still challengers obsessed @artiezweig - Tumblr Blog

Baton Rouge!

summary: Art is playing a tournament in baton rouge when his friends dare him to pickup a prostitute. He spots Patrick thinking he could ask him for help, only to realize he’s a prostitute too. Art thinks it’ll be a good loophole for his dare if he pickups a guy since then he won’t have to sleep with him because obviously Art isn’t gay.

pairing: prostitute!patrick zweig x rising tennis star!art donaldson

cw: nsfw (18+), patrick is a working girl, early 2000s gay stereotypes, slight internalized homophobia, art is down bad, drunk messing around, blowjobs

a/n: this was a silly little idea that turned into 12k words lmao. I know nothing about being a prostitute or louisiana so bare with me please. not proofread. huge shoutout to dani (@ghostgirl-22) for baring with me and being my lovely beta if u want more from this universe lmk

Art shouldn’t be here. He’s been to Baton Rouge once before, but everyone says the same thing about not going out at night especially going out alone. Maybe his friends hadn’t gotten the memo considering they dared Art to pick up a prostitute.

Driving around in his brand new black jeep wrangler that looks very out of place against the desolate deteriorating roads and abandoned buildings. There were a few clubs, music blasting and colorful lights. But the most notable being the women standing on every corner. Most of them relaxed, smoking a cigarette to pass the time until they got their next customer.

Art felt uneasy. He wasn’t sure if this was the best place to carry out his dare, or if these women were even prostitutes. What if he offends someone?

whoislynnie

new/old photos of mike from his nyt shoot!!

wss era mike my angel

#puppy!art #art donaldson

why don’t these boys on dating apps look like art donaldson?

pittsick

WHERE IT DOESN'T HURT.

summary: after divorcing Tashi, Art is left hollowed by years of quiet shame over his erectile dysfunction, something that still makes him flinch at the idea of intimacy. But when he finds love again with a new partner, softness and patience replace pressure. On the night you finally decide to be together, you don’t expect him to perform, you only want him, just as he is. With slow touches, gentle praise and the kind of worshiping that asks for nothing in return, you help Art rediscover what it feels like to be wanted.

pairing: art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 3.8k words. emotional trauma / low self-worth, past relationship fallout, performance anxiety, vulnerability, ED (erectile dysfunction), praise, gentle sex, handjob, worship (Art receiving), touch foreplay (kisses), crying during sex (Art), aftercare.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket

The divorce papers had been signed at a table that still smelled like disinfectant and stale coffee. Art had worn a collared shirt that didn’t fit right and tried not to fidget while Tashi sat across from him in something clean and white and almost offensively composed. He couldn’t remember what she said when it was done. Maybe she hadn’t said anything at all.

It was a Thursday.

He remembers that, because he’d driven back to the condo alone after kissing Lily’s forehead from the backseat of Tashi’s car and sat on the edge of their—no, his—bed for a long time, staring at a racket propped in the corner like it had something to say. The silence was louder than anything he’d heard on court.

The next few months were a blur of returning to familiar routines, but without the warmth they used to hold. Seeing his daughter every week-end, being friendly to Tashi because it wasn’t like they hated each other; no. He still played, still trained, still ran drills and went through the motions like muscle memory could save him. But even the crack of the ball didn’t land right anymore. His rhythm was gone, and it wasn’t just physical.

It was like someone had scooped something out of him and left a hollow space that refused to fill.

Art hadn’t wanted to admit it, but something had been wrong with his body for a while. It started during the first year with Tashi, quietly, and he hadn’t wanted to face it then either. At first, he’d chalked it up to stress, to exhaustion, to pressure. There were always reasons. Athletes knew how to push through pain. That was the gig.

But when it kept happening—when he couldn’t stay hard, when he couldn’t finish, when even the idea of touching her made something in him seize up, after Lily—he’d stopped trying. And so had she.

That made it worse, somehow. Like he wasn’t worth trying. Like his body had betrayed him and her. Like he was just one more disappointment she had to learn to tolerate.

Tashi never said anything outright, but Art could feel her eyes sometimes, heavy with something he didn’t want to name. Pity, maybe. Or worse—confirmation. Maybe that made him think of Patrick, because surely Pat never had this problem. Art had always been the weaker one. The less brilliant one. The one who needed someone else to move first.

After the three of them imploded—no, fractured; it was always fractures with them, never clean breaks—Art carried the guilt like a second spine. And the shame. The shame of a body that wouldn’t cooperate. Of desire that flickered and stuttered and died out when it mattered most.

Even now, alone, that fear clung to him.

Because it wasn’t just about sex. It was about his manhood. About his worth. About the ability to be chosen and to keep being chosen. To be loved, to be seen more than a racket and a court and a win.

