#Art Donaldson fic
Text
Rally On
Art Donaldson x reader
Summary: Feeling confident as a wild card, Art feels that he can accomplish anything with you by his side. That is, his spirit nearly breaks once an old friend enters the sauna.
Word Count: 992
Warning(s): MEGA FLUFF, (a healthy relationship) body appreciation, brief makeout session, slight mind manipulation and lying, cursing, a little nudity, mention of body health, and possessive and protective Art.
A/N: We’re so back bitches! I love Challengers to death and this movie lives rent free in my head. Feedback is appreciated and enjoy!
Lying inside the dark hotel room, the rustling winds outside settles, allowing the piercing sound of a phone alarm to echo in the calm bedroom. Bursting awake with a displeased groan, Art Donaldson checks the time, numb to the feeling. Sinking back into the duvet bedding, the faint light of the early morning peers through the thin curtains.
Shifting beneath the comfortable bedding, Art’s quiet movements stir you awake. Sighing into the plush pillows, you begin to sit up, ready to conquer the day. But Art pulls you back into the bed, surrounding you in his arms.
“You’re not going anywhere.” He teases.
Fighting off the early morning grogginess, Art shifts his body onto yours, and covers you with a series of soft pepper kisses on your collarbones and neck.
“Art, honey.” You whisper.
“Hmm?” He replies.
“We have to get up. You have a big game today.” You say, running your fingers through your husband's hair.
“Fuck the game. I’d rather stay here and fuck you instead.” Art jokes, burying his head in your neck.
Nestling between your legs, Art captures your lips in a passionate kiss, and presses his fingers against your underwear. Moaning at the feeling, the sound makes his ears tingle. Wrapping your legs around his waist, Art holds your arms above your head, holding you beneath him.
“You know, if it were up to me, I’d keep you here. Forever, all mine.” He whispers into your skin before capturing your gaze.
“You fiend. We have a game to win, you know.” You answer with a smirk.
“As long as you’re there with me today, I know I can find you anywhere in the crowd.” Art announces.
Touching your noses together, you nod at Art’s declaration.
“I’ll always be with you, Art. We can accomplish anything through thick and thin, just as long as we’re together.” You reply.
“Then that’s all I need.” He smiles, leaning down to kiss you.
****
The hot steam from the sauna soothes every single lingering pressure and discomfort in Art’s body. From the uncomfortable itch on his left heel, to the surgery scars on his right shoulder, he truly felt at peace in the sauna. Placing a heated towel on his head, Art feels like he can finally relax.
That is, until the door opens.
“I could’ve sworn no one else booked the sauna today. Oh well, we’re all here for the same reason.” Art thinks to himself.
Lowering the towel, the sight of Patrick nearly shakes Art to his core.
“Patrick? What are you doing here?” Art asks, tossing the towel aside.
Closing the door behind him, Patrick appears in the steam, smiling towards Art.
“I’m here to play tennis. What else?” Patrick replies.
Leaning in Art’s personal space, Patrick does his best to get a rose out of his friend, but it doesn’t happen. Much to his dismay, Art has no interest in giving Patrick what he wants: staring at and commenting on his dick out in the open.
Sitting down across from Art, Patrick covers himself.
“You know, it’s disturbing. What you’re doing. I know what you’re trying to do right now —“ Art starts, but is cut off.
“Honestly, I thought you’d be happy to see me, and that I was in the draw. It’s the week before the Open, as in, the perfect confidence booster.” Patrick explains, proud of himself.
Leaning back against the wall, Art folds his hands in his lap, unimpressed by his friends' motives.
“Right. How could I forget? You don’t give a shit.” Art replies, done with this conversation.
“I didn’t say that.” Patrick replies.
“Whatever game you’re playing here, Patrick, it’s not going to work. Not this time. Y/N and I aren’t here to watch you fail. We’re here for me and nothing more.” Art explains, closing his eyes.
“Oh really? Is that why Tashi said that? That the two of you are basically invincible without each other?” Patrick mocks.
Art stares at Patrick for a moment, confused by his words, and only gets a cocky wink for an answer.
“The fuck does that that mean?” Art asks.
“Oh come on, Art! You know Y/N will never be as good as Tashi! Y/N’s just living vicariously through you and you know it! You just won’t admit it!” Patrick nearly shouts.
Shaking his head, Art smiles at his friend’s bullshit, that he’s done.
“You really want to know what I think, Patrick? I think it’s quite embarrassing that you’re here. Trying to challenge us, to continue fighting the ongoing war between the three of us. Honestly, I have no idea where it came from, but Y/N and I just want it to stop. The two of us have been the happiest in the longest time. So, your little mind games won’t work this time, not when Y/N has finally gotten back on her feet again.” Art clarifies.
Glancing at Patrick, he has no idea what Art is talking about.
“Don’t play dumb, Patrick. Since you haven’t been in our lives, Y/N and I are finally pregnant after two years of trying and a few miscarriages. And guess who was there to help and support her? Tashi. Tashi was there when you weren’t. She filled your spot at Y/N’s darkest and believe me, we’ve seen her at her darkest. She knows she won’t live up to Tashi’s reputation, but it doesn’t bother us. What matters is that Y/N is there for me, no matter what. And you want to know why? It’s what married people do. We don’t let the bullshit bother us, because it doesn’t.” Art continues, standing from his spot.
Finally feeling superior to Patrick, Art takes the doorknob in his hand.
“But for what it’s worth, we do miss playing with you, Y/N and I. Just without the competition.” Art states before leaving the sauna like a new man who’s found his calling.
tagging anyone who's interested ~
@dreamliners
@xplore-the-unknwn
@princessismx
@martiansodas-blog
@iholdwhatican
@veryberryjelly
#challengers#challengers movie#art donaldson#art donaldson x you#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson fic#art donaldson fluff#challengers 2024#art donaldson fanfic#mike faist#challengers film#challengers fic#challengers fanfiction
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#27 with art if you feel so inclined! :) 🖤 please and thank you!
Sure thing!
Prompt: Kisses exchanged while one person sits on the other’s lap.
Warnings: Established relationship, divorced Art Donaldson, smooches
"Did you eat already? I'm so fricking hungry," You grumble, leaving your suitcase by the door and striding toward the kitchen.
"Yeah, I ate."
"How's your shoulder?"
"It's fine."
"Are you sure?" You glance back at him from the kitchen. "Ken said you mentioned that it was stiff."
Art doesn't answer for a moment, eyes sweeping across your face. You watch him glance even lower before he shakes his head a little.
"It loosened up."
"If you're sure," You turn back to the sink, cranking on the faucet to wash your hands. "Don't push it if you don't have to."
"I won't."
"How did Lily's uh—Career day go?"
"It went fine. C'mere."
"Her teacher was so excited you could make it, I mean, so happy." You shut the sink off, plucking up the dishtowel to dry your hands before turning to the fridge. "Like, jazzed. I know no one uses that word anymore, but she was jazzed. Did you eat already?"
"I told you I did. C'mere."
"She's always been the coolest kid in the third grade in my opinion, but now it's official. Like—Peer official. Like, blue tick, you know?" You eye the contents of the fridge. "Are you hungry?"
"I just said I ate."
"No, right—Sorry. My mind's like," You shake your head. "I'm trying to slow down and catch up at the same time."
"Baby."
"I'm all jet-lagged and just jacked up. Fucking hate conferences."
"Baby."
"Yeah?"
"Look at me."
You turn your head from the fridge, raising your brows at the sight of Art's small, amused smile.
"...What?"
"Come here," He laughs, holding his hand out. You close the fridge, rounding the counter slowly and eyeing Art with suspicion.
"What's that look for?" You ask.
"I'm not giving you any kind of look."
"Yes you are."
"I am not."
"I know that face, mister."
He chuckles, taking hold of your hand once you're close enough, tugging you down. You lower yourself over him, straddling his thighs and settling in as his arms curl around your waist. He leans up, sucking a gentle kiss to your neck. You bite your lip, shifting slightly as his hands curl in the fabric of your shirt.
"...Are we picking Lily up from practice tomorrow?" You ask as your mind races.
"Tashi's got her," Art mumbles, the hum of it vibrating against your skin.
"Okay, good. I mean—Not good like—I've got some errands to run and I have to wash my clothes from the trip. I don't wanna mess up her schedule."
Art groans, tipping his head back and leaning away. You frown, pouting.
"What's wrong?"
Art lets his head loll to look up at you, a pout forming on his lips.
"You've been at a hundred since you walked through the door."
"I've got things on my mind."
"I can tell."
"Alright—" You groan, beginning to lean away, but Art's arms tighten around you, leaning up and pressing his chest against yours.
"I missed you," He murmurs. You wilt a little, raising your hands to cup his cheeks.
"I missed you, too."
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
"Because I'm feeling very neglected."
Art grins as you break into a laugh, leaning up and brushing a kiss along the underside of your jaw.
"You poor thing," You coo, turning your head. He catches your lips with his, sliding a hand up to your nape to guide your kisses as you sink down against him.
"...Art?" You mumble against his lips.
"Mm."
"I...Missed this...And you..."
"Mhm."
"But I am starving."
"Pizza'll be here in ten."
You grin, leaning back to look at him.
"You didn't."
"Course I did." His hand slides around your neck, knuckles brushing against your jaw.
"You're gonna spoil me rotten, Donaldson."
"Or die trying."
