#Art Donaldson x black reader
Text
Agreement prt1
Art Donaldson x Fem black reader
Warnings: cursing, infidelity(kinda), slight smut (fingering) sub ish Art. Slight he loves her more trope, needy Art and probably some other stuff
Word count: 2k
Summary: Despite being engaged to one of the top and richest tennis players in the US, you feel unfulfilled. But everything changes when you transfer schools and meet Art Donaldson, who just can’t quit you.
Author note: GUYS GUYS, PLEASE DON’T KILL ME. MY WRITERS BLOCK HAS BEEN SO BAD YOU DONT UNDERSTANDDD, But I’m finishing all my requests and unfinished fics soon so stay tuned. 😚
Sitting on the bed in your brand new silk pajamas, you found yourself distracted, just like you had been the day before and the day before that. You played with The edge of the book you were attempting to read,mindlessly repeated the last sentence over and over in your head trying to retain anything. The loud television and the whirring of the ceiling fan only added to the chaos. Plus the freezing cold air conditioning of the hotel room made it impossible to concentrate.
In a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of focus, you clumsily reached for the remote, hoping to silence at least one of the distractions. your eyes falling on your fiancé who was sleeping peacefully, his dark hair all messy, in his crisp white t-shirt that matched perfectly to the expensive hotel sheets, he looked so sweet,so innocent. You thought if he slept more, maybe everything could work out
Mike slept while snuggled into your side. Like he often did when you two shared a bed, You had attempted to remove him several times but every time he ended right back at your side so you gave up, In any other scenario his action would seem romantic but they only made you feel worse than you were already feeling. In an effort to relieve some guilt you liked to reminded yourself your engagement was never out of love but business. But then again the line did blur in the beginning of your relationship. Before you left for Stanford, you and Mike got caught up in the act of pretending be in love.
After that you could never really tell real from fake with him, he didn’t like you talking to other men. He’d shower you with really expensives grift but then leave town and not answer your calls or text for days. But when no one was watching he’d try to hug and kiss you. The whole thing was confusing, You had known idea how he persived your relationship but you knew You Felt guilty, without all the technicallys, you knew that you still lied,
The people ate up the role you and Mike played. occasionally you’d have to leave campus and go out in public holding hands or sharing kisses in the rain. But it was all for show, at least on your end. Your Dad made sure to reminded you That, it was the love sick tennis player in love with his coaches daughter that sold tickets. kept the stands full of women hoping to catch the world win romances in action. Also Brought in a large number of his clientele. He promised It wouldn’t be forever unless you wanted to be. And Really how could you complain? 20 years old engaged to One of the wealthiest and most talented tennis players in the world and he wasn't bad looking either. Before all this, you weren't too keen on love anyway, so what were you really missing out on?
~~~
Ten months before
Patrick serves but Art's attention is elsewhere. The ball zooms past Art for the second time, prompting Patrick to turn around and finally see who's behind him. His gaze lands on you, playing tennis alone on a smaller court. The sun shining off your smooth, glistening skin, and your pink tennis dress gracefully flowing with each jump and run.
"Oh, I get it," Patrick chuckles, glancing back at Art. "She's hot. You should talk to her, maybe offer her a lesson. She could use it," Patrick suggests, looking back at you as you let another tennis ball from the machine fly past you . "I think I've seen her somewhere before," Patrick mutters, tapping his racket against his leg.
Still in a daze, Art jogged over to your court. "Oh, you're serious," Patrick murmured watching as he went over to you following closely behind him. "Hi," Art greets, slightly out of breath walking up to the net. "Hi?" you respond, slightly confused, giving him a small wave.
"Are you new here?"
"To the school or the court?" You ask
"Both."
"I'm new to both” you say a little breathless wiping sweat from your forehead.
“I just transferred," you explain.
"Where did you go before?"
"A small community college in Virginia."
"What about tennis?"
"You have a lot of questions," you laugh, tapping your tennis racket against your leg.
"Im just curious “Art jokes.
"I'm just doing this because my fiancé is a tennis player. I thought I'd try to learn," you reveal.
“Finance?” Art questions.
“Yep”
“ how old are you like 20?”
“ actually 19, I turn twenty in a couple months”
“And you're getting married?” Art asked clearly dumbfounded
“Yes” you laugh at his forwardness
", is he a pro or college?", Art asked, assuming the answer would be college.
“Pro," you replied, letting your curls fall freely from your hair tie. Art couldn't help but admire how beautiful you were,too young to be tied down
"Anyone we would know?" Art asks following you as you walk over to the bench with your tennis bag. "Hmm, maybe," you hum, sitting down to tie your shoe. "Mike Fitts."
"Your fiancé is Mike Fitts!" Patrick exclaims a little too loudly. "Mhmm," you confirm, starting to tie your other shoe. "If Mike Fitts is your fiancé, why are you here?"
"Are you referring to the court or the school?" you ask, looking up at both Art and Patrick.
"Both," Art and Patrick respond in unison.
You chuckled as you stuffed your tennis racket into your bag. "Well, whether I'm engaged or not, I always planned to graduate college. And Mike is too busy right now to teach me, so I'm trying to teach myself."
The two of them nod in understanding as you stand up. "It was really nice meeting both of you, but I have class," you announce, throwing your tennis bag over your shoulder. "By the way, it would be great if you guys could keep the whole fiancé thing on the down low. I'm trying to keep it as quiet as possible for now."
"Yeah, no problem," one of them replies.
"Of course," the other adds.
"Thanks, I really appreciate it," you say giving them a small smile before turning around to leave the court.
just as you're about to walk away, Art calls out after you, "Wait! You said you're trying to learn, right? we could coach you if you want” Patrick gives him a look and Art ignores it waiting for your response.
You pause, considering the offer.
”the both of you?” you asked gesturing between them. Art gives you a nod. at that moment The risk didn't seem too big so you said
. "Sure," with small shrug
"How about tomorrow at 12:30?" you suggest, checking the pink Bvlgari watch Mike got you.
"Perfect," Art responds with a shit eating smile
“Ok see you guys ” you laugh walking out the court
~~~~~~
“Yeah see” Patrick says reading a newspaper. “Olympic coach, Dylan yLn, Daughter engaged to Olympics gold medalist Mike fitts” Patrick reads next to a photo of you and Mike smiling as you showed off your huge
engagement ring. “She wasn’t bull shitting”
“Let me see” Art says grabbing the newspaper. “She didn't have on her engagement ring when we saw her...” Art trails off
“You can't be serious” Patrick laughs
“What?”
“She’s engaged Art, not to anyone either,” Patrick leaned in on the table so only he could hear. “she’s engaged Mike Fitts!”
“I didn't say anything,” Art defends
“ you don't have to” Patrick says stealing a fry off Arts plate plopping it in him mouth.
”I know you,”
~~~~~
After that day, everything seemed to blend together. Art and Patrick dedicated themselves to training you throughout the weekdays for three entire months until you got tired of it and decided on once a week. You told Mike you found a coach but never told him who. Since they were kinda the only people you knew in the entire school, the three of you grew close fast. You started going out to bars and parties together. you had your most memorable college moments with the two of them. And then, your birthday arrived. Patrick had left for some torment and it was just you and Art.
You two were just having so much fun that night. On thing led to another And before you realized it, the two of you were constantly having “fun together”. It didn't matter where - in the dorm, in the shower, or even on the floor. It was bad, but you two couldn't stop
Trying to clear your mind you Let out a sigh. you carefully remove Mike from your side sitting up to taking a sip of you're water on the nightstand. Trying to ignore the ache of your core. This is how you spent every night away from him, needy, uncomfortable. You heard a knock at the door which almost caused you to spill water on yourself. You Quickly put your drink down and run to answer it before the person could knock again careful to be quiet not to wake up Mike.
You swung the door open to find Art standing there, hair slightly damp, with huge smile on his face. "Are you out of your mind?" you whisper, stepping out of the room and shutting the door quietly behind you. You can't help but notice his thin athletic hoodie and gym shorts. Slightly wet clinging to his skin as if he just stepped out of the shower.
"It's past one ,"Art huffed out , his voice filled with urgency and desire as he leaned in for a kiss. his hand gently cradling the side of your face in the process.
When the realization of what was happening washed over you, you pulled away, but still stayed close enough to feel his breath against your skin. "Art," you breathed out, eyes darting down the hall to check if anyone saw. Your hand instinctively found its place on his strong chest, you savored the feeling and the look of your manicured nails there, not knowing when you be able to do it again.
"I like these," Art hummed, playing with the hem of your pajama shorts. He rolled the fabric between his fingers, his big hand gracing you thighs in the process. The little touch sent shivers down your spine. You somehow composed yourself pushing him away gently with your index finger, creating some distance between you two.
He looked at you with sad eyes like a rejected puppy. "Mike’s sleeping inside," you whisper, worried someone could hear. "What does that mean?"
There was a long pause as you carefully choose your next words. Art stared at you intently, trying to decipher your expression. "You slept with him?” Art asks, as if he already knew the answer.
"No, I didn't sleep with him!” You whisper yelled, “He just showered and fell asleep," you explained,
"What's bothering you then?"
"I feel guilty."
"You didn't feel guilty at Stanford."
"Mike wasn't at Stanford."
“You care about Mike's feelings now ?" Art's asks furrows his brow, his voice filled with a mix of confusion and hurt.
" I don’t know… he’s been nicer lately and were supposed to be married in three days”
“You’re actually thinking about going through with it?” Art asked the hurt now evident in his voice.
“There’s nothing I can do now, I signed contracts, this isn’t just about us anymore I’ve told you this”
“What about the private investors?”
"That's just a 'what if,' a perfect 'what if,' but we don't even know if he's seeing someone."
“ If I win tomorrow?”
“Art If you win are lose tomorrow it doesn’t change anything, my Dad expects me at the alter on Sunday regardless, nothings gonna change that”
“But you don’t love him ”
“ I could” your words come out more a question, maybe a hope. “I loved you?”
“You love me” Art corrects
"There's too much at stake now, Art. This is my father's career. We don't come from money, this is all he has."
“You honestly believe this will ruin his career?”
“It could” you reply with a small shrug your voice cracking slightly.
“It won’t” Art response
“You don’t know that”
“ Don’t do this ” Art whispered closing the small space between you. He sounded so tortured, like he was pleading with you.
you hadn't realize it but tears welled in your eyes Threatening to spill any moment. When You blinked an a tear fell down your cheek. Art tenderly brushed it away with his thumb. The stress of the last two weeks had finally caught up to you. “it wasn’t supposed to be this hard” you murmured, your voice barely audible, tears streaming down your face as Art wiped them away.
“Do you love me?” his questions sounded genuine but you knew, he already knew the answer. ”more than i’d like to” you joke, using the back of your hand to dry your eyes.
“Then let me make you feel better,” Art whispered leaning down so he was directly above your ear.
“You’re right about what you said earlier, Mike wasn’t there at Stanford”. He paused for a second moving a piece of your hair out the way, “I was,” he hummed brushing his face against yours “just me and you” he whispered leaving a trail of kisses on the outside of your earlobe down your neck. Causing Your breath catch in your throat .“We had fun right?” Art question, his voice deep and breathy causing you to instinctively press your legs together as you leaned back against the door. “Art” you mumble trying to shake the sexual haze that was swirling inside you.
“I missed you” he whispered his free hand slinking up the side of you short griping your thigh, hiking your leg up slightly. “So bad…All day”
“we can't” you manage to breathe out unconvisingly.
“I’ll beg,”
“Art” you warned
“I’ll do anything baby” he mumbles leaving slowly kisses on your neck. “Anything you want me to” he says kissing under your chin. “ I need you” he hums kissing down your neck, ”don’t you need me?” Art asked kissing below your ear. You don't respond giving small nodd biting the inside of your lip. “Can I hear it?” Art asked, the way his voice sounded so desperate, Damn near whiney had you looking for friction. ”I need you so fucking bad” you basically moan pushing your body against his.
“I love you so much you don't understand” Art said smiling against you cheek. sliding his free hand down the front of your shorts. He rubs his fingers through your folds collecting your wetness on his fingers. You throw your head back with a quiet moan, quickly biting your lip to silence yourself. “Fuck your so wet” Art groans before pulling his hand from your shorts, sucking his fingers clean like it was second nature. You clenched around nothing at the sight.
“I missed that taste” he groans returning his hand to your heat. “Can I make you cum right here” Art huffed out peeping down the hall.
"Yea,” you breathed out, nodding your head feverishly. He could have asked you to drive to the moon in that moment, and you would have said yes. Art slowly pushed two fingers inside of you creating a medium pace before bringing his thumb to rub your clit, you moan lifting your hips to meet his fingers. “Fuck I could eat you out right here” Art groaned watching you Practically fuck yourself on his fingers. “Promise me you won't ever let him see you like this” Art goans leaving kisses on your collar done. “this is mine”
”You can bearly hear a word he's saying the feeling of his thumb on your clit and finger damn near touching you cervix was too much to bear. “I’m gonna cum” you moaned out grabbing Arts shoulder hard in an effort to ground yourself. “I can feel it,” Art breathed pressing his forehead against yours. He presses down harder on your clit causing you to buck into his fingers, letting out a loud moan You cum. his movement don't falter, he continues to pump them in and out while still rubbing your clit until he feels like you've finally had enough.
he removes his fingers from your pussy returning them to his mouth. “I’ll never get tired of that” Art laughs leaning in for a kiss, you return it, taste yourself on his lips. He gently places you leg back on the floor and you stumbled slightly grading his shoulder for balance. He instantly goes to your waist holding you steady. “You ok?” Art ask slight consern on his face. You don't respond afraid of what your voice would sound like after an orgasm like that.
You nod with a smile and Art led you to the hotel room directly next to yours, pulling out a key card from his pocket with a grin.
“You didn't,” you exclaimed as he opened the door.
“I did,” he replied, motioning for you to enter.
“How did you even know our room number?” you ask, stepping inside.
“I have my ways,” he answered, closing the door behind you.
“How did you afford this?” you asked, looking around.
“Are you going to keep ask questioning or are you going to take of your clothes” Art laughs , watching as you sit on the bed.
“You first,” you countered, settling back .
“Yes ma’am,” Art chuckled, starting to undress.
~~~~
Morning arrives and you found yourself back in your original room. Mike was in the bathroom getting ready while you fix your dress in the mirror of the bedroom. As you adjust the straps, you notice a hickey you hadn't seen before, one you forgot to cover up after coming back last night. You laid your hair over it and walk towards the bathroom to retrieve your makeup bag, slightly tripping as your sore legs gave out on you. "You good?" Mike asked, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, I think I'm just sore from tennis practice," you say, reaching past him to get your makeup bag.
"You know no one expects you to play," Mike laughs while drying his hair with a towel. "I'm not doing it for anyone, I want to learn," your words come out more offended than you intended. "I just mean you could spend your time doing something else."
"Like what?" You respond plainly, walking out of the bathroom back to the mirror. "Like calling your dad and asking him what time he'll be here," Mike says from the now open bathroom. "Is your phone not working?" You asked rhetorically, pulling out your concealer . "I don't want to fight today, okay," Mike Replies sternly, looking at you through the reflection of the mirror. "This is a big match," he mumbles while running his toothbrush under the water.
"I thought you said it was going to be 'nothing,'" you chuckle dryly, applying the concealer as his face was turned. "It is, but from what your Dad's been saying, he's been getting good. So I'd like to be on my A-game and not have you trying to start shit."
"Whatever you want honey" you respond, quietly laughing in disbelief. He had resorted right back to his old ways,How could you ever agree to marry someone like him, someone so vastly different from the man you spent the night with.
~~~~
soon as you and Mike were finished getting ready, your father called you to come downstairs to join him for breakfast. You and Mike both stood in line, slightly overdressed, picking out your favorite breakfast items. Mike only getting French toast, disregarding his strict diet. Suddenly, you heard a familiar laughter and turned around to see Art chatting with your father near the entrance. Your heart sank as your father motioned for you both to come over. After dropping off your plates, you and Mike walked towards them, feeling Mike's hand slip around your waist.
"I'd like you to meet someone," your father announced with a smile, putting his arm around Art's shoulder. "This is Art Donaldson," he introduced, "the man I'm competing against today." Mike stated extending his hand for a handshake, and Art reciprocated. Your stomach churned at the sight. "This is Mike, you know him, he's also my daughter's fiancé." Your father says with a smile.
"Stressful, huh?" Art jokes. "Oh, you have no idea," your Dad replies, laughing. "You're both at the same college, right? Stanford?" your Dad asked, nodding towards you. “maybe you could try your luck at training her because I just can't get through," your dad jokes. Art's eyes rake over you, as if looking at you for the first time. "It be my pleasure" Art smiles, looking directly at you. You to discreetly warn him with your eyes but You notice Mike's grip on your waist tighten, clearly not pleased. "Actually, I've been training y/n already, she's improving every day," Mike says, planting a quick kiss on your head.
"Really?" Art inquires, trying to keep up the act to the best of his abilities. "Monday through Friday," Mike replies with a smug grin. “How do you manage with your Busy schedule?” Art asks tilting his head to the side slightly in the process.
“You find time for the people you love,” Mike says with a fake smile. You had to physically hold back your laugh. But you played it off as wiping your face. He had taken a line straight from media training. Silence filled the air as the two have a silent conversation with their eyes.
“Well I wanted to introduce all of you, as I will officially be coaching Art starting next fall,"
Your Dad says in an attempt to break the tension. But it only makes it worse, Somehow Mike's grip on you tightened even more, now you were concerned he’d leave a bruise . "When did you make this decision?" Mike asked, his face showing no emotion but you could tell he was angry. "two weeks ago, and I've been waiting for the right moment to properly introduce you two. I know the timing is awkward with the match, but it's better to do it now than later."
Mike doesn’t say anything giving an expressionless nod. There was another awkward pause before you decided to speak up. "It was nice meeting you…Art?" you trail off , purposely sounding unsure. He nodded with a knowing smile. "But our food is getting cold," you joked, trying to escape the suffocating tension. "I wouldn't want to keep the couple from their food," Art said, while a smiling again only looking directly at you. You wanted to scream, he was being so obvious and the way Mike was already acting, you knew you wouldn’t hear the end of it. "You two eat, I have to go handle some things, I won’t be long" your father said, gesturing for you and Mike to sit at the table before walking off with Art.
Once the two of you sit back at the table you feel caught. "I don't want you near that guy," Mike says, taking a sip of his coffee. You roll your eyes and stab at your scrambled eggs. “He was basically eye fucking you the whole time, and it doesn’t help that your dress is so tight”
“I think you forget sometimes this isn’t real,” you reply, taking a bite.
