#mike faist reader insert

[followmybadreligion]

Thinking about bf!art who’s so obsessed with you that it borders unhealthy…

You’re the first thing on his mind in the morning; what do you want for breakfast, is that position you’re sleeping in comfortable, are you going to kiss him good morning or just say the words— all questions he sifts through. He doesn’t even have time to wipe the sleep out of his eyes before you consume his thoughts.

Most of the time, he sits on his side of the bed and gazes at your serene figure glowing softly in the early morning light. He hates to disturb you, knowing how upset you usually are when he does, but seeing you like that never fails to awaken an almost desperate need for you within him. He’ll fight it off for as long as possible, but as you release a deep sigh and shift your head his way, showcasing that pretty fucking face, he just can’t help it. So, in the blink of an eye, he’s pressed his body against you, one arm underneath your torso and the other on top of it, caging you in his warmth. He’ll lay there like that with you, matching your rhymic breathing like it were the beat to his favorite song, until you wake for the day, ready and willing to give him all your love.

And boy is he demanding of your love.

Art's like a battery of sorts when it comes to affection. When you've given him enough, charged him with your kisses, affirmations, or whatever else you were willing to give, he's at his best and brightest, going through the world with a big, lopsided grin and tingles in his chest. This is where he likes to be--- full of your love. However, if he feels as if he hasn't gotten his fair share, and starts feeling a little neglected or ignored, be prepared for a completely different boyfriend.

He'll show his discontent in small ways at first-- way more touching, little whines and grumbles when you're focused on something else, pointless reminiscing just to get you to talk-- all ways of him trying to scratch his itch for your attention. But if all that fails, and you're still not giving him what he wants, he gets more and more demanding. You were working on an important work project? Guess who just shut your computer! You were in the middle of a phone call? Guess who has the overwhelming urge to kiss you now! You were on the way to meet up with a friend? Guess who's not letting you out of the house (at least without a fight)? He just can't help it. When it comes to you and your love, he needs all of it and then some.

But, he's also incredibly aware of how smothering he can be sometimes. It's one of the things he's most insecure about in your relationship, actually.

To him, his want for you never runs dry. He could sit in an empty room, with nothing but you to entertain him, and he'd feel as if he'd just sailed the seven seas. So why don't you feel the same? Why do you constantly seem to push for space? Why don't you want all the love he has for you?

He'll rarely ever bring that insecurity up, though. To him, it's pointless-- you can't make yourself want more of what you already have. Instead, he'll just try to find new ways to present it to you.

Naturally, he likes to show his love through his money and his time.

In the beginning, you had to get used to his on-a-whim, thousand-dollar restaurant dates or his random weekend vacations for the two of you. You had to learn how to accept the designer clothes he bought you, or the big bouquets of roses he sent to your house and your job. You had to learn to lean into having a man who was willing to drop any plans he had the second you called him.

And it was a lot.

Sometimes too much, and Art started to pick up on that.

So he adjusted.

Instead of buying you lavish gifts and taking you fancy places all the time, he started to cut back to maybe once or twice a month (still insane but he's trying). He planned smaller, quieter dates for the two of you, like cooking dinner or baking together, or trying new desert shops around the city, and can you tell this boy really likes to feed you? He began to focus his efforts on being more helpful to you, as well. Need him to pick up some dry cleaning? Done. Sick of washing dishes? He's got it covered. Forgot to order groceries for the week? He's already made a list. Any and everything he could do to make life stress-free for you, he'd do.

And then don't even get me started on the sex.

Art is absolutely drunk on you. Your body, your scent, your voice-- all of it.

Before you two were together, Art was ashamed of the way he lusted after you. It made him feel perverted and dirty sometimes, the way he’d be practically drooling at the slightest glimpse of your shape. He was always the first to view your Instagram stories, (because he had your page notifications on) and at first he told himself that he was just eager to see your cute little selfies or your adorable little fit checks. The amount of cleavage you displayed was just a plus! But soon after, he found himself fiendish over the detail pictures you’d post, showcasing your tight-fitting shirts, or the necklaces that dangled just above your tits, or the low-waisted jeans that curved artfully around your ass. The way you presented yourself was just so enticing to him. A little at a time, just a glimpse per picture. Enough to let his imagination run wild, but not enough to fulfill his fantasies.

So you can imagine that from the time Art got his first fill of you and then on, he was in heaven. You were better than every fantasy, dream, thought- everything he’d ever dreamt up. The second you pulled off his shirt and told him to lay back, that you’d give him what he needed, he was a lovesick puppy under your care, and he loved that. He swore with every command you gave or moan you drew from him, he was falling deeper into you.

However, this also ignited a new passion in him. He had to be the best, just as he felt you were. Had to be good for you, or else what was his purpose?

So, he spent hours and hours studying the porn you watched, trying so desperately to mimic the strokes and moans of the men you got off to. He studied the positions you liked and even did a little research on his own to know which ones would feel the best for you. He wanted to make you throw your head back in bliss, moan uncontrollably, and glow from how good you felt, time and time again, and he was determined to do what it took to make that happen. He'd do it all and then some, and all he needed to hear was you saying his name.

Oh, and speaking of saying his name, that's one of his biggest turn-ons. He likes to say there's a certain tone you use, intentionally or not, that mimics the sultriness of a siren, and he can't stop himself from getting hard every time he hears it. Maybe it's the tone itself, or the fact that you're calling him in the first place, but he can't help the way his mind gets all fuzzy from it, only focusing on your voice and the way your lips move to say the syllable.

There’s nobody else on the planet that has ever, or will ever make Art feel the way you do. You make his body feel ways it never has, make his heart light up with feelings he didn’t know existed. In such a short span of time, you’ve become his everything, and that’s why he’s determined to keep you as his for as long as he can.

As long as he can. As long as you let him. Because he’ll be only yours for forever and ever.

Your sweet, lovesick bf!art.

part 2

A/N: this was just a massive brain dump for art since he’s been on my mind since i watched the movie LOL. want him SO BADDDDD

[miley1442111]

(part 3) choices and meetings- a.donaldson

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a/n: i imagined a fem reader but as per usual, imagine what you like :)

i'll probably do a few more parts of this because it's just so cute and sad :(

summary: the first conversation you two have after the break-up.

pairing: art donaldson x reader

warnings: angst, feelings of disappointment, hurt, allusions to an eating disorder, depression, etc. +

PART 3 of 12

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It had been 4 weeks since the break up. Both of you were miserable but you wouldn’t tell the other. There was no ‘hot guy from your science class’ that you were fucking, you just wanted to make him jealous. 

It did make him jealous. Very jealous. Just the idea of you being with someone else made his skin crawl. He’d essentially gone to every guy in that class to threaten to kill them if they even looked at you, he didn’t care if you weren’t his girlfriend anymore, he just needed some more time. He just needed you.

The only time you two interacted was during tennis sessions. You were being coached by the same person, so he made you do matches against each other. The last 4 weeks had been full of electrifying matches, often ending in Art smashing a racket or you stalking off in anger. 

But you were both playing so well. So, so well.

The matches were difficult and finally challenging. Art had never played so well, he was almost at your level, and even beat you a few times. Though, you were usually better. 

Once the rackets were packed away and you both left the court, it was like a scene in a romcom. Both of you wishing for the other, crying alone over one another, and wanting everything to be different. You regretted breaking up with him, but you knew you couldn’t take it anymore. His forgetfulness, his carelessness, his choices. He regretted breaking your heart. He missed you, your smile, your jokes, your laughs, your pretty face, your cute habits, your hands on his skin, the way you loved him, how he felt loved and wanted. Some things he’d never felt before. You were his first serious relationship, his first love, his first everything.

It came to the day of your final match against Serena O’Brien, an English tennis player. You were ready, you felt good. 

Then you looked into the crowd and saw Art, and everything went to shit. Your mind was clouded, you felt sick, you felt betrayed. Seeing him at school was one thing, that was controlled, you knew you’d see him at school. Seeing him here? Uncontrolled, unknown, and unfair.

You set your sights on the ball. The match started. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ “That was some real tennis!” Your coach shouted, ecstatic at your win. The match was hard fought but she didn’t exactly have a chance, not when you were imagining the ball as Art’s face. 

“Thanks,” you smiled, though there was no happiness behind it, no pride in your win. Art walked onto the court behind him, an apologetic smile on his face. Art had noticed your changing habits in recent weeks as he tried to win you back. You were more irritable, less ‘there’, you ate less, you trained more, you stopped doing some of the things you actually enjoyed, like the literature class you just sat in on every Tuesday afternoon, or the cat nursery you used to volunteer at. 

But today, today he had a plan. He would speak to you, tell you he loved you and that he was sorry, then let you go. It’s what you deserved. You deserved someone who didn’t pick anyone else over you. You deserved someone as smart as you. You deserved someone as beautiful as you. You deserved someone as kind as you. You deserved someone as caring as you. You deserved an equal. Art did not see himself as equal to you. 

“That was amazing,” he smiled at you, walking onto the court. “You’re incredible.”

Your face fell. You didn’t want him to think your tennis was ‘incredible’, you wanted him to think you were incredible. “Thank you.”

“Can we talk?” He asked, itching the back of his neck and looking down.

“Sure,” you shrugged. All your anger had left the second you shut the door in his face. It was replaced by hurt and sadness. Feeling like you’re not your boyfriend’s priority is awful. Knowing who his priority actually is was worse. 

Art took your hand tentatively, and led you to the room you’d sat in before the match. He sat on a stack of boxes as you leant against the door beside him. His hand in yours made both of you reminiscent, electrified, and sad, all at the same time. His soft hands felt comfortable, familiar, right. 

Your hand in his felt blasphemous. You were so… perfect, he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve this conservation, he didn’t deserve a moment of your time, yet you gave him it. He didn’t want to ruin it, 

There was a long moment of silence. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered as he held your hand. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s ok Art, people break up-”

“We don’t. We shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have let it happen, I love you too much for that,” he sniffled and your heart broke in two. Your boy, your sweet, kind Art was crying. 

“I’m such an idiot,” he whispered, looking down at the ground. He was trying to keep it together, but he’d never been good at hiding things when it came to you. Your thumb brushed back and forth on his skin, calming him. It made him cry all the harder, you were so caring, he’d hurt you so much, so deeply. And yet, you showed him a kindness he didn’t believe he deserved. “I’m such a fucking idiot.” 

“Art it just wasn’t working,” you sighed. “It’s alright. It’s no one’s fault.”