#Art Donaldson x Reader#Art Donaldson x You#Art Donaldson/Reader#Art Donaldson/You#Art Donaldson fic#Art Donaldson imagine#asks#replies#anon#kiss prompts
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i would stay forever
art donaldson x gn!reader
prompt ; 'wait, don't go, please'
[ please excuse the fact that i know nothing about tennis XD. also, my first attempt at any kind of smut !! ]
𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍
you could feel arts frustration from your place in the crowd.
this had been the match he had been most anxious about. and as much as you had assured him he could kick cole friedman's ass on the court, it didnt take away from the fact that the guy was good.
and that much was proved by the score of today's match.
c. friedman - 4
a. donaldson - 2
you watched as your boyfriend stalked off the court, heading through the doors and back into the building.
manoeuvring out of the rows of chairs was difficult when everyone was taking advantage of the break between matches to get drinks and go to the bathroom.
in other circumstances you would've been with your boyfriend a lot quicker. you knew how in his head he got after he lost a match and you wanted to be there before he could get himself into too deep a spiral.
you managed to push your way through the crowd to get to the changing rooms where you swiftly pushed the door open, immediately met with groans of protest from the few other players that you completely ignored.
you spotted a familiar mop of strawberry blonde hair and your legs carried you towards it.
the closer you got, the more details of your boyfriend revealed themselves to you, and the more your heart broke for him.
he was bent over on the bench, his head in his hands, his shirt discarded beside him showing off the bruises he often got from practicing.
" oh, pretty boy " you muttered quietly, moving to kneel infront of him and get his focus on you and get him out of his head.
your hands rested on his knees and the contact seemed to be the thing to grab his attention and bring it to you.
a weak smile twitched at his lips and his arms dropped to rest his hands ontop of yours.
your hands turned to grasp his in yours and you pressed a kiss to the back of his hand.
" you did so good, baby. 'm so proud of you " your voice was quiet enough to keep this conversation between the two of you, but you made sure art could hear your voice.
you needed him to hear you over the voices in his head.
a soft nod of his head and a squeeze of your hand was enough for you.
" c'mon, i'll take you back to my place " you stood from the floor, your hands remaining clutched in art's grip.
when he tilted his head up to meet your gaze you could feel your heart breaking for the boy infront of you.
after a quick kiss pressed onto his forehead, you walked out of the changing room, giving him a couple of minutes to collect his things and change if he wanted to.
you leant against the wall just outside, ignoring the few glances you got from the guys walking out of the changing room who had seen you waltz straight in.
but you didnt care about them, you cared about the boy who came out and his arm went straight around your shoulders.
it was almost a reflex for your arms to wind around his torso, and the looks from the guys coming out of the changing room didnt cease.
" ugh, get a room " you heard from one of the players which usually would elicit a soft laugh from you, but today you just unwound one of your arms from your boyfriend and began leading him towards your building.
the walk was short but by the time you both arrived outside your door you could practically feel the exhaustion radiating off the boy beside you.
once the for was open you moved swiftly inside and art fell down ontop of your bed with a soft *thud*
you walked straight into your bathroom and knelt down to turn on the tub.
you could only imagine the amount of pain art was in right now, both physically and mentally. to your knowledge he hadn't slept in over two days and every spare minute had been spent on the courts, practising.
you knew he needed to relax, now more than ever.
after adding a soak to the water along with some salts you made your way back to your room to coax art into the bathroom.
at the sight of him already curled up on your bed ready to sleep you almost caved and let him stay there, but you knew he would thank you for making him get up.
you could let him lay there for a few minutes while the bath filled up.
and you spent those few minutes perched on the edge of your bed with your fingers running through the small knots in his hair enjoying the way his muscles seemed to relax at your touch.
getting him into the bathroom took a little bit of convincing, namely including bribery in the form of little spoon cuddles with a movie.
you pulled him through the bathroom door and reached down to pull his shirt up over his head.
this routine was both usual and unusual. after a loss art was usually a bit down, and he's both end up in the bath or shower at one of your places before just relaxing with you the rest of the afternoon.
but with the loss, ontop of how exhausted he was, you didnt mind doing that little bit extra.
you turned to drop his clothes into your laundry hamper while he climbed into the bath and when you turned back to face him he was coming up from the water after wetting his hair.
you couldnt resist leaving a kiss onto his forehead.
" i'm gonna go and get us some food, i'll be back in a little bit " you said quietly, moving to stand before you were stopped by a hand on your wrist.
" wait, don't go...please " his voice was quiet, but the raw edge on his voice pained you.
you didnt need to be asked twice as you knelt down beside the tub again.
" ok, i won't go " there wasn't a question about it. if he wanted you to stay, you would stay.
his head rested back against the wall behind the tub and his gaze was locked on you.
" will you get in here " it wasnt a question so much as a request.
but you recognised the look in his eyes. a tired need that often appeared in the dark of night along with a quiet whisper of ' just need to be close to you '
who were you to deny his gorgeous baby blue's.
you released his hand to strip yourself of your clothes and drop them onto the laundry hamper across the bathroom.
art offered his hand out to you to help you into the water and you sank down onto your knees, your arms looping to wrap around his neck.
you hovered slightly in the water while art lined himself up at your entrance.
once you felt the head of his cock pushing you open, you sank down onto his lap, shivering slightly at the whimper that escaped his lips.
his hands moved to rest on your hips as you both got used to the feeling of him being inside you.
you could tell when he was settled because his head dropped back against the wall and his arms tightened slightly around you, pulling your chest against his.
his nose nudges at the side of your neck and you tilted your head to the side to press a kiss onto his damp skin.
" 'm so proud of you, sweetheart. y' did so well. " a soft mewl interrupted you when you felt him twitch inside you.
" keep talking t'me, baby " he rasped in your ear, his fingers digging into your hips a little.
a soft smirk twitched at your lips. you knew his intentions had been pure, but your words seemed to have tripped something in his head.
" i know you're so tired, handsome. haven't slept in days. i just want to take care of you "
as you continued, you felt yourself slowly rising and falling on his length at a pace that caused the water around you to create small waves up the side of the porcelain.
his whimpers spurred you on.
" y'gonna let me take care of you, baby? want to shut your pretty brain off for a little while ? "
his answer was almost instant
" yes, please sugar " his voice was rough against your skin and you could feel the movement of his lips against your shoulder.
" ok, pretty boy. just relax f'me " you hummed in his ear, your lips moving to pepper kisses from his shoulder up to the spot behind his ear that you knew drove him crazy, all the while never ceasing the movement in your hips.
you could feel yourself getting worked up alongside the boy beneath you, but you tried to focus your mind elsewhere.
this was about art.
you recognised the slight tensing in his shoulders and the stiffening of his neck and your last few movements against his hips were a little more vigorous, to the point where a bit of water splashed over the edge of the tub.
but it was worth it to hear the groan that rumbled in your boyfriends chest and erupted from his mouth as he finished, a recognisable warmth spreading in your stomach.
your hips slowed to an eventual stop and you remained entwined in each others limbs for a few minutes.
eventually you pulled your head back to look at the boy in your arms.
his eyes were half closed, his hair sticking to his skin. he was truly a vision.
with a soft kiss to his lips, you made that reluctant move to ease yourself off of art and out of the tub all together. you wrapped yourself in your robe and pulled the spare one off of the back of your door that exclusively belonged to art.
somehow the boy climbing out of the tub now seemed to be even more exhausted than the one you had found in the changing room, and yet he looked better.
he looked...calmer. less plagued by worry as he took the robe from you and slid it onto his arms.
his arms wrapped around your waist and held you close to his chest.
" thanks, gorgeous " he whispered before pressing a kiss to your neck.
" y'don't have to thank me. go put some clothes on, there's some of yours in my top drawer " you turned in his grip, practically ushering him out of the room so he could change and you could pee and give your hair a quick brush.
when you emerged from the bathroom you found your boyfriend in a pair of boxers and one of your t-shirts. not one you'd taken from him, one of yours.
this must be how he felt to see you in his clothes. if it was you were never going to stop wearing his shirts.
he had pulled your laptop from your bag and opened it up to netflix, ready to argue with you for the next five minutes about a movie and then cave and let you watch whatever you had suggested first. after changing into one of his t-shirts and some underwear, you deposited the robes back in the bathroom and crawled into bed beside him, laying your head down on his chest when he guided you into his side.
" so, what're we watching ?"
———————-
y’all, let me know what you think. should i start writing more smut or cut my losses at this XD
#·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐧#·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐟𝐢𝐜#art donaldson#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson smut#art donaldson x you#art donaldson imagine#art donaldson fic#challengers 2024#challengers movie#challengers press tour#challengers spoilers#challengers x reader#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig fic#tashi duncan x reader#tashi duncan#tashi duncan smut#mike faist#zendaya#west side story
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this is the deconverted christian in me talking.
art would be on his knees a lot, but not in the way you automatically think.
as soon as you come home he would take off your shoes, and if you were wearing heels he would give some kisses to your feet and rub them.
he’s fixing your leaky kitchen sink.
he’s picking you a wildflower bouquet.
it feels natural to him.
it feels good to serve and be led.
men less secure in their masculinity would never act like art acts.
once you guys live together he would definitely have at least 2 framed pictures of you on wall. not you and him, just you.
you’re his answer.
the altar is my hips
#this boy/movie seriously consumes every part of my being rn#“what am i jesus?’’#“yeah’’#art donaldson#art donaldson x you#art donaldson fic#art donaldson fanfic#art donaldson x reader
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Having thoughts about Husband!Art and his hands...
