#art donaldson x reader x patrick zweig
Text
reunions
pairing: art donaldson x reader x patrick zweig
length: 3.8k
tags: y/n is art donaldson's wife ; birthday party ; surprise visit from patrick ; art is down bad ; patrick wants y/n ; possessive!art ; the boys are fighting ; no use of y/n ; pining ; sexual tension
summary: you want to make your husband's birthday special, so you invite his attractive, charming, estranged childhood best friend in the hopes that they'll make amends. surely nothing will go wrong, right?
author's note: i can't stop thinking about them i am so ill. this is the first of presumably many challengers works. and yes i did make a new blog just for this, don't judge me. this is a drabble that was stuck in my head but I do have more for it should it be wanted! preferably something that leaves you sandwiched in between them :3
originally posted by iholdwhatican
You told yourself this whole thing happened out of the goodness of your heart. You’d just wanted to be a good wife and make your husband’s birthday the best it could possibly be. Because Art Donaldson was the most amazing person you’d ever known, and he loved you, and he deserved the world. There was nothing off limits when it came to him, no line you wouldn’t cross.
You knew how much Patrick had meant to him, how much he missed his best friend. Your cheeks hurt from how wide the stories made you smile, how happy he sounded when he recounted the things he’d gotten into with the eccentric tennis player. And you knew how sad Art was that they didn’t talk anymore.
So what better time to remedy that than for his birthday? That was a wonderful surprise, right? Right?
Upon meeting Patrick Zweig, your first thought was how the hell this man got along so well with your Art. Not to say he was a bad person, but he was just so… much. He was cocky, indomitable, the kind of person that knew what he wanted and what he was worth and wouldn’t settle for anything less. He was a force not to be reckoned with, no matter what. He was also unbelievably charming (and not bad on the eyes, which you would never admit), and you hated the way his sweet-talking got under your skin.
He asked you how Art was. You told him he was fine. Retired, now. Making the most of a quiet life. You’d just celebrated 3 years of married life. He asked to see wedding photos and you didn’t miss the sadness in his eyes at missing the event. You happily obliged. It was the most romantic day of your life, after all.
And you couldn’t help but internally pat yourself on the back. Patrick missed him too. You could mend the broken bridge between them, and your husband would be thrilled. He’d reward you for your good work.
You asked Patrick to come to Art’s party. To make contact again. To come back into his world. He only hesitated for a moment, asked if Art knew and was okay with it.
The lie slipped off your tongue easily. Of course, he’s wanted this for a long time. It’s a surprise, but a most welcome one. You didn’t have details on what happened between them- only knew of a falling out while Art was in college- but it couldn’t be that bad. Anything could be overcome, right?
Patrick accepted and you hoped the lump in your throat was from excitement and not dread. You thanked him for meeting you, told him you’d forward him the details, and went back to your husband.
The day of the party came, and you were so nervous you could hardly take it. You’d spent the last couple of days working yourself into a frenzy, convinced that this reunion was a terrible idea and your husband would hate you. You had no right to bring an estranged friend back into his life, on his birthday no less. And without saying a word to him.
God, what the hell was wrong with you?
You gripped the edge of the kitchen counter and downed your third glass of water. It did nothing to soothe the dryness in your throat. Or the pounding of your heart. You wondered how fucked you’d be at the party if you took a Xanax right now. Or five.
Just then, Art peeked his head into the kitchen, donning a sweet smile when he spotted you. He looked as handsome as ever, sporting a well-fitting polo shirt and khakis. His hair was growing out again, starting to show those boyish curls you’d fallen in love with all those years ago. He made his way over to you, wedding band sparkling on his finger, and your heart melted.
You loved him so much. Had you ruined his birthday with your stupid meddling? Maybe even ruined your marriage?
“Hey, beautiful.” He greeted, sliding a hand around your waist and kissing your head. It was a familiar gesture, a normal one. He loved touching you, keeping you close. You loved it just as much, “The cake was just delivered. You went way overboard, as usual.”
You pretended you weren’t overcome with dread and cupped his cheek, “Shut up. There’s no such thing as overboard. You deserve this, okay? You deserve to be celebrated.”
Please, please don’t be mad at me for inviting him. For bringing him into our world. Please still love me. I did it for you. I’d do anything for you.
His eyes crinkled as he smiled- in that perfect way you adored so much. He leaned down to kiss you again, this time on your lips. It was gentle and caring and everything you were to each other. It made you want to cry. Art was everything. All you wanted was to give him the same.
The doorbell rang, breaking you two out of the moment, and your husband pulled away. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Well,” He spoke, looking at you like there was nothing else in the world, “That must be our first guest.”
You hummed happily, “Guess it’s time to celebrate you, Birthday Boy. Shall we?”
“We shall.” He teased, doing a mock bow as he offered you his hand. You took it, laughing, and the two of you made your way to the front door.
You took a deep breath and tried not to focus on the unhappy way your stomach was churning.
The first hour of the party went by with a pleasant lack of reunions-turned-altercations. Patrick had yet to show his face, and you wondered if he might not come at all. Part of you was relieved at the idea, while the other couldn’t help but be frustrated.
He said he would come. What if the surprise didn’t end up being a bad thing? How would you know if he never showed?
God, you needed a cigarette.
You’d spent the entirety of the party so far glued to Art’s side, being his doting wife as you made conversation with everyone. Your eyes continued to stray to the door, looking for a certain dark-haired man. Every single time, you were disappointed. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised. From what you’d heard, Patrick wasn’t really someone who could be counted on a lot.
Maybe this whole thing was just a big mistake. And maybe the part of you that truly felt let down at not getting to see him again was something you should never, never look into.
You patted Art’s chest and stood on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “I’m gonna check on the food. I’ll be back.”
He nodded, smiled, and pressed a kiss to your temple. His arm released its grip on you and he continued his conversation with an old Stanford buddy without missing a beat. He was fucking incredible. At everything. You were crazy about him.
The food didn’t actually need to be checked on. The caterer was high-quality, and they knew better than to fuck up one of your events for your husband. You had full trust in them- you honestly just needed a breather. This whole night had felt like a cold fist clenched around your heart.
Instead, you grabbed yourself a large glass of wine and made your way to the patio to enjoy some cool night air.
The area was blessedly empty, allowing you to slip out of the hostess facade. You were more than happy to do it, especially when celebrating Art, but the circumstances tonight were making it much harder than usual. Which was, of course, entirely your own fault. Way to go, you! Knocked it out of the park tonight, didn’t you?
You sighed, leaned against the railing, and took a long gulp of your drink. The weather was slightly chilly, and it felt amazing against your heated skin. Already, you were finding it easier to breathe. And think, for that matter.
“Shouldn’t you be at the party, Mrs. Donaldson?” A familiar, spine-tingling voice spoke, breaking you out of your peaceful moment.
You whirled around, eyes landing on Patrick fucking Zweig leaning against the wall of your house. A lit cigarette hung from his lips, his hands nonchalantly tucked into the pockets of his dark jeans. They went well with the button-up shirt he wore, a stark contrast from the shorts and hoodie he’d had on when you first met. He looked good- really good. Enough to make a pit grow in your stomach.
“I thought you weren’t coming.” You blurted out, thankful that the darkness was shrouding your red face. His face was just barely illuminated by the orange glow of the cigarette, and you watched as he looked you up and down, “Also, how’d you get back here? I didn’t see you walk into the house.”
Patrick kicked off the wall and walked over to you, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth. His curls fell over his forehead, and you found yourself fighting the urge to brush them out of the way- the same way you always did to Art. You swallowed deeply. What the hell was wrong with you?
“I told you I’d come, didn’t I?” He responded matter-of-factly, blowing a puff of smoke into the air. The smell made you nostalgic. You and Art had made a pact years ago to quit together, but God did you miss it sometimes. You licked your lips and tried (and failed) not to stare, “I snuck in through the back. Thought it’d be less messy that way.”
You had no idea how he’d been able to get back here, but you decided you weren’t gonna ask. It didn’t matter in the long run, anyway. Besides, he was probably right. You had no idea how Art was gonna react, and it was smart to have it happen in an isolated area.
“Probably smart.” You muttered, taking another swig of the wine. The feeling of his eyes stayed on you, burning into your skin, but you didn’t meet his gaze. You didn’t want to think too hard on why.
“He doesn’t know you reached out to me.” It wasn’t a question, but you responded to Patrick’s words regardless. He’d find out eventually.
“No.” The admittance came out with a heavy breath, like you were releasing the weight that had been on you all night. In a way, you were. You ran a hand over your forehead, “I don’t know what happened between you two, he doesn’t talk about it. But I just- I’m terrified he’ll hate me for bringing you.”
Why the hell were you pouring your heart out to this stranger? What was it about him that drew you in so much and made you want to bring down your walls? How was this charming man already under your skin from one damn meeting? And how the fuck were you supposed to explain any of this to your husband, his estranged best friend?
You needed another drink. Or ten.
“You really love him.” Again, not a question. But you answered. You had to.
“More than anything else in this world.”
Patrick offered you his half-smoked cigarette and you took it without thinking. The sting of the smoke in your lungs was like coming home. It was so good it almost made you cry. But lots of things made you want to cry right now. You could taste mint on the cigarette, like he’d been chewing gum before lighting up. The same kind Art always chewed.
It made something flip in your stomach.
“Well, from what I can tell, you’re pretty great. Super caring, based on how far you went in an attempt to make him happy. Shit, you tracked me down, which is a feat in itself. And you’re gorgeous, obviously. I’m surmising that you’re basically the whole package.” He spoke calmly, as if every one of those words didn’t make your heart jump into your throat. You chugged your drink to use it as an excuse for your rosy cheeks, “So I don’t think there’s any way he could hate you. Even for inviting me here.”
You were speechless for five long seconds as he took the cigarette back and inhaled. Then you finally got your brain to stop lagging, “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.” He countered, continuing the pass back and forth of the cigarette, “And I know Art. He wouldn’t marry someone beneath him. The fucker somehow always gets the ones way out of his league.”
You didn’t comment, but you knew what Patrick was referring to. Tashi Duncan. The now pro-tennis player that he’d had a thing with back in the day. You didn’t know the details, but you knew she was a point of contention between the two men.
Honestly, you tried not to think about Tashi. She was gorgeous, super talented, and an overall seemingly great person. Art had passed up on that for you, and it got to your head a lot. You wondered if he regretted it. Or at least wondered what his life could’ve been like.
You didn’t think you were out of his league. In fact, you thought the opposite. Not that you needed to tell Patrick that. Your insecurity and jealousy issues could stay yours alone.
“Well, I don’t know about that.” You murmured.
The cigarette began to dim as you took the last drag, flicking it off the balcony and down into the grass below. With both the alcohol and nicotine gone, you started to think you probably needed to get back to the party. Your husband would be looking for you, and you didn’t want to keep him waiting. You just had to figure out how Patrick would fit into the equation.
“If you weren’t taken, I’d be trying to charm the fuck out of you right now.”
The statement caught you completely off guard. You looked over at him, eyes wide, and tried to keep your cool at the sexy smirk on his face. God, he was so fucking attractive.
You blinked once, twice, a third time, “What?”
His smile grew at your flustered state, “I have great taste in women, and I’d flirt with you if I could. So I’m saying you’re definitely a catch. And totally out of Art’s league.”
You licked your lips. Subconsciously, “I’m pretty sure that was flirting.”
“Was it?” He didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed, “Oops.”
You ran your finger over the rim of your wine glass, trying to think of something to say. You came up empty. You were married- to this man’s childhood best friend. To the love of your life. He shouldn’t be flirting with you. And you definitely shouldn’t be enjoying it.
“There you are! I was starting to worry.” Art’s voice broke the tense silence, and you turned around to watch him making his way to you with a smile. Then he spotted Patrick and his smile dropped as his face filled with recognition, “You- what the hell are you doing here?”
You opened your mouth to speak, to explain and mediate the situation, but the dark-haired man beat you to it.
“Your pretty little wife invited me.” He said, which was probably the worst thing he probably could’ve chosen. You internally buried your face in your hands.
Art’s jaw clenched and his eyes lit up. It took you a moment to realize that the expression was anger. Honestly, it took you by surprise. It was extremely rare to see him angry, and never was it directed at you. And though he was looking at Patrick, you were terrified that in this instance it was.
“Let me explain.” You immediately choked out, clutching your empty wine glass like a lifeline, “I really just thought that-”
“She thought you missed me and wanted us to reconnect. As a birthday surprise. Isn’t that sweet?” Patrick butted in, throwing an arm over your shoulders. Art looked ready to murder someone (probably the tennis player holding you), “I doubt it was easy contacting me, but she managed. All for you.”
You laughed nervously, ducking your head, “Well, that’s not-”
“Let go of her.” Art demanded. His voice was cold and dangerous. Possessive. It made something twitch in your core. Oh, you liked that.
The brunette didn’t hesitate to do as he was told, holding his hands up in surrender, “My bad, man. I just feel like we’re already such close friends from hanging out together. Don’t you think so?”
The last part was directed at you, and Patrick nudged you. You gave him an incredulous look.
The charming, sweet man you’d just been talking to was gone. He was replaced by a cocky, near-disrespectful antagonist who was trying to egg your husband into some kind of altercation. And he was using you as the bait.
You couldn’t lie that you were frustrated, but it did feel a bit nice to be in an almost tug-of-war between the two men. You liked being an object of affection or desire.
“You should head inside, baby.” Art spoke to you, though his furious gaze never left Patrick, “Our guests will wonder where the hosts went. I’m gonna talk to Patrick for a minute.”
You’d be damned if you told him no. Even though this situation felt like a mess that was definitely all your fault. Damn you for inviting Patrick. Damn him for being so captivating. And damn Art for loving you so much that the sight of another man touching you made him see red. This entire thing was like a whirlwind.
“Okay…” You whispered, moving towards your husband and the house. You gave Patrick a small smile, hoping to convey your thoughts to him. Please don’t hurt him- he’s my world. Then you stopped at Art’s side and placed a hand on his bicep, “I’m sorry if this was a bad idea. I just wanted to make your birthday special, is all. I didn’t mean to fuck it up.”
He finally looked at you, just long enough to give you a loving smile and a shake of his head, “You didn’t ruin anything. I’m so proud of you for doing all this for me. Don’t worry.”
Then he kissed you, only to stop and pull away, “Is that- were you smoking with Patrick?”
You sucked on your teeth and nodded, “Yes, a little. I’m sorry. I just-”
But then he was kissing you again, hard and needy. Like he wanted to fuck you right then and there. Your face burned bright red, and you could feel Patrick’s eyes on the two of you. Art had never acted like this in all the time you knew him. But right now, within thirty seconds of being around his old friend, he was putting on a show to prove that you were his.
You belonged to him. And he wanted Patrick to know it.
You really, really fucking liked this.
When he pulled away, you felt dizzy. From both the kiss and the wine you’d downed. You barely had time to take a breath before he was lightly patting your cheek and sending you inside. You managed to take a look at the two men before rejoining the party. They just stared at each other, like they were in a standoff.
It was unbelievably hot.
As you went back to your guests, lips still tingling, only one thought was coming to you.
You wondered how long you could keep Patrick around, just to see what it would do to your precious husband.
#challengers#challengers movie#challengers 2024#art donaldson#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x you#patrick zweig#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig x you#challengers fic#challengers fanfic#art donaldson x patrick zweig#challengers x reader#challengers x you#art donaldson x reader x patrick zweig#tashi duncan#charly writes!!
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a/n challengers changed me, so have this drabble <3
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the soft sound of rubber soles making their way across the court startles you more than it should. it's bad enough that you're running so late you had to change in the library bathroom and that you're still putting on your tennis shoes. you don't need anything else making you seem un-together.
"you know..." patrick's closer than you thought he'd be, his racket dangling by his side, just barely scraping the ground you're sitting on. you let your fingers rest between your ankle and the back of your shoe as you look up at him. "you took so long we started to think you were standing us up."
the sentence feels lighthearted, but that doesn't keep unease from prodding at you. your friendship with patrick and art is still new enough that the wrongness of being late feels sharper.
"oh, no," you shake your head slightly in an attempt to emphasize your point. you straighten an arm to rest it on your bent knee. "no, i--the lunch with my sponsors ran long, and i had to change and--" patrick lets you ramble as he bends a knee, slowly moving to sit across from you. he sets down his racket with all the patience in the world, watching you with a lightness behind his eyes that radiates good humor. "and you were joking."
he leans back on one arm before lifting a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. "a little, but that sponsorship thing..." patrick angles his head to one side in what feels like mock contemplation. "that sounds important, we should consider ourselves lucky that we made it onto your schedule."
his tone leaves your face feeling a little warmer. you let your attention fall back to your shoe. "no, not like that at all."
"well, i feel lucky," he says, "art, do you feel lucky?"
you turn your neck to look back at art. he's closer than you remember, the toe of his shoe so close to your leg that you'd only have to stretch a little to reach him. he lets out soft sigh before sitting next to patrick. "extremely."
the word borders on flat, a pinch of something you can't quite interpret bleeding into the syllables. his attention shifts away from you and towards patrick. maybe you weren't meant to fully understand. after all, they're life long best friends. and while normally encroaching on that kind of dynamic makes you feel like an intruder, with them, everything's always been comfortable.
"don't." you refocus on your shoes, pulling the laces taut between your fingers. "i'm the lucky one, you guys are great."
"and you're amazing." art breathes out the compliment in a way that feels concrete. real. the words don't feel like a necessary step in a polite exchange, they feel genuine. it's the kind of unabashed praise that's hard not to fluster at. "seriously--your backhand, i've never seen anything like it."
you let yourself smile, ignoring the warmth crawling up your chest. "thanks."
before you can dwell on the exchange, patrick leans forward. his fingers carefully bend around your ankle. patrick watches you expectantly as he extends a leg. you release your laces, letting him lift your foot onto his lower thigh.
"patrick."
"what?" patrick's gaze briefly flickers towards art as he crosses your shoe laces. "i'm helping out our girl." he tugs on your laces, neatly looping them. "ignore him, he's jealous."
you squint at him curiously, feeling like you're missing out on some kind of joke. "really? you think he wants to tie my other shoe?"
"i think," patrick secures a snug knot into place, "he wants to do whatever you want him to."
patrick settles a hand over your ankle. you let out a sound that's more a puff of air than a true laugh. "shut up." you lift your foot in a pretend kick. patrick makes a show of releasing your leg, holding up his hand as if to convey innocence. you pull your leg back. "don't make him sound so lame."
"yeah," art echoes, leaning towards patrick, "don't make me sound so lame."
patrick grins as he shoves art's shoulder. he pushes himself to stand with no warning. "c'mon, let's play."
you reach over for your other shoe before bending your leg. it takes no time for you to pull on but before you can adjust the laces, art's by your side. he pulls on your laces until your shoe feels secure. "too tight?"
with the way he's studying you, it takes you a moment too long to react. you shake your head once. "n-no, that's good."
he angles his head downwards, attention returning to your laces. "good."
art smiles as he squeezes your upper calf in an almost startling display of affection. he pushes himself to stand before offering you his hand.
——
lmk if you liked this, i have so many thoughts about them
#challengers x reader#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x you#mike faist x reader#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig x you#josh oconnor x reader#challengers fic#x reader#art donaldson x reader x patrick zweig
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mmmmhhmmmm my pussys heartbeat is like an edm concert w this thought
imagine patrick sitting behind art , tweaking the fuck out of his nipples, kissing his neck
all while ur deepthroating the fuck out of arts cock
patrick would talk abt u like ur not even there to him
“isn’t she sucking ur cock so fucking good”
“poor baby wants to cum down her throat but u gotta wait, art”
want nothing more than to be a fleshlight for them. patrick would absolutely slut you out to art, especially in college when art is less confident - more likely to fumble with the women he wants to pursue. its good that patrick offers his girlfriends mouth whenever hes pent up, so sweet really. definitely not because he wants to feel the feather light softness of arts hair as he throws his head back against patricks shoulder, definitely not because he wants to see the heaving of his pale chest, his pink nipples, the dip in waist leading to his adonis belt. definitely not because hes mesmerized by the sight of arts cock as it dissappears in and out of his girlfriends throat, its already fucking hot to see you gag on his - he'd fucked that gag reflex right out of your throat - seeing your lips spread so lewdly for art as you take what you're given has him leaking like a fucking girl from his tip. you're both so fucking sexy.
cant help himself from reaching down to wind a fist in your hair, really bounce your skull off his cock, making art arch his hips and plead in a broken moan "fuck, patrick - she's - im gonna -"
"yeah?" cant keep the excitement out of his voice, locked in where arts dick pistons in and out of your wet maw of a mouth. you're so good at being used. the fucking best. "feels good? gotta let that nut out, buddy, c'mon. you're such a little bitch when you're pent up. nothing a tight wet hole cant fix - "
"oh god." art will apologize to you profusely after this. refuse to meet your eyes, cheeks flushed and red. he'll avoid your eyes everytime you two meet, until the time comes when patrick is inviting you over to his dorm, and he hasn't kicked art out. and then art wont be able to stop looking at you. he looks down at you now, his fingers brushing against your cheek in soft contrast from the hard grip patrick has on your hair. blue will meet yours and you'll feel his cock twitch in your mouth, the head thumping the back of your throat. "you're so fucking pretty - fuck - cant believe you let me do this - "
"fucking cum." patrick tells him, and he loses himself a little. licks a stripe up arts neck, "shoot that shit down her throat, make her gag. now, art."
you do gag. you try to swallow the splash of cum flooding down but its hard to work a swallow down with a cock crammed down your throat. art cock slides from your lips as you sputter, his pink tip resting against your mouth as you breathe and you dont even catch your breath properly before you're being yanked up and patricks tongue is in your mouth, and you're in arts lap and then you're in patricks and art turns to watch as patrick lifts you, quick and easy, punches you down on his hard cock.
arts cum is still in your mouth and patrick licks it out, moaning loudly as he starts to bounce you hard and fast. neither of you ask art to leave, and he doesn't make a move to go.
#ask#im h word#art donaldson smut#patrick zweig smut#art donaldson x reader x patrick zweig#challengers smut
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♡ Nice Guys Finish Last; Art Donaldson x Reader ♡
nsfw! (18+) cw: soft dom!art donaldson, sub!reader, afab/fem reader, porn w/ a little plot, penetrative sex, unsafe sex/pullout method, slight edging (reader!receiving), equal desperation, praise, general filth, art is a softie until he's not
wc: 4.2 k
*does not include challengers spoilers!*
prev. art donaldson fic : <3 here <3
It was currently 11 PM in the state of New York, and Art Donaldson was in your hotel room.
-
Earlier today, you had competed in a long singles tennis tournament for a cash prize, and had beat every other girl in the bracket. You walked away from it with five-hundred more dollars in your pocket than you had walked in with, and a smug grin on your glossy lips.
Art Donaldson had competed in a similar tournament at the same venue, except it involved doubles teams playing against one another. He had played with his typical partner, Patrick Zweig, and they, too, had beat everyone in their bracket.
Tomorrow, they would be playing against one another to determine the ultimate winner.
You had watched them play, and they had watched you play too.
After the venue had shut down for the night, you had begun to wander back to your hotel a few blocks away and coincidentally bumped into the two boys heading back to the same building.
You three talked--or rather, they had buttered you up with compliments as you all went up the elevator, and suddenly you were in their hotel room drinking cheap beer from cold metal cans.
They both flirted relentlessly with you for about an hour or two, before Patrick had called it a night (and had given up on trying to woo you) and told you and Art that he was going to sleep.
Art had given you a look and nodded towards their room's door with a small smile, silently suggesting something. Thirty seconds later the both of you were standing alone in the hotel hallway. He chatted you up and praised your tennis-playing for about ten more minutes, his blue eyes staring into yours with an earnest desire to hold your attention. You had laughed and flushed with a nervous heat while he sang your praises, and then a bout of silence came over the two of you. He looked down to his shoes, letting out a soft chuckle, and then back up to your eyes.. and then down to your lips. The buzz of the fluorescent lights above made the silence seem more tense than it already was.
After tossing the reality of this interaction around in your head, you had realized that his kind, sensitive, charming persona was effectively rendering you weak in the knees..
"You're really pretty, by the way.. i don't know if i've said that yet, but you are," he had spoken in the hallway, leaning his shoulder against the wall as a lock of his strawberry-blonde curls hung in the center of his forehead.
And that was it.
Five minutes later he was in your hotel room.
-
The both of you kicked your shoes off in the doorway, and then moved to sit on the edge of your hotel room bed. Your chest and hands felt strangely hot as the young, talented tennis player sat there next to you. After a few moments of shared bashful glances, you started to notice things about him that you hadn't before.
Sometimes when he smiled, only one corner of his lips would lift up. When that happened, it looked more like he was smirking than he was smiling, which made him seem either disingenuous or disinterested -- even though it seemed that neither of those things were true.
He smelled like generic aftershave, faint sweat, and warm skin, which was a pleasant contrast to the smell of the hotel room. While the hotel was clean, it was also old, which made the permeating scent of the carpet akin to something like the stale basement of a childhood home.
He fidgeted subtly with his hands, staring into your eyes before averting them to look around at your luggage and tennis bag on the floor.
"So.. you said you're going to Stanford this fall, right?" you say, leaning back on your palms.
"Yeah, yeah," he nods, turning his head to look back to you again with a sheepish smile, “and you’re going to Harvard?”
“Mhm,” you hum, smiling back at him, “is Patrick going with you?”
He laughs a little, his brows furrowing, “Patrick? Hell no.”
You shake your head, “why not?”
“Patrick isn’t the college type. He wants to go pro immediately.”
“Ohh.. right, i forgot he mentioned that.”
“Yeah,” Art shrugs, still giving you a soft look as he shifts a little in his spot on the end of the mattress.
“I think you’re better off at Stanford without him,” you tease slightly, a playful smirk on your face.
He smiles wider, “Why?”
“I think he’d just get you into trouble,” you chuckle.
Art laughs again, a tiny bit harder than he did before, and you’re not sure if it’s because he genuinely likes your playfulness or if it’s because he’s a little nervous.
"You don't think I can cause trouble?" he asks with a small smile.
You shake your head after letting a soft giggle bubble up and out of your chest in response.
"Nah, not really."
"Why's that?"
"You're just so.. so nice."
He scoffs lightly and gently rolls his eyes, reaching up to tuck some of his messy hair behind one of his ears. He chews a little on the inside of his cheek.
"What?" you laugh.
"Everyone me and Patrick meet thinks he's this cool 'bad-boy' and I'm just this.. meek little 'nice guy'," he chuckles, matching your body language now by also leaning back on his palms.
Your smile falters slightly when he does this, but only because now the sleeve of his gray tee shirt was brushing against your bare shoulder, and your faces were a short distance apart. If you tried, you could probably just lean in and kiss him..
"It's not a bad thing to be a nice guy," you smirk, continuing your guys' little back-and-forth.
"Yeah, but there's, like, connotations behind that idea of a guy."