He met you at a friend’s fundraiser. One of those events where everyone stood around with glasses of white wine and tried not to admit they were all a little tired of pretending they liked mingling. You hadn’t been trying to talk to him. You were laughing at something someone else had said, a soft sound he heard over the hum of the crowd. He remembered the way your eyes crinkled, the way your voice carried lightly, like the first warm breeze before spring really arrives.

He wasn’t trying to flirt. Honestly, he barely knew how anymore. But you had asked him a question about tennis—not the rules or his stats, just something simple: Do you still love it?

And he’d paused, startled by the honesty of the question.

“I used to,” he’d said.

You didn’t push. You just nodded, like you understood something in that. That’s what stuck.

It took a few weeks before you saw each other again. Another friend, another event, this one smaller. You ended up sitting on a couch in the corner, both of you trying to avoid the spotlight. He asked about your work. You asked about his injuries. There was a warmth to the conversation, casual but not shallow. When you laughed, it didn’t feel like you were trying to impress him. You just found him funny. Or maybe just easy to be around.

For a moment, Art remembered not even thinking about Tashi anymore. Not even about Patrick. Not about the vulnerability in his chest; how badly he wanted to be seen.

The first time you kissed, it was outside a late-night diner, a few days later. You’d split fries and talked about terrible movies, and when he leaned in, you met him halfway, soft and sure. It had been a long time since someone kissed him like that—not with hunger or demand, but with quiet affection.

He’d gone home shaking and his head full of thoughts about you.

Dating you was different. There was no game to win, no invisible net he had to serve over. You didn’t prod at him. You didn’t seem to want anything from him except him. Which scared him more than he’d like to admit.

Because what was left of him, after everything? A man with knees that ached in the mornings, who couldn’t get it up half the time, who’d lost the only two people he ever really loved in the same breath, the same passion, the same pain.

He didn’t feel like a man anymore. Not in the way he used to.

He felt like a ghost wearing the skin of a tennis champion. Still broad-shouldered, still strong, still tall. But hollow in the places that used to burn. With a heart empty of a passion that used to devour him whole.

You never brought up sex. Not once. Even after weeks of dating, of kissing slow on his couch and curling up under blankets during thunderstorms. You never reached under his clothes without asking. You never made him feel like he was failing you by being cautious. That terrified him too, in a way. Because it meant you knew he was afraid.

You were being gentle because you saw the cracks. And instead of recoiling from them, you stayed.

One night, he lay beside you in bed, the two of you tangled in sheets and quiet breath. Your hand was resting lightly on his chest, your thumb stroking absently over his sternum. His heart beat too fast.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. You didn’t move. Just waited. He swallowed hard. “I’ve… had trouble. For a while now. With—” You didn’t make him finish. You just nodded, your hand still warm on him.

“Okay,” you said softly. Like you knew; or like you didn’t care because it wouldn’t change anything.

“I don’t know if it’s going to be any different with you. I want it to be. But I don’t want to let you down.” You turned your face to his. “You’re not letting me down.”

His throat tightened. “It’s not just physical. It’s—it’s shame to me. It makes me feel like I’m not—fuck, like my body is falling me sometimes.”

You leaned up, brushing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “You are alright, Art, you don’t have to worry.” His eyes burned. He hated that he was getting emotional, but your words cut through something cold and deep, through shame and vulnerability.

“I don’t need you to perform,” you said. “I don’t want the tennis player or the guy everyone stares at on court. I want you. All of you. However you show up.”

Art had no idea what he’d done in life to deserve that kind of gentleness. But he knew he wasn’t letting go of it.

That night, you held him tighter than usual. Not sexually. Just close. Your hand on his jaw, your lips brushing his cheek, your voice low and steady in his ear. “You don’t have to be hard for me to be close to you,” you murmured. “I want to make you feel good. Not just get you off. But hold you, touch you, love you. All of it.”

He exhaled like it was the first real breath he’d taken in years.

That was the moment he knew he was going to trust you. Really trust you. Not because you fixed anything, but because you weren’t asking him to be fixed. You just wanted him. Soft, scared, healing. You wanted him.

The first time you touched him in bed, really touched him with intention, it was raining.

Soft, steady drips against the windows, the kind of rain that made the whole world feel like it was wrapped in cotton. You’d both been reading on the couch, legs tangled, your feet on top of his thigh, Art’s hand resting absentmindedly over your shin. At some point, your book slid shut in your lap and your head tilted against his shoulder.

“You tired?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse.

“Not really,” you said. Then, quieter, “I just like being close.”

Art glanced down at you. The golden light from the floor lamp softened everything—your features, the curve of your lips, the glint in your eyes when they flicked up to meet his. He felt the pull of it then. Not lust. Not urgency. Just the slow, thick draw of wanting to be near you in ways that meant something.

“Do you wanna lie down?” you offered gently.