A/N: A little fic this weepy eyed blonde boy, I watched challengers yesterday and I'm obsessed.I need Art like carnally. People being hot in movies is so back dude. This was written with a fem!reader(afab, no other physical description will be written) in mind. This is my first attempt at smut so go easy on me I beg.🙏🏽
Word count: 1476
TW: Sexu*l content, f*ngering, reader just having a rough day in general.
divider cred || palestine links
One of the things that attracted you to your husband was his hands. The way his muscles in his hands tighten when he grips his racket, how he holds his coffee mug when takes a sip of coffee in the morning and the way they glide against your skin when you make love.
After having a difficult day he'd like to put those hands to use for you as he so often loves to do....
You walk into your home and make a beeline toward your bathroom, you need to get the grime of the day off you. You don't even notice Art on his laptop on the couch, he was about to greet you before he saw the look on your face. He just watches you kick off your shoes and drop your bag on the floor. You always greet him when you get home but he can tell it's been one of those days. He shuts his laptop off and the tv then makes his way to your bedroom. He spots your scattered clothes all over the floor and hears the roar of the bathtub's spout coming to life.
Art leans up against the door to hear what you might be doing, he hesitates before knocking on the door. "Baby?" The sound of running water stops and he hears a small tired voice answer, "Come in.." He opens the door to the sight of you naked and bare, head down in front of the mirror. He looks at you for a moment and turns his eyes to the floor as he shuts the bathroom door behind him. You turn your head toward him but avoid his eyes, he doesn't force you to meet his gaze.
Art moves behind you in silence and touches your shoulders just to test the waters of how much you're willing to be touched at this moment. You accept it, not moving away but not leaning into it. He wraps his body around you and kisses your shoulders. He kisses up to the back of your neck. "You wanna talk about it?", he asks as you take a moment to answer such a simple question. You just shake your head, still silent, you do turn around and look up at him. He looks into your eyes, a silent understanding takes over him. "Ok." He whispers, Art moves over to the bathtub and turns the knob back on. He goes to the sink cabinet and grabs some bubble bath. He pours some of the liquid in the water and glides in his hand in the water to make sure the temperature's perfect for you. Once the tub is full you step inside and breathe a sigh of relief. The sweet smell of the bubbles and the warm water expels the tension from your body. Art kneels next the tub, he crosses his arms over the rim and lays his head on his forearms. He gives you a small smile and you return it, you both gaze at each other in quiet admiration. Art takes a hand and caresses your knee with such tenderness, the feeling of his lithe fingers brings you such comfort.
He moves his body forward and moves his hand further down your thigh looking at you for permission to keep going. You nod your head looking at him expectantly wondering what he was planning to do. Very slowly he slides his hand into the water in between your thighs, eyes laser focused on his own actions. You can feel him gently part your folds, using his index and middle finger to stroke your clit. He moves them slowly up and down, ghosting your entrance. Art looks back up at you when he hears you gasp quietly, he smiles again at the sound. “You want some more baby? Don’t worry I’ll give it to you, I’m gonna take care of you.” he purrs at you, but you won’t get what you want so quickly, he lives to tease you. He adds more pressure to your bud and rubs in more circular motions. Your breath quickens and you lull your head to the side pressing against the tub's rim. He stops for a moment just to move closer to your head so he can kiss your cheek and move onto your lips. You position your body closer to his head and crane your head to taste his lips more. Art continues stroking your clit, rubbing and pinching it between his fingers. He swallows every gasp, groan and whimper you make, stretching the muscles in his neck as far as he can to reach your mouth. The sensation of him touching you and the heat from the water has covered your body in a light sheen of moisture, everything about you is so wet and pliant. He finally feels that you’re ready to take his fingers, he stops kissing you. He wants to look in your eyes as he slides them, he wants to see your mouth part and hear a raspy moan slip from your lips.
There’s nothing Art loves more than the look of dazed bliss you get when he’s inside of your body. As he prods your entrance he watches you closely, “Sweetheart look at me…” ,he murmurs. You look up at him, hungry and waiting, the moment you do he slides his fingers eliciting a high pitched moan from you, mouthing widening in pleasure. He continues his slow pace, you can feel the metal of his wedding ring brush up against your lips as he pushes his fingers deeper. He leaves kisses all over your face before returning to your lips, smiling into the kiss. He opens his eyes for a moment to see your legs writhing and clenching around his hand when he curls his fingers every so slightly. The sight makes his arousal even stronger than before, a small wet spot makes its appearance in his sweatpants. He wouldn’t even need to touch himself, the sight alone of you slowly reaching your peak is enough to make him cum all on his own. The tension in your core continues to build, Art notices you shuddering and finally lets you have what you want. He puts his fingers in as far as he can and makes a scissoring gesture along with curling them pressing into your g-spot at random. As he does this it becomes harder to focus on his mouth devouring you and mind begins to go blank. You grip your hands onto his forearm and shoulder to anchor yourself. He angles his head to kiss the underside of your jaw while he increases his pace. The water in the tub starts to move violently as your body shakes and your legs thrash. You make the attempt to kiss Art again but are overwhelmed by the sounds that escape your mouth, he lets you moan into his mouth keeping his eyes closed and savoring the sounds. One final beckon of his fingers sends you over the edge, tilting your head back, orgasm rippling throughout your body. Art nuzzles his nose against yours and presses his forehead to yours.
It’s a full minute before he pulls his fingers out of you, when he does he drags his hand up and over your stomach. Between your breasts and glides up the side of your neck, he takes his thumb and caresses your lips before sliding them into his mouth. He smiles down at you and giggles. You laugh with him, “What?” you ask curiously. “I was supposed to help you get clean, not sweaty,” he says with a grin. You laugh again at his statement, “Well…it doesn’t matter, I do feel better now.” He smiles and kisses your forehead, he moves over to the towel holder on the wall and grabs one for you. You wipe some of the suds off you before you stand to be embraced by him with the towel. While he holds you, you notice he’s still hard. You look at him surprised, “You want me to take care of that?” He looks down as if he forgot too. “Oh! No baby it’s ok, I wanted this to be all about you, don’t worry about me.” he tells you softly. His statement makes you soften even more, you step out of the tub next to him. You take the towel from him and wrap it around yourself. “Thank you Art, I mean it. I really needed that.” You take his face into your hand and kiss his lips. “Of course, these hands aren’t just good at tennis y’know. You can use them anytime you want.” he replies smugly. You jokingly push his face away and make your way out of the bathroom looking back at him with a smile. He follows close behind and shuts the door behind him.
Thanks for reading! Lemme know what you think. Please like or reblog if you like my stuff. ♡
#tw: nsft#~⋆｡°tales from the dreaming#art donaldson x reader#challengers x reader#mike faist x reader#art donaldson smut#art donaldson x black!reader#black!reader#challengers 2024#art donaldson fic#art donaldson imagine#jupiter-letters
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i feel like art would have a babbling problem. like, he can’t stfu the closer he gets to cumming, so you have fun finding different ways to occupy his mouth while you suck him off or ride him. first instinct is sitting on his face or shoving your fingers in his mouth
// MDNI; art donaldson x reader
warnings; smut, oral (m receiving), praise, fluffy af ending, light dom/sub undertones, sub!art, art definitely has a praise kink i don’t make the rules 🫡
Art has always been loud— loud on the court, grunting and groaning as he plays, loud when he’s kissing you, breathy whines and gasps that you swallow greedily with your own mouth.
But most importantly, he’s loud in bed.
You always know when he’s about to cum; those corded thighs tighten around your head, back arching from the bed. His lips- rubied and swollen from your greedy mouth against his own- part around a moan, a drawn out whine, and an outright shout when your tongue laves across the tip of his weeping cock, drooling and flushed from your attention.
“Baby, baby, please,” he babbles. “Need it so bad. Gonna fuckin’ cum, please, baby.”
One of your manicured hands drags its way up his glistening chest, slick with sweat and littered with dark marks from your hungry teeth. He moans again, and you part his lips with a gentle thumb, pressing two digits flat against his tongue; he takes them greedily, suckling against the curve of your knuckles as you work him over with your other hand. You resist the urge to roll your eyes— always so obedient.
“Good boy,” you giggle. “Pretty baby.” He whines. You soothe him with a kiss to the tip of his cock.
His hips sporadically jerk as you seal your lips over him, sinking downward until the heavy length of him is settled snugly in your mouth. His chest stutters, a bare leg twining under your arm and round your waist until his heel presses into the base of your spine.
You know he’s cumming before he does.
His breath seizes, missing a beat. The muscles in his thighs tighten as he grinds further upwards into your warm mouth, and then he’s spilling into you with a sob.
His mouth is a wet throbbing around your knuckles, tips of your fingers still pressed to the dip of his tongue. You coast your thumb over the underside of his chin, pressing to the hollow of his throat— he preens under the attention.
“Shh, shh,” you coax. He bends at the waist, hooking a lithe hand under each of your armpits, and you’re dragged up and over his front until you’re nose to nose.
“Baby,” he sighs, nuzzling his cheek against your own. “Love you.”
“Love you too, pretty baby,” you coo. He’s almost limp underneath your weight, eyes half lidded and crinkling at the corners. “Can I have a kiss?”