"Lower your voice," Mike warns, glancing around to see if anyone heard.
"You didn't care about it being real when you accepted the gifts," he scoffs, "or in Virginia."
"It was once, Mike. And every day, you make me regret it."
"Really?"
"Yes, really. You don't get to control me just because you buy me shit. Anyone can buy me shit."
“I told you i’m not doing this with you today” Mike laughs dryly standing up from the table. "I'll see you later, okay babe?" he says a bit louder, forcing a fake smile as he plants a kiss on your head before walking away. You try your best not to flinch when he touches you. Once he's gone, your phone buzzes, and you glance down to see an unsaved number. It's a text from Art.
“meet me at the restaurant next door in 20, alone.”
Author note : GUYS FEEL FREE TO COMMENT I LOVE READING COMMENTS
#black reader#art donaldson#art donaldson smut#challengers#challengers fanfic#art donaldson x reader#Art Donaldson x black reader#Art Donaldson x black female#art donaldson x female reader
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warmth | patrick zweig, art donaldson + black fem reader (pt. 1)
you guys really liked the snippet i posted so it's finally here! this will probably have a second part <3 (let me know if you'd like to be tagged for that!)
content: smut (oral f. receiving, fingering, handjob), childhood best friends trope, patrick and art are acting like high schoolers again, reader is rich bougie conniving hippie writer hybrid ...
reader, patrick and art are childhood best friends who conveniently were all in love with each other, or at least had enough sexual tension to make it feel that way. fast forward almost a decade later, and reader has made it onto the red carpet with her fantastic pen, and patrick and art have gone pro. when she invites them to her house for a star-studded friendsgiving, tensions rise and old doors open, springing forth new possibilities. this is only the beginning.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
warmth
“We should just turn around now, save ourselves the embarrassment.”
Patrick paid Art no mind, rolling down the window and leaning out of it, pressing the buzzer as you had dutifully instructed them in your email invite.
“Too late now. Already threw away about a gallon of gas just coming up the hill to this place,” he replied, the sense of ease in his voice only egging Art on even more.
“Exactly why we should leave. I mean, fuck. Does she have to live on a hill?”
“Residence of [last name], to whom am I speaking?” a male voice rings on the other end.
“Uh…” Patrick starts, Art reaching up over him,
“Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson?”
A silence filled the air. Patrick swatted at Art, forcing him back in his seat.
“Why’d you say it like a question, dumbass?”
Art stammered, already starting to get red in the face,
“I was --”
The gate swung open and both the boys let out a sigh of relief.
“Thank you!” Patrick chimed, smirking over at Art, who seemed to be sinking in his seat.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
Meanwhile, you were inside the mansion that you call home, flowing around the kitchen like there weren’t about fifty people milling about and mingling amongst one another. It smelled like something out of Hansel and Gretel -- from the fragrant brown roasted turkey sitting in the oven, to the gourmand scent of perfectly caramelized candied yams, to the vanilla musk perfume you dotted on your wrists. A black mini Schnauzer nipped excitedly at your feet as you added half a cherry tomato to the giant bowl of salad you’ve been prepping for the last twenty minutes. You look like a pro, like a party of this magnitude is no big deal to you.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
“Do we ring the doorbell? Or maybe… should we knock?” Art questioned, hands tied behind his back as he glanced up at Patrick for answers.
“It’s open,” Patrick retorted, but he too stood stupefied at the door like a weary traveler wavering in horrific awe before the mouth of some epic beast.
“On three?” Art suggested, and when he didn’t hear a response, he started to count, “one… two…”
Patrick stepped in before Art could get to three. Art scoffed, but followed behind him anyway.
The both of them stood there silently, taking the grandiosity of it all in — the sky high dome ceiling, two grand wooden staircases directly opposite one another, the shiny verdant porcelain flooring, the Basquiat painting hanging above the wide bookcase directly in front of them. Mouths open, they looked like they were ready to catch flies.
“Fuuuck me,” Patrick breathed out heavily. Art’s head was stuck staring up at the ceiling, so high he thought it’d never end.
“You made it.”
Both Art and Patrick seemed to stand straight at the sound of your voice, like soldiers at attention. You almost laughed, but instead, you stood there coolly, smiling at them both with your lips and your eyes— in them, a look that was almost knowing, wise beyond your years. It seemed like a lifetime before either of them would speak. They spent half of that lifetime practically gawking at you, drinking you in. And how could they not, when you were practically draped in that baby blue silk dress, the flowy bottom dancing above your ankles. You looked more beautiful than they remembered you, calmer, secure — of course, they hadn’t seen you since they were teenagers. Now there was this air of timelessness about you that was only just poking at the surface when you were in high school, now it surrounded you. Something mystic encompassed your entire spirit, dripping from your head to your feet. They’d spent years seeing you from behind a screen, being interviewed on live TV, attending red carpets for award shows, blending in with the Hollywood mecca — another beautiful twentysomething industry talent. But the glow of the television that seemed to give everyone a perfectly filtered sheen was nothing compared to your beauty here.
“It’s so good to see you,” Patrick broke the silence first, practically lurching forward with open arms to embrace you. His beard scratched against your cheek. You could smell the cologne that was beginning to wear off, mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke. His arms nearly sucked you in.
When he pulled away, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the way he smiled at you so fervently.
“Good to see you too, Patrick…” you glanced over at the mousy boy who didn’t seem to have changed much since high school. “C’mere, Artie.”
Art chuckled: a nervous huff of relief, inching forward into your open arms and nuzzling his chin into your shoulder, closing his arms around your midwaist. You could smell the aftershave that clung to his jaw, and the detergent still fresh on his clothes.
You pulled away, but took one of each of their hands, squeezing.
“My two boys. Man, how long has it been?”
“Oh, just a while—”
“Seven years,” Art interjected.
“Who’s counting, right?” Patrick grinned, making all of you laugh.
You looked at them almost expectantly, eyes wide like a doe, the slightest smile playing at your lips. They looked back with bated breaths. Always, you were in charge, always. It had been like this since the scabby-kneed days of childhood. If you wanted to play on the swings, they were there on either side of you. You were the queen of the sandbox. In middle school, they snuck extra cookies for you from the lunchroom, and they fought over who got to surprise you with the treat every day. Senior year of high school, in the hotel room in London, when you had them perched on either side of you like baby birds waiting for mother’s return— when you had both your hands on each of their thighs inching further and further up, their lips ghosting against your soft skin, had them panting like puppy dogs, only to leave the minute you heard “lights out.”
It had been seven years since then and still, it was the same. Only this time, you were stupidly rich, thanks to the soaring success of your two psychological thriller books turned TV series. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten about them, or didn’t care about them now that you were rich and famous. You’d gotten accepted to study creative writing at Brown, Art went to play at Stanford, and Patrick went on his path to go pro. It was just the process of growing up. You were delighted to see that they were only a click away thanks to the internet, just one click away from reintegrating into your life. Your childhood best friends.
“C’mon, lunch is almost ready.”
Friendsgiving. Who didn’t love the concept? It was a readily welcomed, wholesome idea — friends of all ages and backgrounds coming together to rehash their Thanksgiving with leftovers, stories from the year, and maybe a game of cards. Except your friendsgiving was attended by A-list actresses, Cannes festival attending screenwriters, and the odd Grammy nominated artist. And your friendsgiving was not at all an intimate affair — it may as well have been a club party. Most people were outside, dancing, shrieking with laughter, drinking, and skipping their way to their seats. Your backyard was vast and verdant green, with a pool in the center, the perimeter lined with lemon and peach trees, and miles to explore.
“This is fucking insane, is that Dakota Johnson?” Patrick scoffed. He and Patrick had been left to their own devices yet again, while you flitted around being the hostess with the mostest, easing and gliding about. A laugh here, a clink of glasses there, and a coolness to you that stood in striking comparison with the warmth that stirred deep down inside you. A warmth that could be served with a ladle into goblets, like some elixir with magical properties only you possessed.
“No, you idiot, that’s— oh shit. That might be Dakota Johnson.”
Clink clink clink.
“Everybody, hi, hi! Thank you for coming, please, sit down,” you called out, clinking your glass to get the attention of your guests. Patrick and Art scrambled to find seats, ending up at a table with people who might have been minor celebrities or art critiques or designers -- at least one of those options.
“I wanna thank you all so much for coming, this really means a lot to me. I know these sorts of things can be really hectic, but you guys make this house feel like a home. I’m glad that some of you will be staying with me for the next few days, there’s always room for more,” you glanced over at Art and Patrick. “Some of you are new friends, some of you I’ve known for far too long. But I think it’s incredibly fucking cool that we’re all here together now in this moment, just enjoying each other’s presence. I do this every year, and every year I meet even more amazing, talented, fascinating people and you all are so dear to my heart. And now, what we’re all waiting for… lunch is served!”
A cacophony of cheers rang out as staff rushed about to place plates in front of everyone. You stood giggling, basking in all of it.
The rest of the afternoon Patrick and Art spent attempting to blend in as best they could. They were pro tennis players, but this was another level of stardom that they couldn’t quite fathom yet. They watched you ruthlessly the entire night, unable to squash those rising feelings of attraction and yearning for you that had never quite simmered to begin with. You’d always been cooler than them, but watching you now there was a certain air to you that belonged to a grown woman, someone comfortable and confident and in their element. You were positively swimming in the sunlight the entire afternoon. It was like you had this sort of magnetic pull to all things good, rich, and warm. People wanted to be around you. And god, did this prove that.
By night time, people were finally starting to leave. The sun hung low in the darkening sky, making the fairy lights glow stronger now. The few people that were staying with you for the rest of Thanksgiving weekend had disappeared to their rooms. Besides the waitstaff still milling about, it was just you, Patrick, and Art. The two of them hadn’t meant to stay so long, really. It wasn’t like they were forcing themselves to stick around and be acknowledged by you in a way that felt meaningful. Sure, you’d had your small talk and cracked a few inside jokes, but as much as neither of them wanted to admit it, they needed more. If it was hard to get your attention before, it was nearly impossible now. They were surrounded by so many people who all wanted to network and talk and introduce themselves, they found themselves mingling with your friends, some of them people who they’d seen on screen in the past year, more than you. They’d been dragged onto the dance floor multiple times by multiple acquaintances, only to gawk at you swaying your hips rather than actually dance themselves. It became overwhelmingly clear, in the midst of their increasingly present desperation, that they should’ve accepted your offer to stay in this castle of a house for the weekend. Neither of them had packed a bag.
“This is awkward, we’re the only ones left,” Art sighed, still sitting at their table.
“Let’s just… wait, okay? She might come back out."
"And give us a little speech?"
"Yeah, asshole, maybe she will."
At that very moment, you appeared again, this time clad in a two piece linen pajama set. You didn’t miss the way both their eyes trailed up your legs as you stood in front of them, arms crossed, smiling expectantly.
“I was hoping you two would still be here,” you said. You glanced between the two of them, that awkward silence filling the air once again. “C’mon. Let’s talk.”
You turned and walked back inside, the two of them trailing behind you.
"Your house is fucking sick by the way. I mean holy shit," Art blurted once you got to the main entrance hall.
"Feel like I just walked into a page of Architectural Digest," Patrick added on.
You led them up the stairs. Both their eyes dropped to your ass, which poked out just a bit from under the pair of shorts you wore. Silently watching the way your body curved as you walked.
"Ha, thanks. I think I did pretty okay for myself," you replied.
You led them to the den on the second floor and sat criss cross apple sauce on the lush green couch. Art sat on your left, Patrick on your right. Patrick spread his legs and Art had one foot up on the couch, bouncing against his knee.
“Sorry we didn’t get to talk much. I was so busy being the host of the year that I didn’t pay enough attention to you two. My favorites.”
Art chuckled,
“Favorites? You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m serious! D’you know how much I missed you guys?”
Patrick scoffed playfully,
“All those TV interviews I watched of you? I wouldn’t even be thinking about us.”
You couldn’t help but grin, that warmth coming through once again. It nearly made the two men melt.
“Well I was. I always think about you guys.”
Now came Patrick’s voice again, a heaviness to it that almost made you jump,
“Do you think about anything specific?”
Although it had been nearly a decade since you’d last seen each other, you didn’t miss a single thing about either of them. Patrick didn’t mince words, and he never shied away from not just hinting at, but blaring his salacious intentions every time he spoke. You tilted your head towards him, a cool smile tugging at your lips.
“Just what good times we had.”
A silence, accented with a flood of nostalgia and a pointed reference to those “good times” permeated the air. You took a moment to gaze at the two of them ever so softly — enough for them to feel it, but not enough to make them squirm (though, they were easy to make squirm)— before you decimated the silence by slapping your hands down on either of their thighs and squeezing endearingly.
“So tell me, where’ve you two been? I’m not the only one on TV these days.”
“Ahh, you don’t wanna hear about boring tennis,” Art waved a hand of dismissal.
You chortled, a trademark of yours that Art and Patrick had always poked fun at in school,
“You’re right, I don’t.”
“You still laugh the same,” Patrick said, grinning like he was trying not to but was unable.
You chuckled, this time low in your throat, and turned your head to face him again. You and Patrick were similar in the sense that you were always pushing the boundaries, tiptoeing closer and closer to the line — but the three of you had never quite established where that was. At some point, you were all just too close to even think about “the line” or “boundaries” — all of you appeared clueless to societal expectations of friendship, spurting a sort of cultlike relationship where everyone else was an outsider.
“Do I?” smiling at him like you were warning him not to tease.
“Yeah, that little snort you do,” Patrick replied, unshaken.
“You do do a little snort,” Art chimed in, always chirping like he spoke from a less nefarious place.
“And if I get started on you guys’ little tennis grunts?” you grinned fully now, showing teeth, looking between the two of them and leaning back a bit.
They followed, leaning back against the couch and keeping their heads in line with yours so you were never too far away from them, each of them turning their heads to look at you.
“No way you actually watch us,” Art replied.
“I do!” you insisted. “Seriously, if you’d asked anybody here you would know.”
“Sure, let me just strike up conversation with George Clooney,” Art shot back.
“Ha-ha,” you bleated sarcastically. “I don’t even know him… but I have walked past him once on the carpet.”
“Look at you,” Patrick smirked. “Little Miss Superstar.”
He punctuated his sentence with a hand on your knee. Your eyes flickered over to him and you caught the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat when he swallowed, felt the way he gazed up at you. You didn’t miss the desire twinkling in his eyes.
Then Art, always second but not necessarily last,
“She’s our little superstar, you know that, right?”
His hand just gently grazing your shoulder.
You let them revel in the moment for as long as you felt appropriate, then huffed.
“You know you guys can stay for the weekend, right? I mean, you should.”
“Oh… no, we wouldn’t wanna impose,” Patrick said, his hand slinking away from your knee.
Another chortle from you,
“You wouldn’t be. This is a five-bedroom house. It’s fine. Besides, don’t you guys wanna actually catch up? I’ll let you torture me with tennis talk.”
Art started to stammer,
“I-I mean… we didn’t bring anything.”
“Just our idiot selves,” Patrick added.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get Charles to get you guys all set up.”
“Charles?”
“Oh, he’s my assistant,” you said nonchalantly as if it were nothing. “You’re not fighting me on this. I want to spend some quality time with my boys. Don’t make me have to beg for it.”
“We could never make you beg for anything,” Art replied, just a little too quickly.
“I know, Art, that’s why I love you,” you grinned over at him. “So, are we all in agreement? Stay with me. Just this weekend.”
“Yes,” they both replied a little too quickly this time.
You bit your lip, suppressing a smile.
“You know… I really, really missed you guys. And those good times we had.”
You let the memory of that night of almosts in London resurge, let their minds run amuck with whatever teenage fantasy was still left over from that night. A moment so brief it could almost be forgotten, could even be flagged as incidental, accidental. Still, the three of you knew, even as grown adults (especially as grown adults), that it would always stick and remain unresolved, unless someone ran to the rescue with some sort of solution. Once again they held their breaths. You stood up, glanced between the two of them like you were sizing them up, and then smiled as if nothing had happened at all — you let them breath.
“Your bedroom’s the second on the right when you leave here. Charles will help you get set up— I’ll see you guys in the morning for breakfast.”
And just like that, you were gone. The air in the room seemed to clear. Your presence was like a thousand tons of pressure weighing on their bodies and their minds. Finally, they could breathe.
They glanced at each other with the same longing, almost nervous expression — they were just two pubescent boys all over again.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
“I think we should just go for it.”
Patrick lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling with his hand on his stomach, speaking aloud as if into the clouds. Art, who had been gazing into the distance, sitting up against the wall on his side of the room, shook his head at Patrick’s words.
“What are you talking about Patrick?”
The two of them sat in the room that you had put together. They had showered and dressed in the pajamas that were waiting for them, just as you said they would be. The house was practically silent, it was the dead of night. Though you’d left hours ago, that same heaviness in the air seemed to remain in their chests.
“You know… I mean, she invited us here for a reason, don’t you think?”
Art glared over at Patrick, his brows furrowed and his mouth twisted in a frown,
“Don’t be a creep. We’re her friends.”
“Who want to fuck her, and she knows it. Pretty sure she wants to, too.”
“That was high school, Pat. Get over yourself.”
“Like you weren’t getting your dick wet just from looking at her. C’mon.”
Art throws a pillow at Patrick. It lands square at his feet.
“Don’t be disgusting.”
“I’m just saying, she’s not innocent. She knows what she’s doing. She’s just as perverted as the both of us.”
“Yeah? So what are you gonna do about it?”
“Fucking — I don’t know, something. We should just both go over there and knock on her door.”
Art couldn’t help but sigh heavily — Patrick was always creating some elaborate plot or scheme, but rarely did he ever actually go through with something unless Art was onboard.
“Patrick, she’s not trying to have a threesome with us. I’m not interested in your porn addict fantasies. Plus it’s the middle of the night, she’s probably asleep. Think she’s gonna wanna sleep with two idiots who fucked up her nighttime routine?”
“So then why are you still here?” Patrick retorted.
“What? What do you mean?” Art tried to sound normal, but his defenses were up, and they both knew exactly why.
Patrick turned so he was on his side, facing Art, making sure his words hit just right.
“You know what I mean. You could’ve just gone home. Could’ve told her that we’ll catch her some other time. But look at you, sitting here, feigning innocence. She’ll think we’re cowards, you know. Seven years later and we still can’t come out and say what is that we want.”