He nodded. Said nothing. Just followed you to bed, his pulse already starting to rise. Anxiety, want, love; he didn’t know.

He kissed you for a long time before either of you even got under the sheets. Standing at the edge of the mattress, your hands sliding up under his t-shirt, Art let himself lean into the feeling of your mouth. You kissed him like there was no rush. No script. No performance. No rush at all. By the time his shirt came off, he was shaking.

“Cold?” you asked, brushing your fingers over his ribs. “No,” he murmured. “Just nervous.” You looked up at him, so close, your noses almost touching.

“Tell me what you need.”

Art swallowed. “To not fuck this up.”

“You won’t.” You took his hand, laced your fingers through his. “Let’s go slow. Let me love on you a little. Just that. No expectations.” It was everything he needed to hear.

And still—his body didn’t cooperate right away.

You were so patient. You always were.

Lying beside him, half-draped over his chest, your lips soft against his collarbone while his shirt was gone, you whispered things into his skin that made him ache in new ways. Not the ache of shame or failure—but the ache of being seen. The ache of being wanted.

“You’re so good, Art,” you whispered, kissing down the center of his chest. “So warm. So beautiful.” His breath caught. “You don’t have to get hard for me to be proud of you.”

He closed his eyes. “I’m already proud of you.”

You took your time with him, letting him feel your hands first—just your hands. Stroking his arms, his chest, the dip of his waist. You didn’t go for his member. You didn’t even hint at it. You just touched him like he was something sacred.

When you kissed his stomach, he made a sound low in his throat and gripped the edge of the mattress. “You okay?” you asked.

He nodded, unable to speak. “Too much?” You asked him quietly.

“No. Just… not used to this.”

You smiled against his skin. “Then I’ll teach you.” At some point, you sat up and guided his hands to your body, both of your clothes had been discarded on the floor for a moment now but you still took your time. “You can touch me too,” you said. “If you want to.”

He did. God, he did.

But even then, he went slowly. Ran his fingers up your side, over the swell of your hip like he was searching for a treasure on your skin–the map of Love. His hands were huge on you, and you didn’t flinch or squirm or giggle. You just breathed, steady and open, like you had all the time in the world for him.

You let him kiss your neck, your collarbone, the top of your breast. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, reverent.

You smiled. “So are you.”

His cock stirred slightly, tentative and uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a pass/fail test. It just felt like… curiosity. Like his body was starting to remember what it was like to want and not be afraid. And still, you didn’t grab at him.

You leaned down instead, pressing your lips just below his navel, and murmured, “Can I touch you now?” His voice broke a little. “Yeah.”

The first time your hand wrapped around his cock, he nearly cried. Not from arousal. Not exactly. But from relief. He wasn’t hard in the way he’d have liked, not soft enough to feel ashamed but in the middle that made him feel like it was alright.

From the way your palm cradled him like he wasn’t broken. Like there was nothing to fix. Just warmth, skin to skin, fingers stroking him with care and reverence, not pressure.

“You feel so good in my hand,” you whispered, pressing kisses to his chest. “I love touching you.” His hips twitched, breath stuttering.

“I want you to feel loved, Art,” you murmured, voice heavy with affection. “I want you to know how good you are. How worthy. How beautiful.” And just like that, something in him unlocked, like his brain was finally sending signals to his length–to say he was safe. He was loved. He was enough.

His cock started to harden beneath your hand, slow and unsure, but undeniable. He gasped, stunned. “I—”

“Shh,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re doing perfect. You don’t have to rush.” Art had never cried during sex before. But your praise was undoing him. Your gentleness, your unwavering calm—it was dismantling every wall he’d built around his shame.

He turned his face into your neck, his voice cracking. “Thank you. I’m sorry it’s been like this.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you said, threading your fingers through his hair, not pulling; digits making ways through his dirty blonde strands. “You’re not a machine. You’re a person. And I love this body. Every inch of it. Even when it’s scared.”

His cock was fully hard now in your hand, twitching slightly, leaking at the tip. You looked at him, beaming, and said it like a blessing: “There you are, baby.” He laughed—wet, trembling, disbelieving.

You worked him slowly, deliberately, lips on his jaw, your breath warm against his ear.

“You’re so good for me,” you murmured. “You make me feel safe. Held. Seen.”

His hips moved again, this time with more confidence. You met his rhythm with your fist, curling your hand just right, your thumb brushing over his tip. “Can I…?” he asked, voice shaky.

“Whatever you want,” you said.

“Can I be inside you?” He asked like he was afraid all of this was a dream, like all of this would disappear at any given minute. Your smile was all the answer he needed. You helped him settle between your legs like he was something fragile and beloved.

Art's body trembled as he hovered above you, one hand braced beside your head, the other pressed to your waist like he needed to make sure you were real. You were warm and soft beneath him, your thighs cradling his hips, eyes half-lidded with affection, not lust. Not hunger. Just care.