He melts.
“You can have anything you want. C’mere.”
#challengers movie#challengers#art donaldson#art donaldson smut#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x you#art donaldson x female reader#art donaldson drabble#challengers fic#challengers fanfic#challengers fanfiction#challengers x reader#challengers x you#art x reader#art donaldson blurb#art donaldson fic#art donaldson fluff#writers on tumblr#writer#writing#writing for fun#my fics!#mine#fanfic writer#smut writing#sub!character#writing for myself#love letters#ily#challengers drabble
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Tantrum
Summary- Art’s girlfriend sucks at tennis. He helps her feel better.
Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Stanford era Art. Exhibitionism. Body worship. Cunnilingus. Wee bit of fingering. P in V sex. Riding. The fluffiest giggliest sex you've ever seen. Me not knowing a damn thing about tennis.
Author's Note- Hi idk if you noticed but i have Challengers brain rot rn specifically for Art Donaldson :// As a theatre kid I simply had no choice it was always gonna be him. Read the full fic on AO3.
When Art had looked up at her with big pleading eyes, all but begging her to allow him to teach her the basics of tennis, she was in no position to refuse. It had been sweet, how badly he wanted to share his passion with her, the kisses he had peppered across her neck and chest in order to entice her into it, and she couldn’t so much as imagine denying him. Forget the fact that she had never held a racket in her life, that her strengths had always been rooted in academia rather than athletics. If allowing him to teach her would make him happy, she would do it.
Though not without complaint.
She lets out a frustrated grunt as the ball hits the net- again- before turning her head up to glare at Art when he barely manages to stifle his laugh. He smothers it immediately when he catches sight of her glower, hand coming up to rub at his mouth as if he can physically wipe away his smile and she feels her teeth grind together.
“You can’t laugh. You’re the one who wanted me to do this so you’re not allowed to make fun of me,” she complains, her voice half petulance half hurt and immediately his face morphs into something more apologetic.
“I’m sorry baby.” He makes his way closer but she simply rolls her eyes, turning her nose up when he reaches out to her. He takes it in stride. “I’m not laughing at you, you’re doing very well. It’s just funny to see you so frustrated.”
It’s her turn to laugh, though it is little more than a humourless bark. “I am not doing very well. I suck.”
He makes a sympathetic noise as he attempts to reach for her again. She allows it begrudgingly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes as his hands close around her elbows, face dropping into her neck to press a kiss there. She thinks that he’s about to praise her further, try to coax her back into committing herself to the game, but he stays silent, continuing to lavish her with silent kisses.
She’s happy for the odd hour they decided to come here, the tennis court completely devoid of any other life. It’s a colder night than it should be for mid spring, the floodlights and moon the only two things to provide them with any light, and she’s grateful finals have chased everyone else away. She’s glad to have this time alone with him, despite her frustration. To feel like they are the only two people in the world.
“You’re just hitting the ball too hard,” he explains, face still half buried in her throat. “And you aren’t even attempting to aim. Putting everything you have behind the hit doesn’t make it a good one if you don’t know where you’re sending it. There’s more to tennis than just force, you have to be smart about it.”
She scoffs, reaching up to press her palm against his forehead and shove him away, ignoring the shit eating grin that’s made itself known on his face. “Just go over there and hit the damn ball. Before I leave you here by yourself.”
The grin doesn’t fade, his amusement more than clear, but he does as she asks, returning to his side of the court. She lets out another aggravated sigh as she returns to the position he had told her to wait in, knees bent as she waits for him to serve, realizing more and more that she prefers to watch him play tennis rather than do it with him. She finds far more joy watching him from the stands as he chases after the ball, sweat dripping from his curls and grunts echoing in her ears. Here, where she is the one chasing the ball like a damn dog and failing to send it sailing over the net when she does manage to catch it, there is no time to admire Art in his element.
She almost feels bad for her poor attitude, wishing she was less competitive so that she could simply enjoy this quality time with him, but every failure does nothing but enrage her further, sending her spiralling further into frustration.
Read the rest here :)
#art Donaldson x reader#art donaldson x female reader#art Donaldson smut#art Donaldson Fic#art Donaldson imagine#art Donaldson fanfiction#art Donaldson#challengers x reader#challengers smut#challengers fic#challengers fanfiction#challengers#challengers x you#art Donaldson x you#Mike faist smut#challengers film#challengers movie#challengers 2024
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ᯓ★ DODGE MASON AND THE FARMER’S DAUGHTER: A MOODBOARD
⠀ when anne mccarthy’s daughter falls for the rodeo cowboy minding the animals on her mother’s farm. . . 🌾🫖💐
#dodgesgirl moods ༺ ˎˊ-#dodge mason#dodge mason imagines#moodboard#farmers daughter#panic amazon#panic 2021#panic fanfiction#dodge mason fanfiction#mike faist#mike faist imagines#mike faist renaissance#challengers movie#challengers 2024#challengers#art donaldson#art donaldson fic
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currently writing an art and patrick threesome smut fic !! i don’t have a taglist yet so lmk if you wanna be tagged ♡
#♡₊˚ chatting 🍒・₊#It will be posted sometime in the upcoming days !!!#challengers#art donaldson#patrick zweig#art donaldson smut#patrick zweig smut#challengers smut#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x female reader#art donaldson x fem!reader#art donaldson x you#art donaldson fic#art donaldson fanfic#art donaldson fanfiction#art donaldson imagine#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig x female reader#patrick zweig x fem!reader#patrick zweig x you#patrick zweig fic#patrick zweig fanfiction#patrick zweig fanfic#patrick zweig imagine
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No.42 Chapter 2
Art Donaldson x reader : slow burn friends to lovers
I really hope you enjoy this Chapter, I’m enjoying writing this a lot. Somehow I’ve never done proper friends to lovers before, I tend to do established relationships. Enjoy! 🎾✨
Part 1
———————————————————————
It had been nine days since Art moved in. Nine days and you weren’t quite sure if you were more desperate for him to stay forever or leave immediately. Truthfully, your anxiety had never been as up and down as it was now. Sometimes you’d catch yourself watching the door waiting for him to return when you were writing an essay in the living room, only to be met by Patrick and scream at the sound of the key turning.
Your nerves were fried from frantically changing whenever you thought Art might come into your room to ask you a question and from convincing yourself you hadn’t locked the shower when he was home when you had. You always did. It was already becoming a little exhausting worrying so much about him catching you existing freely in your own home but Patrick had no such worries. In fact he seemed to be walking round the flat naked more often than he did when it was just the two of you- something neither you or Art condoned.
The biggest pro to having Art around was that you had his kinder perspective on issues as well as Patrick’s unforgiving honest one. It had already become normal to have Patrick passionately raising his voice at you for not being angrier at someone whilst Art reassured you that it was okay you were giving them a second chance. It was like having a devil in one ear and an angel in the other. You often refused to pick a side as it only riled the two of them up.
——————————————————————
1:45pm - text from Patrick
Staying at my girls house this weekend ;) there’s pasta in the fridge for you guys
Your classes had already finished for the day, there were only so many hours your professors could regurgitate the same theory to you before giving up. With the end of your time at Stanford University on the horizon you’d have to start actually thinking of job ideas that paid. It was a sickening thought, one that your professor kept forcing you to think about but you pushed away.
You clicked your phone to standby and thought about how you were going to fill the weekend without Patrick’s antics. Art could very easily spend the entire time whacking tennis balls back and forth until he sweat out his body weight but you had no such luck. Tennis wasn’t actually your thing at all, it was the main thing you and Patrick had always disagreed on. For years he tried and failed to get you to play with him: ‘be my doubles partner c’mon you know you want to!’ but you were not easily convinced. You didn’t mind watching Patrick play though, to be a good friend, but the truth was if Art wasn’t on the court you were disillusioned.
By the time you heard Art return, you’d proof read your essay seven times and submitted it. That had been the last job to do before your weekend off and it was over.
‘Y/N?’
He called out for you like he’d done it a million times, almost like you were married. You couldn’t help the way you shot out of bed, feeling elated to see him again despite it not being 9 hours since you last had.
You poked your head out of your room only to be met by an extremely sweaty Art Donaldson in your hallway. He was wearing your favourite outfit of his: red and white gym wear and a cap on backwards. It could have easily looked douchey on someone else but Art could pull anything off.
‘I’m gonna get a shower. Take out after?’
You barely heard his offer, instead focusing your gaze on the way his wet shirt clung to his muscles. He almost missed the way your eyes refocused as you diverted your cloudy stare back to his face.
‘Yep perfect.’
Patrick would be offended you chose pizza over his homemade leftovers but he’d live.
‘Okay great.’
Art had a strange relationship with fast food, he craved it but he was terrified at the thought of any and all decisions holding his tennis career back. You’d already noticed how much longer his workouts were the day after pizza.
Just as you thought to add that you wanted extra cheese on your half you felt the familiar sensation of your period starting.
Lock…
‘Art?’
He couldn’t hear you over the shower water.
‘Art!’
If only you had two bathrooms.
‘Donaldson I’m bleeding to death!’ You banged your fists loudly on the door. Was he deaf? You were going to leave a bloody mess on the carpet if he didn’t let you in soon. A few frantic movements later, including a distinct unlocking sound, and you were rushing pash Art to the toilet without a word. You knew he’d leave the second he realised what you were about to do but even so you didn’t care. In a few seconds the bathroom would look like a murder scene with or without him as a witness.