“It’s my fault,” He looked up at you with red-rimmed eyes, tears spilling from them. You took your hand and cupped his cheek, wiping them away. He leaned into your touch as if he'd missed it for an eternity. As if  he’d missed you for an eternity. Your hand on his cheek burned straight to his heart. Subconsciously he tried to commit the feeling to memory, in case this was the last time. “It’s all my fault.”

“You can’t beat yourself up about it. What we had was so good for so long. It just… there was too much going on, something had to give,” You bit your bottom lip to try and stop the tears falling from your eyes. The devastated expression on his face broke you. “I love you so much Art, but I’m hurt. So are you. You’ll be alright.” 

Art looked at you again and he started sobbing into your side, wrapping his arms around your waist. You looked up, attempting to preserve your composure. “I’m so sorry,” he cried into your side. “I love you so much. I love you so, so much.”

“I love you too much,” you croaked out. “You’re such a good person.”

That made Art cry harder. You still thought he was a good person after he hurt you. You still thought he deserved your love. You still loved him. You were comforting him, telling him it wasn’t his fault. It was all his fault. He was horrible to you, he was a bad boyfriend. 

“I miss you,” you whispered and his heart stopped. His plan was going awfully. You were too kind, too good for him. You should’ve hated him, yet you didn’t.

“I miss you too,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your hip. 

“This sucks,” you sadly chuckled as you allowed the tears to roll down your face. 

“It does,” he whispered against you. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“It’s alright Art. We’re still friends, we’ll take care of each other, yeah?” You looked down at him and made eye contact. 

“Promise?” He whispered, holding his pinky finger up.

“Promise,” You whispered, interlocking your fingers. “I’m always here for you.”

“I love you,” he stood up beside you, closer than he probably should’ve been. His hands wrapped around your waist and out of pure instinct, you pressed a kiss to his cheek. He tasted like salty tears. You wiped his face again, a sad smile on your face. 

“We’re here for each other,” you swore. 

“Always.”

You opened the door behind you and walked out, making it the second hardest thing you’d even done, right after breaking up with him. 

He fell back into his seat, crying silently into his hands, chest heaving, eyes spilling, throat drying. 

He just made it 1000 times worse for himself, and you.

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art donaldson masterlist :)

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games, challengers :)

[g4yforethan]

urge!!!

pairing: art donaldson x male!reader

summary: after an intense workout, a trip in the sauna leaves reader and art alone and enchanted by each other

warnings: cursing, smut, top!art, bottom!reader

a/n: it's been sooo long since i've done this so my apologizes for any typos or shit like that lol

the sun was hitting your skin as sweat dripped down your face and neck. you had been training for hours with art who wouldn't stop until you had beat him in a round of tennis. "come on y/n! you can do it!" he said as he served the ball and hit it towards you. you tried and tried until you basically collapsed to the floor of fatigue and weakness. art came running over with a towel and water. "there there y/n. it's okay i'm here. sorry for overdoing you but i just feel like you have so much potential i gotta work it out of you." yeah or you could fuck it out of me. a thought that entered and quickly exited your head. you got up and sat down in the shade. "i know you mean well art but i just feel so tired and overwhelmed by today. i'm throwing in the fucking towel." art laughed and sat down next to you. "yeah that's fine y/n. we all need our rest every now and then. hey how about we head into the sauna to relax and just clear our heads huh? that'll make you feel better?" he said as he massaged your back.

you nodded your head as the two of you walked towards the sauna. you turned away to remove your clothes but turned the other way to look at art as he took off his clothes and reveal his long and thick cock and muscular ass. you turned back out of respect and guilt and took a towel and put it around your waist. you entered the sauna and sat next to art who laid his head back and had his eyes closed. "hey art are you asleep?" you put your hand on his shoulder. he put his hand on yours and opened his eyes locking his with yours. "no i'm just resting my eyes. why what's up?" he replied. "oh nothing i just. i just wanted to say thank you for everything and for sticking by me. i know i can be a handful." the two of you laughed as you got closer to each other. "yeah of course y/n. you're special. something in you. the drive, strength, the talent. you have it all. just stay with me and i can make you so much better." the tension was strong. the room thickened with steam as hot water dripped down your face. you looked at art with desire and so did he. you got closer and grabbed his face and locked lips with him.

you moaned as his tongue entered your mouth and the both of you struggled to catch a breath. you opened your eyes and felt embarrassed by your actions. "im sorry. i shouldn't have done that. it was- it was wrong i'll go-" you were interrupted by art as he grabbed your body and put you on his lap. "art what the fuck are you doing?" you were shocked by him. "y/n i've always wanted a moment like this. just us two. together. showing how much we want each other. that's all." he said as he reached his hands down and massaged your ass. you began kissing him again and removed your towel and started grinding on his crotch. he moaned and removed his towel as well. "fuck. can i put in?" he asked as you nodded your head. he slowly entered your hole as you softly began to ride him. his cock was thick and filled you perfectly. you placed your hands around his shoulders as he gripped your waist and ass bouncing you up and down.

"fuck yeah y/n. your hole feels so fucking good." art said as he rammed his dick inside you. "fuck. fuck me just like that art." he fucked you like he has been waiting to for years. you suggested a new position and art was eager for what you had in mind. you laid on your back and lifted your legs art quickly re-entered you. you felt his dick stimulate your g-spot as the sensation overfilled your body. your rolled your eyes back as art placed his hand on your neck. "fuck your face looks so hot while i fuck you." art said. as he fucked you, he sucked on your cock to pleasure you more. "ugh fuck fuck art im gonna cum." he smiled as he continued sucking your dick. you gripped his ass as he continued pounding your hole. you came in his mouth as he came in your hole. the session left the both of you out of breath as you both laid on the floor. "haha so did i teach you anything today?" art said as he smiled at you. "yeah you taught me how to give someone the best orgasm ever." you both laughed as you kissed his lips. "well then i'm proud you learned something at least."

[k-nayee]

Worship Challengers

wc: 3.9k a/n: just a sucker for men who stare at you like this😩

Traveler M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

You never really cared for tennis.

It was just one of those sports that passed you by—background noise.

If your cousin hadn’t begged you to chaperone her at the Junior Opening, you wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

She had her heart set on going and your parents were quick to agree for you with a look that made it impossible to say no.

So there you were: at a game you barely understood.

It was loud. The crowd, the energy, people cheering for players you never heard of before.

Your cousin, of course, was already vibrating with excitement. She didn’t even bother hiding her obsession—flipping through photos of Patrick Zweig on her phone and going on about his so-called legendary backhand.

“Look at him!” she said, shoving her phone in your face.

“Mhm,” you replied flatly, leaning away. “That’s nice. Real nice.”

You only half-listened as you mentally prepared to dissociate for the next couple of hours.

This was just a favor—a way to kill time. Nothing more.

Or so you thought.

That all changed when he stepped onto the court.

Art Donaldson.

At first you didn't know his name. Your cousin hadn't mentioned him once in her nonstop chatter.

She was too busy fawning over the crowd’s golden boy to notice the other player warming up on the opposite side of the net.

You noticed him though.

There was a quiet focus about him, an intensity that made everything else around him blur into the background.

While Patrick was already basking in the crowd’s cheers, this guy—tall, lean, with sharp focus—didn’t even look at the stands.

His eyes stayed locked across the net like nothing else in the world mattered.

You told yourself it was just curiosity.

After all you were stuck here for the next couple of hours—you might as well watch the match.

It wasn't until the game commenced did you realize it was more than that.

He had this steely gaze locked on the other side of the net. Even when his opponent scored, Art didn't falter.

He gripped his racket tighter, lips pressed in a firm line as if nothing else mattered but the game.

You leaned forward in your seat.

For someone who wasn't supposed to care, you found yourself caring—a lot.

Patrick was clearly the favorite; he was loud and brimming with confidence, waving and grinning after every point with an almost infectious energy.

But it was Art who held your attention.

His movements were sharp and precise like every moment was planned.

He didn't need the crowd's approval. He wasn't there to entertain anyone. He was there to play.

At one point Patrick sent a blistering serve across the court, a shot that would've thrown most off their game.

Art moved like it was nothing.

He returned the shot with a perfect backhand, sending the ball whipping past Patrick before he could even attempt to reach it.

The crowd fell silent for a beat and then the cheers erupted. Art didn't celebrate.

He simply reset, ready for the next point as if winning meant nothing.

And for the first time that day you actually cared about tennis (well at least his tennis).

Patrick might've been the crowd's favorite, but in your eyes there was no competition.

Art Donaldson had completely captured your attention and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were watching someone special.

The match went on point after point, but all you could think about was him.

As the final point approached you felt your heart racing. You knew how this would end—knew Patrick was going to win.

That didn’t stop you from silently rooting for Art, hoping against hope that he’d pull through.

When Patrick finally clinched the match cheers erupted with your cousin nearly jumping out of her seat in excitement.

All you could do was watch as Art stood there, breathing heavily, his racket still clenched in his hand.

He didn’t react—didn’t lash out in frustration or hang his head in defeat.

Instead he wiped the sweat from his brow with an unreadable expression and walked off the court with his head held high.

You felt your breath hitch, your chest tightening as you watch him disappear from the court.

And that’s when it hit you.

You had a crush.

A ridiculous, undeniable crush on Art Donaldson.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

You hadn’t thought about Art Donaldson in a long time.

Well...not really. Not since high school when he first captured your attention at the Junior Opening.

It had been years since that day and your crush on him had dulled over time. But not completely.

Fast-forward to now: Stanford University. You’d gotten in on an full ride academic scholarship—Business major, a time consuming program till the point tennis felt like a world away.

You weren’t involved in that type of scene, hell the only reason you thought about the sport from time to time was because of him.

Art was still there lingering on the edge of your thoughts even when you try not to think about it too much.

Then again, how could you when you saw him every now and then on campus?

You’d spot him walking across the quad or passing by in the dining hall with a distant gaze, lost in his own world.

He was hard to miss—still just as intense and focused as before but quieter now.

You tried not to let it affect you. It was silly to still have feelings for someone you didn’t even know.

Besides, you’d overheard the gossip—everyone had.

The whole campus seemed to know about the love triangle between him, his best friend Patrick Zweig, and Tashi Duncan.

Some said they were fighting over her; that their friendship had started to crack under the weight of it.

Others said it was only a matter of time before Art finally won her over after being in love with her for years.

And each time you heard it, you felt that old familiar pang in your chest.

It was a sharp reminder that no matter how much your crush had dulled it wasn’t entirely gone.

Meanwhile Tashi was a rising tennis star herself. Beautiful and talented, she was the kind of girl people wrote stories about, who turned heads wherever she went.