He looked down at you, cheeks pink, eyes glassy. “Are you sure?”

“I want you,” you said simply. “I want you like this. However you are.”

That was the difference. That had always been the difference. You weren’t waiting for him to impress you. You weren’t expecting the Art who used to dominate the court or light up cameras. You wanted this Art. The man who shook in your arms. Who needed to be told he was enough.

Who was learning how to believe it.

He moved slowly. Everything about this was slow.

You guided him with your hand, lining him up at your entrance, your body slick and ready for him—not because of some pornographic fantasy, but because you’d wanted him. Because you’d been touching him, loving him, coaxing him open like the petals of something that only bloomed under moonlight.

His cock slid in an inch, and he froze, gasping.

“You okay?” you whispered, brushing a thumb across his cheek. He nodded, nearly overwhelmed. “Yeah. Just—feels like a lot.”

You smiled and kissed him softly. “Then take your time.”

And he did.

Bit by bit, he pushed inside until he was sheathed in your warmth, your body pulling him in like he belonged there. Like he’d never belonged anywhere else.

The first few strokes were almost too much. Not because of friction or sensation, but because of everything else. The way your eyes fluttered shut. The way you sighed his name. The way your hands curled around his back, not clinging, not dragging, but holding.

He pressed his forehead to yours, moaning quietly as he moved inside you, a slow, languid rhythm that wasn’t about getting off — it was about being here. Inside you. With you. Wanted, loved, seen.

“God, you feel so good,” he whispered, voice cracking. “So fucking good.”

“So do you,” you breathed, arching slightly. “You’re perfect.” That word again. Perfect. He didn’t feel like it, but he believed you when you said it. You whispered things the whole time. Not dirty. Not vulgar. Just praise with the soft.

“Just like that. You’re doing so well.”

“You’re making me feel amazing.”

“You’re so gentle. So good to me.”

Every word went straight to his chest. To the part of him that had shriveled under years of cold looks and quiet disappointment. The part of him that used to flinch when someone touched his shoulder too suddenly, that recoiled from compliments like they were traps.

But you didn’t lie. He knew that now. You said what you meant. And what you meant was that he was enough.

His rhythm stayed slow. You were wet around him, tight in that perfect way that made him feel anchored to your body, like he could finally stop floating through his life and just be here. The drag of his cock in and out of you made him shudder, every thrust sending a pulse of warmth through him—not just arousal, but relief.

“Look at me,” you whispered. He did. Your face was flushed, lips parted, your hands moving to cup his jaw. “I’m so proud of you.”

He didn’t know if he was supposed to cry during sex, but the tears came anyway. Hot, stinging, shameful. Until you kissed them away. “Let it out,” you said softly, kissing his cheek. “Let all of it out. I’m here.”

Art pressed his face to your shoulder, thrusts faltering, body shaking as a sob tore from him. Not loud. Not ugly. Just raw. A sound like he hadn’t made since he was young enough to cry into his pillow without swallowing it down.

You held him tighter. Wrapped your legs around his hips. Ran your fingers through his hair again.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

He moaned against your skin, not from pain or pleasure, but because he didn’t know what else to do with all the feeling. The release. The unbearable sweetness of not being punished for breaking down.

Eventually, he started moving again. Slower than before, but steadier. Your bodies moved in sync now, sweat slicking between you, breath tangled, the air heavy with trust. You kissed him again and again—his jaw, his cheek, his lips, his throat.

He whispered your name like a prayer. You whispered his back like a promise.

You came before he did. Quietly, trembling, your walls pulsing and clenching around him as he gasped, stunned at the sensation of your body squeezing him, holding him. You didn’t scream or cry out. You just shook in his arms, biting your lip and sighing, “Art, oh my god, Art,” like it was the best thing that had ever happened to you.

That’s what did it for him. Not the friction. Not even the pressure. Just you.

The way you looked at him. The way you said his name. The way your voice cracked when you told him how good he was. He came with a groan that was almost a sob, hips pressed deep, his whole body locking up as he spilled inside you. It was messy. It was imperfect. It was the best orgasm he’d had in years.

Afterward, he didn’t move, not right away. You stayed wrapped around him, stroking his hair, kissing his temple. “Still with me?” you asked after a while.

He made a small, exhausted sound. “Barely.” You laughed softly. “That was amazing.”

He nodded against your shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, it was.” There was silence then. But not the kind that used to live between him and Tashi. Not the heavy, brittle quiet of disappointment. This was soft. Full. Complete.

When he finally pulled out, he did it slowly, almost reluctantly, like he didn’t want to lose the connection. You whimpered softly at the sensation, and he kissed your shoulder, your stomach, your hip. He cleaned you gently with a warm cloth, hands careful, reverent.