Art swallowed, staring blankly into the distance like Patrick’s words didn’t sting his side. He was right. He almost always was, even if his wording wasn’t the most politically correct or precise. It was just how they were — one too careful, the other one so not. Most of the time, they came together to balance each other out: like fire and ice. But sometimes, like this time, they just threw each other out of whack – an oil spill in a pristine lake.
“I want a friendship. If you want a fuck, go and tell her that. Goodnight, Patrick,” Art spat, rolling onto his side and turning his light off.
Patrick sighed heavily like a petulant little boy who’d just been denied a cookie. Maybe in college or high school, Art would have been all ears, and they would have risen from their beds like triumphant kings, and gone on the hunt for their king. But maybe he was right — that was high school. They were too old now, and it was embarrassing. At least if Art had agreed, even if he didn’t fully believe in Patrick, they would’ve gone in together. And so, swallowing his disappointment, Patrick stared up at the ceiling, ruminated for just a bit, and then turned off his light, forcing his eyes shut so he’d fall asleep faster.
1:10 AM.
That was the time on the clock when Art opened his eyes next. He woke with a start, like there was something he was meaning to do. Then immediately, he was a bit disoriented. This room was far too big. It wasn’t his. He remembered where he was, and just what he had to do. He rose like an automaton and found his feet swinging to the floor. He threw on the Calvin Klein shorts and shirt your assistant had given him (his pair was white, Patrick’s was black), and slid easily into his slippers.
Only once he stood did he really catch his breath, and seemingly also his determination. It was like he knew what he was doing, and he was completely okay with it. He even peered over just slightly, to see if Patrick was still asleep. And by the slow rise and fall of his body on his side, he could tell that he was. He was stuck in this dream state between idiocy and confidence, making for mindless determination as he sauntered out of the room and down the hall. He had intent, his head was screwed on straight. He knew where your room was, and he practically marched down the end of the hall.
As soon as he reached your door, he realized what he was doing, truly realized. He stood there stock still, like a rabbit that had just gotten caught eating a carrot from someone’s garden. He was suddenly confronted by the fact that he was completely alone; your room was at the very end of the hall and completely cut off from the other rooms. Now the heartbeat in his chest was loud and clear, and the slight shifting sound of the fabric of his shorts rubbing against his inner thigh sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Nervous tics settled in, and he felt a rattle go down his spine at the recognition of what he was doing— the sheer arrogance, the assumption he was making. He thought of Patrick, and the betrayal this would be, considering he had just shut him down so profusely earlier. He thought of the fact that it was so easy for him to be so double-sided, to just get up and attempt it on his own, even making sure that Patrick couldn’t possibly be involved. How easy it was for him to be so unfair. He thought of himself, standing there with suddenly sweaty palms and a dry throat. Like a high school boy with blue balls.
What are you doing?
He thought to himself. He almost turned around, but he heard humming from the other side of the door. No doubt your voice, and no doubt you were very much awake. He could hear music, albeit muffled. He swallowed, closing his eyes like he was bracing for impact, and sighed. If he could remember the words to recite Hail Mary, he would have. Eyes still closed, he knocked. He heard the slight pause on the other side and imagined you perking up slightly and looking around the room to make sure you weren’t just hearing things. Despite his embarrassment, the knock was firm. It was clear it was someone else on the other side of the door. And so, a few seconds later, you swung the door open.
“Art,” you said, a hint of both surprise and relief in your voice.
“YN,” he replied, saying your name like it was a period to a sentence.
You were clad in a cream-colored silk slip with a lace trim. A dainty gold necklace adorned your neck, flush against your collarbone. You’d changed again since the last time he saw you, and this outfit did not make it any easier for him to tear his eyes off of you, starting from the necklace, to your breasts, to your legs. The slip was short and nearly see through, revealing your thighs which looked so soft and plush. The pucker of your nipples sheened underneath the thin fabric. The way it clung to your body was almost maddening. You looked fresh as a daisy — like you’d spent hours in the bath, rubbing countless creams and gels against your skin. Art felt suddenly embarrassed like he had interrupted your girl time with his boyish, base desires. You pulled him out of it though, with a slight smile and kind eyes looking up at him.
“You doing okay?” you asked almost playfully, still grinning slightly.
“Yeah, I just uh… wanted to… talk to you,” Art said, not even making eye contact with you and instead very obviously peering inside of your room. You looked over your shoulder like you were trying to see what Art was looking at, then looked back at him. Finally, he was making eye contact with you. He felt like you were scrutinizing him, searching for something to validate this interaction, to validate him. Your warm smile didn’t look all that different from a smirk anymore.
“Well. I am the host. Who’d I be if I didn’t indulge a late night chat?”
You stepped aside, pushing the door wide open with your back. You nodded at him like a coach, beckoning him,
“Come in.”
And so he stepped inside, and you closed the door behind you. Your room was how he’d expected it to be — reflective of your personality as long as he’d known you, but a hint more sophisticated. Everything rested on a plush chenille carpet. Your mattress, adorned with plush, deep red and green linens, sat on a large wooden bedframe, above which posters of your favorite bands and writers hung — Audre Lorde, Led Zeppelin, James Baldwin, Khruangbin. Across from your bed, there was an almost bulky yet fitting antique dresser. On top of it sat a 1935 Remington typewriter. In the corner, a leather armchair sitting beneath a scallop shade floor lamp, accented by a magnificent bookshelf behind it that was positively full. A desk, scattered with papers and pens and a pair of glasses, yet still tidy. And a vanity, where Art imagined you’d been just a moment before he came in. And dim, yet comforting lighting.
“Wow,” Art couldn’t help himself — he truly was an admirer of the details, the little things. And clearly, so were you. It had gotten you this far. He sauntered over to the typewriter on your desk, fiddling with the keys just a bit and tapping the top. You giggled at his nerdy lopsided smile. “This is sick.”
You smiled, placing two hands on your hips, beaming like a proud parent,
“She doesn’t work, but she’s beautiful. That’s honestly my most prized possession.”
Art grinned, truly touched. He turned to face you straight on, feet away from where you stood at the bed.
“I’m so proud of you, you know.”
The veritas in his voice rendered you bashful for just a moment, looking down and huffing an almost dismissive laugh,
“C’mon, Art, don’t go all soft on me now.”
Art rose to his own defense,
“I’m serious, YN! Look what you’ve done for yourself… I mean, I couldn’t expect any less, though.”
You waved your hand with a cheeky eye roll, and he started walking towards you, his footsteps causing the floor beneath to creak slightly. It was almost suspenseful, but you weren’t intimidated or in danger, just deeply intrigued and honestly, excited. You watched him, positively ensnared, as he closed the distance between the two of you.
He took two of your hands in his own like he was putting his life into your hands. That charming smile of his reared its head, accompanied by his blue-brown eyes, sparkling and wet and smiling too,
“We both are, you know. Proud of you.”
You smiled, genuinely at first. Then, it flickered. By the way he faltered momentarily, losing grip of the power trip that he dove into headfirst, you could tell he noticed. Your genuine smile turned slightly smug.
“Both of you? Why is Patrick not here, then, telling me how proud he is?”
Art did his best to keep smiling smoothly, cocking his head to the side slightly as if to say what can you do?
“He’s asleep.”
“Right… it is like, one AM. I’m surprised you’re even up, or that you assumed I would be," you kept on prodding.
“Hmm,” he smirked. He shrugged all too casually, so much so that it was cocky. “Guess I’m not that tired.”
“Mmm,” you hummed, nodding sympathetically.
The both of you relished in this little game you were playing, a game of so few words but oh so much meaning. You held his gaze for just a moment longer, watching as his flickered from your eyes to your lips and back up. Then you sat down wordlessly onto your bed, never tearing your eyes away from his. You patted the spot next to you, and he followed, taking a deep breath that never seemed to exhale. You were sealing his fate in this one moment.
“I spend a lot of my time holed up in here. That’s why I make it as peaceful as I possibly can. Beautiful too, but not too beautiful. Otherwise, I’d just be distracted and a bit disgusted,” you chuckled at the end.
“Beautiful. Right,” Art replied, his gaze burning a hole into you.
A beat.
“So what’d you wanna talk about, Art?”
He knew he couldn’t be imagining the dulcet innocence in your voice that suggested anything but innocence all the same, nor the flicker of desire in your inquiring, wide eyes. All of it, combined with the slight pout on your lips, seemed to come together to create a face that was almost begging. His entire body softened. His eyes went heavy with the confession that was his utter, depraved need to have you. He slowly pulled his bottom lip into his mouth with his tongue and blinked slowly, seemingly unaware of the fact that he was leaning in more and more with every passing millisecond. You stayed put where you were, wanting him to chase you through and through. You kept that poker face, like you didn’t feel your heart racing too. As his face inched closer to yours, his hands started to roam as well, and you stifled a whimpery breath at the touch of those hands against your bare skin. For some reason, you’d always thought he’d have such baby-soft hands, but they were rough and calloused from the weight of the tennis racket that was forever stationed between them. It only made the touch that much better, made you realize how long you’d been waiting for this, his rough hands seeping into your skin like a scar of age.
“I don’t wanna talk,” he finally said, his voice lilted with need, and his lips nearly flush against yours.
Finally, he closed the gap between your lips. The kiss was slow and languid, but not for lack of passion. Years of distance would do that, would amplify the mutual pining. You thought, in this interaction that you knew would happen with one or the two of them, that you might be more calm and collected, still wearing that disguise of cool nonchalance, but you were on fire. Your hands were quick to wander as well, up to his face, gripping his jaw, one traveling up to his hair and finding itself tucked beneath the tufts of slight curls. And then his hands were traveling up from your knees to your thighs, to your waist, practically glued to the expensive fabric. The room was silent bar for the sound of the two of you panting like crazed virgins, and the wet sounds of your kissing.
You needed to gain control back, and quickly. So you pulled away, putting on your best smirk. Deep down, you felt like Art knew it was an act, like he was looking right through you. But at the same time, you knew he was far too ecstatic and anticipatory to call it out or really even notice it in full. And besides, you didn’t care. It was you who held all the glory, both back then and especially now.
“You two place a bet or something? That was quick.”
Art was still breathing heavily, gazing at you like you were the solution to all his problems. His hands were still roaming widely, like your body was an expanse of wild land, his hands gripping your shoulders and caressing your arms up and down. The confidence boost in him was visible and almost amusing.
“No bets… but Patrick was saying…”
“What was he saying, hmm?” you placed a hand on his chest and caressed the warmth there. “Why’d you come here, Art? Thought you should close the gap, huh? Answer the age-old question? Wanting to prove yourself?”
You slipped your hand between his legs, grasping the meat of his inner thigh and glaring into his eyes. You felt how he stilled, how his confidence stuttered. Both because he’d been called out, and because if he wasn’t hard before, he was raging now.
“No…” you squeezed his thigh, your hand ghosting over the erection that sat directly above it, forcing the truth out of him with your touch. He shuddered. “Maybe. Yeah, fuck. Yes. I-I wanted to prove myself.”
“Yeah?” you murmured, slinking towards him like a black cat. You placed one leg over his lap, straddling him. Positioning yourself so your clothed cunt was directly over his erection, which dared to rip through both his boxers and his shorts. You rolled your hips over his cock gently, just once. “This helping you prove yourself?”
You pushed him back, back, back, until his head rested firm on the pillow and you were directly above him, the shape of your entire body clear to him as you straddled him on your bed. He couldn’t speak, only stare up at you in awe, his heavy breaths loud and desperate. You only stayed like this on top of him for a minute before you shimmied down until you were at face level with his crotch. You let your hands explore the expanse of his chest and stomach over his white t-shirt, and then took the bottom of it in your mouth, pulling it up with your teeth in a motion so effortless and tigress-like that Art nearly came on the spot.
“Hmm?” you probed him to answer the question with a demanding hum, the soft fabric of his t-shirt still in between your teeth, gazing up at him from beneath wispy lashes. You let go once he was decently exposed, his tight stomach rising and falling frantically.
“Fuck, yes,” he rattled, his hips bucking up involuntarily.
You pushed his hips back down immediately and like a reflex, he started to apologize,
“Sorry, I’m sorry.”
You ignored him and instead, you practically ripped the shorts off of him and started to palm him through his boxers, admiring the way his cock twitched and jumped beneath the small of your hand. You were attentive, watching as precum started to leak from his tip onto his boxers. You tsked.
“We’ll have to get someone to wash those.”
He squirmed and swallowed a wild grunt in his throat. His head was fully thrown back like he was in the most immense pleasure of his life, and you hadn’t even really started yet. You ground the part of your hand just above your wrist over his erection before peeling his boxers off. You watched as his cock sprung up in the air, thick and red and leaking. A tuft of strawberry blonde hair sat at his mound, but he was still put together. You sat up just a bit so you could place your hand on his cheek lovingly.
“Look at me, Artie.”
Your voice was so enchanting and soft that he almost forgot you were fucking his entire mind up, and he opened his eyes and looked down at you with the shaft of his cock enclosed in your hand.
“Fuck,” he huffed, resisting the urge to throw his head back again.
You maintained eye contact with him as you circled your finger over his wet, pleading tip, spreading the leaking precum around the head of his dick. He glanced away from you and looked at what you were doing, causing his eyes to roll back in his head. It was taking everything in him not to give in completely, and not to cum.
“No- no - I… I wanna make you feel good first. Please.”
Something in Art’s voice nearly made your heart drop — the wholehearted desperation and earnestness in it. It also made your pussy throb around nothing. The whole night Patrick and Art had been desperate, but now it was like you were finally seeing the extent of it. It was somehow endearing, a reminder of the love between all three of you. Art had always been a giver, and he sought out praise any place he could get it. It came as no surprise to you that he was the same now, but still, it made you indescribably horny.
You hardly realized you hadn’t responded. That wasn’t supposed to be part of your act, but Art was still pleading all the same,
“Can I? Can I just… taste you or — f-feel you, I-”
You kept your wrist moving in slow and controlled motions up and down his shaft, studying his face as you did: the way his eyes fluttered open and closed with a pleasured squeeze, his mouth perpetually open in gratification.
“It’s so fun watching you fall apart, though,” you replied, but you found yourself working your way up anyway, sneaking your legs up his body like a snake, one on either side of him.
He grasped onto your hips immediately, groaning at just the sight of you. The moonlight shone through the windows and brightened up the darkness of your room, illuminating your features and painting you under something like a spotlight.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, looking at you with hooded eyes. You steadied yourself, your hand reaching out to grab the bedframe and one of his hands gripped the fleshy underside of your thigh to help you. The more you inched up, the more he could see up the slip, catching a glimpse of your cotton panties, cream-colored with a tiny black bow in the middle. The print of your cunt through them was like an outline, a map to promised land. He sucked in a breath, almost like he was in pain. Your necklace dangled just inches away from your neck, like it was teasing him too.
“Wanna taste me?” you asked teasingly, lifting your hips above his face and hovering there, forcing him to tilt his head back and look up directly at your cunt, still hidden beneath your panties. You rolled your hips, letting your clit brush against the tip of his nose. He was enamored by the scent, had to physically stop himself from taking a deep sniff. “Hmm?”
“Yes, please, fuck,” he groaned, slightly arching his back up off the mattress just to get closer to you. “Please.”
He pressed a closed-mouth kiss to your clothed cunt, his eyes closed. It was such a gentle, delicate touch that you almost wouldn’t have believed how desperate he was if it weren’t for the longwinded moan that involuntarily escaped his lips when he made contact with your core. You bit down on your lip, breathing out from your nose, and started to grind your hips against his face. He kept kissing at your cunt over and over until it was almost indiscernible what was fabric and what was flesh— your panties had gotten so wet from his mouth and your slick. The wet trace made the friction unbearable, and your pussy throbbed through the fabric onto his face.
Through a mouthful, Art mewled,
“You taste so good. Please let me eat this pussy.”
This time, his lips peppered kisses around your inner thighs, soft but quick touches, taking in your musk. You decided to stop torturing him, that enough was enough. You lifted yourself up just a bit, and pushed up your slip. You were about to reach your hand down when you stopped and cocked your head with a smirk.
“Go on, then,” you said. Softly, like it was a suggestion more than it was a command. And Art took it in perfect stride.
He practically ripped your underwear off, pushing them to the side with a brute swipe of his hand that contrasted wildly with the gentle kisses he had given you before. Literally pushing your panties to the side. He looked for a second, eyes glazed over at the sight in front of him, taking in the sight of your dripping pussy. It looked so warm and wet and inviting, if he weren’t a better man he would’ve had to force himself not to bury his dick inside of you. When he felt he’d gotten a good look of it, savored the moment just enough, he wrapped his arms around your waist, smashing your cunt against his face. His mouth connected with your folds and you felt him sucking vehemently, before slipping his tongue in between your slit, pressing the tip of it against you. You cried out as he collected all the slick from your weeping center, keeping a hand on your stomach to stabilize himself, the other against your asscheek, squeezing every now and then.
“Oh,” you moaned, immediately starting to grind your pussy against his tongue, your clit once again nudging his nose each time you moved up. Art kept up, positioning the tip of his tongue just right so you rode it each time you wound up, applying just the right amount of pressure. “Yes, Art, just like that.”
“Mm-hm,” he hummed, the vibrations causing you to clench over his face and around the tip of his tongue. Then he flattened his tongue so he could capture the entire surface of your cunt. This time the grip on your ass grew stronger, and soon enough both his hands were squeezing your ass, supplementing your movements. You kept the time you wanted, Art just assisted you in rolling up. You honestly needed it, the way your thighs were starting to shake.
Art hummed satisfactorily again, enclosing his lips around your clit and suctioning, keeping his tongue out just enough so you could feel both sensations. You nearly squealed, your hand flinging down to push your panties out the way even more. Your back arched in pleasure, creating a whole new angle for Art to lick at and please. His fingers pressed deep into the flesh of your ass, like he was leaving some imprint. Now it was you writhing and moaning, but Art never forgot who was in control. That is, until he took firm grasp of your hips and used that to flip you over so that you were on your back. It was like he never lost contact with your pussy, diving right back down before you could even register what had happened. He yanked your panties all the way down and threw them over his shoulder.
“Take your shirt off, baby,” you panted.
He obliged, throwing his shirt off too, and then leaning back in so he could get to work. His arms wrapped around the inside part of your thighs, spreading you apart for him. Before you even felt his mouth, you moaned at the sight of his back and shoulder muscles flexing as he worked. He placed sloppy kisses against your inner thighs and kissed closer and closer to your mound until finally, he was wrapping his lips around your clit once again, using what he could of his tongue to lap up your juices at the same time. You were nearly trembling in pleasure, your hand flying to the back of his head to keep him secure where he belonged. He moaned in response, and you squeezed tufts of his strawberry-blond hair.