You? You didn’t stand a chance. She was everything you weren’t.

How could you ever compete with her?

Hell you’d never spoken to Art—not in high school and not now.

To him you were just another face on campus, another student passing by.

Despite it all, you couldn’t stop the flustered flare-ups every time you saw him.

Especially when you found out he was in your Statistics class.

You remember the first day he walked in—your heart had skipped a beat just like it used to.

Art Donaldson—your Art Donaldson—was sitting just a few seats away. You hadn’t expected it.

Stanford was a big campus and you figured you’d only ever see him in passing.

But there he was, sitting two rows away in the lecture hall.

It was ridiculous really.

You were a grown woman at one of the best universities in the country, and yet here you were acting like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Of course you didn’t talk to him. You barely even managed to glance his way without feeling like a complete idiot.

Every now and then, though, you’d steal a quick peek in his direction.

You couldn’t help it though. There was something about him—something that had stuck with you ever since that first match.

Sometimes at night you'd lay there and wonder what it would have been like if things had been different.

If he’d noticed you instead of Tashi. If you had been the one to catch his eye, that maybe things would have turned out differently.

But that was just wishful thinking.

So you kept your distance; sneaking shy glances in class, trying not to get caught while doing your best to focus on your coursework.

After all, what were the chances that someone like Art would ever notice someone like you?

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

Art had always been good at keeping his emotions in check.

After losing to Patrick at the Junior Opening he’d done his best to shove his feelings for Tashi aside.

It wasn’t easy—she and Patrick were always around, the three of them inseparable.

Patrick had won her over after all. And Art? Well he knew better than to dwell on it.

It was better this way. It had to.

So Art threw himself into his tennis at Stanford. The one thing that had always grounded him.

There were days where it worked, where the rush of practice or the sound of the ball smacking against his racket was enough to quiet his mind.

But then there were days where it didn't.

It was during a practice break, he was standing on the sidelines with Tashi who was texting Patrick.

Art stared off at the court as his thoughts wandered. He’d been trying—really trying—to move on and keep his mind clear.

Tashi was still with Patrick. He had no claim over her.

There was no reason to feel the way he did. She was happy.

 ̶H̶̶e̶ ̶w̶̶a̶̶s̶ ̶t̶̶r̶̶y̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶t̶̶o̶ ̶b̶̶e̶

He sighed, taking a swig from his water bottle when he noticed something—or rather someone.

You were scampering across the far side of the courts to a couple of the other players, your yellow floral dress catching the light.

The way you moved, the way your dress flowed around you...it felt like everything around you blurred out.

He didn’t even register what you were holding—some kind of water bottles or equipment—too focused on the way you smile as you talked.

Art blinked. Hard.

He knew most of the regulars around the tennis practices (especially those involved with the team), but you didn’t fit into any of those familiar faces.

His gaze followed your every step, lingering on your retreating figure as his mind spined with questions.

Who were you?

“Art.”

He snapped back a little too quickly, blinking at Tashi as she looked at him with a raised brow, clearly unimpressed with his daydreaming. “Stop zoning out. We’ve got a lot to do before the next match.”

“Yeah sorry,” he muttered, forcing himself to focus as he jogged back onto the court.

But as they continued practice, Art found himself glancing back at the spot where you had been.

His mind drifted back to you. He found himself scanning the stands wondering where you’d gone. 

He didn’t even know your name and you already caused a shift inside him.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

It wasn’t long before he started noticing you everywhere.

At first it was just in passing—seeing you on campus, weaving through the bodies of students in the quad or grabbing a coffee at the campus café.

Then it became more than that.

You were always around the tennis courts dropping off water bottles or extra gear (as he later found out, you were doing it for your roommate who was on a tennis scholarship).

Every time he saw you his pulse quickened.

There was something about the way you carried yourself, the way you always seemed to be in your own world.

He’d find excuses to look for you, telling himself it was nothing.

After all what were the chances you even noticed him?

You didn’t attend the big matches or the main events—he’d never seen you in the stands.

Maybe you weren’t even interested in tennis. Plus, why would you be interested in him?

He was Art Donaldson: the guy who’d lost the Junior Opening and spent most of his time in the shadow of Patrick Zweig.

You were just a passing face, someone he’d never get to know. Right?

Wrong.

Overslept from another night of late practice, Art rushes into Statistics class late—and there you were.

The tennis player nearly tripped over his own feet when he spotted you.

You were in his class? How hadn’t he noticed you before?!

Brain scrambling the college athlete finds his seat, luckily it was a perfect distance away for him watch you without being obvious about it

Every time you did something small—lips pouting when you didn't understand a part of the lecture or tilting your head in concentration—he couldn’t help but notice.

His eyes kept wandering back to you, sitting so close just a few seats away.

Art knew it was a risk of getting caught staring. Especially when he noticed something else—you were looking at him too.

At first he thought it was his imagination.

It wasn't. Glancing up from his notes, he'd meet the sight of you quickly looking away.

Art felt like he couldn’t breathe. His heart stuttered in his chest and he quickly pretend to focus on his notes.

Heat creep up the back of his neck, his skin tingling with the realization that you’d seen him.

After that, each time you glanced his way, he'd felt a spark—something electric.

He’d try to play it cool, but inwardly he was thrilled.

This wasn’t someone rooting for him from the sidelines or asking for an autograph.

This was you.

The girl who had somehow slipped under his radar and then completely overtaken his thoughts.

You knew he existed. You saw him even if it was just for a second.

It wasn’t much, but for Art it was everything.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

You weren’t much for parties. In fact you actively avoided them whenever you could.

So when your roommate begged you to come with her to some party—because she didn’t want to go alone—you found yourself reluctantly agreeing.

You figured you’d make a quick appearance and leave early without making a fuss.

The moment you stepped into the house you knew this wasn’t your vibe.

Nursing the same plastic cup of watered-down beer, you hung out by the edges of the room trying to stay as invisible as possible.

Time seemed to pass slowly. You check your phone; two hours passed.

You perk up at that revelation, finally deciding it's time to head back to your dorm.

Just as you could make an exit your roommate finds you.

“There you are!” she shouted over the music. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

You force a smile. “Yeah I was just about to head out actual—”

“Whaaaat? No way!” she cuts you off, grabbing your wrist. “You have to come with me!”

You barely had time to protest as she dragged you toward a smaller dimly lit room in the back of the house.

The sight of about twenty people sitting in a circle makes you hesitate.

It wasn't until you spotted the empty glass beer bottle in the center did you realize what was happening making your heart sink—Spin the Bottle.

“I’m not playing,” you start backing away but your roommate was already pushing you into the group.

“There’s way too many people for it to land on you,” she assured you with a wink, her voice light with mischief. “Besides it’s the last round. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You reluctantly joined the circle, sitting awkwardly on the floor. 'She's right...what's the worse that could happen?'

As soon as you sat down someone immediately offers you the bottle.

“Here newbie! Your turn!” someone shouted and the room burst into cheers, all eyes suddenly on you.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you glared at your friend who was now avoiding your gaze, clearly sheepish about getting you into this situation.

You could’ve left. You should’ve left. But here you are.

Sighing you accept the bottle to avoid making a scene.

The glass felt cold against your sweaty palms. Your heart race as you avoid looking directly at anyone.

You were embarrassed, self-conscious. This wasn’t your thing. You hated the attention.

And the pressure. It felt like your entire body was vibrating with anxiety as you mentally prepared for the worst.

You gave the bottle a spin; your nerves turned into outright panic as the world seeming to slow down around you.

Your mind raced with a thousand insecurities: What if they thought you were ugly? What if the person you kiss someone hate it? Or worse—what if they wanted more than just a kiss?

Your chest tightened at the thought, stomach twisting in knots. 'What if my breath smelled weird? What...what if their breath smelled weird?!'

The bottle slowed, spinning less and less until it teetered to a stop.

Time stretched unbearably slow and you clenched your fists, hoping, praying it would land on someone random—someone who wouldn’t care.

Then it stopped.

And you looked up.

It was Art.

Art Donaldson.

'What...the...fuck?' the realization hit you like a ton of bricks. You blinked thinking maybe you’d somehow imagined it.

He was here? You hadn’t even noticed him in the crowd, let alone expected the bottle to land on him!

There was no way right? 

Art stared back at you eyes just as wide as yours.

He looked as shocked as you felt, frozen in place as the room erupted around you in whoops and cheers.

Someone shouted something you didn’t catch and you saw a couple of guys nudge Art, grinning like idiots as they clapped him on the back. 

Your body went numb. A weird tingly sensation spread through your chest as you try to process what was happening.

'This can’t be real. I must be dreaming.'

You barely heard the teasing shouts or the laughs that followed.

All you could do was stare at him, your mind spinning faster than the bottle had.

Art still looked a little shell-shocked as his friends shoved him toward the closet.

You barely registered the few people nudging you as well, urging you forward.

Next thing you knew you're shoved into a small cramped closet with Art right behind you.

The door shut with a soft click sealing you both inside the dim space.

It was silent. Awkward.

You could feel the tension between you two thickening as though the walls were closing in.

The reality of the situation crashed down on you all at once: you were in a closet. Alone. With Art Donaldson.

The Art Donaldson who you’d been low-key crushing on since forever.

Your heart continued to race and your mouth felt dry.

You weren’t sure what to do. From the way Art fidgeted you could tell he was just as nervous.

His eyes flicked between the floor and you, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

He was...cute. Not just cute, handsome even.

His tousled hair, flushed cheeks, and the nervous look in his eyes gave him an almost boyish charm—and you found yourself growing more flustered the longer the silence dragged on.

“Hi,” you finally managed to say in a soft voice. “M-my...my name is—”

“I know,” he interrupted making your brows furrow in confusion.

Art's face paled realizing what he’d said and started backtracking. “I-I mean I know because we’re in the same class. Statistics! I-I see you in there sometimes. Not like watching you or anything! I just...noticed. Not in a weird way! I’m not a creep I promise.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his nervous rambling, some of the tension breaking.

He lets out a breath he must have been holding visibly relaxing at your response.

“Yeah,” the faintest laugh escape your lips. “I’ve noticed you too.”

Before either of you could say more, there was a sudden knock at the door making you jump.

“Ten more minutes guys!” A muffled voice calls from the other side, “Make 'em count!”

The reminder of what you were supposed to be doing—what everyone out there expected you to be doing—made the tension snap back into place.

Art shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to the floor before slowly lifting to meet yours.

But this time when he looked at you his expression was different.

His half-lidded dark eyes lingered on you in a way that made your heart stutter.