Then he climbed back into bed and curled around you, his hand on your waist, his face pressed between your shoulder blades. “You okay?” you asked.

“I think I’m better than okay,” he whispered.

You turned in his arms and looked up at him, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. “You were incredible.” He smiled, dazed. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this again. Not like this.” You leaned in, kissed his nose, then his lips.

“You didn’t get it,” you said. “You made it. With me.”

He kissed you back, deeper now, more sure. “I think I love you,” he said, almost afraid of saying it out loud. You didn’t flinch, didn’t move away, didn’t grimace.

“I love you too.” You whispered back at him.

Later, after you’d drifted toward sleep, Art stayed awake a little longer, just holding you. Tracing the slope of your arm with his fingers. Breathing in the scent of your skin.

Trying to remember the last time he felt this calm in his body. It wasn’t that the shame was gone completely.

But for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t louder than the love he had for someone.

jesuistrestriste

death with no dignity; patrick zweig

“ amethyst and flowers on the table

is it real or a fable ?

well, i suppose, a friend is a friend

and we all know how this will end ” - sufjan stevens

cw (18+) : mentions of depressive symptoms, masturbation, and heavy yearning.

wc : 1.9 k

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe.

It was an accident, it truly was, in every sense of the word.

He had been driving home from Art’s house around 11 PM and had been playing some stupid song on the radio. He’d thrashed his head and slapped his palms against the leather steering wheel to the stupid beat, carefree and unassuming. It had been so dark, and he was distracted, and then suddenly the deer was in the center of the road. Big, black, shiny eyes and pointed ears and a deep brown coat. She was beautiful. For the split moment that he had before the impact, that’s all he could think about.

itoldyatshirt

Thinking about Patrick and Art as kids/teens 🥹every time they had a fight I know Patrick was the one to try to make peace, like he tried to make Art laugh and Art would pretend to still be angry but he eventually started smiling

jesuistrestriste

sage i NEED dilf!art pulling down his baby blue pajama pants and getting pegged ib: the end of your last art getting pegged ask

it’s the end of a long day.

art has been working on his laptop all afternoon and evening, the sun now below the horizon as the apartment gets bathed in warm, artificial light from lamps scattered around the living room. he’s still in his pajamas from this morning. a white tee shirt. soft blue joggers. he sighs as he closes his device and lolls his head back against the couch.

you arrive back at your guys’ place just as he’s beginning to relax into the cushions. kicking off your shoes and shutting the door behind you, your keys jingling in your hand as you walk up behind him. you kiss his cheeks, stroke his short blonde hair, and then whisper to him.

“hi, baby.”

he’s melting into you like softened butter. his pretty blues blinking open tiredly as he pulls himself up from the couch and walks over to you. his arms encircle your frame. “mmn.. made you dinner, it’s on the stove..” he murmurs into your neck.

you nod and run a hand down his spine, reveling in the way it arches under your touch. curving into a perfect arc as he shudders. a soft hum of approval leaves your lips, and then you slip out of his hold to walk down the hall and into the bedroom.

it was a happy accident, really. you’d only gone in there to get out of your work clothes. it wasn’t really your fault that the strap at the back of the closet caught your eye. it’d been a while since you’d bent art into all kinds of pretty positions and made him moan so loud that the neighbors had to leave a note on your door the next morning..

you come out of the bedroom and place your hands on your hips, smirking softly as you walk up to your husband. he’s standing in the kitchen and pouring the both of you a glass of sweet wine. he smiles when he feels you approach, but his face immediately drops when he turns and takes in the sight of you. black, lacy lingerie.. his favorite set.. and the rubbery purple strap bobbing in front of your pelvis. he swallows thickly, his breathing picking up—his chest beginning to rise and fall quickly. his stomach swoops. four of his fingers swipe over your torso, and then he’s biting his bottom lip.

“oh, god, please..”

it doesn’t take much more than that before you’re tugging him against you and flipping him around so that you can bend him over the marble countertop. he winces when his cheek presses into the cold surface, but then squirms—whimpers—and reaches back to pull down his pajama bottoms. his black briefs come down right after. you suck two of your fingers into your mouth, covering them in spit, and then ease them inside him. it’s so easy to work him open nowadays, it’s like your touch is a muscle relaxant.

“aah—fuck—“ he moans, his brow pinching up as he claws at the counter.

you prod at the sensitive gland inside his walls until he’s squeezing your digits for more, his cock leaking and hanging heavily between his legs.

“ready?” you ask.

he nods, “fuck me, need it, just fuck me, baby..”

you pull your slick touch away from him and then guide the tip of the dildo into his hole. your free hand pushes down on the center of his back, fisting his tee. “good boy.. taking me so well..”

he keens as he feels you slide into him and bottom out, and then he’s groaning as he tries to rock back against your pelvis.

once you’re completely inside, you slide your touch to his hips and begin building a rhythm. in and out and in and out and in and out, but it’s still too agonizingly slow for art. it always is. he much prefers when you’re thrusting so hard that he can’t even speak. it’s better that way.