"What 'connotations'?"
He lets out a stiff chuckle, averting his eyes down to his legs before he returns your eye contact once again as he speaks, "I don't know.. that I'm 'shy', or that i 'cant be assertive'.."
You smile, feeling another wave of warmth creep over your stomach just from the way he was looking at you. His eyes were soft but steadily looking into yours, and each second felt like three years.
"So you're saying that those assumptions aren't true?" you tease gently, subtly moving to lean your shoulder against his. He noticed this immediately.
"God!" he laughs, slightly offended but still playing along, "do they seem true?"
"No," you say a bit softer with a smile, your eyes unintentionally drifting down to his pink lips. He noticed this too.
"Okay, good," he leans in a little more, your lips only a handful of inches apart now ".. 'cause they're definitely not."
"Really?" you chuckle, still teasing him.
He nods, "Really, really."
You could feel your heart beating rapidly in your ribcage, and then you started to wonder if he could hear it. Your lips part, little breaths being let out as you lean in an extra two inches. He smirks, and then you feel him move his right hand off of the bed and over your thigh. Its gentle and almost hesitant; giving you the opportunity to say 'no' if you wanted to.. but you didn't. you definitely didn't want to say no.
Your breathing hitches a little and your thighs shift slightly to capture his fingers between your limbs, and he looks steadily into your eyes as his digits squeeze your flesh softly.
"I'm not that shy," he murmurs lowly.
And then his lips are on yours, hot and hungry and eager to please. Your brows furrow as you kiss him back with equal ferocity, and his other hand moves to gently cup your cheek.
His tongue lathes over your bottom lip, and you open your mouth wider so that he can slide it in and taste you better. He groans softly against your smooth, parted lips, his hand between your thighs sliding up to press his palm against your clothed heat. A shaky, barely audible moan escapes your lips as this happens, and he swallows it down as he kisses you harder.
Art's hands then move to slide under your athletic tank top, and he pulls away with lidded eyes to mumble lowly and warmly against your jaw, "can I take this off?"
You nod feverishly, breathing heavily, as you lift your arms above your head while he pulls your shirt up and over. He tosses it aside once it's off like it's trash to him, and then he's diving back in to kiss and suck and nip at your neck. You're sure that he'll leave marks, but you can't find the strength or willpower to deny how hot it would be to look in the mirror later and see all of the little red blotches that his pretty mouth left behind. A few soft "ahh"s and "oh"s slip from your parted lips as his tongue flicks over your pulse point like its a clit, and you can feel your cunt clench around nothing. Without further warning, both of his hands slide up to grope your breasts over your sports bra, and your back arches instantly.
"I want to see more of you," Art whispers against your neck, one of his hands moving back to gently grope your thigh right under the hem of your shorts, while his other starts to hook one of his fingers under the elastic band of your bra.
"Yeah, yes," you mumble and nod, your eyes fluttering shut as you feel his silky tongue lap gently over the sensitive spot on your lower neck again.
He pulls back, his lips shiny with his own saliva, and he lets out a small huff of air as he stands up from the bed and shifts to stand in front of where you're trembling on the edge of it.
Your eyes meet his, and you now fully realize that his whole "nice guy" thing was a facade.. maybe it was just a protective cloak he put on until he got comfortable..
Regardless, he looked different now as he stood in front of you, breathing heavily as his gaze drank in the sight of your body. He takes a step closer, his knees touching the end of the bed as his legs stood steadily between yours. He looks down, shifting his left knee to push your legs farther apart, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to stifle a whine.
Not a moment later, he's reaching down to pull your tight sports bra over your head. It drops from his grasp onto the floor, his breathing hitches as he looks down at your exposed chest, and then his hands are moving to roughly knead and squeeze at your soft flesh underneath his palms. You shudder and bite your lip. He thumbs your nipples.
His eyes move back up to return your gaze, and he leans down and starts to crawl on top of you, his body gently coaxing yours to lay back flat over the patterned comforter. You don't need a verbal cue from him to know what he wants and what his goal is; his body did all the talking -- just like it did when he played tennis.
"Fuck," he breathes out, his erection straining against the inside of his boxers as it presses against your bare abdomen. A lift of your hips is all the indication he needs from you to tell him that you're as desperate for this as he is right now, and so he gingerly begins to slide one of his hands down the front of your shorts. His touch dips under the waistband, and then before you can process the sensation, you realize that he's moving down into your panties too. One thing that you are painfully aware of, though, is the fact that he never tries to break eye contact while he does all this..
"Ahh.." you moan, your brows pinching up as you feel his warm fingertips brush over your throbbing, sensitive nub. He was hardly touching you, but it was enough to get the fire roaring in your guts. It was more than enough. He knew all the right ways to touch you.. and all the right spots to squeeze and caress.. which seemed crazy considering you two had never spoken to one another until about three or so hours ago.
He smiles gently, his eyes now moving to gaze down at your lips. The pads of Art's fingers begin to play with your clit, rubbing soft and incessant circles over the ball of nerves as you start to squirm on the bed. His head leans back down to kiss your neck and your hands shakily grab onto his shoulders. A laugh escapes him, coating your flesh in a bath of warm air, while he feels your nails dig into him. Even over the fabric of his cotton tee shirt he can feel this, and he winces slightly before the sting of your grip dissolves into pleasure and he starts to moan along with you.
A few more minutes of this go on, and the band in your stomach is stretched more and more until it feels like it's about to snap, and then-
"I really want to fuck you right now," Art murmurs against your skin, his fingers coming to a pause as he pulls his face from the crook of your neck to look down into your dazed eyes.
You blink a few times, feeling the numbing pressure in your pussy start to fade as he unintentionally edges you.
"yes, please.. I want you to.." you softly whimper, your hands reaching up to needily tug at his shirt.
"I don't have a condom," he whispers breathlessly, shaking his head softly as his gaze falls onto your lips now.
"I.." you pause, taking a second to breathe as you attempt to think over the predicament you're now in, "uhm.. I- well, I don't really care.. as long as you pull out.."
It's almost as if just the idea of him being able to be inside of you-- skin to skin; raw--sets him off, because the moment the words leave your mouth, he's letting out soft breathy moans and grinding his clothed pelvis against your thigh. You can feel him throbbing through the fabric, and now you're certain you can't wait much longer. Neither can he.
Your hands pull on his shirt again, forcing his face back down close to yours, "I want you inside of me.."
A groan and a grunt later, he's scrambling to pull his shirt off, and then his shorts, and then his strong calloused hands are gently tugging yours down as well. Art doesn't want to waste time on the act of undressing. Sure, he liked being tender and going slow most times, but this occasion was different. The more that he felt himself leaking into his underwear, the more he needed to feel your silky cunt grip around his cock. Maybe if he got your number after all this, he could go slow next time, but not now. Not when he's like this and you're like that.
When your panties are pulled down with your shorts, Art lets out a groan as he sees the fabric connecting with your delicate flesh via a glistening string of arousal from your heat.
"Jesus Christ," he huffs, his tongue moving to dip out over his bottom lip involuntarily. He pushes your shorts and panties down the rest of the way, and you urgently kick them off onto the room's carpet.
After he moves back up, one of his hands reaches down once again to your cunt. His fingers gently brush over your slicked-up folds, causing your body to jolt and shudder as you struggle to remain quiet. In the next instant, you feel his touch leave your body and you watch in awe as he brings his digits up to his lips and sucks your juices off of them. He rolls your wetness around over his tongue and his eyes roll back a little. He can't help it -- you just taste so fuckin' good.
"Art," you whisper, your voice dissolving into a soft whine, "c'mon.. just- I want you to-"
You're cut off when the man hovering over your form moves his fingers from his mouth and down to yours, effectively shutting you up.
"Suck," he whispers.
You do as you're told instantly, parting your lips to engulf his middle and ring finger in wet heat; your drool pools over his fingertips as your tongue swirls around them and tastes the mix of his saliva and the remnants of your arousal.
He watches with bated breath as you do this, his eyes never leaving your face, and he cant stop himself from pushing his hard, clothed dick against your bare cunt. Your eyes flutter. A string of whimpers echo out into the room from your chest, and you can feel more of your wetness slide down from your entrance.
Art keeps his fingers in your mouth as he uses his other hand to pull his hard-on out of his black boxer briefs, groaning as he taps your clit with the tip of it a few times. Each time his leaking cockhead touches your sensitive parts, your hips buck up. He didn't think it was physically possible to get as turned on as he was right then.
He shifts his pelvis back so that he can slide his dick over your sticky body, not pushing in quite yet, but just teasing your greedy hole. The feeling of your heady moans around his fingers cause them to vibrate, and he leans down close to your face on instinct.
Your breath catches in your throat. Your eyes blink open and you whimper as he uses his digits to gently force your lips to part so that he can shove his tongue past them. Art licks at the inside of your mouth, groaning while he subtly removes his fingers and brings them down to your clit once more. He slots your bundle of nerves between his index and middle finger, sliding them up and down to effectively stroke over your most sensitive area as you feel his cock prodding at your hole.
While his tongue laps over yours, his mouth eagerly swallowing the obscenely loud moans you're letting out as your climax approaches once again, he begins to slide his tip into you. Your eyes instantly open wide before your face scrunches up in pleasure and your hands desperately paw at his shoulders.
He slides in another inch.
And another.
And then two more.
And then he bottoms out completely, filling you wholly with his twitching length as he pulls his face back from your lips to gasp softly.
You look up at him as his brows furrow, and you wriggle underneath him as he lets out a soft growl.
"You're so tight.. shit, you feel so good," he murmurs lowly, his eyes on yours as he starts to slide himself slowly back out before thrusting back in. You can feel him hit your cervix. You'd let him bruise it if he wanted to.
And he wants to.
"Fuck me harder," you moan softly.
"Yeah?" he smirks, breathing heavily.
"Yeah."
He leans up so that his back is straight, and he gazes down at you while he slides his hands under your form to gingerly cup your lower back.. and then he's pounding into you without further warning.
Your back arches up from his hold, and every thrust of his thick cock into your cunt is sending explosions of numbing heat throughout your lower half.
Each movement of his hips results in a lewd squelch as his pelvis slaps into the underside of your ass, and every movement sends you closer and closer to the edge. He's groaning and moaning above you, watching your every move as you squirm around and take him properly. You want to be good for him; he can tell.
Whimpers and needy whines are forced out of you as he fucks you with abandon into the mattress, and your mind is forced back into reality once you feel his hands move from your back to your sensitive tits.
"Are you gonna cum? You're squeezing down on me," he breathes out, a loud groan cutting his words off as he tips his head back. His thrusts grow sloppier, "oh god, oh fff-u-uck.."
"Ye-- Uhh- Ahh-!" you hoarsely and brokenly moan out, unable to fully give him an answer. Your hands fist the cool sheets under you as your legs start to involuntarily squeeze together with the onslaught of your impending orgasm.
Art brings his head back up to look down at you, and he shakes his head, sliding his hands down from your breasts to your legs to lift them up and spread them apart gently but forcefully.
"Keep them spread.. I know you're close," he says softly to you, "I promise I'll let you come.. just keep being good for me.. I'm almost there.."
Once his words fill your fuzzy head, you can't help but let out an obscenely loud---borderline-pornographic---moan as your thighs shake in his hold. His cock slams into you faster, but with less and less precision. He bites his lip before his jaw slacks and he lets out an equally loud moan to accompany your filthy noises.
"You're so fucking pretty... you're so-- you feel so damn good," he babbles gruffly, his touch digging into your legs as his hips rashly thrust his throbbing length in and out of your sopping pussy.
You nod, unsure of what to say or how to even respond in the state that your body is in. You're somehow limp and tense at the same time, your body shivering as your back arches up again.
"I-- I'm gonna--!" you gasp out in a shaky whimper.
He moans at your words, fucking you deeper and messier, before he leans down over you and you can feel his broad toned chest press against yours.
"Say it.." he breathes out against your ear in a soft groan.
You moan, shuddering under him as your cunt starts to rhythmically tighten around him.
"I'm gonna cum," you whine, nearly sobbing.
"Fuck," he groans, "yeah? Say it again for me."
"I'm gonna cummm-!"
"You wanna cum on my cock?"
You nod helplessly, your arms wrapped around his flushed upper back as his cock slides in and out of you; his tip constantly brushing up against that special spot in your velvety walls hidden just a couple inches inside.
"Yess-s-!" you moan, your body absolutely writhing on the bed under his heavy form.
"Okay.. alright," he breathes out hotly into your neck, "go on and cum for me."
Before you can process what's going on, your body is overwhelmed with an overpowering heat as the last thing you distinctly feel is one of Art's hands moving down your lower abdomen to then rub circles over your swollen bud with his thumb. And that's all it takes -- You’re thrown over the edge.
"Fuck! OH MY GOD, OH--!" you cry out, your nails digging into his back as he fucks you through your climax.
He groans harshly and loudly against your warm skin before his hips stutter with the feeling of your hole pulsing around him. He keeps his digit rubbing incessant, soft circles over your clit to prolong your orgasm as he forces himself to pull out with a gasp.
His balls draw up and he reaches down quickly with his other hand to stroke over his length just as he feels his release start to rise up.
As you moan tremblingly and bask in your afterglow, you try to catch your breath as you shakily push yourself up onto your elbows just in time to watch Art squirt out a thick load over your torso. Rope after rope of sticky white fluid drips and gushes from his cock and between his fingers as he jerks himself off; shuddering deeply over you and letting out little "fuck"s and "oh my god"s and "yes"s.
After a few more shaky moments tick by, his thumb comes to a halt over your clit as he watches the last drops of his cum fall onto your stomach.
He breathes heavily, biting his lip as he watches your body shake. He loves the way his cum looks on your beautiful body.. it's like liquid pearl splattered all over you. He takes several mental pictures of the scene in front of him before he collapses on top of you with a soft grin.
You chuckle breathily, wrapping your arms around him as your warm bodies stick together in the aftermath, and he presses two soft kisses to your neck. One of your hands slides up from between his shoulder blades to run some of your fingers through his messy curls. He shivers and sighs, sliding his hands under your body to hold you closer to him.
A small period of comfortable silence is held between you two as you both work to catch your breaths, before Art is the one to break the quiet with a soft murmur into your shoulder.
"So.. can I get your number?"
"After round two," you whisper with a smile.
"Deal."
note; this is for everyone who voted for soft dom!art donaldson in that poll + the anons in my inbox asking for this sort of dynamic w/ art <3 much much much love !
divider credit: @benkeibear <3
#art donaldson the man that you are#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x you#art donaldson smut#art donaldson fanfic#dom!art donaldson#challengers movie#challengers film#challengers smut#mike faist#mike faist smut#art donaldson#patrick zweig#tashi duncan#sub!reader#dom!character#soft dom!art donaldson
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AND THEN THERE WERE THREE…
NOTES — just saw challengers today and absolutely needed to write smth for these two! only used a gif of art because theres none of the two of them and almost none for patrick </3, i’m a little rusty with smut so bare with me
WARNINGS — 18+ content mdni, slight challengers 2024 spoilers, fem!reader, kinda dom!art, pure smut/little plot, art/patrick interactions, talk of previous art/patrick sexual encounters, spit play, oral (m receiving), tit sucking, dirty talk, mentions of anal, little bit of aftercare, not proofread, lmk if i forgot anything!
REQUEST — Pls write a smut fic with reader and Art fucking in the hotel room (with Patrick watching) and reader asking if Patrick can join them and ofc Art can’t say no because he finds the idea of this super hot. Maybe reader makes Art and Patrick make out like in the movie 👀
WORD COUNT — 1.6k
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None of you were too sure how exactly this had started. You, Art, and Patrick had stumbled back into their hotel room after leaving the beach, each of you finding your own place to sit after Patrick opened up a beer, took a swig, and passed the can to you. You’d taken a seat closer to Art, having naturally gravitated towards him more so than Patrick. And quickly, you and Art were making out, leaving Patrick to watch.
You blamed the beer. And the fact that you found both Art and Patrick incredibly hot. One minute you’re at a party, dedicated to your best friend, Tashi Duncan, and the next you’re sitting on the beach being invited back to the guys’ hotel room, and the next after that, Art is stripping you of your clothes while Patrick takes a seat leaned up against the wall opposite the foot of the bed.
“Can I-” He begins, fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt, desperation clear in his eyes. At your nod, Art quickly yanks your shirt over your head and immediately pulls your body flush against his. He’s planting soft, wet kisses up and down your neck as his fingers work the back of your bra. His eyes widen the moment it drops to the ground.
Giving you a moment's glance he quickly sucks one nipple into his mouth, licking and sucking and biting. Feeling as though he’s neglected the other one, he pinches and tugs on the opposite nipple, smiling around the one in his mouth at the moans you let out.
“Yeah, baby? You like this? Me with your tits in my mouth and my best friend jerking off while watching us?”
For a moment, you’d forgotten about Patrick. Your eyes shoot open, landing on him instantly. The sight of him, slouched against the wall, his hand already wrapped around his cock, with his eyes fixated on both you and Art. He looked so hot, you weren’t sure how you’d forgotten that he was even there.
“Mhm, ‘s hot.” you admitted, turning Arts face back to you, tugging his bottom lip back into your mouth. The blond pushes you back onto the beds that were pushed together - Patrick’s idea if anyone were to ask - and begins kissing up your stomach only stopping long enough to kiss each of your nipples. He grabs your face, pushing his fingers into your cheeks, making you open your mouth, before letting a large glob of spit fall from his mouth into yours.
“Swallow.” He smiles when you do so without complaint, even going as far as to look as if you wanted him to do it again.
Patrick moans at that, louder than before. Sure he and Art had messed around before, when they were both single and bored and needed a good fuck, that wasn’t new, but hearing that commanding tone in the blonds voice sent a shiver down his spine.
“God, that was hot.” Patrick sighs, laughing when Art gives him the finger.
“Fuck off, Patrick.” Both of them know he doesn’t mean it, if he wasn’t wanted there, you or Art would’ve said something, but you didn’t. whether Art knew it or not, both you and he wanted him to stay, and keep watching.
At some point during that interaction, you weren’t sure when exactly, Art had shed his pants and underwear. He was dragging the tip up and down your slit, up and down, stopping every few seconds to slap your clit with it. When your eyes finally landed on his length, it made your jaw drop. He was big, bigger than you’d seen before, he was long and girthy with veins running along the bottom of it.
He slowly slides into you, admiring the look of pure bliss on your face. He’d never seen anyone look so angelic. The closest comparison he could make was how Patrick looked when he’d first given him a blow job. He wouldn’t call the look on Patrick's face angelic perse, but it was hot, really hot. The reminder of that, and the way you’ve begun clenching around him, spurs him into you. His hips snapping into yours, his heavy balls hitting your ass with each thrust. It was unlike anything either of you had felt before.
I want him to join.
You weren’t sure that the words had actually left your mouth until the blond on top of you stopped his thrusts, looking into your eyes for a moment.
“That what you want, baby?” He murmurs, kissing sloppily up and down your neck, shivers running through your entire body at his touch. His fingers falling to your clit, flicking at it. The pleasure was almost enough to make you forget that he’d even asked a question.
Almost.
“Please,” Even in your fucked out state, you couldn’t help but want more.
“Come on, Zweig. You heard her.” Patrick grins, hopping to his feet, although slightly hesitant. He wasn’t sure where to go, or what to do. But his nerves dissolved the moment Art turned around, and gave him that look, one that he knew meant that everything would be okay. It meant that he just needed to get over himself and have a good time, everything would work out. After that he’s on the move towards you, giving Art a harsh slap to the ass as he goes past him, laughing when Art swats back at him.
Patrick all but flies onto the bed, having kicked his underwear off the moment he stood up, and his shirt is long gone, a mix of yours, his, and Arts clothes are scattered around the hotel room, sure to have lost at least one thing. But none of you had it in you to care, too overwhelmed with pleasure. Your mouth opens before he’s even fully on the bed, but he gets the message, quickly positioning his tip in front of your mouth, thrusting a few times before losing control and fucking your throat.
The three of you move in tandem for minutes, or maybe it was hours, Art would thrust into you, rubbing your clit with his fingers, while Patrick would be pulling himself out of your mouth at the same time. It felt as though this was a regular occurrence, as though it were normal. And god did you hope it would become a normal thing. The three of you, together, making each other feel good.
Tapping Patricks thigh lightly, you hum happily when he pulls out of your mouth, giggling at how quickly he begins to check and make sure you’re okay.
“What? What’s wrong? Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” The words come out of his mouth at lightning speed and it’s difficult for you to understand, but Art had and his thrusts slowed to a stop, hands leaving your body, giving you a questioning look as if repeating everything his friend had just said.
“I’m fine baby,” And then you say something neither of them could quite hear.
“Gotta speak up for us, sweetheart. Can’t do what you want us to do otherwise.” That comes from Patrick, Art nodding along with him.
“Want you two to kiss.” The words fly out of your lips and you’re suddenly shy, pressing your face into Patricks thigh, nipping at it softly.
Both men smirk at you before making eye contact with each other, giving a subtle nod.
“Well c’mon man, you know how I like it.”
The combination of Arts words, his sudden thrusts and Patrick taking it upon himself to flick at your clit, push you over the edge. The power of your orgasm makes your legs shake, your mind empty of anything this isn’t you, Patrick, or Art.
They’re still kissing, it’s all teeth and tongue and spit. It’s messy, and it only stops long enough for Arts mouth to fall open, moans spilling out as he comes inside of you, hot spurts of his come flooding your insides, leaving a white ring around the base of his cock as he fucks you through both of your orgasms.
At this point, Patrick has taken a step back, and is watching again. He’s stroking himself with one hand, squeezing just right and out of nowhere, Art reaches out, cupping the dark haired man's balls, tugging and rubbing on them just the way Patrick likes. The added pleasure sends him crashing over the edge, he barely has the time to move and aim his cum to where you and Art are connected, spilling himself all over your cunt and Arts cock.
Art pulls out and the three of you fall into a pile of heavy breathing, sweat, spit, and cum on the beds pushed into the middle of the room. Once you all catch your breath, Patrick is the first to speak.
“Wow.” It was simple, but it made you all burst out laughing.
“Wow, indeed.” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his pec, turning to do the same to Art.
“That was fucking hot.” Arts words make you all giggle yet again.
“Okay,” Patrick leans you into Art and pushes himself off of the bed, “‘m gonna get you two cleaned up, be right back.” He reassures you, hearing you whine at losing his presence. He comes back with a warm washcloth in hand, and a small cup of water in his other. He hands the water to Art motioning for him to take a drink and then give you some as well, while he bends at the waist, resting his knees on the floor and taking the cloth to your core, cleaning you as gently as he could before moving onto Art. Tossing the cloth to the corner of the room he pulls both you and Art into his embrace, enjoying the quiet for a moment before you break the silence.
“Round two? Whoever makes me cum harder gets to fuck me here first.” You smile slyly, placing your hand on your ass, giggling when Patrick snatches you from Arts hold, muttering something about how he ‘got you first last time and that it’s his turn now.’
#◜ caitee’𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 ✎ ˚✧ ꜝ#challengers#art donaldson#patrick zweig#challengers x reader#challengers imagine#challengers smut#challengers x you#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson imagine#art donaldson smut#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig imagine#patrick zweig smut#mike faist x reader#mike faist smut#josh o’connor x reader#josh o’connor smut#dividers by cafekitsune
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good luck, babe!
pairing: tashi duncan x fem!reader x patrick zweig x art donaldson
summary: patrick zwieg invites tashi duncan and art donaldson to join him at your engagement party. you think they came to celebrate you and your new chapter and put the past behind you, rebuilding lost friendships, but tashi hopes to stop you from marrying a man you never wanted.
—or: the trio crashes your engagement party
word count: 10k+ (i have a serious problem)
contains: SMUT 18+, smut with a lot of plot, post-challengers movie, fluff & comfort, angst, tashi’s pov but lowkey get's mixed up around the end, foursome, oral (fem receiving), oral (m receiving), p in v, unprotected sed (wrap it before yall tap it), homewrecking, cheating but also not cheating but also a worse third thing, three-way make out, four-way make out, dom!tashi, patrick being nasty, art being a loser, no use of y/n, situationship that lasts 13 years.
author’s note: this fic is based on this request with inspo from the greatest song on earth: good luck, babe! it was supposed to be a quick smut blurb but at this point, you all know i can’t write smut without some kind of angsty plot. everyone is super messy and there is some of the dirtiest smut i’ve written so far (it’s only going to get worse from here). this one is a roller coaster.
It didn't make sense to any of them, how you could've possibly ended up with him.
Tashi remembered him from Stanford vividly. He came from a white-collared family, with daddy's money that bought him everything he could've ever asked for, yet he still wanted more. He played golf and polo and even dabbled with tennis but never had enough guts or skill to take it seriously. But his dad funded most of the programs and events at the school, so everyone had known him, his charm, his family, and his inability to stick to one thing even outside of sports. He clung onto a new girl every other week, a new girl wrapped around his finger only to be ultimately tossed aside like the rest of them.
"What a dick," Tashi remembered you saying once, stabbing your fork into your salad while glaring daggers at him from across the cafeteria as he bragged loudly to his fan club about how he beat you in a game of tennis.
Which he didn't.
You let him win.
His parents had been paying you to coach him, paid you extra every time you let him win a set or two against you, even if it was off the record. God knows you needed the money.
"I think I'm gonna quit." You said, turning back to glance at Tashi.
"About damn time," she snickered, shaking her head. "I told you you're wasting your time with him when you could be doing something better. Like training with me."
You had rolled your eyes and poked her arm with your fork, "If I'm still trailing after him this time next week, shoot me in the head and put me out of my misery."
Almost thirteen years later, you're walking around with his ring on your finger at your engagement party. A party where your fiancé announced your upcoming retirement after a tennis career run that Tashi would’ve killed for: a six-time US Open winner; two-time gold medalist at the Olympics; and brand deals that would ensure you and the next four generations of your family lived happily under your trust fund.
Clearly, you weren't marrying him for his money.
It made Tashi anxious, because, in some way, she could see that the marriage you will have with your fiancé is far too similar to how Tashi's would have been if she and Patrick stayed together.
Okay, maybe that was a reach.
Or maybe it's how it would've been if neither of you had gone up to Art and Patrick's hotel room that night. Or maybe it would've been Tashi's ring on your finger instead.
She couldn't shake the bitter taste in her mouth as she watched you laugh with him, your eyes lighting up in the way they always did when you were truly happy. It used to be her who made you smile like that. She remembered the late-night practices, the shared victories, and the quiet moments shared in the comfort of her dorm room. She remembered the promises you both made and dreams of dominating the tennis world together.
But she shouldn't dwell on the past, she shouldn't think about what-ifs. At least that's what Art tells her with a hand on her shoulder. Tashi glances at his hand, noting the wedding band that rests on his finger. The squeeze he gives is meant to be reassuring, but instead, it feels suffocating.