He wasn’t just looking at you—he was studying every inch of your face as if memorizing each detail, not wanting to miss anything.

You felt heat crawl up your neck and spread across your chest from the weight of it.

His stare wasn’t overbearing but it was enough to send your nerves into overdrive.

Unable to handle the intensity of it anymore, you take a shaky breath “So...s-should we start kissing...?”

As soon as the words left your mouth Art doesn't hesitate.

His hand shot out, grabbing your waist and pulling you close in one swift motion.

His other cupped the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as his lips crashed into yours.

The kiss was filled with a pent-up almost desperate energy.

You could feel the way his breath hitched, his body trembling slightly as he leaned into you.

It was like he couldn’t believe this was happening. As if you'd disappear if he let go.

And just as quick the kiss began, it ended.

His chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths, but his eyes were filled with something you couldn’t quite place.

Reverence.

He looked at you like you were something delicate...something sacred.

You weren’t just a girl in a closet—he made you feel like the only person in the world.

You were taken aback, your mind scrambling to catch up with what had just happened.

The heat from the kiss lingered on your lips and for a moment all you could do was stare at him, stunned.

But then without thinking you reach up and pull him back to you.

Your fingers tangle in his blond locks as you crash into him; kissing him harder, like you need him as much as he seems to need you.

Art groaned against your mouth, the sound sending a thrill through your body.

His fingers brush against your cheek then down to your neck like he was memorizing the shape of you.

His hands then found your waist, fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you closer to deepen the kiss.

The tension had finally snapped and suddenly you were both lost in it; grasping at each other like the world outside didn’t exist anymore.

Body pressed against his, Art’s hand slid down your hip before tugging at your thigh to wrap your leg around his waist.

The movement pulled you even closer.

You could feel the heat of him, his heart racing in time with yours, his breath hot and ragged as his lips moved down to your neck.

His kisses trailed slowly from the corner of your mouth to your jaw, then lower until his lips brush against the soft skin of your neck.

Each one was deliberate—almost worshipful, like he was savoring every inch of you.

Feeling his mouth against your pulse made you shiver causing your body to respond instinctively as your fingers tighten in his hair.

He lingered there for a moment as if savoring the way you trembled beneath him before continuing on.

“Art” you breathed out, barely able to find your voice as the sensation of his lips on your skin overwhelmed you.

He made an almost needy sound in response, his hands gripping you tighter like he couldn’t get close enough.

All that existed in that moment was him—his touch, his kiss, the way his body felt against yours.

His mouth moved back up to yours and when his lips found yours again, the kiss was different—deeper, more intense.

Just as the passion between you began to swell there was a loud knock on the door, jolting you both out of your haze.

“Time’s up!” someone shouted from the other side followed by teasing laughter.

Art breaks away from the kiss with a heavy breath before leaning his forehead against yours as he blinked, trying to regain some composure.

Your bodies were still pressed together in the cramped space, neither wanting to move.

“I...I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he admit quietly almost like he’s afraid to say it out loud.

You smile, your cheeks warm and heart still pounding in your chest. “Me too.”

The closet door swings open but neither of you pays attention.

You’re still wrapped up in each other, lost in your own little world.

[matchpointfaist]

tis the damn season ; art donaldson

cw; drinking, smut!!, art and reader are really kinda pathetic <3

if i wanted to know who you were hanging with

while i was gone i would have asked you

it's the kind of cold, fogs up windshield glass

but i felt it when i passed you 

there’s an ache in you put there by the ache in me 

but if it’s all the same to you, it’s the same to me

five years ago

“hey, stranger,” you can practically hear art’s smile through the phone, “how was your day?” you roll onto your back, phone clutched in your hand like a vice, “it was alright. just cramming for finals,” you sigh softly, “hows stanford?” “god, it’s incredible,” he laughs, “i wish you were here. you’d love it, baby. it’s like a movie,” you hum in response, ignoring the ache in your chest that had made its home there the day he flew out, “how’s training going? do you have any matches soon?” “oh, it’s great!” there’s that smile again, “i’ve got a match tomorrow, actually, so i should probably go soon. it’s at 7 am,” 

“that’s good,” you smile to yourself, “do you feel good about it?” “yeah, i think so. coach says i’m gearing up to do really well this season,” he says proudly, and your chest aches again at the thought of missing it. “i’m sure you will,” you try to keep your voice even, “well i’ll let you get some sleep, i love you,” “love you more,” he murmurs, “goodnight, baby,” 

art texts you the next morning to inform you he ‘killed’ his match, attaching a poorly taken photo of him grinning ear to ear, gold metal ribbon around his neck. it’s little crumbs like this that keep you sane, keep you feeling close to him, ever since he left. ‘knew you’d win! you’re so cute. call later?’ you reply, your cheeks pink as if you’re texting a crush rather than your boyfriend of two years. ‘course i will’ he replies, and you’re already counting down the minutes until the nighttime routine you’d grown accustomed to. 

at nine oclock, you lay across your dorm bed, eyes practically glued to your phone screen as you wait on art’s nightly call. by nine thirty, you’re mildly annoyed, and by ten, you’re worried. you pick up the phone, pressing call on his contact, biting the inside of your cheek as you listen to the phone ring. he picks up after a moment, the music in the background nearly drowning out his voice, “hello?” 

“hey,” you try your hardest not to let your irritation bleed into your tone, “did you forget to call?” “fuck, baby. i’m so sorry,” you hear shuffling, and the music gets slightly quieter, “patrick invited me to this party since we won this morning, it totally slipped my mind,” “it’s fine,” you tell him slightly too quickly, “just have fun, kay? i’ll talk to you tomorrow,” “wait- are you sure?” he sounds confused, and you wonder if its the alcohol or the change in your tone that’s thrown him off. 

“yeah, of course,” you hope your voice sounds as light as you intend it to, “we can talk tomorrow night, it’s okay. have fun,” “okay, i guess,” he sounds so hesitant you start to think he might just leave the party, “well goodnight then. i love you,” “night. love you too,” you hang up before you can talk yourself into begging him to stay on the phone. the next night, he calls at six oclock sharp, and you can tell the entire phone call that he’s eager not to upset you. 

he’d always been that way. he’d do something, just one tiny mistake, and spend days apologizing or being extra sweet to fix it. you’d lost count over the years of just how many grand gestures he’d made, of how many times he’d professed his love for you for no reason other than to get back in your good graces; not that he’d ever left. 

you and art were cheesily in love, so high school in the way that you couldn’t keep your hands off of eachother, couldn’t go a day without speaking. you were practically sewn at the hip from sophomore to senior year, even applying to colleges together. when he got his offer from the stanford athletics department, you didn’t think much of it. he seemed flattered, of course, but you never thought he’d actually go. 

he loved boston, he loved his family, he loved you, so it made no sense when he came over one afternoon, admission letter in hand, and a wide smile on his lips. “i accepted their offer!” he’d told you, ever so proud, “they gave me basically a full ride, as long as i stay on the team and keep my grades up. can you believe that?” 

you could believe it, of course. everyone knew how wildly talented art was, from such a young age. he’d started playing tennis at his parents country club when he was just a kid, and eventually worked his way up to attending a tennis academy not far from your high school. he had promise, drive, ambition, and a naivety just subtle enough to make him an excellent candidate to be pushed too far by coaches. 

you’d known, then, that things would change between you. everyone told you nothing would happen, you two were meant to be, but you could feel it. he’d be across the country, practicing incessantly, playing matches, attending parties thrown by teammates you’d never meet. and you’d be home, working for a degree that might help you make a name for yourself. 

over the course of a few months after that party, the calls grew less and less frequent. by summer, you were lucky to hear from art more than once a week. you knew he was busy, of course, and tried to ignore the way bitterness coated your tongue with every word you said to him on your brief calls. you tried to ignore the way he talked about all the friends he’d made, friends that you didn’t know at all, and tried to ignore the way he barely sent you photos anymore.

the one thing getting you through was the promise of summer break with art. two short months together, to pretend everything was back to normal, that you weren’t living completely separate lives. you woke up at six am sharp the day of his flight home, eagerness keeping you from sleep, and picked up your phone to call and see when he’d be landing. he answered after four rings, his voice raspy from sleep, “hello?” 

“good morning!” you replied cheerily, “when’s your flight?” “oh, hey baby,” you heard some shuffling before he returned to the phone, “uhm, i actually was just gonna call you about that,” “is everything okay?” your cheery tone slipped, dread festering in your stomach before you could even place why. “yeah, of course. i just meant to tell you, coach wants me to do some training over the summer. he thought it would be best if i stayed here, just for this first year, for some extra drills and stuff,” 

you sat silently, tears pricking your eyes, as you listened to his excuse. “so what, then? you’ll be home for a month shorter, or?” “i won’t be able to make it home at all this year, honey. i’m so sorry, but you can come stay with me, yeah? i’ll buy your ticket, it’ll be just like we planned,” your heart broke even further at how optimistic he sounded, as if he hadn’t just shattered your expectations of the summer, of your reunion. “i have work, art,” you said quietly, “you know that. i have to make up for being off through the school year,” 

“you don’t need that job, baby. come on, come see me,” “no, art!” you argued, your brows pinched in frustration, “i do need this job, actually. some of us don’t have trust funds, believe it or not. jesus,” your words came out sharper than you intended, all the hurt and anger from the last several months finally revealing itself. “i’m sorry,” he said after a moment, “this is really important to me. this is my shot, yknow? i can’t mess this up,”

“yeah,” your voice was bitter, but you truly did understand, “i get it. stay there, it’s for the best,” “i’ll come home next summer, okay? it won’t be like this every year,” he sounded like he was pleading with you, and it took all your control not to snap at the irony of it. “art, i think it’s best we don’t keep trying to make this work. you need to focus on your tennis and school and i need to focus on mine, and let’s just call it even, okay? we had a really good run,” 

“a good run?” he repeated incredulously, “are you trying to break up with me?” “i am, yeah,” you hoped you sounded confident in your answer, “i just don’t think it’s a good idea for us to draw this out any longer than we need to,” “what the fuck? where is this coming from? is this about the summer?” he sounded so genuinely confused, so lost, and it only angered you further. “it’s just not working, art. everyone warned us long distance wasn’t a good idea,” 

“baby, please,” he was practically begging, a slight whine in his voice that you knew all too well. “no, i’m sorry, okay? but it’s done,” “you can’t just-” “bye, art,” you hung up before you could talk yourself out of it, letting yourself cry as hard as you’d wanted to for months now. you curled up in bed, sobs wracking your body, and mourned the relationship with a boy you’d once thought you’d marry. 

you thought he’d text or call, tried to prepare yourself to reject him again, but the contact never came. he listened, for once. art donaldson had completely slipped out of your life, without a trace.

three years later, you graduated top of your class, landed your dream job in journalism, and moved to an apartment in the city. you tried your best not to keep up with art’s achievements, but it was difficult when he won nearly ever tournament he stepped foot into. he made all the sports headlines, and you turned your head at each of them, hoping to convince yourself you never even knew him. 

i parked my car right between the methodist 

and the school that used to be ours

the holidays linger like a bad perfume 

you can run, but only so far

i escaped it too, remember how you watched me leave

but if that’s okay with you, it’s okay with me

current

you returned home for the holidays, driving down from the inner city to your parents home on the outskirts of boston. about three miles out, you’re lost in thought, music playing through your speakers and snow dusting your windshield. you’re jolted when you hit a deep pothole, cursing under your breath when your tire pressure light kicks on. 

you pull over into the closest parking lot, grabbing your coat and stepping out of the car to survey the damage. “fuck me,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration when you see the tire’s gone flat. you’re in the middle of trying to pry your spare out of the trunk when headlights illuminate the area around you, and you hear a car crunching over the snow. 