‘Sorry…’ you cleared your throat, looking up at Art, who was standing confused in only a towel. In your embarrassment you almost didn’t notice, choosing instead to rush into the safety of your room away from Art and his dripping torso.
Twenty minutes of scrolling later and your stomach was rumbling uncontrollably. Like clockwork Art knocked on your door, entered and told you in a quiet voice that the pizza arrived. When you didn’t respond he smiled. ‘Extra cheese.’ Even Patrick forgot to add that for you sometimes.
——————————————————————
‘Dip please.’
Art obliged, passing you the garlic sauce from his position on the floor. He’d sat down there to set up the ancient dvd player (‘Jaws’ wasn’t on Netflix) and never got up. ‘This film terrified me as a child.’ He mumbled, mid chew. ‘I didn’t go in the ocean for almost three years.’
A smile formed as you pictured a tiny Art Donaldson hiding under the covers from the shark he found too scary to look at. You’d never seen a photo of him younger than about fourteen but you could imagine that he was an adorable kid - the kind strangers called ‘a bundle of joy’.
‘I love the ocean, it’s one of the only places I never get sick of. Never.’
Art turned to look at you, eager to show he was listening.
‘Any time my mum could she’d take us to the beach for picnics, you know 1000 steps?’ He nodded at you. ‘That one was my favourite. There was a secret pool. I used to pretend I was a mermaid.’ You suddenly went quiet, remembering one time you fell and cut your leg on a particularly unforgiving rock and your Mum had to drag you home crying because you still wanted to play mermaids. You were a dedicated child.
Art took a large bite of pizza and looked up at you on your little sofa thrown. ‘You don’t do that anymore?’
‘Do what?’
The left corner of his mouth curled up slightly, an almost smirk. ‘Play mermaids.’
‘Ah, no. Not anymore.’
You dusted off the crumbs from your palms and lowered your head, feeling almost genuinely sad for a moment not to still be young and free: away from University stress and job worries. Away from all worries really.
‘Shame.’
Before you could say anything the best scene came on and as Quint recalled the doll quality of shark eyes your phone lit up.
8:16pm - text from Patrick
Her parents don’t like me but I’m slowly winning them over they’ll love me in no time hows art? Is he being boring?
Art watched you type for a moment before making a correct assumption. ‘Is that Patrick? Tell him he owes me five dollars.’
8:17pm - text to Patrick
We’re fine watching jaws rn Art says you owe him five dollars?
8:17pm - text from Patrick
I really don’t.
‘Art, he’s saying he doesn’t.’
Suddenly filled with energy, Art leapt off the floor to grab his phone and type feverishly to his friend. You watched him type for a moment, his fingers moving with impressive speed almost enough to make you picture something interesting. Almost.
‘What were you betting on? Do I even wanna know?’
If it was tennis scores, Patrick usually lost those. You’d been there in 2019 when Nadal won the US open instead of Medvedev and most of the living room had paid the price for it. Rest in peace glass side table. So long red planter pot.
Art suddenly looked guilty for a moment, he put his phone down and breathed. ‘He bet that you wouldn’t see me half naked until two weeks in.’ So not a tennis bet. ‘I said it’d be earlier, yknow given how small this place is and how I sometimes forget to lock the bathroom.’ Now you were confused, Art had never once forgotten to lock the bathroom door. Not even when he was, similar to you, so desperate he sent Patrick flying backwards to clear a path. The man loved his privacy.
‘I figured it was tennis related.’ You shrugged, finishing the last of your pizza.
Art scoffed slightly, before clearing his throat. ‘Not everything me and Patrick talk about is tennis related.’
‘But it is mostly about tennis right, I mean, it’s your entire life. It seems to be who you are, that’s why I made you watch ‘Jaws’ instead of SkySports for a change. Mix things up a bit.’ You smiled, playfully, knowing he couldn’t disagree with anything you said.
‘My entire life is not tennis.’
‘Isn’t it?’
He didn’t respond.
#art donaldson slow burn#art donaldson friends to lovers#art donaldson fan fic#challengers art donaldson#challengers art donaldson x reader#challengers#art donaldson fanfic#art donaldson x reader#art Donaldson#art donaldson fic#Mike faist#challengers slow burn#friends to lovers
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You got any headcanons on newlywed!Art, I need to hear about it playing with your wedding ring whenever you sit together. Or just being a "my wife." guy. You get to integrate your lives together completely in the new house he bought. 🥺🙏
-🌙
Life With You
Being fresh newlyweds, Art is very protective of you. From the moment you both announced your engagement within the sports world, he’s not taking shit from anyone.
This means that you’re practically glued to his hip whenever you both attend games, practice matches, or even lunch events. Art will always have your back and give you all of his attention.
That being said, being newlyweds with this man allows him to fully open up towards you. You swear someone stole your husband one morning when Art walked into the kitchen and practically showered you with love and kisses. He’d never been like that before, even when you both were teenagers.
Art is more gentle and calm with you as a new couple. He takes the time to get to know you beyond the world of tennis and remembers why he fell in love with you in the first place.
This comes into play one afternoon at the country club. The two of you are going over a new batch of notes from your coach about attending a game in the future when some well-known rivals of yours approach the table.
“Oh hi, Y/N. We didn’t think you were going to return to the court so soon. What with this new life and all.”
Instinctively lowering your head, you silently twirl your wedding ring around your finger, dancing the silver band back and forth.
Immediately wrapping his arm around you, Art takes the show and switches it in his favor.
“Well, my wife and I wanted to test the waters and leave the new house for a day to hopefully see if things on the tennis court had changed. So I guess you’ll be seeing the both of us more often. Now that we’re married and that we work together.”
Watching the bullies walk away, Art takes your hands in his, kissing your knuckles.
“You okay, baby?” He asks.
“I’m fine, thank you. It’s about time someone put them in their place.” You respond.
“Of course, you’re my wife after all. So someone has to remind them who you’re married too.” Art says, giving you a reassuring kiss.
challengers taglist ~
@dreamliners
@xplore-the-unknwn
@princessismx
@martiansodas-blog
@iholdwhatican
@veryberryjelly
@10ava01
#challengers#challengers movie#challengers film#art donaldson#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x you#art donaldson x female reader#art donaldson fic#art donaldson fluff#art donaldson headcanons#art donaldson hcs#art donaldson request#mike faist
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the pro
part ii: what we're willing to accept
Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader
Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.
Notes: My brain chose violence this morning. Not beta-read because when is it ever.
Length: 4.8K
Warnings: Slow burn; unhappily married reader; divorced Art Donaldson; infidelity; oral sex (female receiving); vaginal sex; unsafe sex
Summary: Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.
He's the biggest men's tennis star since Andy Roddick.
That’s what your husband says, as if it’ll entice you. As if you know anything about tennis, about the pro that your husband says will be coming to the house to teach you to play.
It’ll be good for you. You need a hobby.
You don’t gripe or argue. You don’t tell him that five months into your marriage shouldn’t have you looking for a new hobby. You should still be in the honeymoon stage, spending all of your time with him, hanging off of his arm, off of his every word. But he works so much and he’s away so often—
I don’t want you to get bored.
It’s a sweet gesture. The maid handles the housework; you have a chef that handles most of the grocery shopping and cooking, unless you insist on making something yourself; you have a housekeeper that arranges for anything you need—dry cleaning, maintenance. And it’s no wonder that with all of his money, his power, he can just order a retired pro tennis player up to your house, like you’d order a pizza. There’s a tennis court in the back of the mansion, a few feet from the pool. You’ll get some new outfits, the best sneakers, the nicest rackets. You’ll finally have something to do to fill your days.
Art Donaldson.
You know his name before the lean, fair-skinned patrician man turns up at your front door. He trails you through the house, politely declines your offer of a beverage.
“You ever played tennis before?” He asks.
You haven’t. Before your husband arranged this for you, you hadn’t so much as given the sport more than a passing thought. You don’t have the heart or confidence to tell that to a man that’s made tennis his whole life, so you just give him a small, guilty smile and say no, you haven’t. He nods, waves you off, insists that it’s fine.
“We’ll start with the basics.”
--
Two months of lessons on the basics make your arms tired, and your hands sore. But where your swings are clumsy and your grip is weak at first, you can see improvement in the way that you move. Your steps are less clumsy when you go after a ball; you’re more aware of the service line and the base line; your forehand stroke from contact to your left shoulder is smoother; your rotation and follow-through on your backhand is coming along, but has a long way to go.
Art’s instruction is calm and steady. He explains technique as much as he demonstrates it. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t scold, just lightly corrects. When you do something well, his encouragement is constant and free-flowing. Every accurate move and motion is met with, “Nice,” or, “Perfect,” or, “That’s it.”
On the days when you don’t have a lesson with Art, you practice. You order a tennis ball machine to work on your forehand and backhand. You attempt (and fail) to learn how to slice on your own. You try anyway—you can only imagine the way his eyes might light up if you manage to surprise him.
You’ve tried to ignore the rising interest that you have in Art, but you can’t help the little…Crush that’s developed. He’s just so attentive, and kind. When you find yourself smiling these days, it’s often because of something that he said, or did. You can’t remember the last time your husband made you feel giddy this way. It was probably when you started dating—before you’d made the decision to marry for comfort, rather than love. Your husband is practical, rarely physically affectionate, more heavily involved in his job and social circles than with you.