"I'll never know how he bagged her," Patrick tuts from her other side, a drink already in his hand. He holds it close to his mouth, biting the rim of the glass before taking a swig, his eyes never leaving you. His gaze is shameless, tracing the way your dress hugs your curves, how your hair shines under the chandelier lights, and the way your lips move as you speak.
"Lucky, lucky man..." Patrick shakes his head, a bitter edge to his voice.
A waiter passes by, offering hors d'oeuvres, and Patrick takes enough for the three of them for himself, setting his empty glass on the platter. As he stuffs an appetizer in his mouth, he begins to walk away, his eyes fixed on you.
"Where do you think you're going?" Art asks, his hand slipping from Tashi's shoulder.
Patrick spins around, mouth full, and shrugs. "To congratulate the future bride."
Art and Tashi stand there, watching, almost dumbfounded when they see Patrick sneak up behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle and lifting you into the air. You shriek, champagne spilling from your glass, but once you see who it is, a wide smile breaks across your face.
"Patrick!" Tashi can hear you from across the hall. Patrick lifts you again, hoisting you into the air. You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he spins you around, your laughter ringing out—a sweet melody that draws the attention of everyone nearby. "You made it!"
Tashi feels a pang of surprise.
You and Patrick had been in closer contact than she imagined. It stings, a reminder of the distance that had grown between you after her injury, much like the distance that had grown between Art and Patrick. She never knew you had turned to Patrick for comfort. Though it made sense—Patrick was the one you invited, not her, not Art. Patrick was the one who had to ask if he could bring two guests instead of the traditional plus-one.
But surely, you must have known that if you invited Patrick, Tashi and Art would come too, right?
Right?
The question churns a pit of dread in her stomach as Art starts to lead her closer to you out of courtesy.
Patrick's arms are wrapped tightly around your torso, his hand resting too low to be innocent, but you seem happy nonetheless. Happier in Patrick's arms than in the arms of your future husband. You embrace him close, the ring on your finger glimmering under the chandelier lights as you hold onto the back of his neck, your laughter finally subsiding as the spinning stops.
As Tashi and Art approach, the reality of the situation hits her harder. She's watching from the outside, a spectator to your happiness, feeling the sting of what could have been. She forces a smile; your engagement to the worst person in the world can't possibly be the thing that makes her break. Not after everything she's built since she started coaching.
Art tries to catch your eye, offering a polite smile once you let go of Patrick. "Hey."
"Hi," you say breathlessly, a bright smile across your face while Patrick swings his arm over your shoulder. You seem happy, almost relieved that Tashi and Art were here as if you doubted their attendance. "Wow, it's been so long. You guys look great."
"Thanks," Tashi finally says, the words weighing on her tongue like lead.
"You look beautiful," Art tells you, and it's rushed as if he's been trying to keep it to himself but couldn't help it once he was close enough to you.
Before you can get a word out, another arm wraps around your waist, discreetly pushing Patrick away from you to slide into your side. Patrick lets out an annoyed groan, stepping aside as your fiancé squeezes you tightly and says, "She does, doesn't she? Hey, killer."
You turn to him, about to say something, maybe greet him back, maybe introduce him to everyone. But he doesn't let you, he's leaning closer until his lips lock with yours. It takes you by surprise—you flinch at first before finally letting him kiss you properly, his hand cupping the back of your neck, pushing you as close to him as humanly possible.
Art lets out a low, awkward sigh while watching it happen before him, and Patrick rolls his eyes, stepping back in search of a waiter for another drink.
He holds onto you like you're a prize he's won. Almost as if he's been competing with everyone in the world to finally hold you and show you off. As if that's all you had to offer.
You blink, clearly embarrassed, as you clear your throat to disperse the awkward tension in the air. "These are some, uh," you stumble over your words before nodding towards Art, Tashi, and Patrick, "some old friends from college. I'm sure you remember—"
He's interrupting you again, reaching out with the hand that's not on you to shake Tashi's hand. He holds it tightly, his thumb pressing against her wedding ring. "Tashi Duncan, how could I ever forget? Still beautiful as ever."
She has to force herself to smile, for your sake. "Good to see you too—"
"You know," your fiancé starts, cutting her off, "I still remember the time you told me to suck a bag of dicks 'cause I took up your court time. Best day of my life."
"Yeah," Patrick laughs. He's found another glass of champagne to sip on, and it's by his lips when he says, "who doesn't love getting cussed out by Tashi."
You wince. "Patrick—"
"No, no. He's right. It's one out of a million. I took it as a compliement," your fiancé says, glancing at Tashi again, his eyes darting up and down, lingering on her wedding ring once more before she finally pulls her hand out of his grasp. He spots the arm Tashi has been clinging to. "Art Donaldson, I'm a big fan."
Art stiffens as if taken by surprise. "Really?"
Your fiancé is nodding, and when Art glances your way for a split second, he tugs you closer. "You're incredible. Watching you play, it's like, woah! He's killin' it out there. Too bad you've retired though, would've loved to see you play longer."
There's a faint redness to Art's face when he nods. "Oh, thank you."
"I've always wondered if I'd turn out the way you did if I stuck to tennis." Then he laughs, nudging your side. "If only this one put me to work like Tashi did to you, maybe we would've competed in the US Open a few times."
You snort and shake your head, the idea of watching the two of them even standing on the court together amusing you. "You couldn't beat Art if you tried."
Your fiancé shrugs. "Maybe Patrick."
"Stop kidding yourself. You can't even beat your nephew and he's twelve."
He hums, turning so that he'll face you. He holds your waist with both hands, caressing you gently. "You sure know your way into a man's heart, baby," he says lowly before kissing you again. It's rough and messy, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth. You shriek and press your hands against his chest. He doesn't let go immediately, peeking a glance towards the trio while kissing you.
Tashi feels a knot of disgust tightening in her stomach. The audacity of him to touch you like that in front of them, as if he’s marking his territory, sets her blood boiling just a little bit. God, did no one teach this guy any kind of etiquette?
She catches Art's expression out of the corner of her eye—his jaw is clenched as he turns to look away. Patrick's lips curl in a sneer, the glass in his hand trembling slightly. He fights the urge to throw it.
Your fiancé reaches down and gropes your ass over your silky white dress before finally separating from you.
You stand there, looking flushed and embarrassed, letting him whisper something in your ear before he walks off, joining a group of men who whistle and catcall at him as he nears them. Each jeer and hoot feels like a slap to the face.
"Uh, sorry," you apologize, unable to meet their eyes as you blindly wipe at your chin to fix your lipstick. "That was... I don't know what's gotten into him. He's not usually like this. He's, uh... he's great."
Patrick scoffs, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, real great."
Tashi can’t help but frown, her heart aching as she watches you fumble. "You can't possibly want to marry him," she wants to say, but the words get stuck in her throat. She can't bear to hear the answer, especially if it's the one she fears.
Art steps forward, his face a careful mask of neutrality. "If you’re happy," he says, but there's an edge to his tone, a challenge. The unspoken words hang heavily in the air: "Are you?"
You nod quickly, too quickly, as if trying to convince yourself as much as them. "Sure, sure. I mean, what’s not to be happy about? His family loves me. I'm retiring this year, and gonna spend more time with my family. Hopefully more time with some old friends?"
"Old friends?" Tashi repeats, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. The casual way you say it, as if years of distance and silence can be bridged with a few meetings, stings more than she cares to admit.
"Yeah, before I get busy with the baby."
"Baby?" Patrick's voice is sharp, almost disbelieving. "You’re pregnant?"
"What? No!" You quickly sputter, shaking your head. Then you pause, a thought crossing your mind and you lighten up a little bit, a hopeful smile gracing your face, "But I do want kids one day. I want three."
"Does he want kids?"
"We've talked about it, but he shuts it down all the time."
"You poor thing." Patrick puffs out, pinching your arm before reaching for your hand and leading you toward the bar. "Let's bring this conversation outside, ladies. I need a smoke. And you all need a drink stronger than his champagne."
The idea of fresh air and a strong drink is appealing. After grabbing a bottle of finely aged wine, the four of you make your way to the garden outside the grand hall. The shift from the stuffy indoor atmosphere to the cool night air is a relief.
The moonlight casts a silvery glow over the meticulously maintained garden, illuminating the path with a soft, ethereal light. You glow in your pretty white dress, the fabric shimmering as you take a seat on a patch of grass near the rose bushes. The scent of roses mingles with the crisp night air, creating a tranquil yet poignant backdrop. You glance up at the three of them who stand there, watching you.
Tashi raises a brow as you take a long swig of the wine. She didn't remember you to be much of a drinker.
"It's not that big of a deal," you say, passing her the bottle when she finally sits next to you.
It's as if her movement had woken the two guys and then Art takes a seat on your other side while Patrick lies down on the grass a few feet away to light a cigarette.
You pout, "If he doesn't want kids, then we won't have kids."
"But you want kids," Tashi reminds you, but it's more of a question as if she's wondering if that's truly what you want. Don't get her wrong, Tashi loves being a mother, she would kill anyone for Lily, but you wanting kids barely before confirming your retirement threw her off a little bit.
"Of course I do." You hiccup, reaching for the bottle again. "I'm not getting any younger. It's just... he'll come around."
"And if he doesn't?" Art asks, his voice gentle but probing.
"Can we not talk about that right now? I just want to get shitfaced and party."
"Now we're talkin'!" Patrick interjects, his grin wide as he takes a drag from his cigarette. The embers glow briefly in the dark.
"Come on, everybody gather." Patrick flicks his cigarette off to the rocky pathway and snags the bottle from Art's hands. He raises it, nodding at you with that same smirk he's had for years. Snarky, cocky, and yet endearing. "To celebrate new beginnings. Even if your future husband's a dick and can't make you cum nearly half as hard as I can. Good luck, babe."
The rest of you all make a noise of annoyance, rolling your eyes. "Seriously?"
"Shut the fuck up, Patrick," Art scoffs, though there's a faint smile tugging at his lips as you let a giggle slip out past your fake annoyance.
Patrick's smile only widens at the sound of his friends' protests. It reminds him of the good old years when his biggest worry was which shorts he'd wear to his next game. "Cheers!"
As the bottle is passed around, Tashi can't help but feel a pang of nostalgia mixed with bitterness. The comradery of the past clashes painfully with the reality of the present. Is this how things are going to be like now? Is this night a call for a truce, waving the white flag so that all of you could be friends again, now as adults, making plans for brunch and getting the kids together for birthday parties?
You take another sip from the bottle, your gaze drifting towards the moonlit sky. "To new beginnings," you repeat softly, though the hope in your voice is tinged with uncertainty.
Tashi leans back, her eyes lingering on you, a mix of longing and regret pooling in her heart. Art sits quietly beside her, lost in his thoughts, while Patrick’s laughter rings out, masking deeper sentiments beneath his forced cheerfulness. The chatter and music from the hall spill into the garden, the warm lights casting a golden glow over the scene. Patrick talks animatedly about the seasons he thinks he has left in him, and to Tashi's annoyance, you encourage him.
She shakes her head at the way Patrick's eyes light up, glancing at her with a knowing look. Despite her irritation, she can't deny the comfort of slipping back into their old dynamic.
Suddenly, Art hums thoughtfully. He has been mostly quiet, listening to the conversation with occasional quiet laughs. Now, as he puts down the empty bottle of wine, he looks at you, his eyes more alive than they have been in a long time. "I had a burger for the first time in years," he announces, a smile spreading across his face as if he is proud of it.
You gasp, perking up as you reach over to hold his hands. "How was it?"
"Amazing," Art says fondly, "like heaven inside a bun."
"You should've seen him," Tashi smirks, shoulder to shoulder with Patrick, playfully kicking Art. "He was drooling just looking at the menu."
He rolls his eyes, "I wasn't drooling." When you fall silent, he looks at you again, frowning. "You haven't had one in a while, have you?"
You shake your head, "No, I think the last time I had one was when we graduated."
Patrick scoffs, "Bullshit."
You laugh, "It's true! I've been very strict with my diet. And now that I've retired... I don't know..." You shrug, suddenly getting shy as Art starts tracing stars against the back of your hand. "There are so many options, I wouldn't know where to start."
"It doesn't have to be anything fancy," Tashi says.
"Pretty sure I saw an old diner on the way here," Patrick suggests. He stands, stretching and groaning before bending over to take Tashi's hand and help her up.
You sputter, watching them all start to stand before you. "Shut up, we're not driving, you're drunk."
"But sober enough to see how badly you want this," Patrick teases, waving a finger near your face and smirking. "You're drooling."
"No, I'm not!"
"Sure you are," Art joins in, pulling you up to your feet. He swipes a thumb at your chin, "Look right there, by your lip."
"Oh," Tashi grins, "I see it."
"Shut up, Tash, no you don't." The words fall from your lips before you can stop them. The old nickname fits too smoothly as if it hasn't been years since you've called her that. Tashi smiles, feeling like a teenager again, messing around with you. She starts to walk off, Art and Patrick following her while you stand there, dumbfounded and a little breathless from their teasing.
"Where are you going?"
"To get a burger?" Tashi shrugs, and she smirks at you, a mischievous smile that makes you wonder if any of you have ever grown up at all. "You coming or what?"
You try to be reasonable, "I can't just leave."
"We'll bring you back before anyone notices," Patrick bargains, jogging back to your side and taking your arm to lead you to the exit. "Lighten up, when was the last time you had some fun?"
You don't even look back.
You find yourself laughing, nodding as the four of you make your way out of the garden. The moonlight guides your steps, casting long shadows on the path.
The walk is a blur of laughter and shared stories, the kind of carefree joy that you haven't felt in years. Before long, you arrive at the diner. The neon lights buzz softly, casting a nostalgic glow over the parking lot. You can smell the greasy, comforting aroma of burgers and fries even before you step inside.
The few people in the diner stare, watching as what seems to be a runaway bride and three wedding guests stumble and giggle over each other, lips a little purple from the wine you've all had and ordering burgers to go.
Once you have your food, you all find yourselves sitting on the curb of the diner's parking lot, the warm night air wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. Patrick hands out the burgers, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous light as he makes a show of presenting yours to you. "First bite in... how many years?"
"Too many," You take the burger with a chuckle, unwrapping it and taking a bite. "Oh my God," you mumble around your mouthful, "this is amazing."
Tashi watches you, a soft smile playing on her lips. "Told you."
Art takes a bite of his own burger, nodding in agreement. "There's nothing like it."
You shake your head, going in for more, "This is the greatest thing I've put in my mouth."
Patrick, already halfway through his, lets out a loud laugh, "Yeah, I bet."
The parking lot felt like a little bubble of the past, untouched by the years that had separated you. It was strange how easy it was to fall back into the rhythm of your old friendships, how natural it felt to banter and laugh as if no time had passed at all.
Tashi rolls her eyes, though you don't even seem phased by Patrick's joke. "I can't even get mad," you say, swallowing, "I feel like I'm eighteen again."
"Tell me about it," Art agrees. Then he pauses for a beat, chewing on her burger a little slower before turning to you. "You know, this reminds me of that time... when, you know."
"Oh," You snort and nod, scrunching up your face at the memory. "Yeah. It kinda does."
"What?" Patrick looks between the two of you, raising his brow in interest. "What time?"
"It was a long time ago," you tell him.
"Like back in Stanford," Art explains, and then he points between Tashi and Patrick with his burger, "when you two were still a thing."
Tashi sits up straight now, her full attention on you and Art. "Oh, really?"
"It was that time Patrick came for a surprise visit in the middle of our girls' night," you say, nodding your head at her, hoping she'd catch up with the memory. "And you kicked me out of your dorm so you and Patrick could... you know."
Tashi nods. "Have some alone time." She finishes for you.
She remembers that night well: you were both nestled in the haven of her dorm room, the soft glow of the television casting gentle shadows on the walls as the movie played on. You were curled up under her covers, your bodies intertwined, legs tangled together in a comforting knot. The world outside ceased to exist in those moments, leaving just the two of you in your little cocoon of comfort.
Tashi can still feel the sensation of your fingers running through her hair, the tender, rhythmic motion soothing her in a way nothing else could. The warmth of your touch lingered on her scalp, your fingers traced lazy patterns, and she remembered the way her body instinctively relaxed into yours.
But then came the knock on the door, and she felt her heart jump at her throat as she swung her legs out from under the covers and padded softly to the door.
When she opened the door, there stood Patrick, his presence almost surreal. He was holding a bouquet of carefully picked-out flowers, their vibrant colours contrasting sharply with the dim light of the hallway. His smirk was both nervous and charming
"You kicked her out?" Patrick gasps, and Tashi gives him a blank stare. He's acting as if he wasn't even there, as if he didn't stand by her desk while watching her scramble to clean up the mess the two of you made in her dorm and shove you out the door before locking it.
Patrick shrugs, that stupid smirk painted on his lips again before he finishes his burger. "Would've let you stay if it were up to me," he tells you, "The more, the merrier."
"No way," you poke your tongue at the inside of your cheek. "She wanted you all for herself."
"Please, I would've been too distracted with you to even give him my time of day," Tashi admits. "I did you a favor, Patrick. Saved you from blue balls."
He holds a hand to his heart. "I'm so honored."
"But anyway," you start, "while I was walking back to my dorm I bumped into Art, who got stood up on a date."
Patrick blinks, turning to Art. "You got stood up?"
"Was it that girl from marketing?" Tashi asks.
Art's cheeks start to turn red, the flush growing from his neck and up to his ears at the attention. "Yeah, she, uh, she bailed on me last minute."
"I remember you telling me the date went well," Patrick says. "That you guys went out late, bought takeout... you made out in your car," Then, to fuck with him, he adds, "You came in your pants 'cause she kissed your neck. Remember?"
"And that did happen," Art confesses begrudgingly, glaring at Patrick while Tashi laughs. "It’s just... it wasn't with her..."
"It... it was me," you admit.
Tashi wishes she could say she's surprised, but it's nearly impossible because anyone who knew you back in college knew very well about the big crush you harboured for a certain blonde. She knew the way you swooned after him, even if you never tried to admit it because it was too embarrassing.
"Wait, so," Tashi starts, poking at your side and drawing a nervous giggle from you. It makes her smile. "Is Art that guy you told me about, with the puppy eyes and pretty smile?"
"Okay," you puff out, blushing, "I did not say puppy eyes."
"You think I have puppy eyes?" Art asks you, his gaze softening.
When you take a few seconds too long to answer, Patrick claps his hands together and swings his arm over yours and Art's shoulders, pulling the two of you closer to him. "Aw," he teasingly coos at the two of you getting all flustered, "you think he has puppy eyes."
"It was so long ago," you say, running your hands over the soft fabric of your dress. "I don't even remember."
"I'm so sure you don't," Patrick hums, a knowing look in his eyes before he presses a sloppy kiss against your cheek.
You groan, shoving your hand in his face to push him off before you stumble to stand on your feet again, wiping your cheek from his spit. "You're disgusting," you huff, but there's no real bite in your words because there's a faint smile threatening to appear at the corners of your lips.
You stand there for a beat or two, brushing off your dress and feeling the weight of the night settling in. You stare down at the three of them sitting on the curb, the neon lights of the diner buzzing behind you. You can see the hall where your engagement party is from where you stand; you almost don't want to go back.
"Okay," you tuck your lower lip between your teeth as you hesitate, "this... this has been fun."
"Don't leave yet," Tashi says while Art's smile drops, his face falling in disappointment.
"Yeah," Patrick rushes to stand, reaching for you, "the party was just getting started."
"I really have to get back," you step away. "If anyone finds out I left, I'll hear about it for days. This has been great. Like, seriously, I don't think I've ever laughed this hard since before..." You trail off, your tongue getting tied as you glance at Tashi, then at her knee, covered by the length of her dark purple dress. You clear your throat. "Well, uh, I better go. But thank you again, for the beer and the burgers and the memories. I hope you guys can make it to the wedding."
You start to walk away before they can say anything. Like, on purpose, as if you know that if they tried to make you stay and ditch your party, you would. You would cave to their defences.
The sound of your heels is deafening. Tashi watches you go, she watches how you wrap your arms around yourself, and it all feels too similar to how she watched you go all those years ago and never chased after you.
"Don’t marry him," Tashi stands from the curb. She's shaky on her feet, taking long strides to walk past Patrick and hoping to catch up to you. She sees you freeze in your steps, barely out of the parking lot. You turn to look at her quickly, face falling in shock at her demand.
"What?" Your voice is quiet, hoping that your ears are betraying you.
Tashi slows down once she is close enough, the distance between you is almost nothing but the gap feels like miles. The red and blue lights from the neon sign blend into a deep purple against your skin, casting an ethereal glow that makes this moment feel suspended in time. She watches your face, sees the way your brows knit together, the flicker of anger and confusion in your eyes.
Her heart is pounding, the blood rushing in her ears almost drowning out her voice. But she forces herself to speak, her voice low and urgent. "Don’t marry him," she says again, each word feeling like it's being ripped from her chest. Her resolve, which had held firm all these years, finally crumbles.
Getting Patrick back into her life had been one of the most complicated, tangled pains she had ever undertaken. The late-night calls, the awkward meetings, the painstakingly slow rebuilding of trust between herself and Art.
None of it had been easy.
Yet, even with Patrick back, there had always been something missing—a void that only you could fill.
She looks into your eyes, her gaze unwavering, despite the tears welling up. "Please," she pleads, her voice breaking. "Please, don't marry him." The words hang heavy in the air, a desperate plea that carries years of longing and regret. She knows that having you back won't make up for the lost time, and won't magically fix all the mistakes and missed opportunities. But she can at least try, can at least fight for the chance to make things right.
"Tashi, you can't possibly be asking me to—"
"It’s not worth it," she tells you anyway, her voice trembling with the weight of unspoken truths. She knows it’s a risk, a gamble she's taking by laying her heart bare, but she can’t hold back any longer. The years of resentment, of silent longing, bubble to the surface, fueled by the sight of you with someone else's ring on your finger. It's a bitter pill to swallow, the realization that she resented you not for leaving, but for never coming back.
Why didn't you come back?
Tashi's words hang heavy in the air, a desperate plea born from years of unspoken desires and regrets. "Both of you want different things anyway. You don't love him," she continues, her voice raw with emotion, "it's not gonna last. One day you're gonna wake up in the middle of the night and realize I'm right. You'd hate to admit it, but I will be right. I am right. He doesn't deserve you. He's no good for you."
You scoff, "And you are?"
"You said it yourself," she presses on, her voice barely above a whisper, "You've never laughed the way you do with us. And you kept in touch with Patrick, so that's gotta mean something." It's a feeble attempt to grasp at straws. "Marrying him will just be another excuse, another stupid reason. I thought you were better than that."
Then she remembers that night before you left for London, back in 2012. It's like a distant memory now, a flicker of what could have been. The air was thick with anticipation, the tension palpable as you stood on the precipice of something new. She remembers the way your eyes met hers after your exchange with Art at the hotel bar, a brief greeting with an old friend, both of you at the peaks of your careers. It is a silent exchange of longing and regret. For a moment, it felt like time stood still, like the world was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
She remembers the smell of your perfume, the bitterness of the drink you were having and how she could taste it when she kissed you; tongue running over your teeth, nails clawing at skin, hair tangled between fingers, hot breaths and unkept promises and false apologies and a night of regret.
And then the morning came, and with it, you had to leave. And she never stopped you.
"Tashi… I can't just throw this all away for you. For any of you. You were the one who told me to leave."
"I know."
"Because you know everything, right? Because you know he's not good for me, you know it all."
"I know you."
"No, you don’t," you say, your voice tinged with hurt. "Not anymore.”
Tashi huffs, shaking her head before she reaches out, cupping your cheeks gently in her hands. Her lips hover over yours for a moment, a silent plea hanging in the air between you. She waits, her heart pounding in her chest, for you to make a move—to kiss her, to push her away, anything.
You gaze into her eyes, tears glistening in the dim light, before finally closing the distance between you. The kiss is tender, and bittersweet, a culmination of years of unspoken longing and regret. It's a brief moment of solace amid chaos.
Your hands dig into the nape of her neck, where the short ends of her dyed hair tickle the skin of your wrist. The heat of your engagement ring nearly burns her, the edge of the diamond scraping against her skin.
When you pull away, breathless, Tashi fears this will be the last time she will see you.
"Tashi, this doesn’t change anything," you say, your voice trembling.
"It changes everything," she whispers, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "You know it does."
But you step back, breaking the contact, the distance between you growing with each passing moment. "I have to go," you murmur, the weight of the decision heavy on your shoulders. "I need to think."
As you walk away, Tashi watches you go, her heart heavy with uncertainty. She clings to the memory of that fleeting moment, a glimmer of hope in the darkness.
Back in the hotel room, an uneasy silence settles among the trio. Tashi steps out of the shower, her mind a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. The press of your lips still lingers on her own, a persistent buzz that crawls under her skin.
As she rubs lotion into her arms, she takes her time, methodically moving over each inch of her skin as if she could somehow rub away the confusion and yearning. She finishes her skincare routine, staring at herself in the mirror, almost meeting the eyes of the eighteen-year-old girl who had her whole life ahead of her. It's a constant chant in her head not to dwell in the past.
She has to focus—she needs to find a way to pull Patrick Zweig out of the top 200 ranks and get him qualified for the US Open by the time the next season starts.
Speaking of the devil, when Tashi steps out of the bathroom, she finds Patrick lounging on the loveseat by the open window. Naturally, his shirt has found itself a home on the floor, and a cigarette dangles from his lips.
He perks up when she walks out, sitting up to greet her, "Don't beat yourself up."
Tashi rolls her eyes and climbs into the bed, letting herself sink into the soft comforter. "Shut the fuck up, Patrick. And put that shit out."
"I'm just saying," he shrugs, taking one last drag before flicking the cigarette out the window, grinning when he hears Tashi scoff. "She's a stubborn little shit," he says as the hotel door clicks open and Art walks in. Patrick hums, "Probably only marrying him to piss us off anyway. Been trying to talk her out of it for months. Never listens."
"She might listen to Tashi," Art says, turning to his wife with a hint of optimism in his voice. "Lily's asleep, by the way."
"Right, because my word is stronger than both of yours," Tashi retorts, pulling the blanket over her legs.
Art and Patrick glance at each other before nodding, "Yes."
"Well, yeah."
They all sit in silence for a while, each lost in their own little bubble. The hotel room is quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of the bedspread.
Art joins Tashi on the bed, absently flipping through the channels on the television, the remote clicking softly in his hand. Beside him, Tashi pretends to read a book, her eyes scanning the same sentence over and over again without really absorbing the words. Meanwhile, Patrick rummages through the mini fridge, the sound of bottles clinking and wrappers crinkling breaking the stillness.
A quiet knock on the door makes the three of them freeze, their heads snapping up in unison. They exchange hesitant glances, each wondering if they imagined it. Then three raps against the wood sound again, more insistent this time. Patrick scrambles to the door, Art and Tashi close behind him, their curiosity piqued and their hearts pounding.