“That’s it, I want you to feel good. Make yourself feel good for me,” he murmured, his nose buried in your cunt, eyes closed in satisfaction and concentration. You glanced down to see that he was grinding his hips ever so subtly into the bed — getting off by getting you off, and you threw your head back.
“Mhmm. So good, Art, you’re so good.”
This seemed to set him off into a frenzy as he placed open-mouth kisses against your pussy, kissing it like it was a mouth. His tongue lapped you up and sucked you in, making precise, timed movements with the close of his lips around your clitoris. He used his hands to gently push your legs back so they were angled slightly in the air, the new angle causing you to whine. He angled his neck ever so slightly so he was licking the lips, a slender finger prodding at your wet, tight entrance.
“This okay?” he asked, just dipping the pad of his finger in and opening his eyes to look up at you, as if you weren’t lost in your own world of pleasure, eyes shut tight. You opened them momentarily, looking down at what he was doing, the sight of his face engulfed in your pussy and his finger slipping up and down your slit now. You could only manage a moan along with a strangled nod, and he obliged, sliding a slender finger inside of you. Your pussy stretched and then collapsed around his finger, suctioning in like a glove, and now he used his tongue and lips to go from your lips to your clit, all spit and drool and your arousal as he worked his finger inside of you.
“Fuck,” a strangled grunt left your throat, your pussy tightening around his finger, which made him moan in response. “Art, fuck. I’m getting close.”
“Yeah?” he replied, muffled as it was. He slipped another finger inside of you with ease, wishing he could watch as he felt your pussy sucking him in greedily. Now the slow thrusts of his fingers became more forceful, pushing deep inside of your walls. You nearly screamed at the addition of his finger and the way he curled them inside each time they came to a stop inside of you.
“Y-yes, fuck, just like that, Art, don’t stop.”
He moaned something incomprehensible, or maybe it was a groan mixed with a sigh, as he continued the expert deft movement of his fingers inside of you and mouth against you, bringing you to rock your hips against his face. You were muttering to yourself now: “so close”, “gonna come” until his fingers finally hit that sacred spot, his lips closed just right around your clit, spit drooling from his mouth, and you fell apart. That devastating feeling peaked in your stomach as Art brought you to your high and you gushed around his fingers and into his mouth. Your moans were girlish and deliciously sweet, momentarily wiping away that facade you’d been playing so good at all night.
“Fuck, I’m coming!” it was like you were announcing it to yourself, squeezing your legs around his head and practically clamping down on his hair with your hand as you released. He helped you ride out that high, not stopping, but slowing his fingers and easing his lips against your pussy to keep you grounded.
When you’d finally caught your breath, Art pulled back, his chin and cheeks absolutely soaked.
“You taste so fucking good, YN,” he said it like it was a fact of life, as simple as “the sky is blue,” trying to ignore the fact that his load was prone to explode any second now.
“C’mere, I wanna taste,” you implored. Shakily, he pulled himself up and above you, letting you cradle him in your arms, one around his back and the other cupping the nape of his neck, as you captured him in an open-mouthed, sloppy, slow kiss. You could feel his cock sticking out of his boxers and poking your leg and in one swift movement you slipped your hand between the two of you and pulled him out, your hand wrapping around him. He couldn’t help but take notice of how your hand fit him perfectly, like a glove.
His hips started to stutter, quite literally, he nearly fell on top of you, gasping desperately.
“Fuck,” he drawled slowly, lips still brushed against yours, pinching his eyes closed. “T-this is s-so—”
He spoke between full-body twitches and spasms of his cock. You pouted slightly, running your fingers through his hair,
“Use your words, Artie. Whatsa matter?”
He chuckled, hanging his head low and shaking it slowly,
“It’s just I’m so — fuck,” his words morphed into a whine when you used your finger to circle around his tip, which was positively leaking with precum. “I… I’m so sensitive right now. I’ve been trying not to come for like thirty minutes.”
You both laughed, genuinely amused.
“You wanna come?” you entreated, gazing at him with a look that almost resembled concern.
His smile dropped as his face morphed into that of desperation, that of need, and he nodded earnestly,
“Yes, please. Please make me come, YN. Make me come h-however you want me to.”
“Yeah?” you implored, the palm of your hand closing over his tip to gather slick and then spreading it all down his shaft. “Want you to look at me while you come. Can you do that for me?”
Art felt pressure building in his chest as his breaths grew more and more erratic and he forced himself to look you in the eyes, responding with an affirmative albeit strangled whimper that was supposed to resemble the word “yes.” You rewarded him by stroking him faster now, your hand a tight grip around his shaft, the sound of his wet skin and your open hand slapping against his balls overwhelmingly lewd. His eyes fluttered closed for just a minute, and his head cocked to the right, his mouth opening while no sound came out. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his hips started to buck up into your hand, supplementing your strokes.
“F-fuck, YN, that’s– fucking incredible, Jesus Christ. Please, I’m gonna–” he stammered, looking up at you like he was pleading with you. You simply returned his gaze and smiled, that warm, all-knowing smile of yours, and he fell apart. His entire body, hot to the touch, seemed to shake uncontrollably as he burst, thick ropes of cum spilling out of him and splashing onto your hands and your thighs.
“Fuck!” he whined almost pathetically, his hips faltering to an unsteady stop as he released.
You kept your hand there, slowing to languid, gentle strokes as he rode out his high until you were sure he’d emptied the last of his cum in the crease between your thigh and hip. He tried his best not to collapse on top of you, but you knew he was weak.
“It’s okay,” you reassured him, and he fell on top of you with a limp thud, groaning as he buried his face in your chest.
The two of you lay there catching your breaths, sweaty and hot to the touch. When Art finally got up, he laid next to you on his side. His face was red, and not just because of the exertion.
“Fuck. I’m so sorry, I-I don’t know what came over me, probably crushed you,” he laughed apologetically.
You replied by using two fingers to gather what you could of his cum, smiling writhely as you licked them clean. He watched intently, absolutely enraptured. You did it again, reaching down to your thigh and gathering up his cum. This time, your fingers prodded at his lips. He nearly rattled with arousal. Easily, he obliged, opening ever so slightly, and wrapping his lips around your fingers, sucking the taste of himself clean off. You smiled at him admiringly. He couldn't help but laugh around your fingers,
"Fuck, that's so hot. I'm so sorry."
“Don’t apologize. You did so well.”
Suddenly, Art sat up.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”
You giggled, your eyes twinkling as you looked up at him, amused by this sudden display of responsibility.
“Do I seem that fragile?” you teased.
“Oh, on the contrary. I just, I don’t know. Aftercare is important.”
So you spend the next half hour being doted on by Art as he soaped down your body in the tub. It’s the most intimate you had been the entire night, and he realized now that this was the most detailed he’d seen your body. He wanted you like this forever, being carefully pampered under his adoration, gazed upon by his eyes only. For a moment, you worried that this was somehow crossing a line, but you swallowed those thoughts just as quickly as they surfaced. The line had already been crossed when you reached out to them. Sure, you wanted to see how your two favorite white boys were doing, and you were excited to rekindle the friendship that had molded your life for so long.
But like Art walking to your door, you knew what it was that you wanted, and you knew that you were opening up a can of worms. Besides, you really did love Art, and you loved Patrick too. It was the sort of platonic love that could only be understood by people who had been friends as long as the three of you had. The kind of love that was still there for the taking years later. It didn’t need constant stoking to keep the flame. So, neither of you made this routine— this gentle touch in the water, loofah running across your back and Art’s fingers digging into your shoulders to loosen you up — a big deal.
By the time the water drained, you were absolutely zonked. You didn’t realize how late it was and just how much energy the whole ordeal had taken out of you. Your orgasm was so strong you were surpised you didn’t fall asleep then and there. Art used a towel to dry you off and had to practically carry you to your bed. He was lucky you didn’t see the shit eating, self-satisfied grin on his face — he liked being a caregiver, and throughout all the years that you had been friends, it was rare that you ever let him take care of you like this.
You threw the sheets over yourself, lashes batting as you looked over at Art, who was kneeling on the floor next to you, at face level with you. He was smiling so wholesomely that you couldn’t help but reach your hand out and stroke his face, your thumb resting on his sharp jaw.
“You’re good to me, Art. You both are. I really did miss you two. I keep saying it but I want you to know it’s true. Didn’t just invite you guys here to live out some old fantasy.”
“I missed you so much,” Art could melt from the touch of your hand on his cheek. He tilted his head slightly to kiss your fingers gently, cupping your hand over his. “I know you, YN. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
You yawned,
“I’ve been a rotten friend, though. Don’t know what took me so long to invite you guys to one of these. I thought about it every year, but decided against it every ime.”
Art waved his hand, shaking his head in dismissal of your comments,
“You’re a perfect friend. We’re the rotten ones.”
“See? You’re just the sweetest,” you grinned, your eyes sparkling. “I’d let you sleep with me, but—”
“Patrick,” he concluded.
“Don’t want him to be mad you didn’t tuck him in,” you giggled.
In the back of Art’s mind, he wondered if it would’ve gone the same way if Patrick had been the one to knock on your door. He knew it would, but it was nice to pretend that it was something he had to think about. He wondered what you would’ve done if they’d both shown up. Almost laughed to himself at how little self-control he had, while you were like a rock.
“He’s asleep anyway, but I should be there in the morning so things aren’t weird… things won’t be weird, will they?”
You shook your head, though some part of you knew that Patrick would even out the scorecard soon enough. He always did, competitor that he was. He was so hard to resist, and it’s not like you were resisting him very much in the first place — you’d invited the both of them, it was just a quirk that Art had been the one to do it first. You’d half expected Patrick to show up by himself, if it wasn’t the two of them. But one thing about Art was that he wasn’t some stick in the mud — he could be a wild card, and if he was anything like that ball of energy he was back in high school, you knew he could get shit done.
“It could never be weird. It’s us,” you replied with certainty.
Art leaned in, pressing his lips against yours in a soft kiss.
“Go back to bed, Artie. I’ll see you at breakfast,” you grinned.
“Goodnight,” he crooned.
“Goodnight,” you replied.
He stood up and walked out the room, though part of him was longing to stay there for just a bit longer, if not the whole night. But he knew this was just a one-time thing, just a way to let out that pent-up tension. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t already thinking about showing up to your door tonight, and the next night, spending each warm summer night here buried inside of you, pulling his name from your mouth in pleasured sobs, making you come undone with his fingers once again. But, dutiful as he was, he walked back to their room, careful not to make a sound as he pulled off his shirt and stepped back into bed— staring up at the ceiling while he replayed moments over again in his mind. Like high school all over again.
#challengers#challengers smut#challengers fanfic#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson smut#art donaldson#art donaldson x black reader#patrick zweig x black reader#x black reader#x reader#patrick zweig smut#art donaldson x patrick zweig#art donaldson x black! reader#patrixk zweig x black! reader
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18+, nsfw, minors dni
art donaldson.
cw. fem!reader, smut, fingering, fully dressed art + fully undressed reader, pleasure dom art (?), fingers in mouth, reader and art are married, slight overstim if you squint
names used (?): sweet girl
currently thinking about being seated in art donaldson’s lap. the rough denim of his light wash jeans rough against your bare skin as you replay the moments that led up to your current position. your skin a bit dampened with sweat as your heart pounds against your chest. it’s so fast, you’re sure your husband can feel the thumping force with how your back is pressed against his clothed chest.
his face is pressed almost cheek to cheek with your own, and art occasionally tips forward to land a kiss on your shoulder. his left arm slung forward to wrap around your waist, two warm fingers toying with your sticky cunt. the results of rubbing calculated and entrancing circles over the stiff little nub below the pads of his fingertips are quite evident.
the golden wedding band on his ring finger would periodically bump into your clit; sending your hips jolting due to how cool it felt compared to your body. art would probably let out some light-teasing laughter if it weren’t for the way your hips would attempt to rock in unison with his movements, resulting in you grinding against his stiffened length. wetting his jeans with your slick in the process.
if you’re quiet enough and able to hold in your own noises, you can hear a whine or whimper of “fuck…fuck…” fall from his lips, barely audible just next to your ear.
his free hand grabs sternly at your waist as he almost pouts, mumbling a few words in the process.
“slow down, sweet girl…before i make a mess of myself. ‘think you’re tryin’ to embarrass me,” he lets out a short, airy chuckle. the longer section of his red-toned locks brushing against your cheek as he dips down to kiss your shoulder again. then placing one on your neck as his fingers never parted from your drooling pussy.
“n’thing to be embarrassed ‘bout…like making you feel good too, art,” you fumble out your words in reassurance.
“makes me feel really good, when i’m able to make you feel good. open up f’r me…” art coaxes as he moves his right hand from holding your waist. holding his ring and middle finger out for you to tuck the digits between your pretty lips. his fingers pressed down on your tongue a bit, suppressing your moans into a stream of humming sounds.
but the movements of him pushing your legs open a bit more as he widened his own below you don’t go unnoticed. his toned thighs flexing beneath the material of his jeans. slowly his two fingers that played at your clit push into you until the palm of his hand meets the swollen bud. his ring definitely getting covered in a pretty sheen of your slick. causing you to let out a flustered sound around his fingers, hands gripping at his flexing arm as you feel his muscles tense and relax as he pumps his fingers into your warm and welcoming cunt.
your sounds alone making him euphoric, his own desire thrown out just to hear you enjoy yourself. his head spinning as he coos in your ear.
“that’s it, ‘jus need to make you feel good…”
#𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯' 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵:#art donaldson#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x black!reader#fem!reader#smut#art donaldson smut
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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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𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄, 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 | challengers masterlist
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pairings: t. duncan x a. donaldson x p. zweig x black!oc
━ if tashi duncan’s name is on something, dawn henley’s was right behind it. it has been that way throughout their friendship and within the tennis courts. tashi was always the star of the show, while dawn was the understudy. but what happens when the star’s brightness quickly dims while the understudy takes over the show? what happens when two love-stricken tennis players, art donaldson and patrick zweig, swivel themselves into the mix? a decades-long pattern of passion, love, heartbreak, revenge, and tennis gets created.
warnings: SPOILERS FOR THE MOVIE CHALLENGERS (2024), hints of smut, angst, cussing, manipulation, infidelity (emotional and physical), (more will be added later)
a/n: this is my very first fic on tumblr. i am not a tumblr savvy person, so tips and tricks are very much needed if you guys have any. this is also the first fic i’ve written in while, so i might be a bit rusty. constructive criticism is also needed (be nice pls). anyways, i hope you guys enjoy this series lolz <3
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━━ dawn henley aesthetic
→ prologue/chap. one sneak peek
000. prologue
↳ COMING SOON
i. super rich kids
↳ COMING SOON
ii. don’t save him
↳ COMING SOON
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#challengers#challengers movie#black!reader#black!oc#art donaldson x reader#tashi duncan x reader#patrick zweig x reader#challengers x reader#challengers fanfic#black fanfiction#black fanfic writer#challengers fanfiction#art x tashi x patrick x reader
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The Winner Takes It All||Challengers
AN: So, I finally I got to see Challengers yesterday and boy do I have thoughts that may or may not be weaved into the story, things still might be ooc or wrong. Also, I'm warning y'all now, I know absolutely nothing about tennis/college and partook in half ass research on how the sport functions.
Based this fic off the most gut wrenching ABBA song because it fits so well with the story. I hope you all enjoy this mini series, don't know if I did it justice from translating this from my head onto Tumblr, but we move. And hopefully there aren't any spelling or grammar errors, but if there are, we die like men.
A playlist for this series is coming soon!
Word Count: 3.5k
Trigger Warnings: mentions of colorism and racism
Taglist: @seriousaliysa @hopless-y @malscorner @miximora @urfavesim @mmmunson @jackierose902109 @youngestxhearts @blkdivinefeminine @kailkailz @lottiematthewsceo @lonnie2390147 @begoniaespresso @everydayimagineer @pnkstalli @softimgyu @amethystwonders11 @hazbinh0e @ysuftmikey
I tried to tag everyone who commented, but tumblr is being weird so I don't know if you'll get the notification.
Part One: Sugar & Spice
With her arms folded across her chest, Gianna's eyes were glued to the TV screen in front of her as two male sports analysts began to discuss their pick for match of the day.
"Oh man, this right here was my favorite today!" one analyst stated excitedly.
"For sure! It was the match to watch as the tennis world bore witness to the next up-and-coming tennis star," the other commentator agreed.
The camera cut away from the men and to the highlights of the mixed doubles championship match.
"Out the gate Gianna Langdon, ranked number five in girls singles, set the the tone for the day with a powerful ace to start the match,"
A clip of the opening minute of the match is put on the screen with Gianna throwing the ball high in the air for the first, and perfectly executed serve, followed by her pumping her fist in triumph with a grin.
"From there, she and her partner, Max Sullivan, kept their opponents, Roy Christians and Marie Riviera on the back foot for what seemed like the entire match,"
Gianna studied the way she nimbly moved around on the grass court, her swift volleys, sharp serves, and effortless backhands left no room for doubt that she was a force to be reckoned with.
"Play of the match goes to none other than Gianna Langdon, with this volley to put the nail in the coffin of this championship," the analyst reported, as the final moments of the match popped up on the screen.
With a powerful strike, the tennis ball was slammed back over the net by Roy onto Gianna's side of the court. Roy's hit lifted the ball high into the air forcing Gianna to reposition herself and backpedal to the spot to return it. Leaping up, Gianna smashed the ball down with force, out of reach from both Marie and Roy, the game winning hit. The clip replayed, but only this time in slow motion, so viewers at home could properly admire the athleticism on display. ESPN then did a jump cut of Gianna and Max both dropping their rackets simultaneously before rushing towards each other to embrace. Max even lifted up her a bit, twirling them around as they celebrated their victory.
The camera panned back to the two commentators who were wrapping up their coverage of the tournament.
"Honestly, Gianna Langdon just dominates the tennis field for her age group whether it's single or doubles," the commentator complimented, gathering his papers up in his hands and tapping it against the desk.
Gianna's lips lifted at the praise, its rare she gets her flowers as a tennis player.
"She's a force to be reckoned with, no doubt about that. If she keeps playing like she is now, she can easily break into the top three, but she's no Tashi Duncan," the other commentator corrected.