“you alright, miss?” a man calls, his voice sharp in your ears against the quiet of the evening. “just got a flat, i’m taking care of it,” you reply, not bothering to look back over your shoulder as you yank your spare free finally. “it isn’t safe to drive on a spare in this weather,” he tells you, and the slight crack of his tone raises the hair on your arms, the familiarity seeping through you deeper than the cold breeze. 

you turn, finally facing the stranger, your breath in your throat. there he stands, his blonde hair peeking out underneath the hood of his puffer coat, his cheeks tinged pink from the wind. “art?” you exhale, your heart suddenly racing in your chest, “what are you doing here?”

“oh,” he looks as startled as you feel, his blue eyes widening ever so slightly, “i was just passing by on my way to my parent’s, i saw a car and thought you’d need help,” “i’ve got it,” you say too quickly, “i’ll call my dad to pick me up, don’t worry about it. thanks, though,” 

“i can take you,” he offers, gesturing to his car parked just feet away, still running, “it’s on the way, anyway. i don’t mind,” “i think i’ll just call my dad,” you argue, “you can go, okay? i got this-” “please just let me take you home,” his tone sounds like you’d be doing him a favor, not the other way around, “come on, i’ll help you get your stuff, i’ll fix your tire tomorrow,”

you never could say no to his puppy dog eyes, even after all these years. so there you sit, shivering in art’s too nice car, trying not to look at him as he drives you home like he had so many times before. “it’s good to see you,” he says finally, breaking the silence, and you hum in response, unable to muster up any real conversation. 

“i moved back,” he says after a few more minutes as he turns the corner to a main road, “i don’t live here, but it’s not far. i live in the city near the university,” “congratulations,” you mumble, trying to keep your tone dismissive, anything to lessen the nostalgia you’re surely both feeling. 

“hey,” he sounds as if he’s pleading, and you allow yourself one glance to his side of the car, taking in the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek, the sadness in his eyes. “yes?” “i just wanted to say it’s good to see you,” he says softly, “i mean, what’re the odds, yknow? we’re both back home and i just happened to see you. it’s like fate,” 

“yeah,” you agree quietly, “fate, sure,”

so we could call it even

you could call me babe for the weekend

'tis the damn season, write this down

i'm stayin' at my parents' house

and the road not taken looks real good now

and it always leads to you in my hometown

he pulls into your parent’s drive, keeping the car running but leaning back in his seat to look over at you. “you look good,” he says after a moment, “not that you looked bad before, obviously, it’s just, you’re beautiful-” “shut up, art,” you cut off his rambling, “it was sweet of you to drive me, but thats all this was, okay? this isn’t fate. it’s just a coincidence,” 

“even if it is just a coincidence, i’m still happy to see you,” he says quietly, “is that not okay? i missed you,” “shut up,” you repeat, “you didn’t miss me, that’s- this whole thing is ridiculous, okay? enjoy your holiday, art,” “wait! can’t we just talk? i mean, even if its not tonight, we could catch up,” he pleads, eyes wide and borderline frantic. you shake your head, opening your door and pausing to glance back at him, “merry christmas, art. please don’t call,” you go inside trying your best to pretend nothing happened, dodging questions about the car in the driveway and greeting your family. the look on art’s face as you closed the car door keeps you from any real christmas spirit. 

you wake the next morning to a text from an unsaved number, your brows furrowed as you open the notification. ‘i know you said you don’t wanna hear from me, but i just wanted to say i’m sorry and it was really nice to see you. wanted to give you a fair warning, your parents invited my family to their christmas party tonight.’

you groan, tossing your phone on the bed and getting in the shower, ignoring the butterflies nerves, in your stomach at the idea of seeing art that night. by six that evening, you’re slightly tipsy off of spiked eggnog, trying your best to ignore him from across the room. he’s there, blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes and a stupid christmas sweater that reminds you far too much of the first holiday you spent together. 

you hate the way he mingles with your family so easily, like nothing ever happened. the way he laughs at your dads jokes, the way he’s sipping wine with class he must’ve learned at stanford. the way he keeps looking your way, smiling tenderly, the way he eventually approaches you with all the hesitation of a high school crush. 

“you look beautiful,” is the first thing he says to you, sounding almost pained by it. “thank you,” you hope you sound cordial, hope he doesn’t pick up on the way your hands shake around your glass, the way your cheeks are already pink. you tell yourself it’s the alcohol and not the scent of the cologne he’d been wearing all those years ago, the last time you’d seen him. 

he looks around, gesturing to the decorations, “good party,” “we don’t have to do this small talk shit,” you say after a moment, “it’s in the past, alright? let’s just get through the party and we’ll all go back to normal,” “don’t you see i don’t just want to get through the party? i’m trying to talk to you here, okay? i missed you, i just wanna catch up,” the pleading is back in his tone, accompanied by his trademark puppy dog eyes, and you find yourself following him onto your parent’s balcony with no hint of the hesitation you’d been full of earlier in the night. 

“i saw you on tv,” he tells you after a few minutes of small talk, sipping his drink and glancing at you, the wind rustling his too perfect hair. “yeah?” you smile ever so slightly, “what for?” “it was a news station, i saw it at the airport. you were reporting on the protests in new york,” he smiles back, and your chest aches at the sight. “i’m not usually on tv, i just write the stories, but it was cool. glad to know it’s getting good airport coverage,” you joke, “i’ve seen you on tv a few times myself. wimbledon and all,” 

“yeah?” his smile widens, “and what’d you think?” you pause, and you’re not sure if its the eggnog, the nostalgia, or his vulnerable expression, but you find yourself being honest. “i thought you were incredible,” you say softly, “the way you play is just amazing, art. always has been,” “thank you,” you choose to ignore the crack in his voice, “you have no idea how much that means, to hear you say that. that you still even think that,” 

“congratulations,” you smile around the rim of your glass, “you’ve won every competition i’ve even heard of. that’s a big deal,” “none of that matters,” he waves a dismissive hand, “i don’t wanna talk about tennis. i wanna hear about you,” “my life is pretty boring,” you shrug, “i write columns and go home and think about work. that’s really all,” “you’re not- are you seeing someone? i figured you’d be married or something,” 

“no,” you laugh like its ridiculous, because truthfully, it is. you’d loved him so much that it made the idea of trying to love someone else seem pointless. in the back of your mind, you’d always thought you needed to let it go, to move on, but you never found the time or the willpower. forgetting him and learning someone else was a move you were never prepared to make. “me neither,” his voice snaps you from your thoughts, “not since-”

“i’m sorry i broke up with you,” you blurt out, “it was shitty of me to do it over the phone like that, and i’m sorry,” “oh,” he blinks, looking slightly caught off guard, “no, i mean, it was my fault. i get it, looking back. i’m sorry i didn’t fight harder,” “you were a really good boyfriend,” you say quietly, blinking away hot tears, “like, the perfect boyfriend. it was just too much, being away from you, and i felt like it was just a matter of time before it ended anyway,”

“i never planned on leaving you,” he says softly, “i hope you know that. i loved you more than anything in the world, and i know we were just kids, but i really, really fucking loved you. more than tennis, more than stanford, more than any of that shit. i didn’t care about my future if you weren’t in it, but then you removed yourself from it and i figured i could at least just keep going,” 

“i know,” you nod, because you genuinely do know. you know he loved you, how much he cared about your relationship. a moment passes, and you can feel his eyes on you, your heart picking up and a fresh flush prickling your skin. “you are so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, and before you can think better of your decision, you’ve set your drink down and turned to him, all your logic gone out the window. 

“this is a bad idea,” you tell him, but you’ve already taken a step closer, “and i’m only in town for a bit,” another step, “but i missed you so fucking much, art,” “come show me how much you missed me,” he smiles, his eyes almost as dark as the sky around you, “let’s make up for lost time, yeah?”

you kiss him in an instant, and everything else seems to fall away as you feel his lips on yours for the first time in years. he tastes like sparkling wine and chapstick and everything you love about the holidays, about home. he kisses you with the same desperation he’d always had back then, his hands digging into your hips and pulling you flush against him. 

the reality of the evening starts to sink back in as hands progress lower, and you pull away, panting softly against his lips, “cant fuck you in my parents house,” “aw, come on, it’ll be just like old times,” he murmurs teasingly, trailing his lips down your neck. “art,” you whine, “we can’t,” “they’re all busy with the party,” he murmurs as he nips below your ear gently, “do you want me to stop?” “no,” you answer easily, “let’s just- can we go to my room? someone’s gonna see us out here,”

you end up in your old bedroom, sprawled out on the comforter kissing art with a feverish desperation. “missed you so fucking much,” he groans as you unbutton his pants, slipping your hand into his boxers, “god, thought about you all the time,” “yeah?” you smile against his lips, “thought about me all the way in california?” “fuck- yeah, i did,” he bucks his hips into your hand, his cheeks pink, “everyday, every night,”

you hum, satisfied, trailing your kisses down his chest and sliding down the bed, “where you going?” he asks, his brows furrowed. “you don’t want my mouth?” you ask, gazing up at him as you push his boxers down, “no,” he smiles hazily, “no, baby. missed you too much for that, just c’mere. let me fuck you,”

you nearly cry at that, the warmth flooding your chest at his words despite the overall nature of what the two of you are doing. you kiss him again, leaned over him, and he pulls you up into his lap, scooting up to prop himself up against the headboard. 