Patrick swings the door open, and there you are, a sight for sore eyes. You're still in the same dress, though one of the straps has fallen off your shoulder, and your makeup is smudged around your eyes. You hold your phone close, dropping it from your ear.
"I tried calling," you say, turning your phone so they can see Patrick's contact, a simple 'pat' with a cute tennis ball emoji next to his nickname. "You never answered."
"My phone died." He shrugs.
You let your hand fall to your front, where your fingers pull on each other nervously. Tashi can't help but notice the lack of a ring on your finger all of a sudden. She raises her brows at you, a knowing look flashing across her face before she tells you, "Something's changed."
You roll your eyes and step into the room, sliding between Art and Patrick easily. "A lot has changed." You walk until you reach the middle of the room.
It's a big hotel room, not nearly as big as the ones Art and Tashi are used to staying in, but big and luxurious nonetheless. You fit in perfectly with your white gown and styled hair, a vision of elegance even in your dishevelled state.
You turn, facing the three of them again. "I hope whatever offer you guys were hinting at earlier still stands... I don't exactly have anywhere else to stay, unless I want to hear my mother telling me how she was right the entire night."
Tashi smirks. "You know I'm about to tell you the same thing too, right?" She closes the space between the two of you, tucking a fallen strand of hair behind your ear. Her nails brush against your jaw in a feather-light touch until her fingers pause below your lips.
"Yeah, I know."
You don't seem too upset about it. Instead, you're grinning, letting Tashi push her thumb between your lips. The gesture is intimate, charged with unspoken emotion. You're standing face-to-face when she says, "I told you so."
She leads you to sit on the bed, and you let her, nearly tripping over your heels before you land on the soft duvets. Tashi leans down, her nose brushing against yours, and you swallow your heart racing.
"You were right," you murmur. It's hard to maintain eye contact when your skin is buzzing with heat and when there's so much going on in the depths of her eyes that it dizzies you. "I hate it, though."
Her nose is cold against yours, a sharp contrast to the warmth of her breath. You let your eyes fall shut as she slowly traces patterns under your chin, pressing her thumb harder into your mouth before pulling it out. She catches the side of your face with it, making a mess with your spit.
She smiles, "I know you do."
Instinctively, and embarrassingly, there's a shiver rolling down your spine.
Tashi releases a small chuckle, and then, after a final moment, her lips fill in the small gap between you both. You sink into it immediately, heart rejoicing as her lips, warm and smooth, explore your own.
It's a little fumbly, nervous and making you tremble under her hands. Tashi loves every second of it. Her fingers grip your face tighter, mouth pressing to yours with more hunger as you wind your fingers into her hair and sigh. Between gasped breaths and soft sounds of enjoyment, she slips her tongue along your lower lip, and so you open your mouth a little wider.
Tashi ends up straddling you, making out like you're both teenagers again, putting on a show for Art and Patrick. The exhilarating butterflies twirling in your stomach match the memories, too.
You moan softly as she pulls away from your mouth, her attention shifting to your neck. As you watch Patrick and Art make their way to sit next to you on the bed, the bed dipping, you tilt your head to the side and open up your throat to Tashi. You whimper as you feel her lips drag over your exposed skin. She nibbles and sucks until she finds the sensitive part that makes you cry out.
"Fuck," you whimper. You tug on her air-dried curls, coaxing her back up to your lips so you can enjoy the feeling of her mouth on yours. Tashi sighs, and you can feel her smiling into it while beckoning Art and Patrick to join in.
Their lips are on you in a split second, with Art pressing soft, ticklish kisses against your collarbone, and Patrick sliding his tongue from your shoulder to the back of your ear. He's moaning at the taste of you, sucking a bruise under your jaw while digging his hand into the back of your hair.
He slowly starts to bring his sloppy kisses to your mouth, lips brushing against Tashi's and your own before she draws back. You whine, pouting as you watch her take a few steps away before making herself comfortable in the cushioned seats by a small dining table. You can't pout for too long, because now Patrick is kissing you, tugging softly at your hair until your back arches.
His tongue presses against yours, pressing as far back as he can reach, swallowing your every moan and whimper. You bring your hand up to scratch at his beard, then run your nails over his scalp. This is when Art starts to get a little bolder by running his hands up and down your thighs, pulling and pulling the long skirt of your dress until he reaches the end of it and he can touch your skin and take off your heels, tossing them aside somewhere.
Patrick traps your lower lip between his teeth, watching it bounce back into its place as he leans back just the slightest bit. You break apart with a whimper. Your half-lidded eyes meet his, then flick down to the trail of spit strung between your glistening lips. He stares at you, cheeks a little red as he smirks, "I've missed this. Missed you."
You smile, breathless as Art's hand makes its way up higher and higher and closer to your heat, his mouth is relentless with its attack at your neck. He grinds his crotch against the side of your leg and you cradle the back of his head with your other hand.
"You saw me last week, Patrick."
"Last week?" Art pulls away. His lips are parted, eyes a little dazed but focused enough to stare between you and Patrick in confusion. Tashi smirks from where she sits and shifts in her place.
"We're not all perfect, Art." You groan, rolling your eyes as Patrick laughs, reaching over you to start pulling down Art's pants who shifts in his place to let him. Once they're off, he looks at you, and it's embarrassing how fast you tangle together, melding together into a pathetic heap on the bed for Tashi and Patrick to see.
Your lips move in tandem, his soft, pouty lips slitting against yours with ease as you lead his hands to your chest and shove them under your dress.
Art squeezes and fondles your breasts over your bra, his hips jerking against your leg again, almost desperate as his boner presses against the fabric of your dress as it has fallen down again.
Tashi startles you as she settles behind, one knee on the bed while her other long leg steadies her on the carpeted floor below. You let her tilt you backward, parting you from Art and she draws you into an upside-down kiss. The salacious kiss leaves your legs parting for the two men beside you.
Patrick makes quick work of taking that damn dress off of you and you sputter out a pathetic moan when Art's soft hands tease your hardening nipples once Patrick gets half of it off.
Your dress eventually falls into a heap on the floor in front of the bed, you’d matched with it a white paired set underneath.
"No fucking way," You peek one eye open slightly to see Patrick scowling while Art runs his hands everywhere he can reach, across your stomach, your thighs, under your boobs, down your back.
Patrick tilts his head and groans, "I can't believe you wore this shit for him."
Your hand cups Tashi's jaw to deepen the kiss as you both ignore Patrick, only Art snorting out a laugh as he tugs his shirt over his head.
Patrick slots himself between your open legs, stopping just a breath short of your aching cunt to nip teasingly at your soft inner thigh before dragging his mouth up to your neck again. He revels in the moans he's able to draw from you as he finally comes to caress your face.
You pull away from Tashi and gasp in a breath. "Kiss me, Pat," You bite your lip, feeling your heart race as he eyes you up so openly.
"Beg me," He counters with a quirked brow, challenging you.
Your nose crinkles, "I'm not doing that."
"I'm not kissing you, then."
"Shut up and kiss her, Patrick," Tashi groans, attached to Art. She holds his face the same way she did with you, pulling him closer and letting the man crawl to her. But she's glaring at Patrick with venom behind it you know she can’t mean when she's trembling under Art's gentle touch as he slips off her silky nightgown.
"Come here," You beckon Patrick closer with a fiendish look in your half-lidded eyes.
"Yes, ma'am." Patrick nods, dazed as he obliges. "Anything you want, beautiful," His voice slightly slurs as the space between you diminishes once again. "I'll do anything for you," His husky voice drapes around your name like velvet as it's whispered against your plush lips.
Your hands easily find themselves tangled in Patrick's curly hair and tug him to your lips with aching want. You dive in immediately, lips meshing against and, eventually, catching against his chapped lips.
A moan escapes from your throat and he uses it as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. From there, it's another flurry of saliva, tongue and entirely too much white-hot pressure building below.
When you break for a breath, a string of saliva stretches between each of your red, puffy lips. Patrick groans at the sight and pulls you in for a slower, raw kiss that leaves you slick and trembling for more. When you pull apart again, Patrick plants a sweet kiss on Art's mouth before focusing back solely on you, his hand slowly approaching your white thong.
When he starts to rub, you moan into his mouth and start trailing your hand to his crotch, palming his dick. Patrick reciprocates easily and tugs at your lower lip with an impish look in his eyes.
Lips attack your neck again, pulling you higher up on the bed. You hear pants and clothes being shed from every angle around you before you're surrounded again, hands everywhere.
While Art pulls Patrick into a kiss, Tashi cups your face again and draws you into a gentle one as you settle between her legs, your back to her chest. You rest your head on Tashi's shoulder as you heave out another breath, her hands travelling from your navel to tracing shapes on your clit, over your wet panties, spreading your legs apart with her own.
"Please, Tash," you whimper as her fingers curl around the edge of the fabric and tug so it strains against your leaking cunt perfectly. She then decides to skim a whisper of her touch against your pulsing ache.
You gape as Patrick wraps his hand around Art's dick, stoking it, and he lets out the prettiest little whine. Patrick slowly works his way down Art's body, running his tongue between each curve of his muscles, collecting the sweat that's been building on his skin before wrapping his mouth around him, taking all of it in one insatiable bob of his head.
Tashi's nails tickle lightly up your stomach, then in the valley between your breasts and then back down again. It has you spiralling, arching your back as she presses a kiss at your neck.
"You're being so good," she coos into your ear. Your name is only a breath out of her mouth, and she's edging your clit with a gentle roughness that could only come from a woman of her calibre. Tashi pulls your panties aside and flicks and flits about your dripping cunt like she already knows how to make you come undone.
It makes you tremble. You'd sworn up and down earlier about how Tashi didn't know you anymore, and here she is, proving to you that she still does, that she knows every curve and divot of your body, that she still knows what makes you whimper and twitch.
Your hand quickly reaches behind you, between the heat of your back and her body and finds her clit and you try to emulate how she's making you weak. Each quiet gasp you earn from her has you moaning back tenfold under her saccharine trance and she quickly starts pumping two fingers into you.
One particular flick of Tashi's thumb on your clit coupled with her lips gliding against and sucking your own in a wanton kiss sends you over the edge. You moan and cum, back arching as you relentlessly force Tashi's hand against your cunt, searching for more delicious friction.
She takes you all, and lets you ride it all out on her fingers while swallowing every moan you let out in a lewd, wet kiss. Art and Patrick moan appreciatively at the two of you, then focus back on each other.
Before you're able to come down from your high, Art's shoving his come down Patrick's greedy throat. He swallows it all, pulling off Art's red-tipped cock with a vulgar pop that creates a trail of saliva in its wake.
Patrick smiles down at you and leans closer, and you think he's about to kiss you but then he swerves and kisses Tashi instead, who removes her hand from your cunt and slowly works it up his thigh until she cups his balls and gives them a gentle squeeze. He moans into her mouth, winking at you amid his impromptu make-out session you were tempted to join.
You shimmy back and turn on your stomach, positioning yourself between Tashi's long tanned legs. "Can I eat you out?" You ask while kissing up her leg, and you want to hear how much she needs you. You bite at your bottom lip as you nuzzle into her juicy cunt. "Tashi?" You look up at her from where your face is pressed against her. Her sweet smell makes you sigh as you tease your tongue with her hip bone. "Please, Tash, let me taste you."
"Yeah, go for it," Comes her breathless plea.
You finally pull her lips apart, revelling in how she squirms against your hold on her hips.
You're on your knees, trapped arching between Tashi's long legs when you hear Art clear his throat. You give one long lick up Tashi's twitching cunt before turning around with her slick dribbling down onto your chin to where Art has sidled up behind you.
Art crawls closer to you, "Can I touch you, beautiful?" He tilts your chin up as he awaits your answer.
When you nod, he easily descends upon your lips, placing a sure hand behind your head as he deepens the kiss into something absolutely filthy. As soon as you break apart, he kisses your shoulder, then down your spine.
Tashi guides you back to her. You allow her nails to tangle in your locks as she forces your head back down against her arching hips.
"Shit," Patrick huffs, rough hands reaching for the globes of your ass while Art's smoother ones trail up your spread, inner thighs. Tashi tugs at his dick a little harder, which has him panting against her lips.
Tashi gasps as you flick at her clit then quickly move to tease her entrance with the tip of your tongue. You flatten your tongue, dragging it across her length and repeat the motion until she whines for you to stop.
You slurp the combination of drool and slick as you pull away with a pussy-drunk smile. She meets it with a panting, dazed one and removes her hand from your hair to push her own out of her eyes while Patrick sucks at her neck.
"Ah!" You startle forward into Tashi's tits as Art finally breeches your entrance with his index finger.
"Eat our girl out, Art," Tashi motions for Art to lie down under your spread form to get a better angle. You can't deny that the new nickname drives you a little crazy. "Show her she's ours."
Art's soft hands draw another moan out of you as they assuredly grip your hips to keep you in place while he unleashes teasing licks against your pussy.
Tashi draws you back to her. You'd know that look anywhere—she's ready to cum.
"I want you," Her breath hitches around your name while your tongue steals the rest of her coherent words until she's a withering mess under your touch.
Her pornstar-worthy moans ring out across the room like a beautiful symphony. Tashi's wanton noises coupled with the wet whines you're unleashing against her folds until the two of you create the lewdest duet this hotel's ever heard.
She arches against the bedframe as she tells you her near release, tugging at your hair as she draws closer and closer to the edge.
Panting, she draws you against her lips for a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss.
"Fuck, Tashi," You groan against her plump lips, feeling your own impending orgasm drawing near. "You're so fucking hot, I-"
She cuts off your rambling with another wet kiss. Her tongue flicks out to tease yours before sucking it into her mouth with a lewd slurp. Your hand works alongside hers to leave her shaking and whimpering against your lips as she comes undone by your hand. You smack her cunt lightly, eating the groan she feeds into your open mouth as she rides it out.
Tashi eats your moans as they echo against your messy tangling of lips and tongues.
Art's fingers start to pick up a pace as Patrick, feeling left out, starts thrusting his throbbing cock in the middle of your sapphic kiss with Tashi. You eye the two with half-lidded eyes as you share Patrick's cock with her. After only a few moments in your mouth, Patrick pulls out and releases across Tashi's and your expectant tongues.
"So fucking good to me," Patrick pants as he splatters the last of his come across your faces with a shaky groan. "Best fucking orgasm ever, swear it," He says as he encases his lips around yours, swapping his cum between your mouths before moving to Tashi to do the same.
Art moves out from under you, offering your knees relief as he lays you back against Tashi's stomach to fuck into you.
It's a slow and cruel pace, only made crueller by how Patrick and Tashi touch you like they already know where you want to be touched. Each brunette takes a side, Patrick sucking your tit into his mouth while Tashi's mouth draws you in for a kiss. Her nails tickle at your other erect nipples until you're arching off of her and into Art's thrusts, making him whimper.
"Just like that," Art whines your name. "You're so fucking tight."
It's when Patrick and Tashi move their attention down to your clit that you know you're fucked. Patrick spreads your folds with two fingers, watching as intensely as Art does as his cock disappears in and out of your hole.
"He could've never made you feel like this, right?" Tashi rasps. "He has no strategy, no real game. Just a fucking waste of space. Could never make you feel this good, this loved."
You don't need her to say his name, you know what she means. You're panting, shaking your head against her shoulder. "Never."
"Told ya," Patrick laughs into your skin. "Make her cum, Art. C'mon, man."
"Fuck- please," You whimper, nodding. "I need to come, baby-" Without warning, you arch off of Tashi. Neither she nor Patrick stops their jerks against your clit as you gasp, eyes rolling back in your head with the thrum of a second wave creeping up on you with a steady building heat. Waves of pleasure roll over you as the tantalizing sensations become too much. You come loudly, arching pathetically off the bed as you desperately reach for Art, to hold him.
You're wriggling in Tashi and Patrick's arms as Art pulls out and releases across your expanding and retracting stomach as you pant out the remnants of your orgasm.
"Shit," He moans, and his voice sends waves of aftershock across your body while his steady hands draw you against his naked chest for a toe-curling kiss.
You'd never been happier to have invited Patrick Zweig to your engagement party.
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#to the person who sent this request#i love you#you’re feeding my delusions#tashi’s hotel room#art’s lockerroom#patrick’s backseat#tashi duncan x reader#tashi duncan x you#tashi duncan smut#tashi duncan#tashi donaldson#patrick x tashi#art x tashi#art donaldson x you#art donaldson#art donaldson smut#art donaldson x reader#art x patrick#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig smut#patrick zweig#patrick zweig x you#challengers x reader#challengers smut#challengers 2024#challengers movie#challengers
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thighs thighs thighs
#patrick zweig#art donaldson#mike faist#challengers#challengers movie#art donaldson x reader#challengers x reader#art donaldson smut#challengers fanfic#challengers smut#josh oconnor
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the golden quartet
art donaldson x reader, slight tashi duncan x reader, slight patrick zweig x reader, wc: 2k
author’s note: basically just a way less toxic (?) version of the movie with the reader inserted. they’re all still incredibly codependent and tashi/reader are very much in love and art/patrick are very much in love and art/tashi have their own kind of friendship/relationship and so do patrick/reader, but really patrick and tashi are one couple, art and reader are another couple, but like they would all live together and probably sleep in the same bed hypothetically. but in a healthy way. i like to imagine a world where they’re all codependent but skip all the “villain” allegations in their mess, and it’s just a beautiful unspoken symphony of love and four-way fidelity and infidelity. will probably write more in this universe.
part two here
“Tashi, stop it.”
Tashi stops and her eyes lock in on you, racket dropping to her side. “Stop what?”
You watch the way she bounces the ball a few times and don’t miss the way her gaze keeps flitting to your hand.
“Stop analysing me.”
She lifts a shoulder in a shrug, and doesn’t break your gaze. “It’s my job to analyse the opponent so I know how to win the game.”
“Yeah, but you’re not looking at me like an opponent.” Your lips purse. “You’re looking at me like you’re trying to calculate how to get me back on the court.”
“You’re on the court right now, aren’t you?”
“You know what I mean, Tashi.” Your racket falls to the court exasperatedly and you manage a step towards the net. “It’s over for me, I’m done playing tennis and I’m okay with that, but I’m not sure that you are.”
There’s just a tiny quiver in her eyes before her gaze steels itself again and she nods. “Fine. I get it.”
She tosses you the ball. “Just help me train.”
You watch as Tashi gets into position, and pick up your racket slowly. Maybe you shouldn’t have snapped at her. You so rarely do, but you’ve closed the door on that chapter of your life now, and you’re sick of her trying to pry it open. You don’t want possibilities of what you could have had. You don’t want to put in more years just to watch yourself fail at something you never really liked in the first place.
There’s a dull ache in your chest as you serve the ball.
Tashi Duncan has been your best friend for five years. For the life of you, you can’t remember the details of the tournament you were at, but you had a game against her. It was electrifying. You’d never played tennis like that before. It felt like you’d never known what it was like to breathe before Tashi Duncan. She basically crushed you, but you managed to get in a good few points, had the audience and line judges on the edge of their seats, and at the end of it, when you shook her hand, you felt like you’d just discovered a missing limb.
She found you afterwards in the stands and sat with you to spectate the next few matches. And hadn’t let you go since. You couldn’t imagine a life without Tashi. She was there for your first boyfriend, she was there when you broke up with him, she was there when you failed a class and your parents threatened to pull you out of tennis, and she was there when your wrist shattered and you quit.
Tashi never really understood why it was so easy for you to walk away. “You’re one of the best,” “You have so much potential,” “You can learn to play with your other hand.”
She never seemed to hear you when you said you didn’t want to play anymore. She’d look at you, with her piercing gaze then look away and move on. But the conversation was never over. It was like you didn’t exist to her without tennis, like it was your one achievement, and she couldn’t gauge who you were without it.
You suppose you were flattered, touched even, that she cared so much about you, in her own weird way.
Tashi looks at you questioningly when you lower your racket. You smile, “You should rest up. Your drills are perfect. You’re gonna crush her tomorrow.”
She takes a look at her watch, then nods. You can tell she wants to stay longer, but there’s really no reason to. Especially when you can feel her itching for a real match. That you can’t give her.
You bump her shoulder as the two of you walk out. “Wanna grab some donuts?”
The unimpressed face she gives you makes you laugh. “Come on, we can get you one of those healthy ones. The gluten-free, vegan bullshit.”
“Sounds delicious,” she drawls, but makes no further comments. You grin. A success.
She says nothing as you swing your borderline crippled arm over her shoulder, but you feel her muscles underneath relax just a little bit.
The following day brings a new round of pretentious young assholes on the court. Some of them eye you up as you make your way into the bleachers, whispering to each other. A girl comes up to you and asks for a picture. You’re a little surprised, and feel a little blindsided, but you suppose it’s only been a year since your injury. And well, considering where you are right now, it sure does seem to the rest of the world like you’re not fully done with tennis.
“Yeah, no problem,” you say with a smile.
The girl takes the picture, thanks you profusely then leaves, and you make your way up to the bleachers, and find a nice spot in the middle. Tashi liked you to be right in the middle of the game so you could watch her and her opponent. You wonder if she’s secretly preparing you to become an umpire.
There’s a flurry of whispers all too close to you, and then there’s a shadow blocking the sun to your left.
Two boys stand facing you, staring at you with their mouths slightly agape. You can’t help the amused smile that splits your face.
“Can I help you?”
The brunet snaps back into reality first. “Sorry, we were just— are you Y/N L/N?”
“Yeah, I am,” you say, eyes flitting between the two. They’re cute. Really cute.
The blond shakes his head slightly, like he’s coming out of a trance, and says, “Sorry, this is just the first time we’ve seen or heard about you since….you know.”
He winces, and his head ducks a little like a scolded puppy. “Sorry to hear about that, by the way.”
You let out a laugh that seems to catch his attention again. His friend jabs him in the side with his elbow. “Oh, don’t worry about it, seriously. It’s been a year, I’m over it.”
“Huh,” he says, nodding a little absently. He glances to the brunet, who’s just grinning at him. “Um, by the way, we’re—“
“Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig, right?”
The blond, Art, looks a little speechless.
Patrick chimes in. “Yeah, that’s us.”
“I watched your game just before. That was quite some victory celebration.”
The way Art’s ears turn red makes you happier than you’d like to admit. There’s a little flip in your stomach as he fumbles, “Yeah, well…”
There’s a flurry of movement as Patrick puts his arm around Art’s neck and pulls him impossibly close in a one armed hug. “Social conduct’s not gonna get in the way of me celebrating with my boy.”
The blond leans away and fights to get Patrick off him, and you smile as you watch. “Don’t worry, it was cute. Plus, I get it. We’re sort of the same way sometimes when it comes to victories. I mean, not the same, but you know.”
That seems to catch Patrick’s attention. “By we, do you mean you and—“
“Tashi Duncan!”
The announcement rings loud and clear through the speakers as she walks onto the court.
It’s almost comical the way Patrick’s jaw goes slack and he slumps onto the seat behind him.
You watch as Tashi waves at her screaming fans, shoots her winning smiles and makes her way to her side. She catches your gaze for a moment and you nod. She looks away and begins to stretch, but you’re not bothered. She knows you’re here, and that’s all you need. Can’t try and take Tashi Duncan out of the zone.
As you sit down, you’re a little surprised to find Art mirroring the action, still looking at you. “So, you’re best friends with Tashi Duncan?”
You nod. “Since we were like, thirteen.”
“Oh wow,” his eyes widen and you can’t help but think how impossibly cute he looks, “that’s almost how long Patrick and I have been friends.”
“Really? Oh, wow.” There’s a beat of silence, just long enough for you to catch each other’s eye and look away with awkward giggles.
Luckily, that’s when the match starts. And your focus locks in.
“COME ON!” Tashi’s scream is palpable in the air.
It feels like the wind has been knocked out of you. You’ve heard it a million times before, but it never fails to strike you.
There’s something akin to awe in Patrick’s eyes. Art looks like he’s in disbelief.
You can’t help but agree with their faces.
“So, are you guys coming to the party tonight?”
Patrick’s eyes flit away from Tashi’s to look at you. “Yeah, we were just talking about earlier. Art was saying how excited he was. He just loves parties.”
You can’t quite decipher the smirk on his face, but he looks like the kind of guy who’s never up to any good, so you turn to Art expectantly.
His eyes meet yours and your stomach does another little flip as he says, “Yeah, I’ll— we’ll be there.”
“Cool,” you reply. “I’ll see you guys later, then.”
You manage one quick glance back as you walk away, and see Patrick grinning and shaking Art’s shoulders. A smile plays at the corner of your lips and you leave.
Tashi finds you at your agreed-upon meeting spot, and wastes no time in grabbing your hand. “Come on.”
“Don’t you need to take pictures with your trophy?”
“Got a few, they’ll take more at the Adidas party. We’ve got to get ready.”
There’s a warm feeling like sunlight dancing in your chest as you let her drag you away.
The party is in full swing by the time you finally spot Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig lurking in the corner of the yard.
You’d just stepped off the dance floor for a moment, telling Tashi you were going to get another drink. The two boys seem to be arguing about something, but as you close the distance, you can see that they’re grinning too.
“Hey,” you greet the two. Their heads turn towards you in unison and they both stand up straight.
“Hi,” they chorus.
You take a sip of your drink as your eyes flit between the two. “So….what are you guys doing all the way over here?”
“You know,” Art says dryly. “Just enjoying the ambience.”
(Cute and funny. Man, you’re screwed).
“It’s a lot less creepy if you actually talk to her instead of just staring at her.” Your words are directed at Patrick, whose eyebrows shoot up. A smirk falls on his face. His charm instantly covers up the awkwardness.
Art barks out a laugh. (It’s a sound you wish you could inscribe in your mind).
“What makes you think I’m here for her?” Patrick smirks, looking you up and down. It’s so clearly a deflection, but it feels so natural that you can’t help but smile, and you feel your cheeks warm just a tad.
You glance back at the dance floor, and see Tashi excuse herself, glancing at you as she goes for her drink. You reach over to pat him on the shoulder. “Come on, I’ll help you out.”
As you turn on your heel and walk towards Tashi, you hear a slap behind you and an, “Ow!”
“Tashi!” The smile in your voice is audible as she looks up.
“Hey,” she smiles back.
Then, her head tilts to the side and she looks at the boys. “Hi.”
“Hi,” they both say.
There’s a quiet moment in which you all exchange looks, a twinkle in each of your eyes. You can almost feel a spark of something in the air, and suddenly you’re thirteen years old again, meeting Tashi for the first time. Like another puzzle piece has finally fallen into place.
You feel your chest warm. If only you knew what your life was about to become.
#so. Hi#challengers brainrot runs deep#challengers#challengers x reader#art donaldson x reader#patrick zweig x reader#tashi duncan x reader#challengers imagines#tashi duncan#art donaldson#patrick zweig#mike faist#josh o'connor#zendaya#written works !