At this, her smile instantly fell off her face. Since freshman year of high school, Gianna has forever lived under the inescapable shadow of the phenomenal, powerhouse that is Tashi Duncan. Because Tashi wasn't just some athlete, she was the athlete. The next Serena Williams, as some people taken to calling her. Gianna might as well been chopped liver.
The girls have been thick as thieves since Gianna moved to the same school as Tashi and was paired up by their coach to be doubles partners. The duo were unstoppable on the court, as Gianna was a tennis prodigy in her own right, but often was relegated to just being known as Tashi Duncan's partner. A repeated slight which didn't go unnoticed by her two strongest supporters, her parents. They made it their mission to drill Gianna with an unshakable sense of self confidence in not only her skills with a tennis racket, but also her appearance.
"Don't you ever let the media or naysayers play in your face about your talents, Gianna," her father's words echoing in her head. "You already know, you have to work twice as hard to get half the recognition compared to others," he went on.
Gianna recalled the exact day, he gave her this speech. She was probably fifteen and won a match against some Eastern European girl, it was an upset, and boy did everyone make it a point to tell her so. It ranged from backhanded compliments to outright slurs lobbed at her.
"Oh, so when Tashi pulverizes her opponent on the court who's ranked higher than her it's admirable, but when I do it's a problem!" she complained.
"Competing against Tashi, you need to be prepared that narratives are going to be formed and pushed from factors beyond your control," her father warned. "She's lighter, you're darker. She's thin, you have curves. You're both confident, but only one of you is going to be labeled as arrogant," he listed.
"It's a shame we didn't get to see Duncan and Langdon compete together in girls doubles this year," the analyst said, snapping Gianna out her thoughts.
"Agreed, the best girl duo in juniors we've seen in years,"
Images of Gianna and Tashi materialized on the screen, some were from the last two Junior US Open Championships; both of the, proudly beaming and holding their trophies high above their heads and kissing each other's cheek. But, the one picture that stood out the most to Gianna was their cover on Tennis. Both of them had their arms folded and their game faces on with the headline emblazoned below them.
“Sugar & Spice”
~~~x~~~
Rounding the corner of the hallway, the doors where Tashi's party was being held outside came into Gianna's view. Music and the low murmur of voices floated out of the room, bouncing off the walls as she drew closer. From the corner of Gianna's eyes, she caught her reflection in the hallway mirror promoting her to stop. A pair of eyes, identical to color of rich, molasses stared back at her. Carefully, Gianna studied herself in the mirror from every angle. The healthy glow of her golden, deep brown skin made the light dusting of freckles decorating her upper cheeks and nose more prominent.
"She's no Tashi Duncan,"
It only took those four, little words to dampen Gianna's cheery demeanor and leave her brooding since the afternoon.
Lips pursed, she shook her head slightly, "No, no, no," she whispered to herself. "You're still a champion, Gianna. Fuck that ESPN analyst," she said lowly, smoothing out the pale yellow halter dress she wore.
Letting a lopsided grin grow on her lips, Gianna moved away from the mirror and entered into the ballroom where the party was in full swing. She weaved her way through the crowd to find Tashi, but found herself stopping repeatedly to smile and shake hands as people crowded round her to congratulate her on her match. Gianna couldn't help but feel smug. For once, people were basking in her presence and enjoying the chance to meet a future tennis star in person. It boosted Gianna's ego—a pure, bone-deep satisfaction that something in the air was beginning to shift.
She was starting to be seen as a standout player, not just an extension to Tashi.
Thanking her last well wisher, Gianna's eyes met Tashi's who was a few feet from where she stood. A flicker of recognition flittered across her face and she smiled a tiny smile. Tashi was not alone though, two boys were standing in front her and seemed to be having a very lively conversation.
"What's this I see?" Gianna wondered aloud, brushing past one of the boys. "I'm gone for a minute and you're already making new friends without me," she joked, dropping into the empty chair next to Tashi.
Across from her, both boys were slack jawed and unable to tear their eyes away Gianna. Pride simmered in her chest, Gianna already knew that she was beautiful, but it was nice to be reminded of that fact every now and then. Especially, when there's two boys ogling at her looks and treating her like a divine being.
"You boys gonna stop staring and introduce yourselves, or what?" Gianna questioned, her words flavored with a lulling Louisiana drawl and the boys snapped from their stupor.
"Let me, these two seem to be malfunctioning," Tashi cut in, with a smirk.
"They keep on drooling any longer, they'll catch flies," Gianna quipped, her nude colored lips curling upwards.
Tashi motioned to the dark haired boy with sharp features, "This is Patrick Zweig," she introduced, as Gianna's eyes met Patrick's gray ones, holding her stare and grinning widely. Confidence that bordered on cockiness practically radiated off him. "And this is Art Donaldson," Tashi continued, gesturing to the boy next to Patrick.
Art only allowed himself a small, shy, smile when her eyes shifted over to him. Unabashedly, Gianna let her eyes roam over Art's features. Those blond curls, those blue eyes.
God, they're both gorgeous.
Tashi placed her hand on Gianna's knee, "Patrick and Art, this is my best friend—" she started.
"Gianna Langdon," Patrick and Art interjected simultaneously, causing a Cheshire grin to form on Gianna's lips.
"Well, well, my fan club only continues to grow this tournament," Gianna joked, playing with the curly ends of her pick and drop braids.
"Deservedly so, you were absolutely amazing this tournament," Art complimented, a breathy chuckle leaving him.
"That play when you landed a split after playing a return," Patrick mentioned, beaming at her. "And you still got the point, fucking incredible!" he praised, shaking his head.
She smiled, "Oh, so you two have been avidly watching my matches then?" Gianna questioned, playfulness in her voice while slightly leaning forward in her seat.
"Ashamedly, not initially," Art admitted, and Gianna quirked brow. "But after your storybook comeback in Round 4, we knew there was no way we couldn’t stop watching you," he added quickly.
"Singles or doubles," Patrick chimed in.
"Did you by chance watch any of our matches, Gianna?" Art asked timidly, staring at her with hopeful eyes.
She smirked, "Singles or doubles?" Gianna asked back, smoothly echoing Patrick's words.
"Either," Patrick responded, his eyes drinking her in.
They both seemed mesmerized. Leaning in closer, as if they were going to learn her with their close proximity. Gianna hummed thoughtfully, leaning back in her chair and raising a finger to her chin to mull over the question. She glanced over to Tashi, who was already watching her with an amused expression. Embarrassingly, Gianna kind of forgot her best friend was literally sitting next to her, she had become too engrossed in her conversation with the newcomers.
"No, can't say that I have," Gianna answered finally, with a shrug.
Art deflated, his face falling as the tips of his ears went fiery red, while Patrick's shoulders sagged a little.
"O-Oh," Art breathed.
There was a silence. Gianna looked off to her side again to see a ghost of a grin threatening to appear on Tashi's face. When the two girls' eyes connected with each other, they burst out laughing at the same time. Both boys looked at each other wordlessly, both speechless by this.
"Gia's just fucking with you two," Tashi explained, in between laughter.
Relief couldn't have been written across their faces more clearly.
"Yeah, I actually watched your championship match while I was in the recovery room," Gianna informed, her giggles subsiding. "Your between the legs shot was very inspired, Patrick," she remarked, with a smile.
At this, Patrick puffed out his chest a bit.
"You know, they're playing against each other tomorrow in the boys singles championship match," Tashi mentioned, her eyes bouncing between the boys.
"Are they now?" Gianna responded, an intrigued smirk gracing her face while crossing one leg over the other.
"We are!" Art blurted out, almost too eagerly.
"You both should come and watch," Patrick suggested.
Gianna cocked her head to the side, "Hmm, maybe," she answered, having a little fun toying with them.
Tashi rose from her chair, reaching her hand out for Gianna's.
"Come on, my dad is waving me over to come take pictures," Tashi informed.
"This is a group activity?" Gianna questioned, her brows furrowing.
"No, but the demand for Gianna Langdon is ever growing," she reminded, her eyes filled with mirth.
"It sure is," Gianna agreed, taking her hand as her friend helped her to her feet. Gianna looked over to Patrick and Art. "Well, ciao. It was nice meeting y'all," Gianna said, waving goodbye as Tashi led her away.
"Goodbye?" Patrick jokingly scoffed. "We'll be here all night!" he called out after her.
~~~x~~~
True to their word, Patrick and Art were in the same spot where Gianna and Tashi had left them earlier and they were more than willing to continue hanging out with the girls. Which is how the group of four found themselves on the beach, slowly treading along the sand, the dark blue sky and millions of stars above them. Naturally, Tashi had found herself in the middle of the group with Patrick flanking on her left and Art on her right.
Gianna was next to Art and as they walked, their arms would accidentally brush against each other every now and then. Both of them exchanging shy smiles at the fleeting contact that sent butterflies fluttering in Gianna's stomach. She secretly relished the contact from Art, he radiated warmth similar to that of a dryer-warm blanket; a nice contrast to the cool sand between her toes.
"You know earlier, Tashi asked us who was fire and who was ice," Patrick spoke, looking over to Gianna. "I figured I should return the favor, between the two of you, who's sugar and who's spice?" he asked, his eyes bouncing from Tashi to her.
"Tashi, is definitely 'spice'," Gianna answered, and Tashi rolled her eyes with a smile. "She's more fiery than me and has a more aggressive play style than I do," she explained.
"Making you 'sugar', of course," Art reasoned, the two staring at one another. "You are the perfect mix of deadly grace and effortless balance on the court," he described, going in an almost dreamlike trance.
"Why, thank you Art," Gianna said, bumping her arm into his.
"If Tashi is 'spice' and your 'sugar', why does the media switch it around?" Patrick wondered.
"Preconceived notions, methinks," Gianna replied, simply shrugging her shoulders.
They wandered along until they settled on a spot to hang out at. Art and Patrick both sat in deck chairs while Tashi and Gianna perched themselves on a large rock. Conversation flowed between all them on a myriad of topics ranging from college, life in general, and of course tennis.
"So Gianna," Patrick began, a small curious and mischievous glint in his eyes. "Your doubles partner Bryce—"
"It's Max," Gianna corrected flatly, with a laugh.
He smirked, "I was in the ballpark," Patrick argued, throwing his hands up. "Anyways, you and Max, you two a thing?" he asked curiously, before taking a drag of his cigarette.
"Eww, no!" Tashi exclaimed, her nose twisting in disgust. "You think Gia has such low standards?" she asked back, clearly offended on Gianna's behalf.
"Tashi, come on, Max is not that bad of a person," Gianna stated, lifting her hand up to tell her to calm down.
"Honestly, I don't know how she does it," Tashi went on. "It's a miracle she can still walk after carrying Max through this entire tournament," she sneered.
"Look, Max is not someone who I would consider as an ideal mixed doubles partner," Gianna conceded, her gaze meeting everyone's. "He's mediocre actually," she said bluntly, making Patrick and Art both snicker. "However, Max as an individual and not as an athlete, he's a wonderful guy," she said, with a slight shrug. "Us dating has never once crossed my mind," she finished, waving her hand dismissively.
"So it sounds like you'll be in need of a new partner soon," Patrick hinted, a hunger in his stare.
"Hmm, I guess I will," Gianna agreed, letting a coy smile grow on her lips. "You know anybody?" she asked, tilting her head a little.
"I can think of two people off the top of my head," Art responded, taking a drag of his own cigarette and blowing it out slowly.
"Oh, is that so? And who just—" Gianna started.
Suddenly, Gianna's phone began noisily vibrating in her lap, putting an end to the playful between the boys and Gianna. She picked up her phone and flipped it open before exhaling heavily, it was her dad texting her.
"Shit, fun's over guys," Gianna announced, with another sigh. "My dad wants me back in my room," she explained, unfolding her legs.
"Your won a championship today, and you're father won't let you stay up late to celebrate?" Patrick asked in disbelief, leaning forward in his chair.
"Obviously, you don't know my father if you think a single championship win is going to get him to loosen his reins on his regimented schedule for me," Gianna stated, grabbing her sandals and letting them dangle from her fingers.
"You're about to be off to Stanford, it's insane your dad is giving you a curfew," Art chimed in.
"Well, I'm not at Stanford yet," Gianna pointed out. "And also..." she trailed off, turning to Tashi who had a knowing look on her face. "His roof, his rules," they both said in unison, after hearing those words countlessly over the years.
Finally standing up from the rock, the boys followed suit. Both of their gazes traveled the length of Gianna yet again, as if they needed to commit her to memory.
"I can walk you back to the ferry and to your hotel," Art offered kindly.
"We both could," Patrick volunteered.
"As much as I am flattered that both of you want to walk me back, I can manage just fine," Gianna assured. "Plus, we're all going to be playing an unwanted game of 21 questions if my dad sees two, random white boys walking me to my room," she remarked, with a chuckle.
Tashi pushed herself up onto her feet, "I'll come with you, Gia,"
"No, no stay, Tashi," Gianna encouraged. "Don't end the fun on my account," she insisted. "Another time will come about for all of us to hang out again, right?" she questioned.
A toothy grin broke out on Patrick's face, "There's gonna be another time?" he asked
"I don't see why not," she answered, mirroring his expression. "The three of us are going to be at Stanford together, and I'm sure you come visit from time to time. It all works out so well!" Gianna said excitedly.
Art opened his mouth to speak, but the shrill ringing of Gianna's phone silenced him. Looking down at the phone, she grimaced slightly.
"Shit, I really have to go, my dad is calling now," Gianna stressed.
"Then get going," Tashi prompted, playfully swatting her bottom.
A surprised whoop escaped Gianna's lips before morphing into a giggle as she began to half-walk, half-jog away from the group. She spun around to face them, continuing to walk backwards.
"This was really fun y'all, we should do this again, yeah?" she yelled.
"I look forward to it!" Art yelled back.
"Me too!" Patrick shouted.
Laughing, Gianna spun around and jogged away, all too aware of the three pair of eyes boring into her back.
~~~x~~~
Propped up against the hotel bed headboard, Gianna was tucked underneath the blankets with a well-worn copy of Baking with Julia in her hands. If tennis was her first love, then baking was her second. There was nothing more relaxing than to Gianna than being able to slow down and just allowing herself to focus on precision, without any of the heightened stakes that came with tennis. Not to mention, beating eggs or whisking a cake were great ways to rid herself of any frustration she may be feeling.
A series of rhythmic knocks on her door pulled Gianna from her musings. She didn't even have to ask who it was, she could tell by the pattern of the familiar knock.
"Just use the card I gave you, Tashi," Gianna called, her voice just loud enough for her to hear.
There's a quiet click of the door unlocking before the door opened a crack and Tashi's head popped into her room, a shit eating grin on her face.
"Hurry up and get in here, before my dad sees!" Gianna ordered, with a laugh.
Closing the door behind her, Tashi pranced over to Gianna and sat beside her on the floor on the edge of her bed.
"Tell me everything! What happened after I left?" Gianna asked, a smile of her own on her face.
"They invited me to come up to their room,"
"And you went?"
"I did," Tashi answered, a smirk on her lips.
Gianna landed a playful hit on Tashi's arm, "No fucking way!" she whispered, her eyes wide. "You hooked up with both of them?"
"I didn't sleep with them," Tashi corrected. "We only made out, and then they made out," she added, smirking proudly.
Gianna raised an eyebrow, "They made out? Patrick and Art?" she questioned.
"Yep," Tashi grinned.
"On their own or did they have some help?" Gianna asked, arching a brow.
Wordlessly, Tashi plucked Gianna's book from her hands and she straddled her, resting each leg on either side of Gianna.
"They did most of the heavy lifting, I just gave them the push they needed," Tashi explained, looping her arms around her friend's neck.
"Now, I'm a little jealous. I missed out on all the fun," Gianna complained, sticking out her lower lip in a mock pout.
"Gia babe, don't worry, I did not forget about you," Tashi reassured, as Gianna hands came to rest on Tashi's thighs. "Remember their match tomorrow?" she reminded.
"Yeah,"
"Winner gets my number…." Tashi trailed off, removing her right arm from around Gianna's neck. "And yours," she finished, lightly tapping the tip of her nose.
A slow smile spread across Gianna's lips as Tashi's words sunk in. She knew exactly what her friend was up to, especially if it meant Tashi could watch some "real fuckin' tennis".
"Tashi Duncan, the girl that you are," Gianna praised, letting out a chuckle.
Leaning forward, Gianna planted a soft kiss on Tashi's lips. It was only meant to be a quick peck, but as Gianna went to pull away, Tashi held her face, keeping their lips connected.
Tashi withdrew herself from Gianna, "Tomorrow is gonna be so fucking good," she grinned, her eyes twinkling at the thought. "And guess what is the best part about all of this, Gia?" she questioned, their forehead resting against each others.
"What?'
"We already have them wrapped our fingers, without even trying," Tashi answered, sending the girls into a fit of giggles.
#black!reader#art donaldson x reader#patrick zweig x reader#challengers x reader#black fanfiction#tashi duncan x reader#black!oc#challengers#tashi duncan#art donaldson#patrick zweig
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FEELINGS — art donaldson.
art never took losing well.
it always left him with pent up anger and frustration that he often took out on the poor rackets after each game, not stopping until the racket was a splintered, wiry mess.
but that all changed when he met you.
you were knowledgeable about tennis without having played a single game, giving pointers when needed. whilst many dismissed your tips due to their sheer arrogance and over confidence, art heard you out and eventually incorporated your tips into his games.
tennis to art was akin to a reflex, his style embodying the meticulousness and the grace of an ice skater or a swan. his tennis was enthralling to watch as he exuded a powerful gracefulness with every serve and every shot.
that’s probably why he took the losses so personally because in a sense by losing his matches he was letting you down, no matter how many times you reassured him that it was nothing of the sort.
“are you mad at me?” he opened his eyes, his gaze already meeting yours as you gently stroked his hair.
this was the art only you got to see.
doubtful, weak, soft—a world away from the stoic, focused man that was affectionately known by the media and everyone on the court as the lovechild of roger federer and novak djokovic or the future of tennis.
“no.” you replied and you meant it. you saw how the immense pressure of being great got to him, it corroded away at his innards, leaving him an empty vessel solely primed for tennis.
it was times like this that he was grateful for you. your humanity. your love. your heart.
it’s what kept him from dropping everything and deciding to live out the rest of his years off his winnings and sponsorships. the idea was always there but the fast paced nature of the tennis world never allowed it to be pondered for a single second.
maybe it was always supposed to be that way.
a mere thought.
he placed a chaste kiss on the back of your hand, rubbing it softly. “thank you.” he said, the words carrying more weight than he had expected. your gentle touches soothing him.