“want more?” you murmur, groping his ass with one hand as the other moves from his hip to his hair, tugging his head up from the counter, “want me to go faster?”

he chokes around a wet cry; his chin is already covered in drool, glistening like quartz.

you take that as a yes.

rearing back, you pull out four inches before slamming them back in—the motion punching a ragged gasp from his lungs. you lean over his back, pressing your chest to it, and lick over the back of his exposed neck. “thaaat’s it, take it, take it, take it, artie..”

your hips move a mile a minute now as you pummel into him, the slap of skin on skin echoing out and bouncing off of the walls. he’s a beautiful, disastrous combination of shaky limbs and tense muscles and broken moans that make him sound like he’s dying. every thrust elicits a sharp gasp or a sob from him. this is the way he likes it. when he can’t move or think or speak without your say-so. when you’ve got him so close to the edge that he gets dizzy.

“t—tou—mngh!—m’fuck, ah, ah, touch—‘m s’hard, it hurts—“

you fuck him rougher.

his eyes roll back.

“want me to touch your cock? is that what you want?”

a nod of his head.

“if i touch you down there, are you gonna make a mess of our flooring?”

another nod. he gulps down a yelp.

“fine then.. only because i know you worked so hard today.. and you missed me.. and you made dinner..” you smirk.

he nods at all of it. he has worked so hard. he needs this—he needs you.

you move the hand in his hair to his length, and a swell of heat thrums in your gut at the feel of him. he’s throbbing and wet and absolutely burning in your hold. he’s so, so close to losing it, you know that for sure now. as soon as he feels your fingers curl around his shaft, his hips jolt and his balls draw up. his jaw slacks open. and then his eyes flutter and squeeze shut. you know that look. you know it too well.

he’s about to—

“i’m—!” he wails, and then he’s convulsing below you, his abdomen contracting against the counter as his knees buckle.

he comes.

hard.

it splurts from his tip like a fountain. gushing between your fingers and sticking like melted ice cream. you fuck him through it all, letting the strap bruise his prostate as you milk him dry.

“ugh, you’re cumming so hard, don’t stop,” you groan out encouragingly, rubbing yourself against the harness, watching him shudder and pant and writhe with the waves of pleasure that lap at his nerves.

you pump him in your hand until he starts to hiccup and whimper. he’s drained of nearly all of his energy, but he musters up just enough to let out a soft sob.

“t’much,” he slurs.

he’d push your touch away if he could. any more and he’d probably pass out. stars are already spattered in his vision, his face prickling with heat.

you give him one last down-stroke and let the remains of his load dribble out. his cock kicks in your hold.

“ah, aah, ah.. done, please, fuck..”

you kiss his shoulder, stroking his hair. the strap stays buried in him, all seven rubbery inches being held in his warmth. it’s almost painfully good.

“i love it when you do that,” you whisper into the fabric of his shirt.

“ngh.. do what?” he wipes at his mouth, the excess saliva being cleared away. the blush on his face burns brighter when he realizes just how much you’ve wrecked him. it’s not surprising, but it always gets him a little embarrassed.

“when you let yourself get lost in it.”

he sniffles and tries to push himself up from the marble, but his biceps are trembling too hard and he just collapses back down. a little pained noise leaves his lips. you shush him and stroke his jaw.

“just relax.. i’m still inside you.. i’ve got you..”

it’s hard for him to not be able to see your face after he orgasms. to not be able to hold you, and be held. but he knows he’s gotta listen and calm down if he wants to get what he needs. he has to let you take care of him. and god, you do it best.

“o-okay.. can you just hold my hand?”

it’s a simple request but it’s something that makes your chest ache. his hand raises from where it lays and opens up in anticipation. its a silent plea.

your fingers slide between his and interlock.

“i’m here.”

he lets out a breath he’s been holding in. slow, shaky, relieved.

“you’re here.”

i love josh o’connor

holy shit maybe i was living under a rock but i genuinely had no idea that the ai bot things had their voices oh my god my heart actually dropped

i’m typically morally opposed to ai and think it’s bad for a lot of reasons but i think i could get addicted to hearing art say he loves me in my ears

the fact that i love 3 fictional characters who are deeply flawed is proof that i deserve to be loved, despite my flaws

#art donaldson #patrick zweig #tashi duncan #challengers

listening to mike talking on a podcast and i love how honest and real he is

lvrrgirlll

woke up this fine morning thinking about being domestic with patrick😔 waking up in his bed wearing nothing but panties and lying skin to skin with him and he’s so warm and strong and the blankets are so heavy and cozy

anon you read my mind we’re literally on the same wavelength or something 🙂‍↕️

Before you even really woke up, merely stirring, lost somewhere between asleep and awake, you felt the familiar warmth of Patrick’s body. The feeling of him next to you comforted you, seeping into your hazy dream. You nuzzle into him, practically pressing your face against his chest as he threw an arm around you carelessly, pulling you closer into him (if that was even possible).