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art would be eating you out but patrick gets jealous and they both fight to eat you out 🤗🤗
warnings: smut 18+, oral sex (f. receiving)
“fuck, right there! feels so good, art” you moaned as you ran your fingers through art’s blonde locks. his hands were pushing your legs further apart while he sucked on your clit so expertly, making you arch your back.
from your peripheral vision, you noticed patrick’s knee bouncing up and down, his painfully hard erection clearly visible in his pants as well as a wet patch forming on the fabric from precum. you promised he would get his turn after art, but with each passing second, it became increasingly difficult for patrick to just sit still and watch while soft moans left your pretty lips— it was torture.
“i can’t fucking take this anymore.” patrick muttered under his breath as he abruptly rose to his feet and marched towards the both of you before getting on his knees next to art and bumping his shoulder into art’s, causing him to stumble to the right. “what the fuck are you doing?” art snarled as he pushed patrick back with both his hands on his chest right when patrick was about to bury his head between your thighs. he tumbled backwards, giving art enough time to move his head to your cunt once again and pick up where he left off.
you smirked while observing the scene happening right between your legs, but without interfering as you let the boys fight for you. “just— let me join” patrick urged as he tried to squeeze his head between art’s and your left thigh, forcing himself to your dripping cunt. you grasped the sheets when you felt both their tongues eagerly against your pussy, fighting for dominance as you simultaneously felt their wandering hands all over your body.
the pleasure kept building, feeling as if you were in heaven with your right hand running through art’s blonde hair and your left through patrick’s curly locks. both of them occasionally made eye contact with you, causing your heart to skip a beat as they moaned into your core, the vibrations adding to the immense pleasure you were experiencing. “so fucking good, oh my god”
it was so fucking messy— saliva running down their chins mixed with your juices as they were fully making out with each other at this point. it became too much when one of them—you don’t even know who— pushed two fingers into your dripping hole before curling them up so perfectly, hitting your g-spot in no time and sending you over the edge.
“oh— oh my god, i’m coming— fuck!” a string of curse words left your lips as you firmly pulled both of their hair and arched your back, a wave of pleasure overtaking you as your eyes fluttered shut.
you slowly came down from one of the most intense orgasms you’ve had in a long time, your chest heaving up and down before slowly opening your eyes again, gazing down as both of their wide eyes stared up at you with mouths agape.
“fuck, that— that was so hot.” art stammered, shaking his head as he let out a chuckle. he then looked to the side, seeing patrick’s flushed face before gazing down at his crotch, the wet patch significantly more prominent, causing art’s smile to grow even wider. “did you just cum in your pants?” “can you blame me?”
#♡₊˚ for arina 🍒・₊#anon#art donaldson#patrick zweig#art donaldson smut#patrick zweig smut#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x you#art donaldson x fem!reader#art donaldson x female reader#art donaldson x y/n#art donaldson drabble#art donaldson blurb#art donaldson imagine#art donaldson fanfic#art donaldson fanfiction#art donaldson fic#challengers#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig x you#patrick zweig x female reader#patrick zweig x fem!reader#patrick zweig x y/n#patrick zweig drabble#patrick zweig blurb#patrick zweig imagine#patrick zweig fanfiction#patrick zweig fanfic#patrick zweig fic#challengers smut
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Challengers Twitter.Links!
TW, PORN LINKS! NSFW MINOR DNI!
(send in reqs for more characters please!)
jerking off your subby boy (art)
boyfriend!pat is on tour and you miss him
boyfriend!pat with a size kink
letting collage!Art fuck you in his dorm room
giving patrick the best bj of his life
patrick fucking you after winning a big match
late night of patrick going down on you
letting Sub!Art suck on some titties
making out with and comforting Art in his dorm room
#art donaldson x you#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson#josh o'connor#twitter posts#patrick zweig#patrick zweig smut#challengers 2024#challengers movie#twitter#twitter links#spicy links#twitter.links#links#nswf links#smut#challengers#videos
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something old, something new
pairing: patrick zweig x f!reader
summary: when your childhood best friend asks you to get married, how are you supposed to say no?
word count: 7.2k
warnings: MATURE (mentions of sex but no explicit sex scenes), marriage of convenience, fluff, mentions of alcohol, patrick is a bad friend (but he improves), friends to spouses to lovers, fake dating, yearning and pining, everyone is bad at communicating, many feelings are being repressed, mentions of dieting in an athlete way, one singular creepy old man, no use of y/n
author’s note: i cannot get this tennis man out of my head!! i hope you all enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!
It wasn’t every day that you could count on hearing anything from your childhood best friend, but it seemed like whenever you did hear from Patrick Zweig, it was always an ask for something more shocking than the previous one.
As kids, you spent many evenings doing the homework that Patrick didn’t want to do, despite the fact that you didn’t really want to do more homework either. At boarding school, you’d somehow become his personal designated driver, answering his calls no matter what time and groggily picking him up from whatever party he’d found himself at. In your adulthood, you found yourself becoming a go-to stand-in for him at events he didn’t feel like attending. The amount of times that you’d shaken hands at charity galas and introduced yourself as Patrick’s girlfriend, despite not having a single romantic encounter with him, was frankly astounding.
It seemed like whenever Patrick needed something, you were the first person he reached out to. After his parents, of course.
You dreaded knowing the reason behind the simple hey, text message you’d just received, but you were sure that you’d find the reason out sooner rather than later–and that whatever the reason was could not have been good.
Like clockwork, only an hour after you’d received his message, Patrick appeared at the doorway of your apartment. He came to you equipped with his secret weapon, the kicked puppy look that he often used on you before he asked you for a ridiculous favor, like breaking up with his girlfriend for him or telling his mom that he still wasn’t joining the board of the family business.
You sighed as you took his less-than-stellar appearance in. Downtrodden expression, wrinkled and sweat-stained shirt, as if he’d gone to the gym to sweat out his feelings before coming to you, and eyes so red-rimmed, you wondered if he’d been crying.
If you had to guess, he’d either been arguing with his parents, who knew exactly how to get under his skin, or his tennis friends, who also knew exactly how to get under his skin, or his latest girlfriend, who probably confronted him about his own wrongdoings. Regardless of who had upset him, he had obviously come to you to lick his wounds.
Like always, Patrick stalked inside without asking you for any further permission. The two of you had done this song and dance more times than either one of you would like to admit.
“How are you?” he asked, stopping in your kitchen to steal an apple from your decorative bowl of fruit.
“I’m good,” you said with hesitation, eyeing him once more. He really looked like shit. If he hadn’t looked so sad, you would’ve told him exactly how much shit he looked like.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me how I am?” he questioned, a little pathetically.
“No,” you walked off to your living room, fully expecting him to follow you. You were unsurprised when he did exactly that. “Let’s just get right to it. Why’d you come over here?” you asked as the two of you sat down on your couch.
“My parents are cutting me off,” he explained, voice breaking as he spoke.
Surely, this couldn’t all be over an empty threat. They seemed to threaten Patrick with this every few days. In fact, you’d been in the room with him when his parents promised that he’d never see another dime from them–more than once. Every time, it ended with them coming to their senses and throwing more cash at him.
“That’s what, the twentieth time?” you laughed. “They always threaten to cut you off. What’s different this time?”
“This time, they mean it.”
You laughed even harder in his face. If you had a quarter for every time you’d had this conversation, you’d be richer than the two of your families combined.
“I’m serious,” he inched closer to you. “They’re tired of funding my ‘tennis habit’. They want me to get serious about life. To join the board and start a family. My dad showed me an edited draft of his will and everything”
“So?” you prompted, trying to figure out where you fell into the equation. Hopefully he wouldn’t try to put you up to something absurd, like seducing his father into convincing him to not threaten Patrick’s inheritance.
“So, tennis is the only thing I care about.”
“Okay…” you trailed off. “What would you like me to do about that?”
“I need you to help show my parents that I have a vision for the future.”
“Again, Patrick, what exactly are you asking me to do?”
“Marry me.”
You weren’t sure what you expected him to say, but it certainly was not that. Your mouth instantly dropped open and you were sure that you were gaping like a fish. Maybe if he had asked you ten years ago, you’d have instantly said yes, but you’d let that naive dream die after you’d come to realize the transactional subtext of your friendship.
“What?”
“I want you to marry me. I was thinking… you remember when we were younger and we made that pact, that if we weren’t married by the time we were adults, then we’d get hitched?”
You continued to stare at him, completely dumbfounded and not believing a single word coming from his mouth. “I… I…” you couldn’t even form the words. “We were kids!”
He gave you a halfhearted shrug, as if that didn’t matter at all, and as if he didn’t just ask you to be legally and romantically bound to him forever.
“You are fucking unbelievable! You haven't talked to me for anything other than asking me a favor in years, I barely know you’re alive apart from the random drunk texts you send me, and now you want me to marry you? Do you even hear yourself?”
You scoffed and stared at him in disbelief. “And that has to be the worst proposal in all of human history. First you tell me that tennis is the only thing you care about and then ask me to marry you? You’re a joke.”
He let you finish your rant, but after a beat he finally asked. “…Is that a no?”
———-
Stranger things had happened to you than marrying your childhood best friend just a month after he’d randomly popped back up in your life. At least, that’s what you told yourself as you walked down the aisle on a beautiful beach off of the Amalfi Coast.
The last few weeks had been an absolute whirlwind, with what felt like every second of your time consumed by making guest lists and invitations, booking hotel rooms, and finding a dress that you liked enough to get married in. Obviously, you knew this was more of an elaborate scheme than a celebration of love, but you wanted it to be nice anyway. For all you knew, you may never get married again.
You don’t know what possessed you to say yes to Patrick. Maybe the small, desperate part of you that had been begging him to truly see you since you were old enough to realize he didn’t, or maybe the desire to finally have that fairytale destination wedding you’d been dreaming about from the time you learned what a wedding was. Regardless of the reason, both of your families were overjoyed by the union. In one fell swoop, you’d been able to satisfy both of your parents’ desires for you to settle down, and you’d done it with someone both pairs approved of.
You had to give props to Patrick, the ceremony was beautiful. Given the short timeline, the two of you decided to divide and conquer the planning of the event. You were sure that he’d outsourced the work, since he was still in the middle of his tennis season, but whoever he hired did an excellent job at giving you the wedding you’d always wanted.
Despite the very short timeline everyone had been given, you were able to wrangle all of your close family and friends to Italy to watch you elope. Your parents had insisted on inviting second cousins and shareholders to your wedding, but you’d somehow convinced them that you and Patrick wanted a smaller, more intimate ceremony. It was probably better to have less people there, lest someone notices the artificial nature of your union.
Part of you felt like you’d pulled off the greatest prank of all time as the two of you stood up in front of your small crowd, gazing as lovingly as you could manage into each others’ eyes while the officiant said his spiel, but the other, more logical part of you filled with dread as the reality of the situation began to set in. Patrick seemed to have a way of always dragging you into a shitty situation, and you hoped for both of your sakes, that that wouldn’t be the case for your marriage.
After what felt like a lifetime, Patrick began to recite his vows, claiming to have loved you since you were children, and promising to continue to love you ‘till death did you part. If you had been marrying literally anyone else, your knees would go weak with swooning.
Unfortunately, you were cursed with the knowledge of the reality of your situation, one where your vows sounded more like: “We only have to stay married until I retire, which should be sooner rather than later. We don’t have to do anything together: no galas, no family dinners, no family vacations. Hell, you don’t even have to come to my games. And we don’t have to be exclusive either. This is basically just a title, so feel free to see anyone you want to. I can already see the worry in your face. Stop that. We can hire someone to make us prenups, so the divorce will be an easy, clean split of our assets. See? It’s not that bad.”
The dichotomy between the words he’d said to you a month ago and the bullshit he was spewing now almost made you laugh, but that was clearly not the reaction you were meant to be having when the love of your life was publicly declaring their feelings for you.
Once he finished declaring his romantic, empty words, you began to read off your vows. They fell in a similar vein to his, a proclamation of a lifetime-spanning love that didn’t really exist in the first place. But when you glanced up at him from your slip of paper, he was really selling it. He stared at you like he adored you, like he wanted to study every inch of your face after running off with you into the sunset.
The ridiculousness of it all finally hit you like a freight train, and you managed to pivot the laugh that was creeping up into your throat into a weepy sounding crack of your voice. Surely people cried during their own weddings.
You finished off your vows, doing your best to pretend like this whole ordeal wasn’t the most ridiculous scheme you’d ever been dragged into. You imagined a world where he was less selfish and you were less selfless, one where you were exchanging these vows with sincerity, and it helped you to get through the words that you knew were almost completely meaningless.
The two of you then took turns placing the ring on each others’ fingers, with Patrick giving you a ring with the largest diamond you’d ever seen, and you giving him a band that had been passed throughout your family. He’d agreed to give you the heirloom back once you divorced, so you couldn’t complain too much about giving it away in the first place.
The announcement of being able to kiss the bride rang out in your ears, yet you still found yourself surprised when Patrick eagerly wrapped his arms around you and kissed you passionately. Cheers erupted around the two of you, and you pulled away as the officiant declared you Mr. and Mrs. Zweig.
You had successfully tricked your audience, and yet, you still had the strangest feeling.
Your reception felt far more natural than your wedding ceremony. After a change of outfit, a huge bowl of pasta, and a few flutes of champagne, you were feeling substantially better about the arguably poor decision you’d just made. You chatted up your friends, who jumped at the opportunity to comment on how cute of a couple you two were, did some light matchmaking between single guests, and placated both of your parents with manufactured acts of affection. You even managed to get Patrick out on the dance floor, after he swore to you that he didn’t dance.
By the time the two of you were stumbling back into your villa, the woes of the day had practically been forgotten. When you were having this much fun, who cared about a massive, potentially life altering decision?
You immediately made a beeline to the bathroom, anxious to get into your comfortable pajamas and to wash your face after a long day of wearing tight, extravagant dresses and a heavy layer of makeup.
“So what did you think of your big day, Mrs. Zweig?” Patrick called out from the other side of the bathroom door, where you were sure he was also preparing for bed. “Was it everything you wanted and more?”
“I think this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” you paused as you thought about something before confessing, “but it was everything I wanted and more.”
“Yes!” he celebrated from where you couldn’t see him, though you could perfectly envision the goofy look on his face. “I owe it to you after everything I’ve put you through. I just hope you weren’t too let down by the groom.”
“What?” you drew out before blowing a raspberry. “Of course not. You looked very handsome today,” you complimented in between splashes of your face.
“You looked pretty beautiful, yourself,” he complimented you right back.
“Aww, thank you, honey,” you emphasized the pet name.
“Hmm, I don’t know if I like that,” you heard the squeak of the bed from behind the door as you assumed that he’d sat down.
“Hey, you’re the one who made me marry you,” you pointed out. “Am I more than you bargained for?”
“Of course not, babe,” he emphasized his own pet name, which sent you into a fit of laughter. “It’s just so weird to hear you refer to me as anything other than an asshole.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re still an asshole,” you replied as you walked out of the bathroom, donning an old shirt with the logo of your boarding school and an equally old pair of shorts. “Just a married asshole.”
You took in the sight of your now-husband as you made your way to your side of the bed, surprised to find that you quite liked the sense of domestic bliss you were feeling. The bed dipped as you sat down and glanced back at Patrick with the slightest bit of hesitation.
“Is this weird for you? I can go to the spare room, if you want me to,” he offered, surely in reference to the two of you sleeping in the same bed.
“Don’t worry about it,” you assured him, setting a steady hand on his knee. “What kind of couple would we be if we didn’t spend our wedding night together?” you teased.
“The kind of couple that marries for convenience?” he suggested.
“Hey, who’s to say that this isn’t love? I had the biggest crush on you when we were kids. Maybe some of it lingered, or some shit.”
“Oh yeah?” he looked at you with that sleazy smirk that you both loved and hated. “What happened?”
“Hmm… I think I realized that you’re a dick,” you matched his smirk with a challenging one of your own.
“Huh. Did you have this realization before or after you started seeing Dan Thompson?” he questioned.
You were surprised by the mention of your first boyfriend, particularly because you weren’t sure that Patrick remembered any detail about your personal life, let alone your love life. “I realized it after you started treating me like your workhorse.”
“Oh okay, so you had a crush on me while you were with your boyfriend. Good to know.”
“Shut up,” you groaned and turned away from him as you finally full laid down.
“Would it make you feel better to know that I also had a crush on you?” you heard the bed sheets rustle as he scooted closer to you, and you turned back to face him.
“You’re lying.” You couldn’t see any world where that would make sense to you. In your youth, it seemed like Patrick was always off somewhere with a new person, and none of those people were you. Not that you had an issue with it, but the thought that the two of you might’ve had crushes on each other at the same time without either of you pursuing each other felt kind of weird.
“Nope. You’re the first person I ever jerked off to,” he said as casually as if he were telling you what he ate for breakfast, not breaking eye contact with you.
“Ew, you’re so gross,” you gently pushed him, but your hands lingered where they sat on his chest. “Was that supposed to be romantic or something?”
“That’s not romantic to you?” he asked with all the sincerity of someone who was fully committing to a bit.
The two of you broke out into laughter. Once you finally caught your breath, you began once more. “This is gonna be a long marriage.”
“Hopefully,” he remarked in response.
“If you keep talking to me like that, I will literally go get our marriage annulled, like right now.”
“Please don’t,” he whined, grabbing one of your hands from his chest and kissing your fingers. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Every time you promise to make something up to me, an inconsistent fairy gains its wings.”
“Hey,” his tone suddenly became very serious, completely catching you off guard. “I really am sorry that I’ve been a terrible friend. I don’t know that I’ve ever said it, but I am. You deserve so much better than me, and I don’t even know how I convinced you to do this for me.”
You almost started to laugh, unable to take the absurd situation seriously. You’d been waiting years to hear him genuinely apologize, and now hours after you’d married solely as a favor to him, he was finally telling you what you wanted to hear.
“Please. I’m serious. I know you think I’m a piece of shit flaky ashhole, and I am, but I want to be a better husband to you than I ever was as a friend.”
You felt your heart stop beating for a second. The word husband sounded so foreign in his mouth. You couldn’t quite pin how you felt about it, but you knew you felt uncomfortable with the intimacy of his words.
“Patrick, please shut up,” you squeezed your eyes shut, suddenly a little overwhelmed with the Patrick of it all. In fact, you couldn’t think of anything more encapsulating of your experience with him than the whiplash you got from that moment. He could be a complete asshat, but his occasional moments of earnestness kept you following him like a lost puppy, accepting his apologies and granting him ridiculous favors, despite your better judgment.
“Are you okay?” he asked, moving closer to you to get a good look at you. You swore you felt your heart squeeze painfully in your chest.
“I’m fine, I just-“ am overwhelmed by you being sweet? Can’t believe that I’m hearing you say this to me after so long? Also can’t believe that you and I are married?
None of the right words seemed to come to you, so you did the second best thing you could think of.
You pecked his lips and pulled away as if you’d just touched a hot handle. You didn’t know what had come over you, and immediately began to apologize profusely.
“Oh my god, I don’t know-“ you were cut off by his hands on your face, greedily and sloppily pulling you back in for another kiss, this one far more passionate and confident than the first.
Your kiss was messy but fervent, years of pent up sexual frustration and non-sexual frustration behind your every movement. As you kissed, you moved to straddle him, feeling a little ridiculous in your ratty old clothes, but that didn’t stop him from groping you over your pajamas like you were the hottest thing on the planet.
Maybe the strangest thing to happen to you that day wasn’t even your wedding.
——
That night was the first in a series of very strange events. You couldn’t even fully wrap your head around what was happening in your marriage. You just knew that the two of you had become closer friends than you’d ever been before, and that you slept together when either of you had the urge. It was basically a no strings attached situation, except, legally, all strings were attached.
If you were confused by your arrangement, you were sure that your friends were even more lost, something they proved to you as they interrogated you over brunch.
“So, just so we’re clear, you married him as a favor?!” your friend asked in complete disbelief.
“Well… yeah, basically.”
“Shit. Can I ask you for a favor of a million dollars?” she joked, leading to the laughter of your other friends at the table.
“Well, that’s different. At least with our marriage, we both benefit. He gets his parents off his ass about being so focused on tennis that he doesn’t have any future prospects, and I get my parents to stop trying to marry me off to every single rich boy they find.”
“But you’re not like, actually married. Like you guys don’t have feelings for each other?” another friend questioned.
You sipped your mimosa before explaining your situation for what must’ve been the fifth time that day, “we’re basically friends with benefits.”
“But you’re legally married? Like, the wedding was official and stuff?”
“Legally? Yeah. But it’s literally just that,” you clarified.
“Legal marriage and sex?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, hoping that they were finally catching on.
“Then… are you guys seeing other people?”
“Oh yeah, what ever happened to that one model guy you were seeing?” another one of your friends pitched in.
“It didn’t really work out,” you addressed that with an understatement. He rightfully flipped his shit when he found out you were going to be marrying someone else. “But neither of us are seeing other people. I don’t think either of us want to risk bringing anything back to one another.”
“That sounds pretty committed to me.”
“Not really,” you dismissed.
“Then why are you even together?”
“How many times do I have to explain how we both benefit from this?”
“No, not legally, or socially or whatever. Why are you hooking up with him? Aren’t you scared you’ll mess up your friendship or something?”
“Well, the sex is really, really good. But I’m really not worried. There's no romance between us. We’ve been friends for so long that it’s just… weird to look at him like anything other than my friend. It’s basically a loveless marriage of convenience.”
Your friend shot you a skeptical look. You just shrugged her off.
———
The moment you found out your afternoon meeting had been canceled, you reached out to your assistant to make arrangements for you to go to Patrick’s tennis game. He’d been on a winning streak, and though he insisted that you didn’t need to come to his games, you knew that he secretly liked having you there.
Over the past few months of your marriage, you’d grown to realize that he often didn’t say what he actually meant. Like the time he told you that he preferred to live alone, before breathily confessing in your ear that he slept better by your side. Or when he swore to you that he loved the pancakes you’d served him, despite the food being some of the worst you’d ever put in our mouth and him being on a diet. You almost found it sweet that he tried to prioritize your feelings over his own, which was surely a result of overcompensation from the way he had treated you for the majority of your lives.
You arrived at his match just in time to watch him take a break, making your way into the stands and finding a seat where you’d have the best view of your friend as possible. You didn’t expect him to scan the audience and find you until much later on, but you were pleasantly surprised when the two of you made eye contact and he absolutely lit up. You waved, then gave him a thumbs up in hopes to communicate your support from far away.
While you couldn’t always make it, you liked to play the role of supportive tennis wife. Getting dressed up and making an appearance not only publicly legitimized your sham of a marriage, but helped you to reconnect with some of your former boarding school classmates, who were often in the stands supporting a friend or a loved one. You also just liked to watch him play, as witnessing the passion and ferocity he had out on the court was extremely entertaining, and even at times, mildly arousing.
With their break ending, Patrick went back out on the court and played just as well as you expected him to, crushing his competition, and looking up into the stands at you to celebrate once he’d scored the winning point.
At first, it was surprising how proud his wins made you feel of him, a feeling that you explained to yourself by arguing that if he wasn’t giving his absolute all to tennis, then your marriage had basically been all for nothing. Although that did still ring slightly true, the truth was that you were simply proud of Patrick. Whether you liked it or not, the two of you were a unit now, which meant that his wins were your wins and vice versa. In some ways, it was kind of nice to be part of a team. Or at least his team.
You met Patrick down on the court, where he paused from packing his bag to immediately greet you with a kiss to the forehead, a small act of intimacy that was typically reserved for situations far different from the one you were currently in.
“Hey! I didn’t know you were coming!” he exclaimed, pulling you in for a half-hug.
“I didn’t know I was coming either,” you instinctually wrapped your arm around him in response to his half-hug. “Great job out there. You kinda demolished him!”
“I did, didn’t I,” he said just loud enough for you to hear, still wanting to appear like a good sport. “I have to go get ready for the press conference. Do you want to meet me at my hotel?”
“Of course. You don’t mind me staying for the night?” you probed, despite knowing the answer. He wouldn’t have asked you to go to his hotel in the first place if he’d minded.
“You know I never mind you staying for the night,” he gave you a cheeky wink.
“You’re so sleazy,” you commented with fake disgust.
“You started it,” he replied, reluctantly pulling away from you and reaching into his bag to grab his hotel keycard. “I’ll text you when I’m heading back.”
The moment you received a message about him being on his way to the hotel, you made a very lengthy phone call and request to the restaurant in the building. Technically, he shouldn’t be eating any of what you ordered, on account of him being on a strict diet plan, but you figured that he deserved it after playing the way that he did. Besides, Patrick liked thoughtful acts of service, and you figured that this would count as one.
“You know me so well,” he practically gasped as he stepped into the room, taking in the platters of food you’d laid out for him.
“What kind of wife would I be if I didn’t?” you teased, though your sentiment was somewhat accurate, and it was clear that the two of you had grown to know each other far better over the past few months, you hoped that your friend wasn’t interpreting your words in too serious of a way.
The two of you laid out on the pristine hotel bed, eating the feast that you’d ordered without much dialogue between you, other than a comment on how good something was, or a request to pass an item to one another. It felt oddly domestic, and oddly enough, you liked it. Maybe you liked it even more than you’d been willing to admit.
“I’m gonna go shower,” he announced after tossing his napkin onto a cleared off plate.
“Want some company?” you offered, raising your brows at him in a playfully suggestive manner.
“Is that what this is all about?” he feigned offense.
“Maybe,” you trailed off. “Or maybe I just wanted to celebrate the greatest tennis player of all time,” you purred.
“Come on. You and I both know that is far from the truth.”
“Well you’re the greatest player in my heart,” you praised, much to his chagrin.
“Ugh. Shut up and come shower with me.”
As you sleepily ran your fingers through his damp hair, you were surprised when he broke his silence with a comment seemingly out of the blue. It was more of a mumble than anything else, but you’d grown accustomed to his muffled words over the course of your marriage.
“You’re so beautiful,” he randomly complimented you.
“You know you don’t have to compliment me to get into my pants, right?” you asked with a hint of laughter in your tone.
“I’m not trying to,” he pecked your arm–the limb he had the easiest access to at the moment–as if he was trying to emphasize his point, though all it did was bring heat to your cheeks at the reminder of the way he’d pressed slow and meaningful kisses along your calves and inner thighs while the two of you were in the shower. “You just looked so good today, I couldn’t not comment.”
“I don’t look good every day?” you asked facetiously, trying to deflect from the warm and fuzzy feeling his compliments and affection were making you feel.
“Of course you always look good,” he reassured you rather than playing along with your game of joking instead of addressing your feelings. “I just don’t tell you that enough.”
You weren’t even sure how you could respond to that. Clearly, he wasn’t in the mood to mince words tonight, but you couldn’t bear to match his genuinity with cheap jokes. The only real, genuine thought to pop into your head were three ridiculous words that you immediately batted away. You couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing than randomly declaring your love to a husband who wasn’t really your husband in a marriage that wasn’t really a marriage.
Out of ideas, you hit the lamp on your side of the bed. “I appreciate it. Goodnight.”