“for what?” you asked and in that moment art’s mind went blank. it wasn’t that you didn’t do a lot for him—you did.
but it was so hard to encompass all of that into a sentence. you deserved more than these half thought out declarations of love.
art was a man of few words and he was going to honour that. he took a shaky deep breath before looking at you with a small smile on his face.
“for everything.”
#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x you#art x you#art x reader#challengers#challengers x reader#challengers x you#art donaldson#art donaldson x black!reader#art donaldson fic#just wanted to get my writing brain back in action#vina writes: misc#challengers brainrot is killing the youth (me!)#wanted to dip my toes into the challengers sand.
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In was inspired buy the pronebone ask so heres another sex position: cradle
Art on hes knees and holding your hips while you ride him.
I cant.
jesus. jeeeeeeezus help me. 🥵🥵🥵
i am a firm believer that art just needs to touch you. all the time. and yes, he loves you riding him (let's face it, he loves you, period) and he loves the sight of you bouncing on his dick, squeezing your own tits, rubbing your own clit like a big girl... but the need to touch you supersedes the voyeuristic pleasure he's indulging in right now (it's hardly voyeuristic when he's balls deep inside you). so he sits up and holds you close by the hips, mouthing at your neck, your shoulder, your chest, grazing his teeth at your nipple. getting a little whimper from your mouth and a little squeeze from your wet cunt like whew.
#i blacked out. what happened??#art donaldson#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson smut#mike faist#ask ava#ava writes
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❝ 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ❞
- art donaldson.
-🎾-
summary. marie vanessa williams is to be described as stanford’s tennis supernova. from her undying passion for tennis to her bottomless pockets, nothing could ever stray her from dreaming of being the greatest to ever do it. not even her closest friend and competitor, tashi duncan. keeping to herself romantically whilst being a flirt, her greatness was being watched by a special pair.
pairing: art donaldson x black fem!oc; tashi duncan x black fem!oc; patrick zwieg x black fem!oc
warnings: cussing, outfit descriptions, smut (18+ MDNI); brand names; alcohol consumption; mean! marie at times; slight hints of poly!; mentions of cigarettes.
dividers by @cafekitsune
-🎾-
chapters:
I. I AINT NEVER REP A SET, BABY
☆ - nothing like a good practice game then ending off the day with a boy hot on her trail.
II. “YOU SEE THE TICK.”
☆ - coming soon.
III. TENNIS SZN, BITCH!
☆ - coming soon.
#☆ saint’s tennis court#challengers x black!reader#challengers x reader#x black fem reader#x black reader#art donaldson x reader#tashi duncan x reader#patrick zweig x reader
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Fill the Empty Space
*NSFW*
Warning: Soft dominant Art, Thigh humping, Fingering
Summary: Art confesses to you and you're conflicted and intrigued to take the risk with your long-time friend.
I still haven't watched the movie but the edits are making me fall for him I'm going to wait till it comes out in HD so I can see the beauty of this man.
You look at him, "What?" our eyes meet as you feel slightly nervous looking at the blonde. He shakes his head as his curls bounce against his forehead. "Nothing." The tone he used was soft and a slight whisper as you chuckled. "Then why are you looking at me like that?" You try to match his calm demeanor as your emotions rise.
Art shrugs. "You're just beautiful, the most beautiful person I have ever met."
The confession instantly makes your face hot, you don't know what to say so you just look away chuckling. The boy tilts his head in confusion, "What? I'm serious." He says in clarification. All you can do is nod as your shyness comes into play."Why are you being shy? You've known me for how long?" He asks with a smile.
Knowing him for years isn't playing a part in my shyness, I'm comfortable with him, and I always have been. It's the fact that we're stepping into a new territory, that's what's making me nervous. Art, the blonde tennis player who can go to nationals with Tashi and Patrick Zweig. His intelligence and the way his mind works is magnificent, he's going to Stanford for god sake but seeing him in this light... it never happened before.
Art can see how your thoughts are moving in different directions, "Hey." He says softly as you look at him. "It's ok, don't stress yourself you don't have to think too hard about what I said. I know we never did this before but don't sweat it and don't take it seriously. You can forget I even said anything." He comforts.
It's now or nothing, I can either do what he says and forget about it, or I can encourage this and go further. But how far is this going to go? I don't know we'll just have to take the risk.
You sigh, "What if I don't want to forget what you said?" You ask not looking at him. "Then you don't have to." He says softly before he scoots over to you. "I wasn't lying you know, I really do think you're beautiful, from the first day I met you." Art makes another confession making you look at him. His eyes soften as you look at you, the expression on his face makes you melt. Art leans in as he kisses you making you shocked. Once you realize what was happening you leaned into the kiss.
After a moment his kisses go to your jaw and then your neck as you start to feel the yearning for him. Your body arches into his touch as he pulls you close to him. The soft kisses on your skin feel so good as you want more. His scent is intoxicating as it feels like he's everywhere making you overwhelmed but you don't care. You start to push yourself against him as he laughs, "Does someone want something?" He mumbles against your neck before he hears a yes coming from you.
"Come here."
The man pulls you onto his leg as your eyes make contact with his. Both of your bodies meet when he presses up against you. "Ok? You comfortable?" The check-in makes you look at him in awe even though that is the bare minimum but, it's Art. You try to figure out how you got in this situation but you aren't complaining. "I'm ok." The comfortability that you feel makes Art feel great because it's the fact that he can get you to be comfortable, with him.
His soft hands grip your hips then give it a squeeze. The atmosphere starts to feel stuffy when he slots his leg in between yours. A soft smirk forms on his face as he can sense your nervousness. Worry comes across his face before he gives you a kiss on your nose to ease your nerves.
"Do you know what's about to happen?"
The instant feeling of heat between your legs starts to form. All you can do is nod in response but he doesn't approve. "Use your words. I want to hear you say it." A lump is felt in your throat. "Yes, I know." You mumble before you receive a kiss from him. His hands grip your hips softly, "Let me help you hm?" He asks before you nod.
Getting confirmation he starts to rock you against his thigh. The stimulation causes a reaction out of you as he guides you. A gasp is let out every now and then feeling his thigh against your clothed core. The thickness of his thigh feels so good as you start to yearn for his touch. Your movements are controlled by his hands, his tough soft big hands that guide you through the whole thing.
The moans coming from your mouth are like music to his ears. Art can't help but to kiss you from the adrenaline. You pant in his ear as you can feel yourself getting wet, the need for him increasing and you want him all over you in any way shape, or form. The jeans are starting to get in the way of what you need as you grind harder to seek it. The hands on your waist tighten as he sees the desperation in your movements.
"God, if you keep this up you might break my leg." He chuckles as you inhale. "Sorry, I just can't.." you try to express as he looks up at you. "Hm?" he says with all focus on you. Biting your lip trying to gain the confidence to speak up, Art notices this tiling his head. "What do you need hm? Tell me and I'll do it." He says this as he still rocks your slightly soaked core against him.
"I'll do it." He repeats as his voice drops slightly.
"More..." That's all you can say nibbling on your lip before Art understands exactly what you need. Slowly stopping his movements not wanting to startle you he loops his fingers in your belt loops waiting for your confirmation. Grabbing his hand and putting it on the button on your pants surprises him slightly from your assertive move.
"Are you positive?" His thumb taps on your button as he slightly teases you. A small huff is released from your mouth but you understand. The comfort and security you feel with this man is crazy.
God I want need him so badly. It's like I want to give him my all and more, maybe he deserves it, maybe he doesn't but we won't know unless we... take that leap.
"I'm sure."
The sentence that started it all, is spoken into existence and won't be taken back.
Art undoes your pants letting you stand up, from that he slides them down your legs as you step out of them. You hear a chuckle coming from him. A nervous shiver travels down your spine as you look down at him. He smiles softly as he nods towards the wet spot that is on your panties instantly making you look away. He grabs your hand pulling you back to him.
"Wanted more huh?" His hand spreads your legs while you feel his bulge against your butt. "Show me where you need me." This instantly makes you chuckle nervously, "Do I have to?" He smiles nodding, "Yes, you have to because how am I supposed to take care of you and I don't know what you need?" He grabs your hand before he waits for you until you are comfortable enough to take the chance.
His lips meet your hand as he kisses it then your wrist. Feeling the courage you guide his hand in between your legs placing his fingers on your covered clit. "Here?" Art asks to which you nod. He brushes his thumb across it as you ache for more. Your hand grips his shoulder as you whine. "Shhh." the tennis player whispers in your ear as you bite your lip. His thumb makes slightly faster circles on your clit.
"Yeah? You like that pretty girl?"
My lip starts to get raw from me nibbling on it so much. Nodding answering his question you can't keep still in his lap. "Yeah, I bet you did." The circular motion through your panties is so exhilarating. From his thumb to his palm he rubs it slightly harder as you gasp for air. Your ears start to ring slightly as you keep holding on to him.
"Look at that, you're getting wetter by the minute." He says with a chuckle. You look away in embarrassment not wanting to face him anymore. His lips meet your forehead in a soft touch followed by a whisper, "Don't hide from me, it's ok." He reassures as he presses down more on your clit.
Your body squirms against him as he holds you into place. "Stop moving sweetheart, let me help you." The man rubs you more as whimpers fall from your lips. "Feel good, don't it? Your little clit is so sensitive and needy." You push your hips against his hand more trying to get what you crave, but you just can't reach it. The struggle starts to get real as move around more trying to search for what you need. Art studies you as he can see the frustration in your face and body language.
"What's wrong huh? What is it?"
How the hell does he know something is wrong before I even say something. At this point, if he doesn't do something I'm going to crawl out my own skin.
"Just, a little more." You ask looking at him with soft eyes. "I know exactly what you need." He mumbles before his fingers move from your clit to your opening making you bite your lip. You two lock eyes as he slowly rubs your slit feeling it pulse against his finger. Leaning in his lips meet yours as he kisses you. Feeling your body start to calm down he takes his chance trying to decrease the chances of hurting you.
He slips a finger in making you gasp as he takes it slow. "This what you wanted?" The man confirms as he moves his finger as you clench on it. You let a moan slip as you feel the pleasure come down on you. Art can see how much relief this made you feel making his eyes soften, "Aww poor baby, you should've said something, I would've skipped all the foreplay." The statement makes you look away shyly as he tsks. "That's your problem, you need to stop being shy, it's just me." He reassures.
"I'm sorry, I'm just nervous." You try to explain before he cuts you off before you can finish the sentence. "Don't apologize I know you're trying, I know." You release some tension as he brings you comfort while the need for him gets worse by the minute.
"Art please, just-" your voice gets cut off as pushes in another finger making you cry out softly which takes him by surprise. "Wow, that's the loudest you've been all day." His lips meet your jaw as he softly fingers you. Everything feels overwhelming, you put your arms around his neck to somewhat ground you while his fingers go at a steady pace getting covered in your wetness.
Out the corner of your eye you see his hand reach behind you putting it on your back to hold you. "Look at you, you must be so achy down there." The mumble is soft and raspy while your pussy flutters around his fingers.
In agreement you nod, why? because he was right, he's been right so far it's like he is always right.
He is always right.
In desperate need of him, you start to grind down on his fingers as you rock against him pressing against his bulge by accident. A moan exerts from him making him throb in his sweatpants. The selfish feeling comes into your mind as you look at him. Nervous you push against it again, "Art, let me- I want to help you feel good too." Your suggestion makes him kiss your temple letting you relax in his grasp. "Don't worry about me I'm ok, this is all about you."
That line lingers in your head, "Don't worry." In clarification, he catches your attention by whispering to you.
"You hear me?"
"I hear you."
The answer you gave pleases him and he starts to speed up. "That's what I like to hear." The praise makes you ache slightly more as you moan against him pushing yourself more in his lap. The feeling of his hand rubbing your back gives you a sense of security as you grind harder. You pull on his shirt gripping it as whimpers slip out.
"Shh, there you go."
"I'll fill you up very good one day, make you feel like you're in heaven while you let me take care of you." The image comes into my mind as that does sound like heaven, something I need to have a least once.
"Would you like that? I think you would with your pussy squeezing my fingers like this." The tennis player leaves kisses on your neck whispering to you as his fingers hit a certain spot making you gasp. "Right there?" His fingers nudge the spot again and again as you softly beg for more. The intrusion of his fingers inside you feels so good, and he was right (again) I am squeezing his fingers.
Well, my fault that you're making me horny to the point I want you to use me while you talk me through it as we get addicted to the feeling of each other as you promise to not let me go. A little sappy but whatever, this feels too good to pass up.
"Art if you keep going, I'm going to cum." You give him a warning as you feel his thick fingers move in and out of you.
Art smirks, that's what he wanted, that was his goal. The perfect picture is having you fall apart at the seams in his arms. Begging and squirming while you wet his fingers are already taking him by the storm. Hopefully, if you'll let him, (he thinks you will) he'll make you feel good with his cock, make you feel everything you haven't felt before. For now one step at a time, he has to work with his fingers, that's not hard to do as you're already so close.
"Beautiful." He thinks to himself.
Your pussy flutters once again as that signals for your release coming up. The pace is kept the same not wanting to interrupt your rhythm and he doesn't switch up anything. "Oh, so close aren't you, I can feel it." He teases as you let out a breath. "Please, Please Art." The feeling of your release is getting closer by the second as he looks at you in awe. "Begging? C'mon, tell me what you need me to do." Art sounds determined to do whatever it takes to please you, that's his job.
"Make me cum, please I'm so close, help me." He kisses you as he moves his fingers with purpose. "I got you, I'll make you cum just sit there and feel me and look pretty." Your legs start to shake slightly as you cling to him making him chuckle. The heat worsens as you start to pant softly feeling so many emotions. You close your eyes as you let the pleasure take over you as your pussy clenches around his fingers.
"Good girl cum for me just like that." The blonde boy mutters in your ear as he helps you ride through it before you slump against him. Art rubs the back of your head with his other hand as he slowly pulls his fingers away. The kisses that start to be placed on your temple relax you. He soothes you while he pampers you giving you time to calm down. You lift your head up to look at him as he gives you a soft smile. "Thank you." You whisper to him lowly but he shakes his head.
"No, thank you."
#art donaldson#art donaldson smut#mike faist#mike faist smut#mike faist x reader#patrick zweig#patrick zweig smut#patrick zweig x reader#zendaya#tashi donaldson#challengers#art challengers#challengers movie#tashi duncan#black reader
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Series- 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞, 𝐒𝐞𝐭, 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞
Description
Dion King
Teaser
Chapters-
One-Shots
The Challenge • Challengers Cast
Queen Treatment for The King I
Queen Treatment for The King II
Queen Treatment for The King III
#challengersmovie#challengers movie#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig#tashi x reader#tashi duncan#tashi donaldson#jazziejaxchallengers#jazziejax navigation#x black reader#x black fem reader#x black!reader
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Agreement Prt2
I wrote half of this to Need by pinegrove ♫
Art Donaldson x fem black reader
Prt1 here
Word count: 3k
Warnings: smuttt,unprotected sex, creampie,slight breeding kink if you squint. cursing (ofc) slightly domestic relationship (not with Art)and probably some other stuff.
Summary: Despite being engaged to one of the top and richest tennis players in the US, you feel unfulfilled. But everything changes when you transfer schools and meet Art Donaldson, who just can’t quit you.
Author note: I’m so glad I finished I was scared I wasn’t, but your comments gave gave me motivation. Thank you pookies 🫦 I like this one a lot more than the first one. Arts also very obsessed and in love in this one.
After twenty minutes, you finish your meal, alone. You decide to leave through a back exit to avoid the paparazzi waiting outside the hotel entrance. You stumble upon a narrow hallway and carefully make your way out, trying not to attract any attention. When you reach the entrance of the restaurant, you open the door and are greeted by a charming and seemingly empty establishment. The cozy yellow lighting, old pictures, and paintings on the walls, along with the white tablecloths and wooden woven chairs, remind you of an old Italian restaurant you and Art used to go to. You see moving in your peripheral and catch a glimpse of familiar golden locks.
You walk closer to see Art and Patrick sitting at a small square table with a vacant seat, you assume is reserved for you. Patrick with a full plate of food and Art without. "Patrick?" You question, your voice filled with suspicion as you creep towards the table. He looks back at the sound of your In voice, a smile forming on his face as he stands up, “What the hell are you doing here?” You ask, taken aback going in for a hug. Patrick returns it with a laugh before releasing from the hug slightly to look at Art.
“Ask him” You look between them confused. “I asked him to come here” Art states, adjusting in his seat. “Why?“ you ask clearly confused with the situation, “someone could see” you add your gripping the back of your chair almost afraid to sit down. “I bought the place out for an hour, it’s just us” Art reveals looking up at you. “You what?” you exclaim, a bit louder than you intended.
“I’ll explain everything in a minute, just sit” Art laughs, gesturing for you to sit down. You let out a sigh, reluctantly pulling out your chair. “Ok tell me what is going on” you say, slightly impatient. “We’ve got a plan for your marriage situation”, Patrick says, mixing his ice tea with his straw. “A plan?” you repeat, still confused. "Yes, a plan," Art confirms with a nod. Patrick takes a quick sip of his tea before opening a tan folder that he hadn't noticed before. “The private investigator dropped these off at the dorm the other day”, Patrick says, pushing the open folder towards you.
Inside were pictures of your fiancée , kissing all types of women. The worst part is, it was so obvious, he didn’t have a care in the world, every photo taken on different days in different settings. Outside, inside in the morning and at night, all different women.
You knew you shouldn't be upset, but you were, not because he was seeing other people behind your back, shit you were doing that same with Art, but it was the fact he acted holier than thou. That he continued to try and control you while actively putting your agreement at risk. “Wow…” you mutter.
Shuffling through the photos. “That’s not even all of them” Art says.
“Yeah… I accidentally left the other ones, but these are the most important ones. There’s also some paperwork underneath with names, time stamps and dates on stuff” Patrick ads. “How isn’t this everywhere?” You ask, furrowing your brow. “The investigator thinks he’s been paying them off,” Patrick says, taking a sip of his drink.
"Not that I don't want you here, but couldn't you just have faxed these over?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, yeah... but then I'd miss the match," Patrick says with a grin, taking a bite of his food. "Plus, I would never miss an opportunity to help my best buds."
"Okay, so what are we doing with these?" you ask, holding up the pictures in confusion.
"We're going to spin it," Patrick replies, still chewing his food. "My plan," Art reminds him, "my bad," Patrick laughs, still chewing his food. You couldn’t help but smile, you’d missed the three of you together.