When you eyelids finally fluttered open, you were met with the sleepy gaze that graced Patrick’s face. He looked so handsome like this, you thought. Little stubble dusting his jawline, eyelids droopy, and a dopey grin across his lips as he stared at you. The little freckles on his face always seemed more noticeable in the mornings, but you assured yourself it was just because you were reacquainting yourself with him every morning, trying to memorize every feature to carry over into your dreams at night.

But your favorite thing about him on mornings like this was the slight rumble of his voice when he first woke up and the way you could feel the vibrations of his voice when he spoke as you laid chest to chest. “Morning babe,” he murmured. You felt a little tickle against your chest as you laid against him. You smiled, dazed, trying to keep your eyes open as you fought sleep.

“Mmm, morning.” You mumble into his chest, the feeling of your lisp against his collar bone causing him to breathe in just a little sharper that time. The sheets were tangled between your legs, the duvet covering you two like a toasty cloud, keeping you safe from the outside world. Here in bed it was just the two of you.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you up just a bit so he could pepper kisses all across your face. The feeling of your skin on his was a thing you could hardly explain. As he held you tightly, but not too tight —just as much as he knew you liked—, you felt safe, warm, and like you could call this your forever. It was like you two were one, unable to detach for fear of ever being apart again.

You traced nonsensical shapes between the delicate freckles that scattered over his shoulders as he fought the urge to tickle your sides. He didn’t want to ruin the calm of the moment, even if his mischievous nature called to him. He’d found himself cozier in your embrace than he’d been in a long time, maybe in his entire life, and he wasn’t going to ruin a good thing while he had.

i’m pissed off at everyone today but at least in my head art donaldson loves me

rottenk1sses

thinking of corrupting innocent art, maybe he grew up religious and his chastity ring is his most prized possession, but he can't say no to your advances, doesn't say yes either— but he never stays away for too long, anyway comes crawling back wordlessly like a puppy w his tail between his legs

cw : corruption, coercion/elements of dubcon (18+)

pastor’s son!art donaldson who stays in his hometown instead of going off to college; opting to help his father with the church as the months tick by, only fueled by a sense of duty and maybe a bit of religious guilt..

you knew the very instant you set eyes on him that you had to have him.

he always looked like an angel when he was stood behind his dad during services—the yellowed overhead light shining suspiciously brighter on him alone; his neatly groomed golden curls bouncing in front of his forehead with every obedient and devout nod of his head to the words of the verses. pretty, you had thought, pure.

the first time you ever tried to seduce him, the church had already emptied out to give you the perfect opportunity to slide into a pew and call him over to ‘talk’. of course, he was more than happy to do so. he talked with everyone, it was like a second nature to provide comfort to others.

he found you really attractive when he finally got a good look at you, sexy even. but the idea of perceiving you that way had curdled a gross feeling in his gut. it wasn’t right—it wasn’t him—and he knew that. but he still chose to sit down next to you that particular evening and indulge that disturbing part of himself. could it really be so wrong to appreciate one of god's fellow creations?

he knew deep down that god would be ashamed.

you had chatted him up for less than ten minutes (making up a sad story about how awful your life was going) before your hand was sneaking over his thigh, sliding over the dark fabric of his church slacks. he'd frozen completely stiff at the feeling, like he was scared of how he felt about the touch and petrified of the consequences.

art chuckled nervously and looked to your eyes, almost pleading.

“uhm,” he breathed out shakily, pushing your touch gently from his body, refusing your advances, “i don’t, uh.. im not—..”

he hoped that his lack of an actual explanation would be a good-enough one in of itself, but you pushed back anyway despite his protests. draping your leg over his, stroking his blond hair, leaning in to kiss his flushed neck. he was trembling all over. now god was really going to strike him dead.

“shhh,” you whispered, “just let me make you feel good, okay? that would really help me feel better…”

he wanted to say no. he wanted to shoot up from his seat and run away like a scared little pup, protecting the sanctity of his body and mind from whatever sin you were corrupted with, but he didn’t. a deeper, sicker part of him couldn’t. he was disgusted with himself.

an anxiousness started to brew just under his skin, and he felt it filtering through his blood like a petrifying poison. like a mess of flies buzzing around a decaying body that was buried deep in the midst of his morality. he couldn’t move; he couldn’t fight back.

but oh.. it.. it felt good..? and he did want to help you..

he was almost surprised by how quick he'd gotten an erection. it strained up against his zipper before you even got a chance to grope him properly.

and then you did.

