking about it, too. “i’m not good at letting people in,” you said softly. it was the truth, laid bare before him, “i don’t want to hurt you.”
“hurt me, beautiful,” he whispered, voice like honey, “do your worst.”
“you never did know what’s best for you,” you murmured, finally giving in to the ever present magnetic pull and crashing your lips to his, putting an end to the horrible yearning you’d felt for four long years.
he kissed you like no time had passed, melting against you, just as sweet as you remembered. the wanting was molten, filling your veins, overflowing through your mouth and into his.
“your room?” you asked between kisses that definitely were not appropriate for the public.
“yours,” he replied, grinning against you, “that way you can’t just run away again.”
you rolled your eyes, but let him pull you off the barstool anyway, pulling his amex from his wallet and sliding it across the bar.
“i’ll come get it in the morning,” he told the bartender, flashing that million dollar smile, “put in a good tip, too.”
in the elevator, he couldn’t keep his hands off of you, kissing you like he’d die if he stopped, nestling his knee between your thighs. he pulled your hair from its clip, tucking it into his pocket like a momento, running his fingers through the ends of your loose curls.
“you’re so beautiful,” he sounded pained, almost, as he buried his face in your neck, “it’s killing me, waiting.”
as if on queue, the elevator slowed to a stop at your floor, and he pulled you eagerly out of the sliding doors, letting you guide him to your room. his hands distracted you as you clambered for your keycard, squeezing at your hips, running along your spine, teasing your chest.
finally, you got the door open, and he pressed you against the inside of it, kicking it closed and kissing you hungrily. he fumbled with the zipper of your dress, helping you shimmy out of it, holding you steady as you kicked off your heels.
“you’re incredible,” he breathed, shuddering as his eyes raked over your nearly bare skin, “i’m the luckiest man alive.”
you left a trail of clothes all the way to the bed, tearing off fabric between messy kisses, a mess of hands and skin, teeth and tongues. you stifled a moan as he pressed you into the mattress, propped between your parted thighs, nipping at your neck, your chest, laving his tongue over your perked nipples.
“art, please,” you whined, impatient with his teasing, rutting against him as best as you could.
“you made me wait four years,” he gave you a sharper bite, teasing but firm, at the base of your neck, “i should make you wait, too. it’s only fair, hm?”
“you’ll have plenty of time to make me pay,” you huffed, fingers trailing down to his length, wrapping your hand around the heavy width of him, “you want it just as bad as i do. don’t torture us both.”
“fuck,” he shuddered, bucking into your hand, “fine, fine.”
without another protest, another threat to tease you all evening, his tip nudged your entrance, and your hand fell away, moving to grip his shoulders.
“oh, jesus,” he grit out, watching as his length disappeared inside you, your walls sucking him in greedily, “you’re so wet.”
“that’s it,” you gasped sharply, eyes on him, “fuck, i missed that. you’re so big, art, feels so good.” he bottomed out, pressed flush against you, his eyes hazy with lust.
“could stay like this forever,” he murmured breathlessly, “you look so pretty, taking it for me. you’re so fucking beautiful.”
he kissed you again, slowly this time, the rush of the moment sweeping over you. you parted your thighs farther as he thrust into you, the hotel bed squeaking beneath you, your nails anchored in the scarred skin of his shoulders. his strong hands settled underneath you, arching your back from the bed, letting him hit a whole new angle.
“oh, art,” you nearly screamed, his tip brushing a spot deep inside you that almost had you coming undone instantly, “just like that, baby, that’s- fuck, that’s good.”
“yeah?” he rasped, nearly whining, “you feel good?”
“feel perfect,” you nodded quickly, clenching down around him as your high threatened to approach, “don’t stop, feels so good. missed this so much.”
“thought about you all the time,” he buried his face in your chest as he pounded into you, “nobody feels like you. ngh- wouldn’t even let anybody else get close like this. let me have it, baby, let me make you cum, please. oh, fuck, please-“
his enthusiastic neediness only drove you closer to the edge, and then you were cumming, a high pitched moan tearing from your throat as you soaked the sheets beneath you, trembling in his arms.
“oh, fuck,” the noise that left his lips was almost a whimper, “you’re so wet, i’m gonna cum. can i- fuck, inside, please?”
“yes,” you pressed a kiss to his jaw, “on the pill, ‘s okay.”
“oh, god,” that was all he needed to hear; the moment the words left your lips, he was spilling inside you, hips bucking, cock twitching, thoughtless little words of praise pouring from his lips.
when he came down, he slumped against you, panting slightly, eyes closed and curls stuck to his forehead.
“don’t make me go,” he murmured, sleepy and dazed, but earnest.
“i’m not making you go,” you hummed, running your fingers down his spine absentmindedly, “it’s not like last time.”
“yeah? you won’t just disappear again?” it stung, but you knew it was warranted, in a way.