"We're going to spin it," Art repeats, making you smile wider. "Is this why you're training with my father?" you interject . Art nods in response. "Why didn't you tell me any of this last night?"
Art didn't say anything, a knowing smile spread across his face. Patrick looks between the two of you "freaks," he jokes, "Anyway... how do you plan on spinning it?" You ask, ignoring his comment.
“We lean into the infidelity, take a couple of photos of you crying, the two of you arguing, or something like that release them”, Art explains confidently.
“But… I don’t see how this stops us from getting married, it’ll just look like I got cheated on,” you say, scrunching your brow.
“We’re hoping this, plus me winning today, will be enough to persuade the media against him?”
“You believe you can win?”
“I do,” he nodded.
“Okay… I’m down.”
“Told you,” Patrick added, still drinking his tea.
“Are you especially thirsty or something today?” you ask, tilting your head slightly watching him slurp down his tea. A second one untouched, waiting for him.
“I am actually, thank you for noticing,” Patrick says with a big smile before taking another sip.
You notice Art's eyes drop to Patrick’s plate for a second time while you two are talking.
“You should eat.”
“What?” Patrick says, looking between the two of you who seemed to be having your own conversation.
“No, I’m okay,” Art says, shaking his head.
“Mike had French toast for breakfast, I think you could have-“ you cut yourself off, looking down at Patrick’s plate. “Egg and sausage.”
“You guys aren’t talking about my food?” Patrick asks, slightly disturbed by your conversation.
“Patrick, I can buy you some more damn eggs,” you assure him as Art pulls the plate from under him.
“What just happened?” Patrick asked, looking around confused with no food in front of him.
Your phone rings, and you look down to see who it is. “It’s my Dad,” you inform, excusing yourself you answering the phone as you walk out of earshot.
The two of them watch your backside as you walk away. “She still looks good”, Patrick bites his lip, leaning over to Art.
“Careful, ” Art warns.
“What? you guys can joke about but I can’t?”
“Exactly”, Art laughs, plucking him on the head.
~~~~
With a dig, the elevator door opens, releasing you to your floor. You walk to your room, opening the door with your key card. Mike is packing stuff away in his duffle bag, getting ready to see your father. You don’t acknowledge him walking past him into the bedroom,leaving the door open. You sit on the edge of the bed carefully taking off your heals, you stand up and unzip the back of your dress with ease. The dress gracefully falls into a pile at your feet leaving you in only your underwear. You step over your dress and begin looking through your suitcase located in the closet. The sound of footsteps causes you to look up to see Mike in the doorway watching you.
“Where are you going?” Mike asked, leaning on the door frame slightly. You don’t answer right away looking for your dress under your neatly folded clothes. “There’s a press meeting with Art Donaldson's team, My Dad thought it’d look good if I’d came ” you say, moving more clothes around. “You didn’t come to mine” Mike states still watching you search.
“You didn’t ask me to” you responded, pulling out a light pink dress from your suitcase. There’s a beat of silence as Mike watches your actions "and you need to change for this press meeting?” Mike asks, raising an eyebrow. "No, but I want to” you say, standing up. When you see mike's eyes roaming up and down your body, you suddenly remembered you were only in your underwear.
“Can you turn around or something” you ask, scrunching your face up in disgust. “I’ve seen more than this” Mike chuckles before obliging and turning around. You roll your eyes by stepping into your dress. “I’m sorry for how I acted this morning, I’m just stressed,” he admits.
" Really?," you hum, pulling up the straps of your dress.
"I don't want to be that guy," Mike responds, still facing away.
"But you are constantly being that guy..." you mumble, but Mike hears you.
"I won't anymore. I want this marriage to work y/n, I.”
You release a heavy sigh at his word. “You can turn around now ” You announce zipping up the side of your dress. Mike turns around and watches as you sit back on the edge of the bed putting on your heels. “You’re still going to that thing?” Mike asks with a confused expression. “What about that conversation gave off the vibe that I was no longer going?” You say pulling your stiletto over your heel.
Mike goes silently for a moment watching you walk toward the bathroom. “Like you need more makeup?” Mike scoffs. “Be honest with me are you fucking him?” He asks from behind you in the doorway while you remove a bit of smudged lipstick. “are you serious right now?” You ask staring at him through the reflection in the mirror. “I’m not a fucking idiot, I saw the way you looked at each other, and I get the feeling that’s wasn’t your first time meeting”
“Only god knows what you’re doing at that college” you can’t stop your self from laughing. “I think you’re projecting” you say walking past him towards the door, picking up your purse on the way. “Where the fuck are you going?” Mike calls out, following you.
You swing the door open and step out into the hallway. Mike trails behind and tries to grab your arm to pull you back inside. “DONT TOUCH ME!” You yell yanking your arm back. “C’mon Don’t make a scene” Mike says looking around.
“You have some fucking nerve, you know that? Your friend Isabel came up here earlier looking for you, I’m guessing you guys have a lot of fun In Detroit” you say with a smile. “When were you in Detroit again…my birthday? You ask rhetorically, Mike goes silent for a moment before responding.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says, trying to keep his voice down. "You don't?" you question. "What about Sarah, Kim, Kate, Alex? Do you not know them either?" Mike opens his mouth, then closes it. "Yeah…" you drawl,
"they meant nothing to me... I just needed to get it out of my system before fully committing. I want this to work, I want this to be real, y/n," Mike says, trying to corner against the door in a situation similar to the one you were in with Art last night.
"That's the dumbest shit I've ever heard," you respond, attempting to push past him. He grabs you again using his strength. You had forgotten how strong he actually was. “Last warning” you say looking up at Mike. he can tell by the look in your eyes you’re serious, he doesn’t know exactly what you’re going to do but something in his gut said don’t test it. “Let. Go” you repeat one more time before a voice interrupts you.
“Is everything ok?” Patrick asked from the end of the hallway. "Yeah, everything's fine," Mike reassured with a smile, gently releasing his grip on him. "We'll continue this conversation later," Mike says, forcing a tight-lipped smile as he presses the elevator button. "No, we won't," you smile back with a wave, as the elevator door chimes and he leaves. "Are you okay?" Patrick asks, walking up to you. "Yeah, he wasn’t going to hit me, he knows better," you laugh. "I was actually more concerned about you hitting him," Patrick jokes.
“I got the picture though” he smiles, showing you a camera and clicking through the images of your altercation with Mike.”These are good, you should take them now, I’ll call Art and tell him I’m on the way” you say, pulling out your phone.
“I’ll miss the game” Patrick states with a slight pout.
“Not if you hurry.”
~~~~~
"I won't keep you much longer, just a few more questions," the female interviewer says, holding the microphone up to Art. "Was the training for this upcoming match particularly challenging?" Before the interviewer could finish her sentence, Art was shaking his head. "Not necessarily, different for sure, but not harder."
"As of now, can you confirm or deny the rumor that you have started working with Olympic Coach Dylan Y\L\N?" the interviewer asked, lifting the mic slightly closer to his mouth. "Ummm," Art hesitates, accompanied by a smile. "I think I can. Yes, Dylan is my new coach."
"So you and your opponent today have trained under the same coach?" the interviewer asks, scrunching her brow. "Yes, we have," Art nods. "One more question, is there any special woman in Art Donaldson's life right now?" the interviewer asks with a smile. The sound of camera clicking intensifies, catching Art's attention. Intrigued, the interviewer turns around as well. "She is beautiful," Art says absentmindedly, staring in the direction where you're coming from. You give small waves to friends as you walk in. "That's your opponent's fiancé... and I guess also your trainer's daughter?" the interviewer says, looking confused and turning back to face Art.
"Really?" Art asks, faking shock with a dazed expression. "Yes," the interviewer nods. "I mean.. I meant what I said, She is beautiful," Art said with a laugh, causing the interviewer to join in. His eyes never leaving you. "Does your coach know you have a crush on his daughter?" the interviewer joked, chuckling. "He might now," Art says with a laugh before giving a quiet , "Nice meeting you," as he walks away out of frame.
A short while later, you find yourself reaching for a bottle of water from a nearby table, inserting one of those adorable green straws they had. Just as you're about to take a sip, a voice catches you off guard from behind. "There you are," Art says, a smile lighting up his face as he jogs towards you. As he approaches, you can't help but notice how close he gets, almost too close.
"You're not exactly great at keeping secrets, huh?" you chuckle, taking a step back. Art smirks, "Can't two friends have a conversation?" Peeking over your shoulder at the ongoing interviews, you reply with a straw in your mouth, "We're not even supposed to be friends. You're supposed to be my Dad's client, or from what I heard your crush." You laugh, recalling a question from one of the interviewers. "You're going to get us caught," you whisper quietly into the straw.
"I understand. I can't stand next to my trainer's daughter," Art nods, "Orrr, my opponents, fiancé, but maybe can I stand close to my crush?" Art asks.
“I think you could, yeah” you nod trying to keep the smile on your face. “Crush it is,” Art says with a smile taking a step forward, yet still maintaining a slight distance. “Did you get the pictures?” Art asks his eyes falling down to your lips. “Yeah, we got them," you confirm with a nod, unable to hide your smile when you notice his lingering gaze. “So we’re in the clear?” his eyes still fixated on your lips, as if he's ready to pounce. "Not yet," you laugh, taking a step back. "We have to wait for them to go to press." Art throws his head back with a strained laugh, and you can't help but watch his Adam's apple bobs up and down. You hadn’t realized until that moment how much you wanted him, it was an all consuming need.
“Just one day," you murmur, unsure if you're speaking to Art or yourself. "Just one day," Art echoes, his eyes now fixed on your neck, his finger brushing your curls away. You watch as he exhales shakily, looking at the fading hickeys on your shoulder, barely hidden by makeup. "Just one day," you remind, removing his hand from your chest. "Just one day," Art repeats, tearing his gaze away to look back up at you. "Your car is here, Mr. Donaldson," a man in black approaches and announces.
“One minute” Art says, gesturing for another second. The man nods in acknowledgment and walks away. “Come with me?” Art asked. “I don’t think that’ll look good.” You alluded to the countless people with cameras surrounding you.
“I couldn’t care less” Art says, shaking his head slightly. “I’d kiss you right here, if you’d let me ” Arts words catch you off guard, and you take a deep breath to try to steady your heart beat.
“This planning stuff is more for you than me, so you can feel more comfortable. And I’m perfectly fine doing it,’s just …” he trails of his eyes falling back down to your lip. "Alright, I'll come," you rush out, convincing yourself it's to prevent him from kissing you right then. But deep down you knew you just wanted to be near him. You follow closely behind.
Art swiftly enters the car before you lean up, capturing you with a kiss. Before you could even fully step inside, his hand gently grasped your cheek, drawing you closer to his lips as he guided you into the vehicle. Lost in the intensity of the moment, you surrender to the kiss. practically falling inside. The sound of the car door closing behind you brings you back to reality, but the kiss continues to deepen. Suddenly, the driver rolls up the partition, creating a sense of privacy.
A sense of responsibility tugs at you, and you reluctantly break the kiss when Art's hand starts to wander up your bare leg. "We can't," you whisper, "We don't even have a condom," you add, hoping the driver couldn’t overhear.
“You’re right” Art mumbles, sitting back against the seat trying to catch his breath. “ I lost myself for a second” Art laughs, attempting to slow his heartbreak. ”After the game I’ll come to your room” you nod, looking forward trying to gather yourself. “Don’t talk about that, talk about something else” Art says his voice coming out more strained. “Like what?” You turn around and ask. Your eyes landing on the strained erection in his pants. “Oh!” You say, snapping your head back forward. The familiar ache of your core comes back, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek in an attempt to control yourself.
Against your better judgment, you take another peak. His hard shaft still straining against the fabric, you could damn near see the veins on his dick. “Can I?” You ask in a voice barely above a whisper. “Y-yeah” Art replies with a nod agjusting in his seat. You rub your hand back and forth against the Arts bulge while listen as his breath becomes more and more ragged.
Art makes a low moan and that’s enough for you to begin unzipping his pants. Against his better judgment he stops you. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah” you nod breathlessly, fumbling with his pants, pulling them down until his dick springs free. When you begin pumping his shaft, he takes in a sharp breath which causes you to smile. You savor the feeling of his heavy dick in your hand, trying to combat the thoughts of his thick long length inside you. When Art's hips buck into your hand, you fold. “I need you inside of me”, Art opens his mouth to protest and then closes, watching as you bunch up your dress around your waist, pull your panties to the side and straddle him. He grabs your waist with one hand and lines himself up with your entrance with the other.
You sink onto him with a little too loudly of a moan and Art does the same. Opening his mouth for a sloppy kiss, he doesn’t wait for you to adjust to his size, moving you up and down his dick by your waist. ”shit I-“ Art groans out a wave of pleasure hitting him.
“-I can’t go back to condoms” he moaned, scrunching his brow in pleasure. You laugh and Art quickly retaliates by slamming you hard down on him. You let out a loud moan reflexively using your hand, trying to pull off slightly.
Art moves your hand out of the way, holding you down on him by your waist. “I’m serious”, Art grows leaning forward for another kiss while returning to his previous, rhythm. His words cause you to squeeze around him, and he lets out another low ground throwing his head back, breaking the kiss.
“I’m not going to last much longer” Art says breathlessly. “Just a little longer baby” you coo, leaving kisses on his Adam’s apple down his neck. “You drive me crazy, you know that” you moan feeling his pace fastest. “I do?” you feel Art smile against your cheek. You nod, falling into the crook of his neck enjoying the feeling of him fucking into you. “I want you to cum in me” you whisper, kissing the crook of his neck. “Fuck” Art groans, throwing his head back again. “You’re going to kill me” he states with a strained laugh.
You feel your release building so you decide to taunt him. ”you don’t want to fill me up?” You ask innocently, removing your head from the crook of his shoulder. Look down at him with lust, filled eyes. “Don’t” Art warns, his grip on your waist tightening, “you don’t want to give me a baby?” You huff out trying to keep your voice steady literally feeling him in your stomach. “Fuc- shit shit shitttt” Art moans holding you down onto him filling you up with his cum. His moans echoed through the car, the poor driver.
“Fuck,” Art states after a minute. “Yea fuck,” you laugh, leaving a kiss on his cheek. “I think I might have a breeding kink”. Art laughs, “Me too,” you say with a smile, leaving another kiss on his head. You feel him twitch inside you, and knowing Art, you knew he would be ready for round two in a minute. You try to get off, but he holds you tighter, keeping you stationary.
“I want it to stick” he smiles. Oh his smile, you rolled your eyes. You loved him, you knew it now, and you had a feeling he did too. You had been lying to yourself pretending you liked you didn’t care as much as he did. But at that moment you knew you never wanted anyone but him.
You glance out the window to see you were seconds away from the stadium, and then you notice your father standing on the sidewalk. “Oh my god! MY DAD HERE” you say, scurrying out of Art's lap. Art looks out the window, seeing your father standing on the sidewalk expectingly. “Shit” Art huffs, sitting up slightly, pulling up his pants, you take a wet rag next to the champagne and quickly wipe the inside of your leg. You quickly fix yourself before rushing to wipe off any remains of your lipstick off his mouth with your hand.
"Oh no, do I have lipstick on my mouth?" you ask frantically. "Nope, all clear," Art replies with a grin, planting a quick kiss on your lips. "Art," you warn, settling back in your seat. "My bad," Art chuckles, getting ready to exit the car. The car come to stop and your dad Yanks open the door.
"Hurry up, we're late. Mike's already inside," your Dad urges, When he sees you, his expression turns puzzled.
"We were heading in the same direction, so we decided to ride together," you explain before he can say anything. Your dad eyed you both suspiciously. "Alright, let's go," he says, ushering Art into the building. You wanted to say goodbye or wish him luck, and you could sense Art wanted to as well but it would be just too obvious.
You step out of the car, rummaging through your wallet. You tap on the driver's window, and he rolls it down. "Sorry about that," you apologize, handing him a 100 dollar bill before heading into the building.
Once inside the stadium you sit next to your Dad’s team which was now also partially Arts team and somehow also Mikes. Your phone buzzes and look down to see a familiar unsaved number.
“I think your Dad on to us”
“What did he say?” you text back anxiously your fingers moving fast on the keys.
“Nothing really, but i think he knows”
“Did he seem mad?”
“Not really”
“That’s good” you send, letting out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding in.
“Good luck :)” you add before stuffing your phone in your purse . Almost immediately your phone dings and you pull it back out.
“You gave me enough of that in the car ; )” you can’t help but smile at his corniness.
“You’re nasty.”
“Not as nasty as you” you’re about to laugh at his message when you hear a voice directly behind you. “You guys are actually freaks” Patrick says with a laugh jumping over the seat so he was directly next to you. “I applaud you guys for staying consistent at least” Patrick says lightly hitting you on the shoulder. “Can you mind your business” you say rolling your eyes, stuffing your phone in your purse.
“Actually I’ve been minding you two’s business all day with no pay by the way” Patrick adds. “So I think I’ve earned the right to be a little nosy” Patrick says making a pinching gesture.
“So you delivered the pictures?”
“Yes” he responded with a nod
“Thank you” you express your appreciation, turning your attention back to the court.
“Do you think he’s gonna win” Patrick asks leaning in slightly, curious to your answer.
"I hope so, but I don't know. I haven't seen him play in a while," you admit with a weak smile, the reality of the situation sinking in. "I really hope he does win," you mumble.
Author note : GUYS FEEL FREE TO COMMENT I LOVE READING COMMENTS
#black reader#art donaldson x black reader#art donaldson smut#art donaldson#challengers fanfic#challengers#Art Donaldson breeding#patrick zweig#Spotify#challengers fic#mike faist#mike faist smut#art donaldson x female reader#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson fic
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warmth | art donaldson + patrick zweig + black fem reader (a snippet)
full length part 1 here!
i miss posting on here real bad and i keep teasing things (christopher moltisanti, richie jerimovich) and not actually writing/releasing them SO i'm putting this snippet of this oneshot i'm writing to encourage myself to actually put this out.
i think this will probably have multiple parts because the tension needs to builddd. and please, let me know y'alls thoughts!!! what do you think, what do you predict is gonna happen, r u thirsting adequately, etc. i love hearing your little comments <333
& let me know if you’d wanna be tagged when this comes out
essentially: reader, patrick and art were childhood best friends who conveniently were all in love with each other, or at least had enough sexual tension to make it feel that way. fast forward almost a decade later, and reader has made it onto the red carpet with her fantastic pen, and patrick and art have gone pro. when she invites them to her house for a star-studded friendsgiving, tensions rise and old doors open, springing forth new possibilities. this is only the beginning.