and then he felt that awful, putrid, incredible feeling bubbling up from his pelvis; a feeling that he had only allowed himself to indulge in when he was at home, in the dead of night, tucked into the messy covers and rocking his hips into his mattress to chase the temptation.

an innocent loophole.

after all, he’d never physically touched himself there in a sexual manner, let alone with the hand of his that held a finger banded in silver—a symbol of his purity—so it would be alright in the end, right? he had only ever done it to scratch an itch. a forbidden itch, sure, but god wouldn’t want him to suffer like that. a quick bit of relief, and then it was over and done with. always.

but in that particular moment, when he was feeling someone’s touch over his pants for the very first time, he had decided that he wasn’t sure he wanted to indulge. maybe it really was as wrong as he knew it to be. he shook his head.

“wait—“ he gasped, squirming on the wooden pew as his head tipped back slightly, his trembling fingers squeezing the edge of the surface under him, “wait, wait, i— oh—oh-!”

he was letting out noises then that made him sound like an innocent fawn, wailing out in a mix of confusion and pleasure and shame and fear as he felt his cock spasm and flood his underwear with an overwhelming warmth. despite his verbal hesitation, he had pushed his hips up hard into your touch as he orgasmed—grinding against it as the shocks of release stung the finger that wore the ring of silver. he could almost feel the metal burning into his skin amidst all of the overstimulating ecstasy that caused his thighs to quake. guilt radiated through all of his bones; seeping into his marrow.

he had sinned, fully and wholly. he was a sinner.

your touch dirtied him. infected him.

you had made him this way.

he was supposed to be good; a good person, a good son, a good follower.

but you had ruined it. all of it.

he’d never been prone to anger, but right then he had wanted to shout. he wanted to shove you away, get down on his knees, and begin repenting. mumbling pleas and apologies with his hands clasped together and his head hung, bowed in penance. his body weighed down by the heavy stone of his own culpability in the situation; the realization that he hadn’t done enough to refuse your attention.

but, in the end, he couldn’t find it in himself to deny his body the gratification of being so close to you. he was no longer worthy of god’s forgiveness anyways, so he turned his head and looked to your eyes, tears pooling in his own. they dripped down his flushed cheeks as he pulled ragged, greedy gasps of air into his lungs. his chest rattled as he cried. the feeling of the slimy wetness soaking into his underwear had only made the sting of reality more pitiful.

if he had looked like an angel before all of this, he surely was a fallen one now.

“…th-thank you, i'm sorry…” he sobbed softly, “i’m sorry.”

he didn't quite know who he was apologizing to.

it had only felt right.

cw: nsfw 18+

thinking about edging and abusing art’s cock until his balls tighten. art is standing up- or at least doing his best to do so- and you’re sitting on the bed.

he’s so red all over the place and so sensitive. he won’t stop twitching when you cup his balls and run your hands over his tip.

“I-I can’t hold it,” he says, trying to move away from your touch.

you take your hand off his cock and caress his nipples, while he keeps whimpering.

finally, you show some mercy and start moving your hand in earnest again.

he shoots ropes all over the place, hips jerking up. it’s super intense, but you’re not done with him yet. you continue to move your finger in circles around his tip and play with his balls.

“something’s… something’s happening,” he says, looking so fucked out and a little terrified.

“just let go, baby. i’ve got you,” you say, kissing his neck.

that’s all it takes, as art squirts all over the place, his hips canting aggressively.

“nggggghh ahhhh holy shit,” he moans.

you help him ride it out, showering him with praises.

“so so good for me,” you say.

when he starts seriously moving away you know you’ve pushed him enough, so you let him go.

his stomach contracts as he catches his breath.

“that was… insane,” he says. not even a week later, he asks if we can do that again.

#art donaldson smut #puppy!art #challengers smut

jesuistrestriste

Art is sooo the type to fuck your fist with his mouth hanging open while he whines out “you’re gonna make me cum” 😵‍💫 you don’t even have to do anything, just keep that fist clenched and slick and his brain is melting <3

ugghhh yea:/

he’s just too easy, and the thought alone of your touch being wrapped around him is enough to send rivulets of pleasure bolting up through his lower belly. he’s so horny it almost hurts. like, he’s already a mess—looking like he just ran a marathon, sounding like he’s about to die. he arches his hips up to slide your fist down to his balls before he’s uncontrollably moaning and letting his sparkling blues roll back into their sockets, his lashes fluttering as he whines out a broken “you’re gonna make me—!”

all it takes is your other hand moving to playfully slap his thigh, and then he’s squirming and crying out; ropes of clotted spend splattering over your moving hand as you work him through his orgasm (him being too lightheaded and uncoordinated to do it himself..)

artiezweig

it’s too early in the morning for me to want him this bad

#art donaldson #puppy!art

zendayalibrary

the prettiest

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