“Night,” he parroted back to you, remaining snug against your chest, despite the fact that your hands had stopped threading through his hair.
Deep down, you knew that those three words had been on the tip of Patrick’s tongue, too.
——
Being in the social circles of filthily rich people meant you often found yourself at random charity events, hosted by the nonprofits of families and business owners looking for a particularly large tax break for the year. Over the years, you’d felt that you’d seen and participated in it all: marathons raising awareness for a serious, but extremely rare disease, date auctions to raise money for a cause that certainly didn’t justify you having to go on a date with a man almost forty years your senior, or galas for nearly-extinct sea creatures that were essentially used as an excuse to stand around and network while drinking expensive alcohol and eating hor d'oeuvres.
You seemed to find yourself at a lot of events like the latter, including the one you were standing at now. The gala, which took place in the art exhibit it was raising money for, was a rather standard one, filled with the typical suspects who regularly attended those events.
It was slightly ironic to be at the event with Patrick as your plus one, as this was the exact type of event he would’ve texted you about an hour before it began to ask if you would play his concerned partner for the night who told everyone a flimsy excuse about him being under the weather.
It also served as somewhat of a reminder to you of the massive growth that your friend had undergone since the two of you became legally bound to one another. It finally felt like Patrick saw you as a true friend, instead of a reliable person who would do his dirty work. It finally felt like he cared. In some ways, your marriage was the best thing to happen to your friendship.
Patrick returned to where you were standing, this time with two flutes of champagne and a delicious looking appetizer in his hand.
“You’re too kind,” you said as he passed you your drink.
“Anything for my wife,” he mockingly bowed in front of you and you chuckled and shook your head. Over the past year, the two of you slowly became slightly more comfortable with referencing each other as husband and wife, but only really as a joke. You guessed that in a lot of ways, that’s what your marriage was—a ridiculous inside joke.
He was just about to feed you a hor d'oeuvre when you were approached by a wildly unwelcome figure: the man who had purchased a date with you a few years ago. Despite your one very awkward, stilted date, he never really seemed to get over you–which he made a point to prove at every event you both happened to be at. And unfortunately for you, his generous donations landed him on the guest list for the majority of these events.
You were used to fighting him off on your own, as he seemed to come and flirt with you regardless of how inappropriate it was for the setting of the event, or even when he already had a beautiful young bombshell hanging on his arm. At this point, you’d learned to just tune his every word out and flee as soon as you possibly could. He was annoying, but he wasn’t dangerous.
“Hey, honey,” he greeted you way too comfortably. You’d given up on asking him to call you by your name a very long time ago.
“Hi, John,” you reached out to shake his hand and cringed internally when he kissed the back of your hand.
“Oh honey, who is this?” Patrick immediately lept in, surprising you with his unsubtle passive aggressive tone and ridiculous use of a pet name.
“You don’t remember me? I swear, we’ve met a few times.” John asked, trying to smile despite clearly being agitated by the presence of competition.
“Some people are more forgettable than others,” he said with a shrug. “How do you know my wife?” He emphasized the word and you pushed down the small inkling of pride you were feeling. Whether it was from watching Patrick try to scare this annoying man away from you, or being so proudly referred to as his wife, you couldn’t be sure.
“Finally settling down, eh?” he directed at you, then directed his next statement to Patrick. “We went on a date back in the day.”
“It was for that one date auction thing,” you quickly added context, but paused when you took in John’s less than pleased look. He was a large donor at your own family’s nonprofit, and you were sure that your parents wouldn’t be too pleased with you if they found out he pulled out over you hurting his feelings. “We had a lot of fun, though.”
“We definitely did,” he chuckled and smirked. You wanted to punch him in the mouth. “We should definitely do it again sometime.”
It was clear that Patrick was not taking kindly to seeing you be flirted with so brazenly in front of him. Part of you wondered why he would be possessive, since part of your initial deal was that you could see whoever you wanted, even if that happened to be a creepy old man with a lot of money. The other part of you was enjoying seeing him so fired up. Particularly, seeing him fired up over you.
“Our schedule is just so busy. Between work and us trying to start a family, I just don’t know when we’ll have time to see you again.”
Trying to start a family? That was definitely news to you. Although, the idea didn’t sound awful. Wasn’t it everyone’s dream to start a family with their closest, most dear friend?
“Well, she knows where to find me, right, honey?”
“Mhm,” you mumbled, looking into your glass like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
“Now if you don’t mind, my wife and I are going to go check out the exhibit,” Patrick announced, grabbing your hand and taking a step away from John.
“You two have fun,” he said before clapping Patrick’s shoulder and leaning in to begin a stage whisper. “Make sure you treat her right and cherish her. If you don’t, I might have to swoop in and do so myself.”
He winked at you and you bit back a gag.
“Don't you worry your wrinkly little head. Nobody lov- cherishes her more than I do,” he theatrically patted his back much like he’d initially done to him. “See you around.”
Did he almost say what you think he almost said? Surely you misheard him, or he was just playing up your relationship to scare away that creepy man. It really wasn’t anything to think twice about.
Once the two of you had walked away far enough to be out of earshot, you finally addressed what had just happened. “Thank you, bodyguard. You don’t even know how much I despise that man.”
“He seems like he’s the worst,” he agreed with you, looking back over his shoulder.
“That’s because he is,” you emphasized. “This is so random, but did you mean what you said earlier?”
Patrick suddenly paused, his face going pale like he’d just seen a ghost. You were a little confused by this reaction, as he’d said nothing to warrant that level of fear.
“Do you actually want to start a family? Obviously not now, while you’re still playing tennis, but maybe eventually? I know we don’t have the most traditional marriage, but, I don’t know. Neither of us are getting any younger, and it might be fun to co-parent with my best friend,” you were clearly rambling now, but luckily, Patrick came in to rescue you for the second time that night. He looked far less aghast now.
“I would love that,” he said to you with a genuine smile. You matched his with one of your own.
———
“Do you have any big plans for retirement?” a reporter asked for the final question of the press conference.
“Mostly just eating a lot of burgers. And maybe learning how to play pickleball,” Patrick responded, never one to give a serious answer to questions that weren’t explicitly about tennis.
It was a ridiculous note to end on, but it felt right. You’d found that to be the case with most things in your life that pertained to him–most notably your marriage, which ended up being far more than you ever expected it to be.
After the press conference had come to a close, Patrick met you outside by the car, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, then leaning down to peck your baby bump.
“How does it feel to be retired?” you asked, ruffling his hair while he was still bending down.
“It feels like you might divorce me,” he joked. Obviously your marriage deal was only meant to cover the time that he was still playing tennis, but after years of a complicated marriage that suddenly became significantly less complicated once you finally confronted the fact that the two of you very obviously loved each other, it seemed unlikely that your union would end any time soon.
You glanced down at your baby bump, then back up to him skeptically. “I hope you’re not being serious.”
“Come on, I never know with you. You’re the one who friendzoned me the entire first year of our marriage!” he exclaimed.
“That was a lifetime ago,” you countered before taking his hands in yours. “If you’re really worried, I have zero intentions of ending our marriage.”
“That’s all I wanted to hear,” he grinned, stepping away from you. “Let’s get going. I don’t want us to miss our reservation.”
You nodded and obliged, passing him the keys before heading to the passenger side of the car.
Once you sat down, you were overcome with the urge to say something. You had spent so much time bottling up and pressing down your own feelings, that it was now hard to resist letting things out when they came to you.
“I’m so proud of you,” you blurted. “And I love you. So much.”
Patrick smiled at you genuinely, before his look turned into a slightly more devious one. “I love you so much, too. One might even say I love you more.”
“Don’t even start with that,” you laughed, not in the mood to have the kind of back and forth with him that you had at least once a week. Considering that you were carrying his child, you were pretty sure that you were the winner of the love competition.
“Fine. We love each other equally,” he conceded.
“That’s more like it.”
You tried to think back to one specific moment where your marriage had crossed over from being one of convenience, into a union with genuine feelings attached, and realized that you weren’t exactly sure. It could’ve been the first night you spent together, when you’d finally allowed yourself to consider what your relationship might look like beyond a simple friendship, or maybe it was even earlier than that, when you gazed into Patrick’s eyes as you read off your vows. The look of pure adoration he gave you was one that you had grown familiar with throughout the course of your marriage, but you hadn’t realized at the time just how genuine he had been. Or maybe even the moment Patrick asked you in the living room of your apartment, when you’d been the first person he thought of to carry out his ridiculous scheme, and you’d said yes despite every logical part of your brain that screamed at you to say no.
Whenever it began didn’t particularly matter. What mattered now was that the two of you fully intended to spend the rest of your lives together.
#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig#patrick zweig x you#patrick zweig fic#patrick zweig imagine#art donaldson x reader#challengers#challengers fanfic#challengers fic#josh o'connor x reader
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two’s a party.
summary: you recently transferred to stanford, and decide to tutor a tennis player in your class. he has a friend. severe indecency ensues.
word count: 3.3k
warnings : smut, threesomes, f!oral receiving, swearing, smoking, drinking. slight cuck energy if you squint (i’m sorry ((no i’m not))). no challengers spoilers!
a/n: this fic got away from me big time but this movie has rotted my brain and as a result i have written utter debauchery that i will not apologize for. just had to get this out of my head, enjoy!
-
stanford science hall. monday , march 3.
You swear the last thing you’ll hear before your body is lowered into your grave is the process of lactic acid breakdown.
It’s 2:30 PM. Kinesiology 189 with Professor Wilson, a lanky middle-aged man with a PhD in exercise science and a half-grown beard that you don’t think will ever fully grow in, is almost over. He’s teaching Extended Studies of the Human Body in a humid classroom filled with student-athletes, most of whom are trying to stay awake, trying to hide that they’re taking a nap, or making no attempt to hide that they’re on their phones. You don’t really blame any of them, because the professor’s voice is so soft and monotone that it feels like he’s begging everyone to pay attention to anything but him. You’ve managed to stay somewhat on course with the thread of today’s lecture, the notebook in front of you filled with scribbles of incomplete molecular structures and somewhat legible drawings of the muscular anatomy of a hamstring.
This class is required for your biology major since you’re on a pre-medicine track. You don’t know why you’re doing it, the whole doctor thing, but you’ve developed a weird fixation for this class. The functionality of the body, how muscles stretch and tear with each movement, and how amino acids work to build them back even bigger.
And, possibly because of the tennis player who sits four rows ahead of you every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
His last name is Donaldson. You know because of the faded label on the massive bag he throws on the floor every time he walks into class, at least ten minutes late with a backward Stanford Tennis cap on his head. His first name remains a mystery, partly because he never talks in class, and mainly because you’ve made no attempt to speak to him. You like to think it’s because you’re so focused on the curriculum.
Professor Wilson knows your name, though, since you’re in his office hours every Thursday at 11 A.M. In part because he gives out most of the answers to his homework, and because you just transferred to Stanford your last year and very desperately need a letter of recommendation for medical school. Hence why you agreed to tutor a student with lower than 60% in the class during one of your meetings. And why everyone in the class was staring at you right now.
“... first come first serve, so reach out to her sooner rather than later.”
You give a tight-lipped smile, glancing around the room. Most people have looked away, back to their distraction of choice, but you meet eyes with the fluffy blonde-haired tennis player.
stanford library. wednesday, march fifth.
It’s 11 A.M., and you feel like your brain is about to explode if you look at another practice set.
“Hey”.
Your head whips around to the harsh whisper, only to be met with the blue-eyed mystery from your class. He has that large bag slung over his shoulder, with the end of a tennis racket peeking out of it. His hair is slightly stuck to his face, and his compression tee is slick to his chest like a second skin.
“Hi,” you whisper back. He smiles before tossing his bag on the floor and sitting in the chair across from you, either unaware of or completely ignoring the glares he’s receiving from the other students studying.
“You know,” he pulls out some kind of nutrition bar from his bag, unwrapping it and taking an aggressive bite, “for someone advertising their services, you’re pretty hard to find.”
“You’re in Mr. Wilson’s class, right?” you ask, hoping your subdued voice will remind him that he’s in a notoriously quiet place. He hums, pointing at you with his half-eaten snack.
“And I’m trying not to fail, but you didn’t leave your number anywhere in the classroom, and you bolt after every class. So how am I supposed to patronize your tutoring services…” he trails off, his volume the same level as when he walked in. You furrow your brows as he leans back into the chair.
“That’s when you say who you are.”
You feel a burn on the back of your neck as you tell him your name. He glances down towards the problem set you’ve nearly finished.
“How do you turn in any of those, I can’t get halfway through one of them.”
You pause for a moment before leaning slightly across the table to whisper:
“This new weird thing called studying. I think it just got approved by the CDC.”
“Very funny,” he shakes his head as reaches for your binder with your class schedule printed out on the front of it.
“Why are you taking so many bio classes?”
“Because I’m a biology major,” you can’t help the sarcasm dripping from your voice, and he looks at you with a raised eyebrow.
“Sorry, you’re making this too easy for me,” you raise your hands in conceit.
“I have practice every day at five so you can tutor me for like an hour beforehand,” he says before standing up, crunching up the silver wrapper and stuffing it into the front pocket of his blue jeans. You scoff at his sentence.
“Well, thank you for so generously fitting me into your schedule,” you roll your eyes, turning the page in your textbook. He grins.
“Tell the coach you’re there for Art. They’ll let you through.”
stanford tennis courts. friday, march 7th.
It’s 4 PM, and the California sun is sweltering. Your shorts feel like they’ve become a part of your legs, and your bag feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. By the time you make it to the tennis courts Art is already on the green concrete, shirtless with beads of sweat dripping down his face and chest. You hear his grunts as he sprints across the court, hitting the ball toward a slightly taller brunette with dangerously short red shorts. You watch them at the entrance for a few minutes, slightly entranced as the two play so seamlessly, as if they know every move the other person is going to make. You force your eyes away as you walk up the bleachers, stepping over leftover water bottles and chip bags to sit down and grab your notes from your backpack. It takes a couple more minutes for Art to notice you, yelling your name after he turns around to grab a ball his partner had hit particularly hard. You wave, and he says something you can’t hear to the brunette before the two of them jog across the courts and up the stands to where you are, blocking the sun as the two stand side by side.
“Who’s your friend?” you ask as you stuff the problem set you were working on in between the pages of your notebook.
“I’m Patrick,” he says, with a toothy smile and his ears poking out from under his hair. He has a bit more of a boyish charm to him than Art does, whose eyes are glued to his brunette counterpart.
“Are you in Mr. Wilson’s class too?”
Patrick opens his mouth to answer but Art speaks first, slightly pushing his friend with his shoulder as he says “He doesn’t go to Stanford, too busy being a tennis pro.”
Patrick rolls his eyes but his smile doesn’t leave his face. You notice how different this Art feels from the one in the library, how direct his playfulness is and how close he and Patrick stand together, their sweaty torsos nearly melding together.
Interesting.
“Like, Andre Agassi level pro?” you smile as the two of them laugh. Patrick raises the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, and you can’t help but take a glance at the exposed skin just above his waistband.
“Sorry, he’s like the only tennis player I know.”
“No, no I’m taking that as a compliment that you think I’m on the level of Agassi. No takebacks if you see me play,” Patrick points at you.
“Will do,” you salute, turning over to Art.
“You ready to study?” you ask him as he makes a comically loud groan, his head falling back. Patrick laughs, reaching over to ruffle his friends hair.
“You do remember that’s why I’m here, right? Midterms are in two weeks.”
“I definitely have not forgotten that.” he says. You purse your lips just as Patrick’s eyes seem to light up.
“I’m staying at the Courtyard Hotel for the weekend. You two can come over and study, I need to review my last match anyway. Kill two birds with one stone,” Patrick suggests.
“Just studying?”
“Just studying,” Art says, wrapping his arm around his friend's shoulder. You glance between the two of them, trying to decipher the unspoken communication they seem to be doing. But you can’t crack it, so you shrug.
“Sure.”
“Let us finish this set, and then you’ll have me all to yourself. Sound fair?”
“Wow, what a privilege. Don’t take too long, it’s hell on Earth out here!” you yell the last part as Art jogs down the steps and back down towards the net. You look up once you realize that the sun is still being blocked, and Patrick is still standing in front of you.
“You ever play?” he grins, flipping the tennis racket in his hand.
“Tennis? God, no, that would not be a pretty sight. I’ll stick to what I’m good at,” you gesture to the books and notes in your lap. Patrick nods.
“If you ever want to learn, I could teach you sometime, you know if-” he’s cut off by Art yelling his name, and you both glance to see him with his hands on his hips.
“Go, don’t keep your boyfriend waiting,” you wave him off, and you swear you can see him blushing. Must have been the glare.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he runs toward Art.
courtyard hotel. saturday, march 8.
It’s 11 pm. There’s a cold shiver in the elevator as you wait to get to the fourth floor, your tennis shoes tapping against the floor as one hand plays with the handle of the pack of beer in your hand while the other crumples and re-crumples the piece of paper with the hotel room number Patrick scribbled on it.
what are you doing?
You don’t have time to think about the consequences of your actions as the robotic voice signals that you’re on the fourth floor, the elevator doors fluttering open. It’s like your feet have a mind of their own, as you find yourself almost mindlessly wandering through the hotel halls until you’re planted in front of room 4B. You raise your hand to knock on the door but before you can make contact with the wood it’s thrust open, and Patrick is standing behind it. His dark hair is slightly tousled around his face, his striped shirt unbuttoned and his black boxer briefs low on his waist. He’s smiling, that same big smile as before, but his face is a little flushed, a gentle pink hue touching his cheeks. The two of you don’t say anything for a few seconds, as if you were both testing to see who would concede first to acknowledge the other’s presence. You raise the pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in your right hand.
“I brought studying fuel.”
You were never good at waiting.
Patrick laughs before he moves slightly out of the way to allow you to walk into his room. It’s small, with a queen-sized bed and a tiny desk, and the A/C emits an odd rumbling sound as it smacks against the window. Clothes and scorecards are strewn across the floor, and the scent of cigarettes permeates the room. You place the alcohol on the floor before deciding to sit on the bed, kicking off your shoes as you cross your legs. Patrick seems to stall for a moment, smiling to himself before closing the door behind him. He doesn’t lock the door, but you didn’t notice.
“Art’s not here yet?” you ask, watching as Patrick walks over and tears open the cardboard case, cracking open a can. Taking a sip, he leans against the desk as he smiles.
“Art can be bad with time.”
“As I’ve noticed,” you reach your hand out to motion towards the drink and Patrick hands it to you, staring as you take a large sip.
“Well,” you wipe the side of your mouth, “I told him to bring the topics he wanted to study, so I guess we can’t do anything until he gets here.”
Patrick nods with a slight pout, his fingers playing with the pop tab of the can. “I guess we can’t.”
“How’s tennis… stuff,” you laugh as you finish the question, not sure of exactly what to say.
Patrick seems to tense a little at the mention of the sport, moving over to sit next to you on the bed. His knee grazes your leg and you feel a slight buzz at the contact as he takes the beer from your hand.
“I’m kinda fucking it up right now,” he says, and you furrow your brows.
“How? You were like, really good yesterday.”
He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. He hands you the beer and you finish it off, placing the empty can at the bottom of your feet.
“I’m good with Art. It feels so fucking natural and easy with him. But in my other matches, I don’t know. I just … can’t replicate it.”
You nudge him with your leg.
“Sounds like you two were made to play tennis together.”
He makes a noise of agreement, his hands slowly moving to ghost over your thigh.
“You and Art are pretty close?” you ask as he plays with the bottom hem of your shorts, but he doesn’t say anything. You take his silence as a yes.
“Do you ever get jealous?”
“Of Art?” he asks, almost incredulously. You shrug.
“Yeah, or jealous of the girls he’s with. Either or.”
Patrick sits on that for a few moments before smirking.
“What’s mine is mine, and what’s his is mine.”
You laugh at that, a real deep laugh, and Patrick giggles next to you, the both of you tipsy from the can of beer you finished. You reach over and put your hand on his flushed face, rubbing your hand across his cheek.
“What were you doing before I came?” you feel his face warm even more against your skin as you position yourself closer to him.
“Practicing- or, sorry, rereading my scorecards from my last match.”
You tutted as you moved your hand to the back of his neck, gently running your hands through his hair.
“You can tell me the truth, Patrick.”
He turns his head to press a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand before looking up at you as if to check if that was too much. Whatever your expression is gives him the confidence to move down to your neck, his tongue licking your skin.
“I think you know.”
You feel a pull in your lower stomach at his words, muffled by his mouth nipping at the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he sucks hard enough for you to put your hand around on his face at the pressure. Pulling his face up, the two of you stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and his eyes glance toward your lips. You wanted to wait, to make him beg and plead for it, but your body seemingly pulled you forward as your pressed your mouth onto his.
You were really quite bad at waiting.
He tastes like tobacco and faintly of the fruit medley in the dining hall, and you sigh as his lips interlock with yours and his hand grabs the back of your neck, pressing you into him. The kiss gets messy and hard, his tongue gliding over your bottom lip and into your mouth as you lift your leg to straddle Patrick, grinding into him. He whimpers into the kiss as his calloused hands drop down to the waistband of your shorts, hesitating for a moment before dropping his hand into your underwear. You grind just a little bit faster as his fingers press circles into your clit, covering your mouth with your hand as you moan.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as he uses his other hand to guide your hips, and your move your hands down to tug firmly on his hair. You can feel your climax building, the pressure in your stomach getting closer and closer to taking you over the edge-
You both jump at the sound of the hotel room dor slamming shut. Art is standing there, in that damn backward cap and a Stanford tee shirt as he crosses his arms over his chest, saying nothing as you and Patrick sit up straight, him adjusting his crotch and you smooth down your shirt, avoiding his gaze. Finally, the silence is broken by Art laughing.
“Christ, I’m not the cops,” he slips out of his slides as he waltzes over and opens a can of beer, drinking about half of it in one go. You look at him, and at Patrick, and then back at him, not knowing what the hell you just got yourself into.
“You want to fuck him right?” Art asks, and you can’t help your small gasp at how easily he said that. You glance at Patrick, hoping he’ll know what to say, but he’s just staring at Art.
“I-um,”
“So, no one’s stopping you,” Art cuts you off, taking a final swig of his beer and moving to stand directly in front of you. You open your mouth to try and explain, but before you can talk Patrick’s mouth is on yours again, his hand roaming your body. His grip is firmer now, his fingertips digging into the side of your stomach. He tugs at the bottom of your shirt and you separate, breathless as you pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. Patrick’s mouth moves down to your neck, then your collarbones, and then your chest as he reaches around to take of your bra, and you feel on fire from Art’s gaze across the room. As Patrick kisses down your stomach and yanks down your shorts, you turn over to meet Art’s eyes.
“Come here.”
Whatever resolve Art was holding onto crumbles as he quickly takes off his shirt and slips out of his Nike shorts, tossing his hat on the dresser. In a flash Art’s hands are on your neck, tilting your head around to kiss you as Patrick lifts up your hips so he can take off your underwear. Art’s lips are softer than Patrick’s but he kisses you a little bit harder, his hand cupping the base of your neck. Somehow, they both taste the same. You moan into Art’s mouth as you feel Patrick’s tongue swirl around your clit, rolling your hips into his mouth as Art’s cock presses into your back. It’s just so much so fast, and that familiar buzz starts to pool in your lower stomach.
“Look at him,” Art turns your head to Patrick and you look into his eyes as you cum, Art’s hands hold your head forward as a wave of euphoria crashes over you. Patrick’s hands are digging into your hips as he stares up at you and Art. Your chest heaves up and down as you try to catch your breath, leaning against Art as Patrick leans back up, his mouth a few inches from yours.
“Who do you want first?
#challengers#challengers fanfic#art donaldson#patrick zweig#art donaldson fanfic#patrick zweig fanfic#art donaldson x reader#patrick zweig x reader#art donaldson x you#art donaldson x patrick zweig#art donaldson x patrick zweig x reader#mike faist#josh o’connor#mike faist x reader#josh o’connor x reader#mike faist fanfic#josh o’connor fanfic
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post match
----
the edge of your thumb brushes against the bottom of your racket. again and again, a much more docile back and forth than the game of tennis you just finished.
"now that was a...game." the breathy quality bleeding into patrick's voice implies a tiredness that serves as a point of pride. you're a fan of keeping friendly games friendly, but after playing with a talented duo that understands each other as well as patrick and art do, it's nice to know that you held your own.
your knees bend slightly, arm reaching downwards to grab the gym bag that you abandoned on the sidelines. "yeah," you hum earnestly, "you guys were great."
art tilts his head upwards, the corner of his mouth tugging itself upwards as he reaches for his own bag. "please," he mumbles as he unzips his bag, "even when you were on the singles side you had us fighting for our lives."
the warmth of art's words makes it hard to focus on rearranging the contents of your duffle bag. "you're exaggerating." you push the sandals you were wearing earlier, a spare pair of socks, and a set of tennis balls to one end of your bag. "but i appreciate it."
you're a little more careful when it comes to moving your t-shirt and denim shorts, taking the time to keep the clothes folded as you move them further into your bag. as you retract your hand, the side of your palm brushes against something cool. your water bottle.
how did you forget about that? you pull out the metal container, tucking it between your chest and forearm as you adjust your hold on your gym bag. finally, you shove the head of your racket into the newly available space.
your eyes shift upwards as you tug on you bag's zipper. patrick and art are standing close together in a way that highlights their familiarity. you've always felt the way that they understand each other on the court, but you're just starting to get the way that their closeness translates itself into life outside of the game.
"you guys are really good together." the suddenness of your own words surprises you. "anticipating moves, knowing when to let who go for it..." your explanation borders on awkward for some reason you don't exactly get.
there's a beat of silence, and the two of them exchange a look. you don't fully understand that either, but the corner of patrick's mouth shifts into a smile. he leans towards art, extending an arm to pull it around art's shoulder. "we're the team."
art works at remaining stiff, shaking his head slightly as patrick makes a show of squeezing his arm. "yeah, because he needs me to-"
"need?" patrick tugs on art's arm. "really? i need you?"
art lets out a partial laugh, shaking his head once as he halfheartedly tries to pull away. "no, no--you cut me off."
patrick looks over at you, eyes narrowing skeptically. "i don't believe him."
you twist the cap off your water bottle. "i'm neutral."
"neutral?" patrick repeats, letting his arm fall off of art's shoulder. he takes a small step in your direction. "really?"
you nod once before lifting your water bottle to your lips. before you can actually take a sip, the bottle is pulled out of your hand. you recognize patrick's smug smile before you've fully processed the fact that he's now holding your water bottle.
you cross your arms in front of your chest, lifting your chin slightly in an attempt to seem firm. "patrick."