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warmth
“We should just turn around now, save ourselves the embarrassment.”
Patrick paid Art no mind, rolling down the window and leaning out of it, pressing the buzzer as you had dutifully instructed them in your email invite.
“Too late now. Already threw away about a gallon of gas just coming up the hill to this place,” he replied, the sense of ease in his voice only egging Art on even more.
“Exactly why we should leave. I mean, fuck. Does she have to live on a hill?”
“Residence of [last name], to whom am I speaking?” a male voice rings on the other end.
“Uh…” Patrick starts, Art reaching up over him,
“Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson?”
A silence filled the air. Patrick swatted at Art, forcing him back in his seat.
“Why’d you say it like a question, dumbass?”
Art stammered, already starting to get red in the face,
“I was --”
The gate swung open and both the boys let out a sigh of relief.
“Thank you!” Patrick chimed, smirking at Art, who seemed to be sinking in his seat.
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Meanwhile, you were inside the mansion that you call home, flowing around the kitchen like there weren’t about fifty people milling about and mingling amongst one another. It smelled like something out of Hansel and Gretel -- from the fragrant brown roasted turkey sitting in the oven, to the gourmand scent of perfectly caramelized candied yams, to the vanilla musk perfume you dotted on your wrists. A black mini Schnauzer nipped excitedly at your feet as you added half a cherry tomato to the giant bowl of salad you’ve been prepping for the last twenty minutes. You look like a pro, like a party of this magnitude is no big deal to you.
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“Do we ring the doorbell? Or maybe… should we knock?” Art questioned, hands tied behind his back as he glanced up at Patrick for answers.
“It’s open,” Patrick retorted, but he too stood stupefied at the door, like a weary traveler wavering in horrific awe before the mouth of some epic beast.
“On three?” Art suggested, and when he didn’t hear a response, he started to count, “one… two…”
Patrick stepped in before Art could get to three. Art scoffed, but followed behind him anyway.
The two of them stood there silently, taking the grandiosity of it all in — the sky-high dome ceiling, two grand wooden staircases directly opposite one another, the shiny verdant porcelain flooring, the Basquiat painting hanging above the wide bookcase directly in front of them. Mouths open, they looked like they were ready to catch flies.
“Fuuuck me,” Patrick breathed out heavily. Art’s head was stuck staring up at the ceiling, so high he thought it’d never end.
“You made it.”
Both Art and Patrick seemed to stand straight at the sound of your voice, like soldiers at attention. You almost laughed, but instead you stood there coolly, smiling at them both with your lips and your eyes— in them, a look that was almost knowing, wise beyond your years. It seemed like a lifetime before either of them would speak. They spent half that lifetime practically gawking at you, drinking you in. And how could they not, when you were draped in that cream-colored silk dress, the flowy bottom dancing above your ankles. You looked more beautiful than they remembered you, calmer, secure — of course, they hadn’t seen you since they were teenagers. Now there was this air of timelessness about you that was only just poking at the surface when you were in high school. Now it surrounded you. Something mystic encompassed your entire spirit, dripping from your head to your feet. They’d spent years seeing you from behind a screen, being interviewed on live TV, attending red carpets for award shows, blending in with the Hollywood mecca — another beautiful twenty-something industry talent. But the glow of the television that seemed to give everyone a perfectly filtered sheen was nothing compared to your beauty here.
“It’s so good to see you,” Patrick broke the silence first, practically lurching forward with open arms to embrace you. His beard scratched against your cheek. You could smell the cologne that was beginning to wear off, mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke. His arms nearly suffocated you.
When he pulled away, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the way he smiled at you so fervently.
“Good to see you too, Patrick…” you glanced over at the mousy boy who didn’t seem to have changed much since high school. “C’mere, Artie.”
Art chuckled: a nervous huff of relief, inching forward into your open arms and nuzzling his chin into your shoulder, closing his arms around your midwaist. You could smell the aftershave that still clung to his face, and the detergent still fresh from his clothes.
You pulled away, but took one of each of their hands, squeezing.
“My two boys. Man, how long has it been?”
“Oh, just a while—”
“Seven years,” Art interjected.
“Who’s counting, right?” Patrick grinned, making all of you laugh.
You looked at them almost expectantly, eyes wide like a doe, the slightest smile playing at your lips. They looked back with bated breaths. Always, you were in charge, always. It had been like this since the scabby-kneed days of childhood. If you wanted to play on the swings, they were there on either side of you. You were the queen of the sandbox. In middle school, they snuck extra cookies for you from the lunchroom and fought over who got to surprise you with the treat every day. Senior year of high school, in the hotel room in London, when you had them perched on either side of you like baby birds waiting for mother’s return— when you had both your hands on each of their thighs, had them panting like puppy dogs, inching your hands further and further only to leave the minute you heard “lights out.”
It had been seven years since then and still, it was the same. Only this time, you were stupidly rich, thanks to the soaring success of your two psychological thriller books turned TV series. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten about them, or didn’t care about them now that you were rich and famous. You’d gotten accepted to study creative writing at Brown, Art went to play at Stanford, and Patrick went on his path to go pro. You were delighted to see that they were only a click away thanks to the internet, just one click away from being reintegrated into your life. Your childhood best friends.
“C’mon, lunch is almost ready.”
Friendsgiving. Who didn’t love the concept? It was a readily welcomed, wholesome idea — friends of all ages and backgrounds coming together to rehash their Thanksgiving with leftovers, stories from the year, and maybe a game of cards. Except your friendsgiving was attended by A-list actresses, Cannes festival attending screenwriters, and the odd Grammy-nominated artist. And your friendsgiving was not at all an intimate affair — it may as well have been a club party. Most people were outside, dancing, shrieking with laughter, drinking, and skipping their way to their seats. Your backyard was vast and verdant green, with a pool in the center, the perimeter lined with lemon and peach trees, and miles to explore.
“This is fucking insane, is that Dakota Johnson?” Patrick scoffed. He and Patrick had been left to their own devices yet again, while you flitted around being the hostess with the mostest, easing and gliding about. A laugh here, a clink of glasses there, and a coolness to you that stood in striking comparison with the warmth that stirred deep down inside you. A warmth that could be served with a ladle into goblets, like some elixir with magical properties only you possessed.
“No, you idiot, that’s— oh shit. That might be Dakota Johnson.”
Clink clink clink.
“Everybody, hi, hi! Thank you for coming, please, sit down,” you called out, clinking your glass to get the attention of your guests. Patrick and Art scrambled to find seats, ending up at a table with people who might have been minor celebrities or art critiques or designers -- at least one of those options.
“I wanna thank you all so much for coming, this really means a lot to me. I know these sorts of things can be really hectic, but you guys make this house feel like a home. I’m glad that some of you will be staying with me for the next few days, there’s always room for more,” you glanced over at Art and Patrick. “Some of you are new friends, some of you I’ve known for far too long. But I think it’s incredibly fucking cool that we’re all here together now in this moment, just enjoying each other’s presence. I do this every year, and every year I meet even more amazing, talented, fascinating people and you all are so dear to my heart. And now, what we’re all waiting for… lunch is served!”
A cacophony of cheers rang out as staff rushed about to place plates in front of everyone. You stood giggling, basking in all of it. Patrick and Art couldn't help but watch on with deeply impressed smiles — you were meant to bask: in glory, in pleasure, in everything. You looked just right standing where you were.
The rest of the afternoon Patrick and Art spent attempting to blend in as best they could. They were pro tennis players, but this was another level of stardom that they couldn’t quite fathom yet. They watched you ruthlessly the entire night, unable to squash those rising feelings of attraction and yearning for you that had never quite simmered to begin with. You’d always been cooler than them, but watching you now there was a certain air to you that belonged to a grown woman, someone comfortable and confident and in their element. You were positively swimming in the sunlight the entire afternoon. It was like you had this sort of magnetic pull to all things good, rich, and warm. People wanted to be around you. And god, did this prove that.
By night time, people were finally starting to leave. The sun hung low in the darkening sky, making the fairy lights glow stronger now. The few people that were staying with you for the rest of Thanksgiving weekend had disappeared to their rooms. Besides the waitstaff still milling about, clearing the tables, it was just you, Patrick, and Art. The two of them hadn’t meant to stay so long, really. It wasn’t like they were forcing themselves to stick around and be acknowledged by you in a way that felt meaningful. Sure, you’d had your small talk and cracked a few inside jokes, but as much as neither wanted to admit it, they needed more. If it was hard to get your attention before, it was nearly impossible now. They were surrounded by so many people who all wanted to network and talk and introduce themselves, they found themselves mingling with your friends, some of them people who they’d seen on screen in the past year, more than you. They’d been dragged onto the dance floor multiple times by multiple acquaintances, only to gawk at you swaying your hips rather than actually dance themselves. It became overwhelmingly clear, in their increasingly present desperation, that they should’ve accepted your offer to stay in this castle of a house for the weekend. Neither of them had packed a bag.
“This is awkward, we’re the only ones left,” Art sighed, still sitting at their table.
“Let’s just… wait, okay? She might come back out."
"And give us a little speech?"
"Yeah, asshole, maybe she will."
At that very moment, you appeared again, this time clad in a two piece linen pajama set. You didn’t miss the way both their eyes trailed up your legs as you stood in front of them, arms crossed, smiling expectantly.
“I was hoping you two would still be here,” you said. You glanced between the two of them, that awkward silence filling the air once again. “C’mon. Let’s talk.”
You turned and walked back inside, the two of them trailing behind you.
"Your house is fucking sick by the way. I mean holy shit," Art blurted once you got to the main entrance hall.
"Feel like I just walked into a page of Architectural Digest," Patrick added on.
You led them up the stairs. Both their eyes dropped to your ass, which poked out just a bit from under the pair of shorts you wore. Silently watching the way your body curved as you walked.
"Ha, thanks. I think I did pretty okay for myself," you replied.
You led them to the den on the second floor and sat criss cross apple sauce on the lush green couch. Art sat on your left, Patrick on your right. Patrick spread his legs and Art had one foot up on the couch, bouncing against his knee.
“Sorry we didn’t get to talk much. I was so busy being the host of the year that I didn’t pay enough attention to you two. My favorites.”
Art chuckled,
“Favorites? You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m serious! D’you know how much I missed you guys?”
Patrick scoffed playfully,
“All those TV interviews I watched of you? I wouldn’t even be thinking about us.”
You couldn’t help but grin, that warmth coming through once again. It nearly made the two men melt.
“Well I was. I always think about you guys.”
Now came Patrick’s voice again, a heaviness to it that almost made you jump,
“Do you think about anything specific?”
Although it had been nearly a decade since you’d last seen each other, you didn’t miss a single thing about either of them. Patrick didn’t mince words, and he never shied away from not just hinting at, but blaring his salacious intentions every time he spoke. You tilted your head towards him, a cool smile tugging at your lips.
“Just what good times we had.”
A silence, accented with a flood of nostalgia and a pointed reference to those “good times” permeated the air. You took a moment to gaze at the two of them ever so softly — enough for them to feel it, but not enough to make them squirm (though, they were easy to make squirm) — before you decimated the silence by slapping your hands down on either of their thighs and squeezing endearingly.
“So tell me, where’ve you two been? I’m not the only one on TV these days.”
“Ahh, you don’t wanna hear about boring tennis,” Art waved a hand of dismissal.
You chortled, a trademark of yours that Art and Patrick had always poked fun at in school,
“You’re right, I don’t.”
“You still laugh the same,” Patrick said, grinning like he was trying not to but was unable.
You chuckled, this time low in your throat, and turned your head to face him again. You and Patrick were similar in the sense that you were always pushing the boundaries, tiptoeing closer and closer to the line — but the three of you had never quite established where that was. At some point, you were all just too close to even think about “the line” or “boundaries” — all of you appeared clueless to societal expectations of friendship, spurting a sort of cultlike relationship where everyone else was an outsider.
“Do I?” smiling at him like you were warning him not to tease.
“Yeah, that little snort you do,” Patrick replied, unshaken.
“You do do a little snort,” Art chimed in, always chirping like he spoke from a less nefarious place.
“And if I get started on you guys’ little tennis grunts?” you grinned fully now, showing teeth, looking between the two of them and leaning back a bit.
They followed, leaning back against the couch and keeping their heads in line with yours so you were never too far away from them, each of them turning their heads to look at you.
“No way you actually watch us,” Art replied.
“I do!” you insisted. “Seriously, if you’d asked anybody here you would know.”
“Sure, let me just strike up conversation with George Clooney,” Art shot back.
“Ha-ha,” you bleated sarcastically. “I don’t even know him… but I have walked past him once on the carpet.”
“Look at you,” Patrick smirked. “Little Miss Superstar.”
He punctuated his sentence with a hand on your knee. Your eyes flickered over to him and you caught the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat when he swallowed, felt the way he gazed up at you. You didn’t miss the desire twinkling in his eyes.
Then Art, always second but not necessarily last,
“She’s our little superstar, you know that, right?”
His hand just gently grazing your shoulder.
You let them revel in the moment for as long as you felt appropriate, then huffed.
“You know you guys can stay for the weekend, right? I mean, you should.”
“Oh… no, we wouldn’t wanna impose,” Patrick said, his hand slinking away from your knee.
Another chortle from you, this time the kind that said everything about how you lived in comparison to them,
“You wouldn’t be. This is a five bedroom house. It’s fine. Besides, don’t you guys wanna actually catch up? I’ll let you torture me with tennis talk.”
Art started to stammer,
“I-I mean… we didn’t bring anything.”
“Just our idiot selves,” Patrick added.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get Charles to get you guys all set up.”
“Charles?”
“Oh, he’s my assistant,” you said nonchalantly, as if it were nothing. “You’re not fighting me on this. I want to spend some quality time with my boys. Don’t make me have to beg for it.”
“We could never make you beg for anything,” Art replied, just a little too quickly.
“I know, Art, that’s why I love you,” you grinned over at him. “So, are we all in agreement? Stay with me. Just this weekend.”
“Yes,” they both replied a little too quickly this time.
You bit your lip, suppressing a smile.
“You know… I really, really missed you guys. And those good times we had.”
You let the memory of that night of almosts in London resurge, let their minds run amuck with whatever teenage fantasy was still left over from that night. A moment so brief it could almost be forgotten, could even be flagged as incidental, accidental, but the three of you knew, even as grown adults (especially as grown adults), that it would always stick and remain unresolved, unless someone ran to the rescue with some sort of solution. Once again they held their breaths. You stood up, glanced between the two of them like you were sizing them up, and then smiled as if nothing had happened at all — you let them breath.
“Your bedroom’s the second on the right when you leave here. Charles will help you get set up— I’ll see you guys in the morning for breakfast.”
And just like that, you were gone. The air in the room seemed to clear. Your presence was like a thousand tons of pressure weighing on their bodies and their minds. Finally, they could breathe.
They glanced at each other with the same longing, almost nervous expression — high school all over again.
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eek let me know what y'all thought. i wanna finish it by this week <3
#challengers#challengers smut#challengers fic#patrick zweig smut#patrick zweig#art donaldson#art donaldson smut#art donaldson imagine#patrick zweig imagine#x reader#x black reader#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig x black reader#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x black! reader
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anyone else thinking about sundress szn with art? anklets on and his mind constantly racing with thoughts of your feet near his ears. kissing at your neatly polished toes. spitting on your exposed clit as he fucks into you. his hands sliding up and down your thighs, groaning and whining about how he’s been dreaming about touching you all day? no? just me?
#𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯': 🗂️ ART DONALDSON#i need him.#he followed you around a small gathering like a lost puppy#like the whole time you were there he was just staring at the anklets#sputtering out words when you try to get his attention#maybe i’ll elaborate later#(turns away from keyboard and lowers glasses)#what do we think about toes in the mouth#art donaldson smut#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson#art donaldson x black!reader#x fem!reader
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veryberryjelly's 1.5k dinner party !!
i have no idea how so many people care about my writing but i am not complaining! i reached 1.5k recently and i am holding a dinner party event in celebration ! send me some requests ! { 30/5 - 13/6 }
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sneak peek for a chapter of 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄, 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒
Dawn Henley felt the pit in her stomach sink deeper and deeper with each step. The roaring crowd she could hear through her headphones didn’t help with the mix either. As she approached the light, she heard the announcer’s voice booming through the speakers, “Please welcome, winner of the US and Australian Open, Dawn Henley.”
A smirk formed on Dawn’s face at her achievements being listed.
Tightly gripping the strap of her tennis bag, Dawn entered the arena with her head down and the best poker face she could muster, heading towards her side of the tennis court. Avoidng the cheering fans and their posters. Not intentionally, only to help her focus... Something Tashi advised her to do when she got a case of stage freight.
Dawn shook the thought out of her head. Shutting away the thoughts of her. Tashi.
It has been years since she’s even talked to her. The more she tried to shut away her thoughts, the more she thought of her.
Tashi…Tashi….Tashi…Tashi…
Dawn places all her belongings on the bench, unzips her tennis bag, and carefully removes her racket before making her way to the court.
Tashi...Tashi…Tashi…Tashi…Tashi….Tash-
“Henley to serve.” The umpire calls calmly. That finally snapped Dawn out of her thoughts. She got a chance to stare at her opponent on the opposite side. Dawn forgot the poor girl’s name, but her accomplishments were pretty good. Dawn looked past her and finally got the chance to look at the packed crowd.
She smiled, but it slowly disappeared into a frown as she spotted three familiar faces in the front row.
Patrick Zweig had his usual shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
Art Donaldosn’s soft eyes carefully watched her with a small smile.
And there she was…
Tashi Duncan sat back in her seat. Even with her short hair and changes in clothing, she was still the same after all these years. Her expression was neutral, yet her eyebrows slightly furrowed in a seemingly enduring way. Her head curtly nodded in Dawn’s direction. Dawn knew exactly what she was saying.
“Decimate that bitch.”
Something boiled within Dawn. And once she was given the ball, she knew what to do.
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a/n: hello everyone! happy mothers day to all the mothers and other parental figures. i hope you guys enjoy this sneak peek. once again, constructive criticism is very much needed (pls be nice).
also psa, PLEASE REBLOG AND SHARE MY RECENT REBLOGS!!!
#challengers#challengers movie#black!reader#black!oc#challengers x reader#patrick zweig x reader#tashi duncan x reader#art donaldson x reader#challengers fanfiction#black fanfiction#black fanfic writer#challengers fanfic
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