But you’ll have to find a way to thank him. He’s given you a hobby, and a man that grins at you like you just painted the goddamn Mona Lisa when you serve your first ace.
--
“So, tell me about the Mark Rebellato Academy.”
Art smiles, dipping his head as he reaches for his coffee. It’s taken a few months, but you finally convince him to have something to drink with you after practice. Your chef is blessedly out shopping for ingredients for dinner, so you have the kitchen all to yourself. Art has watched you putter around, seeming surprised that you know where everything is. You can’t blame him; the kitchen is chef-grade, and you don’t cook much these days.
“Did your husband tell you that’s where I went?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
You’re too embarrassed to admit that you’ve done some googling, and watched a couple of clips of him interviewing before and after his matches.
“I’ve just heard,” You fib. “Tell me about it?”
He leans back in his seat, eyes skating across your face as he seems to consider something.
“What do you wanna know?”
“Did you enjoy it? I mean—” It feels like a dumb question once it’s out, and you hurry to redirect, “With what you know now, if you had the choice, would you have learned how to play tennis somewhere else?”
He considers for a moment, trailing his finger over the side of his cup. Your gaze flits to his fingers, and your own flex around your mug handle. You’ve spent far too much time looking at and thinking about Art’s fingers—their length and quickness; the slight roughness of his calloused hands; the lingering tan line from where his wedding band used to sit.
“Yeah,” He admits, drawing your full attention back to his face. “I would. It was foundational, you know. I’ve been thinking of sending Lily there.”
“Lily?”
A bittersweet smile twists his lips. “My daughter.”
“Oh!” It catches you off-guard.
“Tashi, uh—” He clears his throat, “Lily’s mother, my ex-wife. She and I are thinking about schools.”
“I’m sure they’d be glad to have her. Does she play tennis?”
“Little bit. She didn’t start until last year, but she's a natural.” He clears his throat again, presses, “Are you and your husband planning on having kids?”
“Oh god no.” You blurt it out, and realize as he raises his brows that you’ve spoken too quickly. You lean back in your seat, stirring your coffee quickly to distract yourself from your growing embarrassment. “He actually has kids already. Two girls, seven and ten. They’re at boarding school and they stay with their mother when they're on vacation. I haven’t gotten to spend much time with them.”
“...He seems to be pretty busy.”
“He is.”
“So it’s just you in this big house?” He tips his head to the side, brows knitting with curiosity. “What do you do all day?”
“Play tennis.”
He grins, chuckling, and your stomach flips at the sound.
“It shows, you know,” He says.
“What do you mean?”
“I can tell you’re practicing without me. And,” He leans across the table, running his fingers lightly over the exposed skin of your bicep, “You’re getting stronger.”
You wonder if he can see or feel the goosebumps that break out across your skin at the gentle sweep, his gaze heavy on yours.
“I have a good teacher,” You murmur. Art’s lips twitch with a soft smile, his hand gently cupping your arm.
“Just good?” He plies.
“The best. A real pro.”
His smile widens, and the flash of his tongue sweeping across his lower lip makes your face go hot. You know that you’re caught when Art’s touch becomes firmer, pulling your arm toward him just a little.
The sound of approaching footsteps startles you, and you hurriedly tug your arm away. The sight of your husband makes your heart leap into your throat.
“There you are,” He smiles. “Art, how’s she doin’?”
“She’s killing it.”
You don’t dare look at him, but you can feel the weight of his attention lingering on you still. You just give your husband a smile, tipping your cheek up obligingly as he leans down to kiss it.
“Actually, Art,” Your husband straightens up, hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m glad I caught you. There’s a charity event for a local club this month. It’s for uh…What is it?” He squeezes your shoulders for answers, and you have to keep from rolling your eyes.
“It’s a charity tennis match to raise funds to fix up the local courts. They need resurfacing and they’re raising funding to keep the fees down.”
“We could use a sponsorship from the foundation,” Your husband adds.
“Honey,” You glance back, wary of insulting Art. But—
“I’ll do it,” Art agrees. “Send me the details.”
“Excellent,” Your husband grins. “Maybe we could coax you into a match or two.”
You don’t chastise him this time—not when you see something light up in Art.
“Maybe.”
--
You haven’t seen Art play before. You’ve specifically avoided it. You’ve known that when you saw it, you would be too intimidated to do a damn thing on the court with him. But now, you can’t stop watching him. You don’t even care that you probably look so out of place—where everyone else is watching the ball, you’re just watching him.
His movements are so neat, so precise. It’s like watching a dance. He’s running the poor guy on the other side of the net up and down the court. And the sounds that he’s making—god. Every little grunt and groan is weaving increasingly filthy thoughts in your mind. You already know that you’ll seek out the memory of those sounds, as you reach between your legs later. His shirt clings to his chest, showcasing the muscles that you’ve always suspected he has. Strands of hair plaster to his forehead as sweat drips over his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, over his jaw.
When he scores a match point and he looks toward the cheering crowd—when his eyes land on you instantly, without having to search—it’s like you’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. You can’t think, or move. You barely have the focus to applaud, but you manage to raise your hands and clap.
--
Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.
Coffee becomes a post-lesson ritual. He starts to stick closer and closer to you as he follows you into the house until he begins to rest his hand on your lower back, guiding you to your door. He keeps nearby when you’re making it, brushes droplets of sweat off of your forehead or neck. Every touch is electrifying; you have to make a concentrated effort to keep your hands steady, your face neutral as your heart pounds and your stomach floods with butterflies.
He pushes you harder on the court, and you force yourself to meet the level that he sets for you, even when you don’t feel confident in it. But you want to make him proud.
It spurs you to lunge a little too far.
The sharp stabbing pain in your left ankle makes you shriek, and you tumble to the ground, dropping the racket with a clatter. You hear the pounding of his feet, glance up just in time to see him clear the net before he’s on the ground at your side.
“What hurts?”
“My ankle,” You grit out, hissing softly as he helps you straighten your leg out. He smooths his hands over your calf, leaning over you and gently guiding your foot in a few different directions. You whimper as he starts to guide your foot to the left.
“Okay, okay,” He soothes, “Let’s get you inside.”
For as much as you damn the throbbing in your ankle, you thank it a little, too. You lean heavily against Art, making the slow, arduous journey back to the house with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle.
When your husband comes home, he finds you with on the couch with Art coming back in from the kitchen, an ice pack in your hand.
You’d hope for concern, but your husband frowns, glances at the swelling knob of your ankle, and simply asks: “What did you do?”
“She lost her balance.” Art sits down on the other end of the couch, soothing you as the chill of the ice pack makes you shift with discomfort.
“Are you going to be able to walk tomorrow?” Your husband presses. “We have dinner at the Fineman’s.”
“I'm still going, don't worry about that."
“...Tomorrow might be a bit soon,” Art warns.
“I’ll be okay. It’s just a sprain, right?” You tip your brows up, hoping, praying that he’ll agree for your sake. His fingers flex around the ice pack, jaw ticking as he clenches it. He doesn’t say a word as your husband sighs heavily, grumbles, “I hope so. Still, we should put a pause on the lessons until she’s fighting fit again.”
Art finally tears his eyes from yours, a tight smile on his lips.
“Of course.”
--
“How’s the ankle?”
It takes you a moment to scrounge up an answer. You can’t believe that he called. You knew that Art had gotten your number when you started taking lessons with him, but he’s never used it beyond texting to confirm a lesson time now and again.
You look down at the still-swollen flesh as it strains against the thin strap of your slingbacks.
“Fine,” You lie, “It’s um—” You glance over your shoulder, listening for your husband. “It’s not that bad.”
“Good enough to walk on?”
Hardly.
“Yes.” You think you’ve gotten away with it, but when you hear Art sigh and chastise, “You should rest,” You know that you haven’t.
“I have,” You insist, “All day.”
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes.”
“You can tell him no, you know.”
Your mouth works wordlessly, body going hot with indignation. You can’t think of a thing to say. You can’t tell him that he’s wrong, that your husband’s connections are the lifeblood of his business. You can’t tell him that if your husband’s business falls apart, you won't be able to afford those tennis lessons, and then how the hell are you supposed to see Art again?
You just yank your phone away from your ear and hang up.
--
I invited Art.
It shouldn’t be a surprise, but your husband’s statement makes you feel like you’ve swallowed your tongue. You haven’t seen or spoken to Art in nearly two weeks. Your doctor recommended putting off any physical activity, which your husband surely relayed to him. He was the one whose name was on Art’s checks, after all.
Your husband has always thrown a massive party to kick off the summer. Every year, 150 of your husband’s closest family, friends, and business associates flooded into the house. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that your husband invited Art after the performance he had given at the fundraiser—$25,000 from the foundation, and ticket sales went through the roof when it had been announced that the Art Donaldson would be making an appearance. Your husband owed Art a lot, and probably saw this as an opportunity for him to network, to take on more clients. He had been evangelizing Art’s training to any of your friends that would listen—how good you are on the court, how engaged and energetic you seem to be these days.
It’s one thing to know that you’ll have to put on a happy face for the crowd, but to know that Art will be among them makes your insides twist with nerves. You can’t stop thinking about the way that he had spoken to you when you were hurt; his calm, steadying demeanor as he’d gotten you inside; the careful coaxing and gentle touch that he’d used as he’d taken your shoe off and examined your ankle more closely.