“come here,” he mumbles between kisses, positioning your legs to straddle him, “do you wanna do this?” “‘course i wanna do this,” you nod, and he pushes the skirt over your dress up around your hips, running his thumb over the skin, “you’re so beautiful,”

“stop lookin at me like that,” you mumble, feeling entirely too entranced by the expression on his face, “kiss me,” he’s nothing if not obedient, his lips on yours immediately, kissing you with fervor. you reach between the two of you, sitting up briefly to toss your underwear somewhere, wrapping your hand around him once more to line him up. “god,” he groans softly, tipping his head back as you slide down on his cock, your eyes closed in bliss, “fuck, you’re so wet, god,”

you bury your face in his neck, trying your best to be quiet as you adjust to his size, rocking your hips slowly, “art,” you moan breathlessly, and before you know it he’s cradling your head, pulling you in closer and fucking up into you. you bite down on his shoulder gently, hoping to suppress the noises leaving you, “god, not gonna last,” he all but whimpers, “you feel so fucking good,”

you just moan in response as he hits all the right spots, your thighs shaking slightly as he fucks you, “fuck, baby- oh my fucking god,” he groans, pulling you off of him gently, “didn’t wanna finish inside you,” he pants, eyes closed as he steadies his breathing, “let me,” you say softly, taking him in your mouth, moaning around him at the taste of yourself on his skin. 

“oh, fuck me,” he moans, hands tightening in your hair and bucking his hips slightly. he’s filling your mouth soon after, your name falling from his lips like a curse as he cums down your throat, panting and whining hoarsely. you wipe your mouth, sitting up to kiss him again, surprised when he pulls you up closer. “sit on my face,” he mumbles against your lips, “let me make you cum, please,” 

“i’m okay,” you start to argue, but he’s shaking his head, looking at you with the sweetest expression, “just let me make you feel good,” you let him lead you, as he lays back on the bed and pulls you up onto him, your thighs on either side of his head. 

he laps at you desperately, and you have to clutch the headboard to keep from collapsing against him as you rock your hips, borderline grinding against his mouth. “art,” you moan, one hand on the headboard and one in his hair, “fuck, you’re so good,”

this only encourages him, and he slides a hand under you, pushing gently on your hips to make you rock against his face once more. you whimper at that, digging your teeth into your bottom lip as you feel yourself getting closer. “art,” you gasp, “gonna-“ 

your vision is spotty as you come undone, his needy mouth never slowing as he works you through it, sucking at your clit until your legs nearly give out. “too much,” you whine, pulling at his hair to deter him. he hums against you, licking one last, slow stripe against you before helping you down, looking up at you with dilated pupils and a spit-slick mouth. 

you wipe his face gently with your duvet, smiling slightly down at him, “that was-“ “you were so good,” he praises, “can’t believe how much i missed that,” he pulls the blanket over your legs, and your chest aches at the tenderness of the action. “you shouldn’t stay,” you say softly, hoping it doesn’t come across as hurtful, “i don’t want my parents to see, yknow,” 

“yeah,” he nods, but he looks slightly hurt, like he’s taken aback, “yeah, good point. i’ll call you?” “yes, please,” you nod, watching as he pulls his clothes back on, “i’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?” “yeah,” he nods, fastening his belt, “uh, goodnight, then,” “night, art,” you smile sleepily, and he lets himself out without returning a smile of his own.

time flies, messy as the mud on your truck tires

now i’m missing your smile, hear me out

we could just ride around 

and the road not taken looks really good now

and it always leads to you in my hometown

the next day, you send him a quick text, slightly worried he’d thought you’d just dismissed him. ‘wanna get coffee today? i leave tomorrow’ 

‘sure’ he replies, and you’re sure then that he’s hurt, but you hope to rectify it, ‘great! starbucks on third at eleven?’ ‘okay. see you there’ he sends back, and you pull on a sweater and leggings, going to spend some time with your parents before heading out to the coffee shop. 

he’s sitting in a window seat when you arrive, much more casual than he had been the night before. he’s in a stanford hoodie and joggers, and you think of him away at college, how at home he’d probably been there. you shake the thought away, walking over to his table, “hey,” you smile, sliding into the booth across him. “hey,” he smiles slightly, “so you leave tomorrow?”

“oh, yeah,” you nod, “gotta get back to work. how long are you in town for?” “told you i moved back,” he says, looking slightly irritated, and you feel a pang of guilt, “yeah, sorry, it completely slipped my mind. so you’re just-“ “what is this, exactly?” he cuts you off, brows furrowed, “i mean, im glad last night happened, but is that just it? you’re gonna shoo me away and go home like nothing happened?” 

“what?” you falter, caught off guard, “art, no, i just have to go back home, it’s not like i’m discarding you,” “you sure are acting like it,” he grumbles, “what, then? are we gonna try and make this work?” “make this work?” you repeat, “what, exactly? i figured it was just because we’re both back home, i don’t-“ “what? so what, then, just a one time thing? that’s kinda fucked up to not tell someone,” he snaps, and you hate yourself in the moment, all the memories of the way you’d been so short when you’d broken up with him resurfacing. 

“maybe it’s better if it’s just for the weekend,” you say quietly, “i mean, we’re both busy, and this was just by chance,” “bullshit,” he shakes his head, “if you don’t wanna be with me, that’s fine. alright? genuinely, no hard feelings. but don’t give me that ‘we’re both busy shit. what’s the real reason you won’t try again?” 

“we both are busy,” you say defensively, “i just don’t- i’d hate for either of us to get hurt again, that’s all,” “i get it, i do, but we’ll never know if we don’t try,” he says softly, “i never wanted to hurt you before, okay? i’ve pictured so many routes for my life and you were always in them,” “we’re different people now, art,” you say carefully, trying to keep your tone even, “you don’t know if we’re still even compatible, and we never know what could happen,” “will you stop doing that? you don’t have to be so calculated about everything. it’s not gonna kill us to try, right? we’ve changed, sure, and we’re at different places in life, but we’re the same people. we’re still the people we were when we were in love,” 

“that was a long time ago,” you say quietly, tears pricking your eyes, “i just don’t wanna make a mistake and get us both hurt,” “i’m fine with being hurt by you. don’t you see that? i have loved you since we were sixteen years old. we can get to know each other again, we can take it slow, i’m not asking you to marry me here. just give it a chance, please?” the sincerity in his tone breaks you, and you’re nodding before you can talk yourself out of it. “yeah,” you sniffle, “yeah, i’d like that so much. i’m sorry, i’m just scared, and i didn’t think we’d ever get another chance,” you ramble. “i know you’re scared,” he says softly, taking your hand in his over the table, “we’re gonna take it slow, alright? we’ll be alright,” “yeah,” you nod, tracing his knuckles with your thumb, “we’ll be alright,” 

[fandomnoire]

upcoming challengers fic: bet on losing dogs

The Bible tells you that love is patient and kind but it doesn't warn you that it's also a kind of sickness with teeth.

Art fucks you like he's trying to crawl inside; Patrick, like he's trying to devour; and Tashi like she's trying to rebuild an empire; and you, for all your affected indifference, orbit like a distant planet and try so hard to hold them all inside of you that the self-destruction is catching.

bet on losing dogs, a deliriously self-indulgent love letter to challengers, is an upcoming multi-chapter reader insert work.

rating: explicit

fandom: challengers

pairings: everyone/everyone in one iteration or another, the way god intended

featuring/cw (thus far, will be highlighted for each specific chapter): bougie bisexual brown girl reader (i love alliteration), mentions/themes of classism, racism, sexism, and internalized homophobia; assorted homoerotic yearnings; suicidal ideation and mentions/a scene of an attempt; mutual masturbation; double penetration; infidelity; drug use; manipulation as a love language; everyone is toxic, everyone is gay, everyone has a praise kink, and everyone is my baby (especially you, dear reader).

tennis divider by: @thecutestgrotto

[iridescentprose]

Danny x reader insert—The Bikeriders

summary; in which your perception about Danny begins to change.

warning(s); none just fluff

author's note: thanks for voting in my last poll! expect more fics to come!

The first punch was thrown about an hour after the picnic started.

Of course a little blood and a couple of loose teeth on the ground didn't bother you when you were watching the Vandals from a distance alongside their wives.

Unfortunately, you were a little too close for comfort this time when the first punch was thrown and Kathy, Gail, and Betty were nowhere in sight.

Scrambling from the wooden picnic table, you sidestepped two drunken bikers tussling with Johnny on the ground. The two assailants wore colors you didn't recognize.

"You dumb pieces of—"

A breeze of nicotine rushed past you, making you stumble. His slew of insults got lost in the sound of violent grunts that took place behind you.

You opened your mouth to tell Benny to watch it, but you quickly shut up, knowing that your words would get lost in the wind as he headed straight for Johnny's rescue.

You couldn't have been more grateful for leaving your secluded spot at the picnic table just in time for Benny to tackle one of the bikers on top of Johnny, and throw him onto the wooden surface. Thankfully, you turned your head just in time to hear Benny's knuckles crack against the man's nose.

"Y/N!"

You lifted your head upwards, narrowly missing Wahoo and Corky as they drunkenly ran past you to help Benny—who was most likely getting himself killed because of his recklessness. You shielded your eyes from the sun and sprinted towards the voice that called out your name.

By the time you reached the pickup truck, Danny had his hand extended towards you. You took it, and he carefully pulled you up onto the bed of the truck, sweat sprinkling his forehead. Once he was sure you caught your footing, he released your hand and you took a seat on the blanket that was sprawled beneath you.

"I didn't know you liked seeing 'em fight up close," Danny joked, readjusting the strap of his camera around his neck. He pointed the silver lens at the mob that was now forming around the area where you were once sitting.

"I don't," you said, eyes going to the side of his face and then to the commotion from afar. You brushed the dirt and loose pieces of grass from your palms before sitting on the side of your knees folded under you.

Although you didn't care much for any of those Vandals, you only stuck around because the Wives were the only friends you truly had. The only thing setting you apart from them was the fact that you weren't married to one of those brutes in a matching leather jacket. (You weren't married at all, to be frank.) But this fact didn't bother you. In fact, you had no intention of ever wanting to marry a Vandal for the sake of them either getting killed on their bike or cut by somebody's knife. You simply enjoyed their company because it was must better than being alone.

But your dislike for some of the Vandals didn't outweigh your distrust for Danny.

Perhaps it was his probing questions towards you and your friends, or that invasive rectangular box with a lens that hung around his neck. Regardless, you didn't trust him fully. Either that, or he intrigued you and you didn't want to admit it entirely to yourself.