"what?" his grin broadens as he bends his arm, holding the water close to his chest and out of easy reach.
you let your arms fall to your side in an attempt to seem nonconfrontational. patrick watches you, eyebrows raised and smile still glued into place. you take one step forward, and then another, again and again until patrick's within reach.
he watches you with an openness that's almost hard to take in all at once. you hold his gaze for what might be a second or a minute--you can't quite tell--and then you lift your arm as quickly as you can manage.
patrick's not thrown by the suddenness of your movement, taking a step back with an ease that's honestly a little irritating. he lets out a slight laugh as his arm bumps into art's.
art places a hand on patrick's shoulder in an attempt to keep him steady. you reach forward without thinking, your hand finding the skin beneath his wrist.
his grin broadens. patrick moves at a snail's pace. your fingers bend around his forearm. to your surprise, he doesn't move away again. he extends his arm carefully until the water bottle is just shy of your lips.
sometimes patrick's full attention feels so intentional, you feel like you should be able to pinpoint why he's looking at you so distinctively. if you dwell on it for long enough, you start feeling like you're missing something.
this time, though, there seems to be a silent question behind his gaze. you let your chin dip downwards in a cautious nod.
patrick tilts the container, the edge of it pressing against your bottom lip as water spills forward. you take two sips before patrick's straightening his wrist. he pulls the water bottle back enough to offer it to you. you take the bottle back out of instinct.
the confidence his smile radiates implies a smugness that digs at your skin. if he was anyone else, you're not sure you'd be able to stand him. "come on." patrick slings his tennis bag around his shoulder. "we need to hurry if we're going to make that movie you want to see."
patrick turns on his heels, walking forward without another word. it's instinct to want to follow along. patrick's a touchy person, and if no one else is going to consider what just happened weird, you won't either.
art's still, tennis bag sitting on his shoulder. you can't get yourself to take more than a step forward without seeing him move. "art?"
his gaze shifts from something just past your shoulder and onto you. the weight of art's full attention settles on you differently than patrick's. when art watches you, it's consuming in a way that's patient. there's a steadiness to any underlying intensity, like a minute could pass or an hour or an eternity and it wouldn't make a difference. he'll see whatever he needs to all the same.
art turns to face you fully before taking a step forward. he continues to walk towards you until he's so close you can see the faint array of freckles scattered across his skin. there's a particularly dark one near his chin.
he lifts an arm slowly. you don't move, not even when you can feel the tips of his fingers near the side of your cheek. art studies you for a second longer before letting his thumb brush against the edge of your bottom lip. the side of his thumb briefly presses into your skin, just enough to get your lips to part.
art pulls his hand back carefully, letting his palm linger against your skin as he moves back. "there was water on your..." his eyes briefly dip downwards before finding your own again. "patrick's messy."
"oh," you say, because you need to say something, "yeah."
the corner of his mouth pulls itself into a partial smile. he turns before you have to say anything else. "come on." art throws an arm around your shoulder. "we're gonna miss the movie."
you smile, a part of you glad that neither of them are looking at you right. "yeah, let's go." it takes a conscious effort to keep in pace with his long strides, but you don't mind it. "i don't want to miss the previews."
art's eyebrows draw together as he turns his head. "no one likes the previews."
you force a glare, tilting your chin downwards in an attempt to seem more intimidating. "i like the previews."
he squeezes your shoulder warmly. "you're so weird."
you let out a mock gasp. "really? i'm the weird one?"
#challengers#challengers x reader#art donaldson x reader x patrick zweig#art donaldson x you#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig x you#mike faist x reader#josh oconnor x reader
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Teach Me
summary: imagine Art asking Patrick how to eat a woman out and Patrick happily complies - asking his girlfriend to help. 18+ no minors
warnings: oral (f receiving), elements of cuckolding (I mean look at the summary), art being a whimperer, masturbation (male), slight dry humping.
word count: 872
"You want me to what?", Patrick asks, wondering if his best friend was currently out of his mind.
"I want you to teach me how to eat someone out. Celia asked me last night and I completely blew it", Art explains.
"You're insane"
"Please, I'm desperate here"
Patrick looks Art up and down before smirking.
"Fine, come over to my place at 9. You owe me big time"
9:00pm
Art knocks on the door wondering what the fuck he's doing. It was just like school when he asked Patrick how to jerk off but slightly more embarrassing. The door opens revealing …you.
Patrick's girlfriend.
"What are you doing here?", Art says, walking through the door to face you.
"Patrick said he wanted me to teach you about eating a woman out."
"Wait, what?"
Art sees Patrick emerge out the bedroom door trying to stifle his laughter.
"I asked for your help, Patrick. I don't need a practical lesson." Art pleas
"Practice makes perfect." Patrick says. "You coming or what?"
You walk towards the bedroom, reaching the door before looking back at Art, smirking.
"Come on it'll be good for you".
***
You lie on the bed, Art standing at the door and Patrick sitting on a chair in the corner. Art walks over before hesitating.
"Patrick, she's your girlfriend. I can't -"
"Art. I don't mind sharing."
Patrick gestures towards you on the bed, knowingly nodding to Art. Art approaches, getting on top of you, kissing your neck with his open mouth before pulling your top over your head. His kisses move over the top of your boobs as you push up, gasping, leaving enough room for him to remove your bra.
He begins pinching at your nipples with your teeth, nibbling the skin, leaving you breathless. Art is so focused on you, that he forgets Patrick is there.
"Don't have too much fun, remember this is a lesson" Patrick speaks, knocking Art out of his daze. "Take her pants off and kiss down her stomach."
Art readily complies, pulling down your leggings and kissing the skin that slowly gets revealed.
"Fuck." you gasp, as Art moves closer to your pulsing heat.
"Kiss her over her panties, she likes that," Patrick instructs.
Art does just that, teasing you as you writhe on the bed.
"Please, Art, fuck" you beg, slowly pulling on his hair.
Art looks at Patrick for instruction as he begins to pinch your thighs, seeing Patrick rubbing himself over the top of his shorts leaning back in the chair with the same dazed look as you.
"Take her panties off"
Art pulls your thong off, looking at the glistening heat in front of him. He pulls your legs apart kissing slowly towards your clit.
"Please Art," you whine, looking over at Patrick, who by now is slowing tugging at his cock watching Art begin his feast.
"Tell him what you like baby." Patrick tells you.
"Art, kiss my clit", you tell him, pulling his head up to your clit, making him whine in the process.
He begins to kiss your clit, dragging his tongue, enjoying your taste and your sweetness. Patrick sees Art slowly move against the mattress, humping it to give his dick some relief as he tastes you.
Art slowly moves his tongue in and out of you as you keep pulling on his hair.
Your moaning gets louder as Art licks faster, nipping at your clit as his hands dig into your thighs. Patrick remains in the corner, indulging in the site before him seeing the pleasure that Art is giving you, watching Art's spare hand move up your torso and begin groping your tits.
"Use your fingers.", you tell him. "Look at my hand, Art"
He looks up, leaning into your thigh, watching your middle and ring finger in a 'come here' motion. He smiles before diving back in, adding his fingers, making you arch your back in pleasure.
"Oh my god, right there", you yelp, Art's fingers reaching that spot inside you, making you moan and mewl with raw abandon.
"Mmm, fuck", Art moans into you as he ruts against the mattress, desperate for release.
"Fuck, right there Art.", you moan, nearing closer to the edge.
You open your eyes, locking your gaze with Patrick who pumps his dick faster, watching your arch your back as your orgasm overcomes you. Art keeps moaning into you, as you cum, licking up all that you give him. His humping becomes more noticeable as he reaches his peak, cumming in his pants and whimpering into your thighs.
You both look over at Patrick, who's cum is covering his hands and thighs. You look down at Art, who lies on your stomach, heaving with heavy breaths.
"You didn't need much teaching, did you?" you ask Art, before collapsing back on the bed.
Patrick walks over, sitting on the bed, lifting your head onto his lap, and kissing your head.
"Was that good for you?" he asks you, looking at Art.
"Very much. I think we should keep him around."
You both stare at Art, smirking, imagining more sexual adventures between the three of you as you fall into slumber on Patrick's lap with Art's head on your stomach.
#patrick zweig x reader#art donaldson x reader#challengers smut#challengers x reader#art donaldson smut#patrick zweig smut
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college art and patrick giving you oral at the same time ; mdni
when you first suggested the idea after a night out at a pub, art and patrick thought you were insane. there’s always been tension looming between the three of you, although the idea of acting on it never seemed like a possibility.
the next day, however, when the two boys were sitting on the bleachers and watching you stretch before your tennis match, they turned to face each other with knowing looks on their faces.
now, you’re sitting on the edge of your small dorm bed, your legs spread as far as possible.
“are you sure this is okay?” you breathe out, asking the two boys as they kneel between your legs, their shoulders pressed together.
“yes.” they reply in unison, their eyes lighting up with a sense of eagerness.
you place your right hand in art’s hair and your left hand in patrick’s hair, wordlessly signalling for them to continue.
art makes the first move, gently kissing up your thigh before sticking out his tongue and flattening it, licking a stripe along the folds of your wet cunt.
“fuck.” you gasp, your eyes rolling back in pleasure as art moves his tongue to your clit, tracing circles on the sensitive bud.
“art, move over a little.” patrick interrupts your moans with his sharp tone. “play nice, share with me.”
art keeps his tongue on your clit but moves over slightly, following patrick’s demands. unlike the blonde boy, patrick doesn’t bother slowly making his way towards your cunt. instead, he immediately darts his tongue out, flicking it along your clit, making contact with art’s tongue.
it takes the two boys a moment to work out a rhythm and get used to their tongues so close together, but once they do, it feels like paradise for you.
your back arches and you can’t hold back your desperate moans. “oh my, fuck! yes.” you swear you sound like a porn star, but the pleasure takes over any common sense you have about being too vocal.
art opens his eyes and shifts his gaze to sneak a look at patrick, who’s flicking his tongue on your clit even faster. the blonde was already hard as he licked your pussy, but now he feels like a teenager again, as if he could cum just from the sight of patrick devouring you like it’s his last meal on death row.
as if patrick could feel the blonde eye fucking him, he glances at art, still working on getting you to climax.
you look down at them, curiosity taking over your facial expression as art stops his movements on your cunt, simply panting while staring at patrick, his shallow breaths hitting your cunt and sending shivers down your spine. “what’s wrong?” you breathe out, your eyes glazing over as a knot tightens in your stomach.
just as you’re about to cum, patrick and art lock their mouths together, their tongues clashing on your clit as they start making out, eliciting even more pleasure from your body.
“patrick, art…fuck, i’m so close.” your words seem to only motivate the two of them as they pick up the pace of their tongues in desperation. “you’re both so fucking hot.” you moan.
the knot in your stomach gets even tighter and after a few seconds, your thighs shake and your mouth parts as the knot releases and you cum on their tongues.
patrick and art pull away from in between your thighs, still kneeling beside each other, a mixture of their spit and your cum left over on their lips and chins.
“i think we should do this again, hm?” you give them a small smirk.
they look up at you intensely, then they turn their heads to look at each other, “yeah.”
#here yall go#hmm idk how i feel abt this one#x reader#fanfic#fanfiction#challengers x reader#challengers fanfic#challengers smut#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson smut#patrick zweig smut#patrick zweig x reader#mike faist x reader#challengers#art donaldson#patrick zweig
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A Breath of Life || Challengers
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
Part Two
Pairing(s) : Reader x Patrick – Reader x Art – Reader x Tashi (sort of.)
CW: MDNI - 18+ : smut, rough / manhandling. Infidelity. Angst. A lot of yearning. (They all want each other, badly.) Manipulative behaviour. Minor spoilers for the film.
Notes: Female Reader (AFAB Reader) - Absolutely no use of y/n, (because I despise it, sorry)
Wordcount: 9.7K
Summary: You met Tashi in your final year of high school and were more than happy to have lost a tennis match against her. Afterwards, the two of you become inseparable and you find yourself feeling for her in a way that you don’t quite understand.And then things get even more complicated when Patrick and Art burst into your lives. As the years pass, desire, love and hatred all get tangled together...and so do the four of you.
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
The idea of meeting Tashi Duncan had been much more intimidating than the actual event itself. It was an odd thing, to idolise someone who was the exact same age as you—a girl not yet out of high school and still so chronically unsure of herself and the world—but it was impossible not to.
You had watched every single match of hers that you could, staring for so long at the way she moved, that you were left with the afterimage of her burned into your eyes: She was in your thoughts constantly and always waiting behind your eyes when you closed them hoping for sleep.
You were brilliant at tennis, you knew that you were. But Tashi played like it was the only way she could take oxygen into her lungs; each serve and shot an inhalation and exhalation. You understood, because you felt something similar.
For a long time, you had been ignored or dismissed in every aspect of your life, by everyone. But then you had found tennis, and you were really fucking great at it.
Tennis saved your life by making you undeniably tangible. Your existence could not be disputed when someone had to react to your movements, to receive something you had offered.
It was no wonder then, that for as long a match lasted you were unhealthily obsessed with whoever it was that you were playing against. They made you real.
But then you played Tashi. You had lost, of course, but it had been a close match, neither of you dominating for long before the other gained the upper hand once more. The gasps from the crowd had been the swelling of some great tide, breaking against your flesh and reinvigorating you like freezing water.
Once it was over, you felt bereft of something vital. You felt as though you had slipped back into non-existence, only this time it was worse than ever, because your connection to Tashi Duncan was gone.
But your body remembered. It ached and throbbed, rebelling at all you had put it through- no. All Tashi had put it through. You were desperate to feel it again.
And your prayer was answered.
She appeared before you like an angel.
Tashi jogged over to you as you gathered your things after the match, flushed and with beads of sweat glistening on her skin like crystals. And her eyes…they had been wide and dark and enrapturing. And then she had said the words that would change the trajectory of your life:
“So, when can I play you again?”
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
Ruah is the Hebrew word that means God’s spirit, but it is also breath or air and is widely understood to be God’s presence in the world.
You couldn’t remember when you had learnt the word, but you knew that in the Bible, God had created Adam by breathing life into him. Which was why, when anyone joked about Tashi Duncan being some kind of deity, you could not dispute it, because that is what she had done to you.
Tashi had breathed life into you.
Her presence in your life has allowed you to come alive even off the court: you finally felt like a real person. Thanks to her, you knew that when you put your racket down, you did not simply disappear.
Tashi saw you, on and off the court, and you loved her for it.
But, by the time you were both accepted into Stanford, over a year after you’d first met, you still wouldn’t let yourself delve into that love, and work out the ways in which you felt it. Not only because, you’d only ever been drawn to guys in any romantic or sexual way, but also because you felt undeserving of her.
How pathetic would it be for you, who crawled at your best friend’s feet, to look up and whimper out words of desire to her?
You were blessed to have her in your life, let alone to be as close with her as you were. Love was so many disparate things; you could love her as a friend, and hold that carnal aspect deep down. Just having her in your life was more than enough. She was enough.
Or so you thought.
At the party celebrating Tashi, the two of you had not yet left each other’s side. You were dancing together, close enough that you could feel the ecstasy of victory buzzing beneath her skin as she held your hands and pulled you close. Her hair was silken and flowing down her back and as you were tangled up with her, it tickled against your own exposed skin.
“They’re still staring.” You whisper into her ear, laughing as she answers by twirling you around and then pulling you back in.
You practically fall into one another, having to steady yourself by placing your hands on her hips, the beaded fabric of her dark blue dress digging into the palms of your hands.
“Good.” Tashi answers, wrapping her arms around your shoulders.
She turns you enough that with your chin resting on her shoulder, you are looking right at the two boys who had been gawking all night. One dark haired with confidence coming off him in waves, the other more reserved, a different kind of potency bubbling beneath the surface.
The blonde’s eyes meet yours and he tilts his head, offering a delicate but untethering smile.
“You’re going to have to talk to them.” You offer, still held in Tashi’s arms. “Otherwise they’re going to follow you around like lost puppies all night.”
You gasp and squirm away as your friend playfully pinches your side.
“Do you really think they’re just looking at me?” Tashi questions incredulously.
You laugh at her shock. “Of course they are.” You say, gesturing up and down her form as she continues to sway to the music.
“Oh my God!” Tashi exclaims, grabbing your hand and pulling you close again. “You’re such a fucking idiot! They’re looking at you, too!”
You roll your eyes, but can’t help feeling a little buoyed at the prospect of being desired. “Yeah, right.”
Tashi shakes her head. “It’s a good thing you’re so oblivious, I like having you all to myself!”
Heat floods every part of you, acutely aware of the sweat trickling down the back of your neck, your skin uncomfortably warm.
Only when the two of you have stopped dancing do they come over.
Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig saunter needfully into your life and had you known then all that would ensue, you still would have welcomed their approach.
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
The four of you had wandered down to the beach.
Art and Patrick were sitting on deck chairs that sat side by side, their legs stretched out and their gazes lustful, both of them looking at Tashi who was perched on a rock opposite them. In that moment, the moon seemed made only for her, the silver light lining her form.
You sit on the sand near her, your legs pulled up to your chest. The waves softly hit the beach behind you, lulling you into an even more incorporeal mindset. All that exists to you, is Tashi and the two boys who so clearly want her.
Despite how desperately you want to engage in their conversation, you’re exhausted and distracted by the knowledge that your parents will already be looking for you.
You’ve rested your chin on your knees, your eyes drooping shut, when a voice calls out to you.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Art is crouching beside you, his hand on your back, his knees sinking into the sand, shifting the surface beneath you. You jolt at the contact, scrambling to your feet as Tashi chuckles.
Patrick’s gaze flits between you and Art and then over to your best friend, his cheeks dimpled with a smirk.
“I’m fine.” You reassure with a shaky smile, brushing sand off the back of your dress. “I should go though, my parents will be waiting.”
“You can’t leave!” Patrick protests playfully, placing a hand to his chest. “You’ll break my heart.”
You grin, spurred on by his own smile and shrug. “And why should I care about that?”
Patrick’s mouth drops open in feigned hurt as Art chuckles, shoving his hands into his pockets and stepping away from you.
You turn to Tashi, meaning to say goodbye, but she’s already up and hugging you. She often kisses your cheek as a form of goodbye, but this time she gets so close that her lips tease the corner of your mouth as hers make contact. You are electrified by it.
You know that she isn’t doing it for you, which is confirmed when she pulls away with her eyes flitting giddily between Art and Patrick who have both gone utterly still as they watched the display.
Despite the jealous ache that blooms, you play into it, because another part of you is excited at the thought of working the two boys up. You pull Tashi back into a hug, your hands resting dangerously low on her back as you squeeze her. She giggles into your ear.
“You already have them wrapped around your little finger.” You say it quietly, but loud enough that you know the boys will hear.
Over Tashi’s shoulder, you see Patrick smirk again and Art runs his thumb over his his bottom lip with a small smile on his face.
When you do finally pull away, Tashi smacks you on the ass.
“It was great to meet to you!” Art shouts after you.
“I miss you already!” Is Patrick’s shouted offering.
You just shake your head and continue on your path away from the beach.
Unbeknownst to you, three sets of eyes follow you until you’ve disappeared from view.
When you get home, you still feel the touch of Tashi all over you. But when your hand dips under the covers, something has changed. Because when you close your eyes, it’s not just Tashi you see. Instead, multiple people are fighting for dominance in your midnight fantasy:
You see Patrick’s licentious smirk.
You see Art’s coy smile.
They’ve both invaded your mind, corrupted your thoughts that for a year had been so gloriously void of anything but Tashi.
And from that moment, you know part of you will always hate them. For so long, even knowing you can’t have her, all you’ve needed to sate yourself are thoughts of Tashi. But they’ve changed that.
You hate Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson because they’ve made you want more. You want….one of them. You don't know why and you also don’t know which one of them it is.
But what is clear to you, is that a new itch has arisen within you, and it comes with panic, because unlike with Tashi, you’re certain there’s a possibility that one of them might actually want to scratch the itch for you.
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
Had he known how furious you were going to be with him when you arrived, you doubted Art would have been so eager to invite you to have lunch with him in the cafeteria.
Even when you slam your tray down and drop into the seat opposite him, he still looks happy to see you. He always did. It was infuriating.
“What are you playing at, Art?” You struggle to keep your volume down. You hadn’t wanted to yell at someone in a long time, but he had managed it.
Concern flashes in his eyes, but his lips press together in a way that tells you he knows exactly what you’re referring to. And yet he still asks:
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re fucking with Tashi’s head.”
“I would never do that.”
You scoff, stabbing the flimsy plastic fork into your salad. “Except you are, and I know that you’re doing it on purpose.”
Art pushes his own tray to the side and settles his elbow onto the table, resting his chin on his hand. “Yeah, how’d you figure?”
“Why else would you tell her that Patrick doesn’t love her?”
“Because I don’t think he does. Do you?”
You ignore his question, instead opting to pick up your apple and throw it at his head, hard. He catches it, that damnable little smile still on his face.
“For fuck sake, Art!” You erupt. “She needs to keep her head on straight. Don’t upset her just because you want her for yourself!”
He tilts his head, blue eyes sparkling as he takes a large bite out of the apple. He chews for a bit before holding it back out to you, speaking through a mouthful:
“You should have the rest of this, you haven’t been eating enough.”
“Fuck you!” You snatch it from his hand and shift in your seat, easily throwing it and landing it right in a nearby trashcan.
“Well that was a waste of perfectly good fruit.” Art licks some residue off his thumb and then leans across the table.
You fail to snatch your wrist away before he grabs it. He’s gentle but firm, and as his thumb rubs along your pulse point, you feel the residual moisture from his own mouth he’d left behind, transferring to your skin.
“You don’t have to fight this hard to protect her,” Art presses. “She’s a grown woman.”
“She’s my best friend and I don’t want you to hurt her.”
Art’s thumb stills, but he tugs your wrist a little closer. “Do you really think I could?”
You scowl, pulling free of his hold. “You know, the way you and Patrick worship her isn’t the compliment that you both seem to think it is. You’re putting her up on a pedestal, practically deifying her, but she’s not invulnerable. She feels more strongly than anyone I’ve ever known and tennis is her life. If you get in her head and fuck up her game, It will break her and then I will break your fucking hands.”
This time when he’s smiles, it’s rife with fondness for you and it makes you want to punch him for the fluttering it causes in your stomach.
“You didn’t answer my question.” He says simply.
“What?”
“Do you think Patrick loves her?” Art repeats patiently.
“Do you love her, Art?”
“Can you please just answer my question?”
“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. “I’m not even sure I would know love if I saw it. All I do know, is that you both lust after her and definitely for each other too, even if you’ll never admit it. You’re all totally fucked.”
Art’s jaw clenches, the muscles ticking, but instead of irritation or anger at your outburst, his gaze softens. When he speaks, it is soft and achingly tender:
“You do know love. Because you love Tashi.”
You let out an embittered laugh. “Of course I do. I tell her all the time.”
“But she doesn’t love you, not in the same way.”
You really didn’t know if he intended for that to sting, especially not with how gently he’d said it, but if he had, he’d failed. You came to accept that fact a long while ago, and while you would always want Tashi in some respect, it was not the all consuming desire it had been. The lust was gone. She was important to you. She was your best friend and you wanted to protect her.
Unfortunately, the two men you wanted to protect her from, were the ones who had usurped her as objects of desire in your mind.
“Are you trying to find yourself a catchphrase before you go pro?” You sneer at Art. “I’m not sure how great that would look on a billboard for Adidas.”
“You deserve to be loved.”
You had picked up your cup to take a drink of water, but upon hearing his words, you slam it down again and rise to your feet. He tracks your every move, as calm as ever.
“I can’t talk to you right now, Art. You’re being cruel.”
You storm away from the table, only making it a few steps before you hear the scrape of his chair against the floor as he rushes to follow you.
You’ve only just pushed open the door when he crowds up behind you.
Art’s hand lands on your back as he guides you outside, his other hand rests on your arm and even after he turns you to face him, his touch remains.
His hand is wrapped lightly around your arm, the other keeping you close- his palm pressed against your lower back. Anyone watching would think he was drawing you into an embrace. You almost shudder at the contact.
Patrick has always been handsy, touching and caressing you under the guise of teasing, but Art has always moved around you as though you’ll disintegrate at the lightest touch. The way he’d held your wrist back in the dining hall and how he cradles you now, is the most he’s ever touched you.
Your chest heaves as your flesh tingles.
Art’s head drops, his eyes on his own hand on your arm, as if he can’t understand why he’s holding you. His voice is strained:
“Patrick isn’t good for her.”
And just like that, you’re slammed mercilessly back down to earth.
Art wasn’t touching you with tenderness or affection, you were just someone he was holding in place so that you had to hear him out. So you had to hear how much he wanted Tashi.
“Oh, but I deserve to be thrown at him as a distraction so that you can have her?” You snap at him, more hurt than you’ll ever admit.
“You deserve whatever it is that you actually want.”
Art sounds frustrated now, not at you…but perhaps at what he knows you won’t say. You do want Patrick. But you also want him. You had just never considered that he knew that.
But that’s not what you say. Instead you say–
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Do you want to know why he isn’t good for her?” Art presses, entirely unaffected by your fury.
“No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
The hand on your back pulls you a little closer, one errant blonde curl falls down from his forehead and brushes your temple. His breath is hot against your cheek.
“Patrick’s not good for her-“ Art begins, his tone becoming embittered. “Because he wants you. He always has.”
You rip free from Art’s grip with such force that the friction of it burns, his fingerprints leaving red marks on your arm. “You are unbelievable!”
“I’m not lying. You know I wouldn’t, not to you.”
“You will say anything to have her won’t you?” You laugh nastily. “What’s the plan, Art? Do you think that I’ll try and seduce Patrick away from her now, leaving a space open for you to swoop in?”
“Ask me how I know.”
“No.” You spit back at him.
But you don’t move.
Your body waits for words that your mind doesn’t think it can handle hearing. Something feels so close to breaking and you can’t help but feel like it’s to do with whatever force binds the four of you together.
Art steps forward, closing the distance again, he raises his hands and rests them on either side of your neck, his thumbs pressing onto where your pulse is ratcheting beneath your fragile skin.
“I know he wants you, because the night after he won our match- when he won Tashi’s number- he told me that I should fuck you.”
“Art.” You warn, frustrated tears bringing horrible pressure behind your eyes.
A small group comes out of the dining hall and have to split down the middle, because neither of you move a muscle. Art’s hold tightens, like he’s trying to leave a permanent imprint behind without it hurting you.
He whispers now. “Patrick told me to fuck you. And I know him. He said that because when he couldn't have you, it excited him to think that I would. That I'd tell him about sleeping with you.”
“That was such a long time ago.” You say shakily, coming completely unmoored.
But Art won’t let it go.
“He still looks at you the same way, and that’s not fair to Tashi. You want to protect her, right? Well what will it do her when she finally notices the way her boyfriend is constantly eye-fucking her best friend?”
You hit out against his chest with a closed fist. The shock more than the force makes him stagger back.
“You are so fucked in the head! You and Patrick are both pathetic little leeches who want the same girl, but can’t cope with the way it’s made them realise that they also want each other. You know what? I actually think so much would be solved, if you and Patrick just fucked each other!”