You think about it now, as you strap on another pair of heels. Your ankle really is doing well, though you have a little lingering pain in shoes like these. You’ll likely be on your feet for the length of the party; it’s going to be a long night. You look over yourself in the mirror, self consciously tipping your ankle from side to side for anything that he may spot or catch out. But there’s nothing, you reassure yourself. You slide your hands over the skirt, plastering on a smile as your husband pokes his head into your dressing room.
“Almost ready in here?” He asks.
“All set!”
--
He doesn’t come over to you. On the crowded patio, you can feel him watching you—you’ve gotten so used to seeking out the sensation that you can’t ignore it now. The first true look at him is agony. He watches you from just a few feet away, a glass of champagne in hand as he speaks with your husband and the Finemans. He openly looks you over, eyes drifting over your body to the flash of ankle revealed by the slit in your dress. He tips his head to the side just a little, squinting before his eyes flit back up to your face, lips twitching with a small smile.
You want to hate how good it feels; you want to be angry with him for his smug knowing, his insistence of You can tell him no, you know. But it feels so goddamn good to have his attention again that you can’t bring yourself to be annoyed. You know that you’re staring—that you both are—and you force yourself to turn away and excuse yourself from the conversation you’re in. You go inside, murmuring your thanks for the waitstaff that pass you along the way.
The house isn’t nearly as busy as the patio, and you're able to slip into your darkened study unnoticed. You leave the lights off, certain that if you turn them on, people will be drawn in to bug you, like moths to a flame. The party’s lights and music filter in through the partially-closed blinds.
You lean against the desk, circling your ankle and wincing a little. You’ll hide for a few minutes, let it rest—
Your breath catches in your throat as the door opens. You expect your husband, ready to scold and usher you back to the guests.
You only have a second to get a look at Art before he shuts the door behind himself, plunging the room back into darkness. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the desk as you use it to ground yourself.
“...Do you need something?” You ask, voice wobbling with nerves.
“Wanted to come say hi.”
“Well. Hi.”
You hear him chuckle, his footsteps muted by the carpet.
“Thanks for the invite.”
“It wasn’t my idea.” It’s not polite to admit, but you want it to sting him, just a little. Maybe it does; in the dim of the room, you can’t see Art’s expression as he comes to a stop just a couple of feet from you.
“Do you want me to go?” He asks. You know what you should say, but you can’t bring yourself to say it.
“No,” You whisper. You feel the heat of him as he comes closer, his hands resting on the desk and caging you in. You bite your lip as gently brushes his nose against yours.
“He isn’t taking care of you.”
“My ankle is fine.”
“I’m not talking about your ankle.” He lifts a hand, smoothing it over your hip as your breath mingles. Art’s fingers drift from your hip to stroke over the apex of your dress’s slit. His fingers slip further down, and you nod as he palms your thigh. Before you can say or do a thing, Art sinks to his knees. He curls his hand around your left calf, lifting it. You shiver as his lips press a gentle kiss to your ankle. His hand and lips travel up, easing the fabric of your dress higher with each second. The first brush of his knuckles against your panty-covered clit makes you jolt. Your hands dig into the wood of the desk as his fingers hook between the fabric and your skin. You lift your hips without a word, allowing him to draw them down.
Art presses a kiss to your mound before he lowers his head, giving your lips a sweet, sucking kiss. You gasp softly as his tongue swipes across your clit. You look down despite the fact that you can’t see him well. You can just make out his blissful expression, his eyes closed as his laps broadly across your aching cunt. You lower your hand to his neat hair, winding your fingers through it, unable to help grasping it. His heady moan vibrates against you and you nearly cry out at the sensation. You manage to just catch it, the sound dying in your throat as Art buries his tongue inside you. He sweeps his thumb over your clit in rush, harried circles, panting against your heated flesh. You rock your hips down against his lips, tightening your grip on his hair as you guide him. He lets you do as you please, whining against your skin as your movements become less controlled.
“Art,” You warn, “I—Oh, oh god—”
He hums in encouragement, sucking your clit back between his lips and lashing it with his tongue. Your jaw drops open, your hand shoving Art even more tightly against your skin as you cum suddenly. A stunned, breathy moan slips from your lips as Art leans back, smearing his lips against the inside of your thigh.
You use your grasp on Art’s hair to draw him back up off of his knees, giving him a crushing kiss as he catches his balance. You swipe your tongue across his lips, whining against his lips as you taste yourself on him. He presses close, his hard cock straining against the fabric of his pants. You reach down, palming and squeezing his length as you trade slick, messy kisses. He steers you back onto the desk as you fumble to undo his belt, button, and zip.
“Condom?” He asks.
“Pill,” You reassure, shoving his pants down. You lap broadly across your palm, grasping Art’s length and guiding him closer. He brushes the tip of his cock against your still-throbbing clit, smiling as you whine. You’re going to ache tomorrow, but you’ve never been so happy to be sore.
“Art.”
“Sssh.”
“Please—” It’s hardly out of your mouth before he shoves his hips forward, seating himself fully with a single thrust. You bite down on your lip to quiet your moan, curling your arms around your shoulders. He rocks into you with firm, quick strokes, his mouth covering yours. You can hear things on the desk rattling with each thrust, kisses growing less controlled as he hoists your thigh up around his hip.
“Oh, god,” You breathe, “We have to be quick—He’ll come looking—”
“Not until you cum for me again,” He urges. “I need to feel it, sweetheart.”
“Art—”
“When’s the last time he did this? Hmm?” He presses, “When’s the last time he made you cum? When’s the last time he tasted you?”
“Never,” You admit with a shiver. It seems to renew Art’s passion, his thrusts and hold growing more intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands hooking tightly in the fabric of his jacket. He yanks the front of your dress down, bowing over you and drawing one of your nipples between his lips. You whimper as he toys with the bud, tugging it gently with his teeth before swiping across it. You arch into the slick heat, using your leg to tug him even closer as you chased the swelling curl of your orgasm.
“Just like that,” You urge, “Ffffuck—yes, yesyesyesyes—”
Your eyes squeeze shut as your hips buck down against his, pussy pulsing as he spills into you. Your heart pounds in your chest as the two of you slow and still. Art rests his forehead heavily against your neck, peppering gentle kisses across the exposed skin. You have to move—now. You don’t know if anyone heard you, but if someone did, you’re screwed. If no one did, your husband will probably be looking for you anyway, ready with a scold for neglecting your hostess duties.
“...I have to go,” You warn softly. It takes Art a moment to move, but he does, gently drawing himself back from your still-throbbing cunt. You hear the clanking of his belt buckle as he tucks himself away, and you reach down, righting your dress where it’s been pulled away. You take up your panties from where they’d been discarded on the floor, tugging them on before you straighten your skirt and hurry out of the room.
--
“Can I see you?”
It’s only been an hour since the last guest has left, and you are so, so fucking tired. You glance toward the bathroom door. You know that you locked it, and you’re certain that your husband can’t hear you over the shower running, but you can’t help but be paranoid.
“You just saw me,” You remind him.
“Tomorrow,” Art clarifies.
“Where?”
“I’ll send an address.”
You bite your lip, toying with your earring. Your pussy is still aching from the stretch of him, your ass sore from getting fucked on the desk.
“...You regret it?” He asks.
“No,” You don't give your answer a second thought.
“I’ll send an address. Whether or not you see me is up to you. Just…think about it. Okay?”
“Okay.”
You lower your phone, hanging it up and watching his contact information blink away. It’s only a moment before a text with an address lights up your phone. You don’t have to think about it. You already know what you’re going to do.
--
You know that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Art has spent so much time in your home, so you feel entitled to look around a little bit. You eye the row of trophies on his mantle, photos of him playing when he was young. You come to a stop at a picture of him with a young girl, a racket in her hand and a medal around her neck.
“Is this Lily?” You ask.
“Yeah,” He nods. “First competition.”
“Already getting gold,” You smile. “The Mark Rebellato Academy isn’t ready for her.”
Art chuckles, nodding as he steps around you.
“You, uh…You want something to eat, or drink, or…?” He trails off, tucking his hands into his pockets as he takes a couple of steps back toward his kitchen. You turn to face him, taking him in more fully.
“Art?”
“Yeah?”
“Why am I here?”
He doesn’t answer for a few moments. You can see him weighing his options before he comes closer.
“I…I’ve been thinking about last night.”
Fear shoots through you, but you force yourself to stand tall. “Okay.”
“I could lie and tell you that it should be a one-time thing, but I can’t remember the last time I got through a day without thinking about you. And I think you’ve been thinking about me, too.” Art stops as the tip of his shoes brush against yours, and you let your eyes slip closed as he rests his forehead against yours.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” He pleads. “Tell me to fuck off right now and I will never say another non-tennis related thing to you again.”
--
When he fucks you, he curls close, chest pressing against yours as he catches your lips in a kiss. You sink back against his pillows, your head cradled by his broad palm as he rolls his hips achingly slowly. You don’t bother to hide your whines and moans, and you revel in his. Every grunt and whimper and groan that Art lets out lights you up.
And when you cum, you don't have to quiet yourself. His name tumbles out of your mouth, cushioned between expletives as your nails dig into his shoulders.
--
"What time is he home tonight?"
You don't want to think about it. You want to stay in this cozy little bubble, trailing your fingers over his muscled chest as he massages your nape and kisses your forehead.
But you know that you'll have to let the world back in sometime.