"How come you're not out there helpin' them?" You asked in between the clicks of his camera. "Don't know how to fight?"

You knew the answer to this, but you just wanted to shake off the embarrassment of nearly getting in the middle of a breakout fight.

"I'm not much of a fighter," he said with a chuckle, a look of amusement passing over his features. "I prefer to be behind the camera instead of in front of it."

"Well, I prefer there not be a camera in the first place."

"Is that why you won't let me take a picture of you, Y/N?"

You turned to look at him, your cheeks getting warmer than the sun beating down on you both. He was looking straight ahead, seemingly satisfied with the pictures of sweaty, bloody men rolling around in the dirt. He grinned when he finally looked at you. "You're camera shy. Is that why you won't let me take your picture?"

"I'm not shy. I just don't like my picture taken, that's all," you said, defensively.

"Well, do you like taking the pictures?" He got off his knees and sat next to you, removing the camera from around his neck.

You shuffled, putting a bit of distance between you. "I've never tried." You shrugged carelessly, finding this conversation to be pointless and ridiculous.

"Maybe you'll like being behind the camera, then."

Before you could respond, Danny placed his camera in your lap. "You look through that little square there," he said, pointing to the back of the camera, "and make sure it aligns just right. Then you pull this lever back and press that button at the top to take the picture."

You looked down at the camera in your hands before looking at Danny with a lifted brow.

He chuckled softly. "Come on, try it." He took the strap of the camera and carefully draped it around your neck, his fingers lightly brushing the little hairs there. Quietly, he demonstrated on how to hold it up to your face and you reluctantly mimicked his movements. "Now, just find something interesting."

You took a breath and let your eyes sweep over the picnic. The fight had settled down and the boys were separating to their own corners. Some went to wrap their arms around their wives as if they had won the battle. The beers were flying left and right and the bikes were roaring in the distance. Perceptively, you panned the camera all the way around until you landed on the photographer himself. He was busy tinkering with his portable microphone.

At the sound of the click, he looked up as if surprised to be the subject of your aperture.

"How does it feel to be the one in front of the camera?" You grinned, playfully.

"Still nothing compared to being behind it," He smiled back before hopping off the bed of the truck. "But since you took my picture, you know what that means, right?"

He offered his hand to help you down. He slid off the truck with his ease and released his hand before smoothing out your shirt.

"What?" you asked, removing the camera from around your neck and handing it to him.

"That I get to take a picture of you" he insisted, kindly. "Just one, I promise. If that's okay."

You crossed your arms as if to mull it over before rolling your eyes. "Fine. Just one. But I don't know how to pose or anything."

"Just be you," he said, setting down his portable microphone. He put the camera around his neck and lifted it up to his face, waiting to take your picture.

You sighed and hoisted yourself on the tail-end of the bed of the truck. You crossed your legs and set your hands in your lap. Just as you were about to look directly at the camera, Betty had called your name from afar, waving you over. The camera clicked as you looked over Danny's shoulder as the group migrated to a small bonfire.

"Perfect," Danny said, looking down at his camera. He glanced behind him as the group formed before looking back at you. "You look great."

You hopped off the truck. "But I wasn't ready," you said with a slight laugh, knowing he had caught you off guard just as you had done him. "I wasn't even looking."

"The most beautiful pictures are the candid ones, Y/N." His smile lingered before he bent down and picked up his equipment. Slowly he turned to join the rest of the group surrounding a small fire.

It took you a moment as the butterflies in your stomach began to flutter about. The smile on your face stuck like glue and all of sudden you were unsure of what to do with your hands.

That Danny...he sure was somethin'.

[cupidsanne]

Mike Faist As Your Husband ✢ Headcanons

Mike Faist x Female Insert! Reader

SYNOPSIS! ✦ Headcanons and slight blurbs of Mike being your husband <3 I need more content of this man asap.

WARNINGS! ✦ No warnings, sfw!

Mike Faist Masterlist .

— He hasn’t changed much since you two gotten married.

— He’s very bashful, even with you. You two could be together for days, months, or years and he still gets shy with certain things you say. He can’t always take compliments but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like them. In fact, he loves to be praised by you. You’re his biggest cheerleader.

“Here you go.” You smile as you hand Mike his water bottle, he had no hesitated in politely accepting the bottle and offered a breathless ‘thank you’ in return. The two of you were currently at the gym, both of you having some free time and decided that it would be a healthy bonding experience for both of you. It took a while to set in motion this plan for the reason that the both of you were home bodies. Preferring to stay inside then to get up and out there.

“I think I’m finished on the bike for tonight. I reached my limit!” You explained in a tired tone as he set the hand held weights on the ground that he was holding previously to take a sip of his water.

“Cool. We can head out now if you want.” Mike suggested, not wanting to make you wait around for him.

You shook your head. “It’s no problem! I’ll wait in the lounge area and relax while you do your thing. Besides,” You made a sly expression. “You look so attractive working out!”

“Shut up!” Mike said immediately. He looked down at the weights beneath his feet as you laughed and walked away. A smile spread across his face.

— Not to mention, he’s your biggest cheerleader too! Sure, you two do friendly banter a lot, and he’ll tease you with nicknames but never will ill intentions or to put you down in anyway. He’s aware of your achievements and your talents. As much as he doesn’t always take compliments, he loves to give them.

— He’s a gentlemen, through and through. Opening the doors for you, giving you his coat/jacket if you’re ever cold, walking on the side closest to the road whenever you two are on a sidewalk, ect.

— Till this day, you always feel a bit fuzzy inside for all the little things he does, but to him these are just acts that are same old, same old to him. It’s his love language, and how he expresses his affection!

— Another way he expresses his affection, is through physical touch. Not in a crazy way like “I need to kiss you all day and basically be in your skin.” but he likes that subtle physical touch. Not saying that he doesn’t like to kiss you, because trust me he does.

— He likes just being side by side with you, just the warmth and the closeness is nice to him. It used to have him flustered being so close to a girl he really likes, but now that you two are married, it’s not a stress to him anymore.

— He thinks being side by side is great, it’s easier to talk to you that way, and let’s him get a look at you closely. Let’s him take notice of the gloss that is shining on your lips, or the way your eyelashes may be curled more than usual, things like that. If you two are in a booth at a restaurant, you bet he’s gonna slide in the booth right next to you, instead of across.

— Hand holding is a big thing for him too. He holds your hands no matter how he’s feeling. It brings him a sense of comfort. He isn’t a huge PDA person, but he likes the little sweet things like that.

It was a starry night as you and Mike sat side by side, in front of a backyard campfire while talking to a couple of friends. Autumn was rolling in and nights were becoming colder. Everyone had a warm drink or a beer in hand, reminiscing about anything and everything with each other. Just having a good time.

“Scooch closer.” Mike complained to you quietly, not wanting to interrupt the conversation that your friends were having. “You’re shivering like a chihuahua!”

“I can’t help it!” You muttered before coming in closer. The both of you were bundled up in some jackets, but after basking in the summer sun for months, the new coldness of this season is gonna take some getting used to. As you moved in closer to him, he moved a bit on the bench himself and stuck one of your hands into his warm pockets. You thought how sweet of this was of him, and how come men always get warmer and thicker clothing then ladies do??

You smiled up at him as you leaned your head on his shoulder. Sharing his warmth and listening in on your friend’s conversations.

— Everyone always talks about how you and Mike are both clowns. Always dropping jokes in any situation and matching each other’s energy. You and Mike aren’t at a function if you two aren’t laughing or making clever quips about something.

— You just can’t help yourselves. You guys don’t try to present yourselves as being inconsiderate, but that’s just how you guys are wired!

— Most the time it goes that Mike says something witty, and you laugh about it and have to finish it off. He than eggs it on and it’s just loose from there. Some people don’t know that you and Mike were friends before your relationship, and still are now. He says till this day you’re his best friend.

— It’s already enough that you two have inside jokes, like if something happens and you two give each other the look, then start busting out laughing. It’s a common occurrence. People either love it or hate it and that’s not y’all’s fault!

— Joking around and the occasional gossip is how you to spend quality time together. Which is another one of his love languages.

— The down side about this is, a lot of times you two will have to go through a long distance relationship. He’s an actor and they demand him to be in many places at once. You don’t like it, and neither does he, but you make it work.

— The two of you video chat all the time when he’s away. You talk about each other’s days and experiences, whether it’s meaningless or not.

— Whenever he’s away, you guys gossip and do skincare stuff over the phone. Mostly it’s you doing your skincare while he’s just watching you talk. He’s still involved in the conversation though!

— Although he loves when you come and visit him whenever he’s away, he loves it most when he’s home. Mike is very much a homebody, he likes staying in and not having to go out super often.

— In his earlier years, he was really career focused and hardly had any time to relax and take a moment in. Now that that he’s older, and still working, he’s not afraid to wind down sometimes and take a break.

— He definitely rubbed off on you, because you enjoy staying in now too. Cuddled up together watching TV, or cooking together in the kitchen while some jazz music plays, it’s the dream.

— Of course, you two don’t mind getting dolled up and fancy to go out somewhere exciting, but the best moments are at home where you’re comfortable.

— Just Him, You, and his dog Austin. (Sorry, You’re gonna have to be a dog person!) Just relaxing in a cozy townhouse, watching movies.

— Since Mike has quite a bit of following, and has made a career of himself. The press and his fans are aware that he’s married.

— We’re all aware how Mike isn’t a social media user, or doesn’t speak much about himself to the press because he likes to keep his life private. Yet, that doesn’t make you two a secret. He just doesn’t want all your business out there.

“Welcome Mike!” The interviewer greeted happily to to the actor over the screen. “Thank you for joining us today, how’ve you been?”

Mike was scheduled for a video interview, even though covid wasn’t as hectic now, he still likes to be safe and doesn’t wish to travel as much if he doesn’t have to. Plus, video chatting is becoming more normalized now. “Hi, thank you for having me and I’m doing great.”

“Good, are you finally back home with your family and all that?” The interviewer questioned.

“Yeah, I just arrived back from London, two weeks ago? Although I love working but I love to be home too. To see my family, friends, and get back to my wife and such.” Mike explained. He wouldn’t say he would get homesick, because of how passionate he is about what he does, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t home greatly.

The interviewer smiled a great deal. “Yes, I totally get that! I can see the photo of what I think— is you and your wife, in the back?”

Mike looked over his shoulder to see a photo frame on the console table behind him. It was decked out in small photos as well as some decorations that were relevant to the season, all by you of course. He reached behind him to bring the photo frame up close to his laptop screen.