You start to back away and Art darts forward, trying to grab you again, but you smack his hand away and turn your back.
“Leave me alone, Art! And leave me out of your shit!”
He calls out your name with ragged desperation, but he does not follow. And even though he’s truly made your skin crawl, something about that makes you even more furious.
Why won’t he follow you?
Why do you still want him to?
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
You hadn’t spoken to any of them since your argument with Art.
You couldn’t cope with the realisation that if any of them ever did feel any desire for you, it was only because they saw you as some sort of vessel through which they could access parts of the person that they truly wanted.
You couldn’t even be said to exist in Tashi’s shadow anymore, you had simply been subsumed by it. Those two men, who you both despised and wanted desperately, would never see you, not really. To them, you were just part of her. But you would not let them ruin your friendship with Tashi. You just wouldn’t.
You knew when you arrived to watch her match that something wasn’t right. She was upset. You could see it in all the minutiae of her: in the way she took off her hoodie, in the way she picked up her racket. Something was really wrong.
You walk through the stands until you come across Art.
There are two free spaces to the right of him, so you sit down on the one furthest away, leaving a gap in the middle for Patrick to take up when he arrives. But then time passes and the match approaches and he still hasn’t materialised.
You feel Art staring long before he makes his move. The air shifts as he shuffles over into the seat directly beside you.
“That seat is taken.” You intone harshly. Your eyes are fixed on Tashi as she prepares.
“If it was, I wouldn’t have been able to sit in it.”
“Sorry, I should have been clearer. I don’t want you anywhere near me, so I want Patrick to sit there instead of you.”
Your name is a tentative as he speaks it. “Will you please look at me? I can’t handle you not looking at me.”
Your gaze remains set on Tashi, she looks up and finds you in the crowd. The furious divot between her brow eases for a moment before her eyes snag on the way that Art is leaning into you. She turns her back on the entire crowd, but you know the gesture is meant for you alone.
Fuck. What the hell had happened overnight? If it was Art’s meddling, you’d kill him.
“The match is about to start.” You say coldly.
Art’s hand lands on your knee, but when you flinch, he immediately pulls it away.
“I know I hurt you and I’m sorry. I- I need you to forgive me.”
You grit your teeth at his audacity. “Why do you need me to, Art?”
“Because I can’t stand the thought of you not being in my li-“
The match begins and Art never gets to finish his sentence.
In fact, you don’t speak to him properly for almost a decade after that. Because Tashi gets hurt. Her sporting career ends in the blink of an eye and takes your friendship with it.
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
Both you and Art had sprinted down onto the court, your heart breaking in your chest as you fell to your knees beside your best friend, tears gathering in her eyes as she whimpered in pain.
What had hurt the most though, was the way Tashi had shoved your hand away when you had tried to comfort her.
“Don’t touch me!” She had barked on a ragged breath. “Get away from me. Get away!”
The hatred had dripped from her words and landed on you like a corrosive liquid. And as it had burned down to the bone, you had looked at Art and the apologetic agony with which he’d regarded you—even as he’d cradled Tashi’s head in his hands—told you what he’d done.
He’d not only told you about Patrick’s supposed lust for you, but he’d also told Tashi. He had told her that even after her now boyfriend had won her number, he’d apparently been thinking about fucking you. Art had also definitely shared his little insight that Patrick didn’t love her either, which you quickly worked out had contributed to his absence.
So Art got what he wanted: he finally had his hands on Tashi and he’d done it by carving you and Patrick away.
Art Donaldson was an attentive, gentle, even needy man, but you had been so stupid to think that meant he couldn’t also be calculated and cruel. Because of course he was. What else could win the heart of Tashi Duncan but brutal passion? It was part of what she loved about tennis: the unforgiving force of hits that once you met them, somehow felt like affection.
When Patrick had tracked an injured Tashi down, still waiting to be taken to hospital, he had been ordered away by both her and Art.
You knew that because he’d just told you. It was the first thing he’d said to you when you’d let him into your room fifteen minutes earlier.
Now, you were both sitting on the scratchy carpet of your dorm, passing a bottle of vodka between the two of you.
You felt bereft. Your body wracked with sympathetic pain for the grief in your mind. You’d lost Tashi today, you knew that. And the man that had caused it, was a man you’d spent years yearning for.
Art hadn’t only taken Tashi from you, but he’d violently ripped himself away too.
“Art wasn’t lying.” Patrick grumbles after taking another hearty gulp of vodka.
“Please, don’t.” You beg wearily, taking the vodka from his outstretched hand and pressing it to your lips. Not even the burn of the spirit going down your throat registers.
“I wanted- want, both of you. You and Tashi.”
He isn’t drunk, only tipsy, but he’s getting there, and his words are sluggish, laced with fury.
“Shut up, Patrick.”
You fall down onto your back, resting the vodka bottle on your stomach, holding it by the neck as you stare up at the ceiling.
Patrick has been sitting opposite you, but he moves languidly forward, crawling up over your body. He braces one knee beside your hip as the other slots between your legs.
You blink up at him as one of his hands rests beside your head and the other falls over your own where it still holds the vodka bottle. You let him take it from you, placing it beside your body before the hand then moves to rest on the other side of your head.
You’re now trapped beneath him, his lithe body hovering just above yours.
When he leans in, his alcoholic breath almost sears your skin as his lips brushed the shell of your ear.
“Sometimes, when we were fucking I would imagine that you were with us.” Patrick’s teeth nip at your ear. “I asked her once, you know, and she slapped me. Called me a pig. I think she was just mad because she liked having you to herself. You were such a devoted acolyte, kissing the ground she walked on—“
Fury bursts within you like a solar flare, red-hot and ruinous. He was talking about her in the past tense, as if she was dead to both of you already.
Art groans in pain when you knee him in the balls. You use the chance to shove him off you and he falls to the side, knocking the bottle of vodka over.
As you stand up, you feel the alcohol seeping into the carpet at your feet.
“You are a pig.” You hiss down at him.
It’s your room, but you find yourself storming towards the door.
You don’t get far before Patrick recovers, clambering to his feet and easily closing the distance with his long legs.
You groan in frustration as he presses you into the door, one hand above your head and the other wrapping around your torso, his fingers dangerously close to brushing your breasts over your tank top.
“If I’m a pig, why did you let me in?” He pressed his face into your neck and breathes you in.
Some of the vodka has evidently soaked into his shirt, because the scent seizes you with the same violence with which he had. It’s a secondary intoxication.
You words come out weakly, and you hate that it’s because you’re using so much energy fighting the urge to press back into him:
“I felt sorry for you.”
Patrick laughs.
The smug bastard actually laughs right into your skin, the vibrations travelling all the way down to where your body has begun to ache the most.
“Oh, sure.” He coos patronisingly. “It definitely wasn’t because you’ve wanted to fuck me for years.”
You should fight him, but you don’t want to.
You should protest when the hand that he has pressed to the door moves to pull down one of the straps of your tank top. But you simply don’t want to. You want him.
Art had been right about both of you.
No sooner has the thin strip of fabric been removed from your shoulder, than Patrick is clamping his teeth down on the exposed flesh. You yelp in surprise, the pain a burst of sordid pleasure.
Patrick laughs again, the hand he has pressed to your stomach pulling you flush against him. You can feel his need for you pressing into your backside, but in case you had somehow missed it, he bucks his hips up into you.
You gasp and he laughs again, his tongue now running over the aggravated skin where his teeth have left a dent.
“We both know what this is.” He goads.
“And what is it?” You ask teasingly, your head now thrown back and resting against his chest. He groans into your neck as you grind yourself back onto him.
“Inevitable.”
“Are you just doing this to get back at them?” You ask, not daring to speak their names.
An angry grumble you can’t quite make sense of tears out of Patrick’s throat just before he is forcefully spinning you around.
You get barely a glimpse of his feral smirk before he is easily picking you up again and throwing you over his shoulder. The slap he delivers to your ass is punishing and stings furiously as he practically throws you down onto the carpet.
The bed is right next to you, but the asshole apparently wants you on the scratchy carpet and with a wet patch where the vodka has soaked in.
“I’m doing this, because I have wanted to fuck you, from the moment I saw you dancing at that party.”
You’ve barely got your breath back after being thrown about, when he is grabbing your calf and yanking you down so that you’re laying completely flat beneath him.
“But you only ever pursued Tash-“
He cuts you off from saying her name by leaning down and pressing his mouth to your still clothed breast. His tongue swirls over the fabric, your nipple growing pert.
When his knee presses up between your legs, parting them forcefully, your head falls back, strands of your hair wetted by the spilt alcohol.
When Patrick bites down on your chest far too hard, your hand instinctively comes up to slap the side of his head.
You’re so shocked by your own burst of violence that you go still at exactly the same time as Patrick, both of you breathing furiously. When he does peer up at you, his dark curls slick against his increasingly sweaty forehead, menace dances in his eyes.
“Do that again.”
You wish you could have feigned confusion or indignation for even a moment, but your blood is pumping to all the right places to urge you to make terrible, delightful decisions.
Your second slap connects cleanly with his cheek, your palm tingling with the force as his head spins to the side.
Your handprint is already a pink mark on his skin when he wraps his arms around your torso, lifting you up just enough so that he can pull your tank top off and throw it to the side. Your chest is left bare to him and he wastes no time before peppering kisses to your sternum, to your breasts and your neck, his arms still wrapped around you, his nails digging into your back.
The throbbing ache between your legs becomes far too much to bear, so you curl your fingers into his hair and forcefully tug him away from your chest- a bead of saliva stretching between your flushed skin to his swollen lips.
You lean your head forward, taking his bottom lip between your teeth and biting, pulling at it until he groans pathetically. You let him go, beyond pleased when you don’t have to tell him what you want next.
You don’t want to wait any longer. You haven’t slept with anyone since you met him and Art.
Art.
Is it wrong that as Patrick pushes your back into the carpet and pulls down your sweatpants and underwear in one clean tug, that you close your eyes and briefly imagine that it’s Art instead?
You might have found an answer if you had more time, but when you open your eyes, Patrick is over you, his shorts and boxers already discarded alongside your clothes. His shirt is still on, but neither of you have the patience for the second or so it would take to get it off him.
Patrick smirks down at you before pressing two of his fingers into your mouth, you open gladly, your eyes locked onto each other as he swirls them around. When he’s satisfied, he pulls his fingers out, and then licks his own hand, mixing himself with you.
He swipes his wet hand over your already slick core a few times before he’s pressing himself inside of you. Your arms curl around his neck as you wrap your legs around his waist.
“Fuck.” He groans, his tongue licking up the side of your neck as his hips begin to move.
“Patrick.” You plead, your fingers digging into the nape of his neck.
He knows what you want, nipping at your neck before he is driving into you with bruising force.
In that moment, as you’re joined in the way you’ve wanted since the moment you’ve set eyes on him, you realise thar Tashi isn’t the only person that can make you feel real.
As Patrick drives into you–his lips and teeth leaving marks on your flesh that will be wine-dark by morning, and the horrible fabric beneath you leaving carpet burn on your back– you finally know more than tennis can make you feel alive.
The sex is forceful and punishing, but fuelled by a genuine passion. Nothing but your intermingled breaths and the sound of your joined bodies fills the room.
If the two of you hadn’t been so lost to your pleasure, you might have heard Art knocking on your door. But you didn’t.
He did however hear the two of you, so he walked away.
You wouldn’t speak to him or Tashi again for over ten years.
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
You weren’t in New Rochelle to compete. You didn’t need to. You were on the top of your game, ranked the third best female player in the world.
No, you were in New York because despite your better judgement-- and the many years that had passed since you’d last seen him--when Patrick Zweig had called you, you’d answered.
You hadn’t heard his voice since you had told him that for your own sanity, you couldn’t see him anymore.
For the two years you had been together after Tashi had banished you both from her life, you had let Patrick consume you. And you had never played tennis so poorly in your life.
You hated what that said about you, that you had willingly discarded someone you had genuinely cared for to improve your ability to hit a ball. But hitting that ball was what kept you alive, not him.
Not only that, it hadn’t taken you long to realise that you didn’t love Patrick enough to let him affect your career.
And yet when he had called, you’d answered. And when he’d told you that Art Donaldson had entered the Challenger as a wildcard, you both knew that you would come.
From the moment you had booked the flight, to the first step you’d taken into the hotel, you had lied to yourself that you were only coming for the closure that you hadn’t received as a twenty year old.
But when you stepped into the hotel lobby and saw Tashi disappearing into the nearby elevator, your self-deception shattered.
You were here because still, after all the time that had passed, you ached for the way that you had felt when she had been in your life. You missed her. And you had missed Art.
It was a sickening truth of your life, that while no one had fucked with your head or upset you as much as Art had ended up doing, no one else had ever been so attentive to you either.
Art had watched you—watched out for you—even when you weren’t playing tennis. In fact, in moments of utter stillness, when you had been doing nothing even remotely remarkable, was when you had always caught him staring. He never shied away, or broke his gaze when he was caught, he’d just smiled as if he wanted you to know he would never feel shame for being found looking at you.
And that had not changed.
You have been sitting at the hotel bar for ten minutes, feeling sorry for yourself and nursing the same glass of gin and tonic, when you feel someone looking at you.
You turn your head cautiously, your shoulders sagging as your eyes meet Art’s. He’s sitting on one of the small leather couches tucked into the far corner of the darkened room.
It had been an inevitability, but things would have been so much easier if you never came across him.
You know you shouldn’t move- part of you had come for closure and you could get that just by watching him compete tomorrow, so you don’t need to talk to him.
But then Art tilts his head and smiles at you like no time has passed and pats his hand on the unoccupied space beside him on the couch.
You get down off the barstool.
As you approach, he watches unflinchingly.
The last time you had heard Art’s voice, was when Tashi had suffered her injury and he’d been permitted to stay by her side when she had ordered you away.
And yet even after so much time, when he greets you with a quiet ‘hello’, the pathetic girl who had pined after him returns.
You don’t respond as you come to a stop right in front of him, the tips of your heels right against the toes of his shoes, but you make no move to sit down.
It’s of course not the first time you’ve seen him since college, or been at the same event, or even in the same room- you’re both highly successful tennis players, you couldn’t help but overlap sometimes. But neither of you have ever allowed yourselves to get close, or to even speak.
It has been over ten years of your eyes connecting through crowds and across rooms that felt much larger than they were, simply because there was distance between the two of you within them.
Art sits forward, his forearms resting on his knees. He’s fiddling with his wedding ring and you can’t bear to look at the familiar way his fingers carry out the gesture.
When he looks up at you, it's so open and wanting that you almost turn right back around. But then you hear his voice again.
“Can I ask you to sit with me?”
“I don’t know Art, can you?”
He smiles, sighing softly as he runs his hand through his hair. It’s short- much shorter than the curls he’d had at college. You like it. It suits him.
You shift on your feet, crossing your arms across your chest to cover up your nerves. Perhaps you can protect yourself if you look like you’re closed off from him and from…whatever this interaction is about to be.
Art doesn’t say anything else, but he surprises you by rising to his feet. You stagger back, but his hand reaches out and lands on your side to steady.
His touch lingers for a moment too long, but he does eventually pull it away.
But he’s still close, too close.
Your hands have fallen to your sides, so it is too easy for Art to reach out and brush his fingers against yours. He doesn’t intertwine them, but he’s doing enough to let you know that it’s what he wants to do.
He whispers your name. “Will you please sit with me?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Art.”
“When have you ever known me to have one of those?”
You smile ruefully, but take a step back. His hand chases you, his fingers brushing against yours again as he tries to take your hand.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve known anything about you.” You say, hating how sad it sounds.
You should be angry at least. His meddling and his desire for Tashi is what ripped you all apart. And he has her now. They have a daughter together.
He doesn't get to ask you for anything, not even if it’s just to sit with him.
You can’t trust yourself to sit next to him.
“You do know me. Time can’t change that.” He insists, quietly but firmly.
You scoff nastily. “I knew Art Donaldson when he was in college. The world famous tennis player who does AD campaigns for sports cars with his wife, is a stranger to me.”
“Yeah.” Art laughs darkly. “He’s a stranger to me too.”
You frown at him, growing angry. He seems exhausted and down-trodden. He’s clearly hurting and you hate that you know that—you hate that you‘d been able to tell that even from across the bar—because it means that he’s right: you do still know him.
“It’s late, Art. You should get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”
You turn away from him and while he doesn’t reach for you this time, he does call out. You keep you back to him as he asks his question.
“Who do you want to win, me or Patrick?”
“Tennis can’t decide a victor between the two of you, Art. It’s never been able to.”
When you walk to the elevator, you feel a physical strain as you stop yourself from looking back at him.
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
You were right, tennis couldn’t decide on a winner: it was as fickle and incomprehensible as the human heart. Which was fitting, seeing as Tashi had always described tennis as a relationship.
You had sat only two places away from her during Patrick and Art’s match, and you know she had seen you. But there had been no reaction, her face had been impassive and set on the court, her eyes hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses.
Now, the match was long over and a result had been given. And yet there hadn’t been a victory for anyone. Just like you knew there wouldn’t be.
Something had happened on that court between the two men, some silent, inexplicable exchange that had altered the very fabric of them.
This time, when Art knocks on your door, not only do you hear it, but you answer.
You feel almost shocked when you pull open the door to reveal him, dressed in a grey t-shirt and flannel pyjama trousers. You’re surprised at the sight as if you hadn’t known he was coming- as if you hadn’t readily offered up your room number when he had messaged and asked for it.
You’re also somehow certain that Patrick had given him your number, but you didn’t want to dwell on what sort of exchange had led to him handing it over.
Without a word, you step away from the door, self-consciously tightening the cord that holds the silk robe around your body. You stop and face the windows.
The curtains are drawn, by you stare forward as though the whole skyline is on display to you.
The door to your room clicks shut.
You hear Art take off his shoes before his feet are padding towards you.
When his arms wrap around your waist, you close your eyes and savour the sensation. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, so you lift a hand and rest it on the side of his head.
“I want to retire at the end of this year.” He says and you can feel his exhaustion in the slow breaths that coast over your neck.
“So retire.” You answer softly, your eyes still on the curtains. “You’re tired.”
You know you don’t need to clarify. Thanks to the grateful press of his lips against your neck, you know he understands what you mean.
Art is weary of all that he has to be when he’s playing tennis; he’s tired of the effort it takes to play the sport for not just him, but for Tashi too. His wife has been living vicariously through him. He’s been living for two people, taking the strain of two professional athletes combined.
You know there had never been any point in competing with Art or Patrick, because Tashi would always love tennis the most.
A shiver wracks your body as Art’s hand reaches for the bow that’s keeping your otherwise bare body concealed from him.
“Can I?” His request is whined into your hair as he presses his face into the back of your head.
Instead of answering verbally, you nudge his hand away and untie the robe yourself. Then, you take hold of both of his wrists and guide his hands onto your skin. You let out a sigh of relief when Art finally touches you the way you want him to.
Your hands are still on him as his fingers move to cup your breasts, but he is the one guiding his movements now. He squeezes, his thumbs brushing over your nipples.
“Art.” You rasp, pressing back into him wantonly.
“Can I have you?” He asks, pressing open mouthed, hot kisses to your neck as he palms your breasts. “Please, let me have you.”
“Stop fucking asking me and just do it.”
You feel him grin against your neck just before he backs away, pulling back your robe and tugging it from your body.
The fabric has barely had time to pool at your feet when he’s grabbing you by the hips, his fingers digging in as he turns you.
When Art’s lips finally claim yours, you moan unashamedly. His kiss is gentle but assured, you struggle for breath as he refuses to release you. Then, his hands are cupping your ass and he’s lifting you up.
With his lips still moving hungrily against yours, Art settles you onto the edge of the bed. When he draws back, your lips chase after him and he smiles, grasping your face in his hands and giving you one more brief but searing kiss before he’s dropping to the ground.
His hands press into your knees, forcing them apart as he begins to kiss and lick up your inner thighs.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching where his mouth ravenously meets your flesh, tracing his path as he works his way closer to where you want him most.
When he reaches the top of your thigh, Art peers up at you through his long eyelashes, already looking drunk on you as he presses another kiss to your burning skin.
“Lay back.” He instructs gently.
But you’re too transfixed to listen- too desperate to see the moment his lips land on your core to look away.
He smiles at the realisation, delighting in your shudder as his tongue darts out and licks a line up your centre.
“Oh my- fuck!” Your head falls back, already lost in the feeling of his mouth's devoted ministrations.
As Art pleasures you, one of his hands skates up your stomach and gently presses down, asking rather than forcing you to lay back. This time you oblige, your eyes closed as your hands fist in the sheets.
“You deserve so much more than I can give you.”
You smile to yourself. Only Art could grovel as he gives so much pleasure.
Tightness begins to coil in your lower belly, but the moment he adds a teasing finger to his tongue’s movements, you realise you can’t wait.
“Art- stop.” You gasp out, sitting up and resting your hands on his head.
He halts immediately but doesn’t remove himself from between your legs.
“Are you alright?” He asks, his hands rubbing soothingly along your thighs.
“It’s not enough.” You say, tugging on his hair, trying to get him to come to you. “I need you.”
Art doesn’t have to be asked twice, but he also doesn’t rush. He presses one last kiss to your now very sensitive folds before he’s climbing over you.
You shuffle back, settling yourself onto the middle of the bed and even as Art takes off his clothes, he watches you. It’s as if he’s afraid that you’ll disappear if he so much as blinks.
Now completely naked, he lays himself over you, his arms braced beside your head. He positions himself so carefully thar it’s almost as though he’s trying to fit himself to the shape of you- every divot and curve perfectly aligned sp that you’ll be fused together forever.
As Art sweeps hair out from your face, his blue eyes bore down into you with an adoring intensity.
You smile up at him and he rewards you by cradling your face in his hands, he lowers his head, his nose brushing yours as he gently takes your lower lip between his teeth.
Only when you understand what he wants and you open your mouth, does he kiss you again, his tongue delving in deeply.
As he seeks to consume you, your hands run down his back, squeezing his sides with your thighs.
Art’s still kissing you as one of your hands reaches the curve of his arse, you dig your nails in and he jolts, his mouth moving away from yours and travelling down your neck.
Tentatively, you move one hand around and down between his legs and when your hand wraps around him, he falters, his kisses stopping.
“Is this alright?”
Art moves again, licking the sweat slick expanse of skin between your breasts.
“Anything you do will be alright.” He assures, his lips brushing a nipple and making your back arch.
“Do you want to have sex, Art?” You ask, barely restraining yourself.
His breaths are hot against your sensitive breasts when he answers. “Please.”
It is a joint effort as he slides inside of you. You gasp, arms wrapping around his neck as he presses kisses into yours.
Art groans as he begins to move achingly slowly, his hips rolling over yours with precision.
You're happy like that for a few minutes, both of you revelling in your closeness after years subjected to absent desire for one another. But eventually, you want more.
You yearn for more force and luckily as you buck up into him, Art gets the message.
As one of his hands moves behind your head, cradling it so that he can keep kissing you, the other wraps around your thigh, and pulls your leg higher over his hip, allowing himself to get even deeper.
“You’re so beautiful.” He says in-between sloppy kisses, moving rapidly as you moan and whine. “You’ve always been so beautiful.”
Even with him inside you, making you feel more desired than anyone ever has, your mind drifts to that first night you had met him. The first night you had met Patrick.
“You stared at Tashi.” You say.
You aren’t accusatory or upset, if anything the acknowledgement if it turns you on more. All four of you have always had a desire for the other, and it feels powerful to finally acknowledge it.
“-That night on the beach, you couldn't take your eyes off her. Neither of you could.”
“I wanted you.” Art asserts with a particularly powerful thrust. “I- I wanted you so badly, but you went home.”
You nod, pulling him in for another kiss as you meet his thrusts.
You understand his thinking. You’d often wondered how things might have changed had you not gone home early that night. If you’d stayed on the beach and then gone to their hotel room along with Tashi.
Entirely content with just moving as one, you both fall silent and somehow Art curls over you even more tightly, like he wants his whole body to hide yours from the world.
After you’ve both found your release he takes you into the shower and cleans himself off of your sensitive skin, each swipe of the washcloth accompanied by a kiss.
It ends up being time wasted though, because when you return to the bed, he takes you twice more.
━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━
You wake up with Art’s head resting on your bare chest. He’s laying on his side, one arm stretched out on the pillow above your head and his other hand resting on your hip.
You’re sore in the most pleasant of ways as you sit up. You try to move slowly but Art stirs anyway, his head turning to press open mouthed kisses to your sternum.
You rest your hand on his cheek, meaning to guide him away, but he moves so that he can kiss the palm of your hand instead.
It’s only when you sigh into his touch, his eyes still closed as his other hand delves between your legs, that you realise why you had woken up int he first place.
Someone was knocking on your door.
And then you hear her voice.
Tashi is calling out your name, sounding almost panicked.
“Please, open the door, I know you’re in there.”
This time when you push Patrick away, he obliges, but far less quickly than you would have liked.
In the time it takes for you to throw on your silk robe and gather up all of his clothes from the floor, he has barely got himself to stand up. He’s naked and blinking sleepily at you.
When you shove the bundle of his clothes into his arms, he rushes to press a passionate kiss to your lips, holding the back of your head with his free hand.
You aren’t sure you want to know whether he’s truly still half asleep and genuinely hasn’t realised what is happening, or if he just doesn’t care that his wife is outside the door.
Flushed but furious at his casual demeanour, you push Art into the bathroom and close the door, just as Tashi knocks again.
The repeated request for you to come to the door tumbles from her lips like a prayer.
You brace your hand against the door as you draw in a fortifying breath and smooth out your hair. You swear you can feel her through the door.
The moment you open the door, Tashi is bursting in and closing it behind her. You step back, waiting for her to make the first move, for her to shout of attack or go charging into the bathroom. But she does none of those things.
Instead, Tashi pulls you into a crushing hug. You go still, shocked but healed by it at the same time.
She pulls back, taking your face in her hands.
“You’re a phenomenal tennis player.” Tashi says it rapturously.
If you weren’t burning up at the feel of her hands on you, you might have laughed at how ridiculously perfect it was that those were her first words to you after over a decade.
Tashi communicated and connected through tennis. She loved through tennis.
All you can muster is a very sincere: “Thank you.”
Tashi brushes your hair out of your face, tucking a stray piece behind your ear. You find your hands lifting, resting atop hers where they hold your cheeks.
“You need to let me coach you.” Tashi demands almost possessively.
“I have a coach.”
“They’re not me.”
“No, they’re not.”
And just like that, you were snared again.
You had gone years without any of them, and with one word, you had allowed all three of them back into your life.
Only this time, you know it might actually kill you if any of them leave. And perhaps it would kill them too.
Only time would tell.
#challengers movie#art donaldson#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x you#art donaldson smut#mike faist#patrick zweig#patrick zweig x reader#patrick zweig x you#tashi duncan#tashi donaldson#tashi x reader#zendaya#josh o'connor
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