"I don't know," You admit. "Late."
"...Could stay."
"He'll be suspicious if I'm not home when he gets there."
Art sighs softly, running his hand down to rub between your shoulder blades.
"This isn't going to be easy, is it."
"What?"
"Letting you go every day."
"Every day?" You tease, pushing yourself up to get a better look at him. "Don't get greedy, Mr. Donaldson."
He smiles, raising his hand and cupping your cheek. "Is it greedy to know what I want?"
You shake your head a little, lowering your lips to brush against his.
"Not when I want it, too."
part ii: what we're willing to accept
Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21
@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity
@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ;
@buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989
#Art Donaldson x Reader#Art Donaldson x You#Art Donaldson/Reader#Art Donaldson/You#Art Donaldson fic#Art Donaldson imagine#the pro
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upcoming fic !
so the consensus from my poll was to post my art donaldson fic and that will be coming out tonight !
be warned ! this will be my first attempt at any kind of smut so please take that into account XD its very brief, but its there
i hope you enjoy !
out 19;30 bst
#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson smut#art donaldson imagine#art donaldson x you#art donaldson fic#art donaldson#mike faist#mike faist x reader#mike faist smut#mike faist imagine#mike faist x you#mike faist challengers#challengers 2024#challengers movie#patrick zweig x reader
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headcannons w/ art donaldson
(it gets specific)
🎾 🤍💐✨🎀
♡ wouldn’t mind having a slightly younger partner. he’d like teaching them things and it’d boost his ego a little bit. you two would tease each other about your age all the time.
♡ hugs from behind. does it so much it became ‘his thing’. he loves resting his head on your shoulder. he gives you a little squeeze to your stomach.
♡ he doesn’t want a partner who plays tennis. who even watches tennis. it’s such a relief for him when you walk into his life and have to ask what 40-love means.
♡ he likes that you had no idea who he was before you met him. of course once you get to know him and see him play you’re super proud of him! you’re in the stands as much as you can.
♡ joking with him after a match
“mr. donaldson, that was incredible. can i get an autograph?”
“shut up.”
and then he’d pull you in for a kiss. one where both hands are on your hips and he dips you cause he’s so happy. yeah there’s people around but who cares?
♡ art loves nuzzling your pussy. rubbing the tip of his nose on your clit with his eyes closed. going side to side or up and down or in circles while his head gets all fuzzy. feeling how soft and warm and wet you are. feeling your thighs squish his cheeks and ears. how squirmy you get the more he pushes his face into them. wants to hold your hands while he makes lil happy noises into your heat. so needy for you and nuzzling between their thighs feels like heaven.
“you smell so fucking good.”
♡ would pay for your pajamas + lingerie. he’s slipping you a hundred and telling you to get something pretty before he gets back from a meeting. hes usually so desperate to enter you once he sees you all dressed up that he rips it so it’s a good thing he’s the one purchasing it.
“i love this color on you.”
“i know.”
good luck leaving without marks
♡ he’d get you both matching pj pants aswell. you know the classic flannel ones. he buys two of his size since you prefer to steal his clothes anyway. just another way he’s thoughtful.
♡ y’all have movie nights in them with popcorn and very cozy blankets.
#art donaldson#challengers fanfic#art donaldson x you#art donaldson fic#art donaldson fanfic#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson smut#art donaldson fluff
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-
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so ! this happened !
nsfw solo!art. hoping to finish it tn and post tomorrow evening !! <33
art is very sad n angsty n hopeless in this. what can i say? i love a loser.
(also i’m still writing this rn so i will probs have to add more cw before it’s posted)
<3 UPDATE : posted !
#YIPPEE#toxic relationship dynamics mm#not fun to experience#at all.#but fun to write n explore#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson#art donaldson smut#challengers smut#mike faist#mike faist smut#art donaldson fic
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there's only so much a body can work out, a body can do
Art Donaldson was exhausted.
He was playing tennis for hours a day, exams were coming up, and with Patrick calling from a new time zone every week, he was barely getting any sleep. Even sliding facedown onto the bed next to you offered little relief for his aching muscles.
You let out a sympathetic cluck at his frustrated sigh, dropping your book and winding a hand into his shaggy hair to scratch reassuringly at his scalp. “Poor baby,” you said. “You’re wound up way too tight.”
He didn’t reply, but you could hear his exhale into the mattress. “You need to relax.” You continued, twisting a loose curl around your finger.
“I’m not so good at that.” He admitted in a muffled voice.
“You just need some help.” You paused for a moment, eyeing the tension in his shoulders, the slight arch of his back. “Why don’t you lie down?”
Art tilted his chin up to look at you. “I am lying down.”
“On your back.”
He scanned your eyes briefly before obeying, shirt riding up his toned stomach in the process. “Like this?”
“Yeah, just like that.” You agreed. You sat beside him and he shifted slightly to maintain better eye contact, bringing up an arm to rest behind his head. The movement drew your gaze to his taut bicep, and you couldn’t resist bending down to bite it, just barely hard enough to sting.
You smiled into Art’s skin at his surprised inhale, but you were the one caught off guard when his other arm swept you seamlessly into his lap.
“Hey!” You said, sitting up straight. “Hands to yourself.” He pouted, hand still gripping your hip, but you weren’t joking. When you started to lift yourself off, he caved.
“Okay, I’m sorry.” He said, propping himself up with both arms now. “You’re in charge.”
“Don’t forget it.” You warned. He watched, chastised, as you dropped your own hands to the hem of his shirt, pulling it up until it bunched at his collarbone. Then, finally, you leaned down to kiss him.
Art was a needy kisser, always waiting for you to guide him, chasing your mouth with his own any time you tried to pull back, whimpering when you licked at the inside of his mouth. You loved kissing him, loved how much it worked him up. He was still a teenage boy, after all.
Once you could feel him properly hard beneath you, you began to descend, teeth scraping his jawbone, his collarbone, his nipple, followed soothingly by your tongue each time. Art’s abdomen was tense beneath your mouth as you pressed open-mouthed kisses to his ribs, his navel, his hips.
The tip of his cock was already sticky when you pulled down his boxers and grasped him in your fist, and you wasted no time in leaning down to tongue his slit. Normally you’d tease him much longer, make him beg, but right now, you just wanted to make him feel better. Art could hardly believe his luck.
You pumped the base of him with one hand and cupped his balls with the other as you suckled at his head. A whine escaped from high in the back of Art’s throat, and it only encouraged you to swallow more of him down.
“Oh,” he gasped, hips bucking into your mouth. “Fuck, please, please.” You moved a hand to rub his thigh reassuringly, a wordless promise, and lowered yourself further until your nose nestled against his pelvis. Art was panting desperately above you, the noises so sweet you couldn’t stop yourself from grinding down against his leg. He moaned at the feeling of your wetness, which only spurred you on more. For a while, the only sounds in the room were your slurps and gags against Art's cries.
Before long, you could feel the familiar signs of his impending orgasm, and you popped off. It took Art a moment too long to comprehend that you were speaking, too mesmerized by the string of drool connecting you to his dick.
“Where do you want to come, baby?” You asked again, hand continuing your work. “Hmm?”
“Is this a trick question?” He asked between shallow breaths.
You couldn’t help but laugh, and Art’s chest flushed pink. “No.” You promised, ducking to mouth at his balls. “Anywhere you want. Do you want to come in my mouth? On my face, or on my tits?” His face was beautifully unforgettable when you glanced up, eyes dazed and cheeks glowing as he tried to form a thought. “Come on, princess, use your words.”
At that, Art’s cock twitched in your grasp and you took him back into your mouth, tongue working at the underside. “On your face,” he finally said above you, and your stomach swelled. “Wanna come on your face.”
“Okay, baby,” you murmured. “Anything for you.” You pulled off long enough to soak two fingers in your spit, simultaneously gulping him back down and pressing the pads of your fingers behind his balls. Art clenched down and let out a strangled moan as you rubbed over his hole. You teased him with the tip of a finger, nudging at the muscle but not quite penetrating him, soaking up the mewls that fell from his mouth.
“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna- you’re gonna make me come,” he panted. His thighs were quivering; he was so close, the tension ready to drain from his body. You gave an encouraging hum, swallowing around his cock, and Art’s gasp broke into a sob as he came. You kept him in your mouth for a moment, letting yourself swallow just a little before pulling off to let him splatter onto your face. Art’s whimpers were delicious as he watched himself coat your swollen lips, your long lashes.
“Good boy,” you cooed, fist still working his cock even as he began to flinch from the overstimulation. “That’s it, does that feel better?”
Art’s head was tipped back as he struggled to catch his breath, but even still, his eyes refused to move from the mess on your face. You kept your eyes on his as you lowered your mouth once more, lapping at the dribble of cum down his cock. He started to whine in protest, it was too much, but you took pity and let him go, rocking back on your heels.
“So much better,” he whispered. “That felt so good, I needed it, thank you."
“Good.” You said, licking your lips. “That’s what I like to hear.”
#ultimately this was born out my desire to help mike faist recover from the press tour#first time posting smut on main dont make me regret it#challengers#challengers fanfic#challengers smut#art donaldson#art donaldson fic#art donaldson fanfic#art donaldson smut#challengers fanfiction#challengers movie#challengers 2024#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x you#art donaldson challengers#fanfiction#fanfic#oneshot#imagine#smut#mike faist smut#mike faist imagine#my work
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