“Yeah this is us right here. This is one of the photos from our wedding.” He pointed out. Showing off the photo closer a bit before setting it back down to where it was.

“That’s so cute! How long have you two been married? If you don’t mind me asking.” The interviewer inquired.

“About a year now. It feels like only a few months honestly. Time flies for sure.” Mike chuckled a bit. The interviewer chuckled alongside him.

“Especially when you’re in love! Time going fast is a great thing.” The interviewer added.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

— He doesn’t nor ever want to hide the fact that he’s taken. He’s proud of his relationship with you and if people don’t like that, then that’s their problem.

— If you have a wide social media following (In case you are celebrity!) than you don’t hide the fact you’re together either. If this is the case, fans actually adore you because you’re the one posting him, providing the fans some content.

— But, if you’re like him and not a celebrity, or even someone who likes to have your life on the down low, then that’s fine too. He doesn’t need for you to post him to feel some validation.

— Overall, he’s a great husband to have. He’d do anything for you and is grateful that he’s yours. He wouldn’t want to have you any other way. <3

[shockercoco]

Cheer Up

Art Donaldson x reader

Warnings - 18+, smut, fingering, dirty talk, orgasm denial

Word count - 1135

a/n - I watched Challengers a couple days ago, and it's safe to say I’m a mike faist supporter lol. Also I kind of just skimmed through this so ignore the errors. I hope you enjoy :)

You haven’t been having the best week, and losing a match today to an opponent who you clearly should’ve beat didn’t help at all. Your irritation didn’t go unnoticed by Art either, but he decided to leave you alone in hopes you would calm down.

Art could see the anger radiating off of you from his seat in the stands as you walked off the court after the game. You were pretty much silent for the ride back to the hotel and still once you got into the room. You took a shower in hopes that it would ease the tension in your body, and it did, but not enough. 

Sitting on the couch in front of the tv, you opened your laptop to watch the playback of today's game. This is something you did after every match to help you become a better player, but if you were to ask Art, he would just say that you were torturing yourself.

You were so into the video playing on your laptop that you didn’t notice Art entering the room until you felt him sit down next to you, resting an arm on top of the couch behind him.

“You’ve been sitting here watching yourself for hours, don’t you think it would be better to just close this and relax,” Art says as he dips his head down to try to get you to look at him, but you ignore him and keep your eyes on the screen.

“This is me relaxing,” you tell him.

“You know what I mean,” he says.

“Well this is what I want to do, so if you could leave me alone that would be great,” you turn to give Art a sarcastic smile before looking back at the laptop. He rolls his eyes at your attitude.

“How long are you going to be in this bitchy mood?” he asks, and you just shrug in response. Luckily for you, he knows just how to

You thought he would just leave you given the fact that you clearly don’t want to talk, but he stays in his spot next to you. Suddenly you feel Art grab the laptop from your lap and lean forward to place it on the coffee table in front of you, causing your eyebrows to furrow.

“What are you doing?” you ask, watching him.

“Helping you relax,” he says as he turns his attention back to you and dips his head down to start placing kisses on the side of your neck and up to your ear. 

“Art-,” you begin, but you cut yourself off when you feel a moan rising in your throat. Once you feel like you’ve composed yourself you say, “I’m busy.”

“Then tell me to stop,” he whispers in your ear before attaching his lips back to your neck, causing a shiver to run down your spine. 

He places his hand on your thigh and trails it up until he reaches the fabric of your panties. Lucky for him you just like to sleep in underwear and a shirt. He begins to lightly rub you through your panties, not adding any pressure on purpose. Your eyes drift to your laptop on the table that’s still open and playing.

“This isn’t the time,” you say breathlessly as you naturally buck your hips.

He hums in response, waiting for you to tell him to stop, but it doesn’t come. He dips his hand into your panties and runs his finger up and down your slit through the arousal that has started to leak out of you, circling your entrance before moving up to your clit, and this time adding pressure.

“You’ve had this little attitude all week, and I think it’s time that it goes away,” he says in your ear, then leans back to get a look at your face as he pushes a finger into you. “What do you think?”

Your mouth falls slightly ajar as you let out a small moan, but no answer. The video may be playing, but the screen has turned into a blur.

“What, nothing to say? You sure did have something to say these past couple of days,” Art fake pouts with a tilt of his head. “If this is what you needed all along, why didn’t you just say something?”

He then inserts another finger and watches as you fall apart as he curls his fingers inside of you. You move one of your hands up to grip the armrest as your eyes close and your body leans back against the couch.

“I mean this is what you wanted, right? For me to fill you up and make all your worries just disappear?” he questions with a smirk. 

Art feels your walls clench around him at his words as he continues his measured pace with his fingers.

“An answer would be nice,” he states, his tone a little more firm. You shake your head no, but that isn’t enough for art. “No, say it out loud.”

“No,” you manage with a whine.

“No? Are you sure because the way you just gave in so easily tells me otherwise,” Art fake pouts. “It’s not like I have a problem with it, though. After all, I get to be inside you,” he smirks at you.

All you can do is moan as he increases the speed of his fingers. Your legs start to involuntarily close, but you hear him tell you no, so you listen and force them back open. You feel yourself coming closer and closer to your orgasm with each thrust of his fingers, and Art notices too by the way your whimpers and whines become more consistent. 

Right when you feel yourself about to tumble over the edge, Art quickly pulls his fingers out of you and out of your panties, causing you to gasp and your walls to clench around nothing. You finally open your eyes and look at Art, who still has the stupid smirk on his face.

“What are you doing?” you ask in confusion and irritation, and he just laughs at you.

“You were the one that said this wasn’t the time,” he tells you as he licks the fingers that were inside you only a moment ago.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” 

“Are you fucking serious right now?” he repeats with his eyebrows raised. Art begins to stand up, leaving you more tense than before. He motions to your laptop still playing the video from your tennis match and says, “I don’t want to bother you, so I’ll let you go back to what you were doing. Come find me when you’re done.”

You watch with an open mouth as Art walks out of the room with a smile and heads into the bedroom, not giving you a second look.

Part 2 out now!

[jesuistrestriste]

Missing the Mike Faist priest kink era 😭 still wait for the«  see you in the next Wednesday service » ahaha I’m wondering if the locals suspects their relation or not( do they see each other outside his service ?)( Is he jealous when he sees other guys flirting with her before his church service starts ? ) 👀

OH MY GOD

an ask about "kneel" ???? im gonna cry

no let's talk about it because i never did a pt. 2 or anything

i think that a majority of the locals don't really suspect that the reader is messing around with the priest (they idolize him + see him as a nonsexual figure), but they do look down on her b/c of her visible promiscuity (i.e. the hickies and etc.)

they might notice her wearing shorter skirts to services, and crossing her legs/squeezing her thighs together incessantly throughout his sermons. someone might even catch a glimpse of soft bruises and red handprints on her ass after she bends over to pick something up in front of them the day after mass. and they're like omg? what is this young lady getting herself into? and who in this town could stand to do such vile, obscene things to her body? (as if it's not their precious priest)

i dont think they see each other outside of services/the church b/c they dont want to risk drawing attention to their "special, secret relationship". but! he does give her his phone number and she calls him sometimes when she thinks too much about him and gets wet :( he has talked the reader through touching herself on multiple occasions. tons of verbally guided masturbation over the phone as she lays on her bed, her hand between her legs, with an opened bible next to her. yeah.

he had gifted her that bible after the second time they had sex. not necessarily to indoctrinate her into the religion, but to give her a representation of something that was important to him. it was his subtle way of trying to connect with her. but it kinda backfired b/c now she gets hot and flushed when she reads the words "God" and "peace" and "faith". he basically pavlov's dog'd her. classically conditioned.

because she lost her virginity to him, she's definitely very attached. she tells him that she isn't, but its a total lie and he knows it too. she gets jealous when women, young or old (doesn't matter), come up to him after services all smiley and ready to talk to him about their problems. reader usually gets red in the face and pouts in the back pew as she watches their interactions closely. she worries a lot that she isn't the only person in the town that the priest is intimate with, but she is. he's fairly attached to her too. and because she's a pretty young woman, divorced dads and older teen boys will often try to flirt with her before the priest's regularly scheduled homily, and he has to gather all the restraint in his body not to insert himself between you and them.

they are very cute + sacrilegious. ugh.

[followmybadreligion]

thinking about fighting w/ your obsessed bf!art…

Art absolutely hates fighting with you. He hates the heated silences that follow each conversation; the glares and scoffs you throw at him in the heat of the moment; the distance between you as you calm down— he hates it all. No matter what the fight is about, or who’s technically in the wrong, he doesn’t care; he just hates to be at odds with you.

It makes him nervous, in all honesty.

You see, he’s known relationships to fall apart in the midst of hard times, which is why he fears them so badly. In his mind, if he can make you happy— not stress you out or make you upset—then he can keep you forever, and that’s all he really wants.

Sadly, though, you two live in reality, where conflict is damn near unavoidable. Sometimes it’s over petty little things like eating each other’s leftovers or forgetting to fold laundry, and other times there’s more serious issues at play like crossed boundaries or painful words. In either scenario, Art pushes himself to respond the best he can, despite his anxiousness. If he did something to annoy you, then he’s more than willing to hear you out and apologize. If he crossed a boundary then he’s going to dedicate so much effort to respecting it in the future. Anything he can do to improve for you, he’s willing to.

With his nature, though, comes such a dangerous power over him. You’re practically his heart outside his body— he can’t stand it when you’re upset, which can drive him to take desperate measures for your forgiveness. You want him on his knees begging and crying? He can do that. If you’re upset he’s already close enough to tears as is. You want gifts and treats to make up for your pain? That was a given, and best believe he’s got flowers and your favorite meal before the thought crossed your mind. He’s even willing to do things that he knows he shouldn’t. One of this friends made you feel insecure? He’ll cut them off without a second thought. You feel as if he’s not spending enough time with you? He’ll cancel all his plans for the week. Whatever you need to feel comfortable, safe, and secure again— it’s done, no questions asked, and all you have to do is tell him.

When it comes to your mistakes though, Art is a completely different person. His whole, “be quick to act, let’s solve the problem,” motto goes straight out the window and instead, a quieter, more passive man surfaces.

He’s almost never the one to address the issue, mainly because he’s too caught up in not wanting to hurt your feelings. He knows that you’re a good partner— that you love him so much even though you lash out or misspeak sometimes— and yes, it hurts his feelings, but that’s something he tries to repress.

Thankfully, though, you know better.

Even though Art tries to act as if he has thicker skin than he does, he’s actually a very sensitive boy. It makes him so sad when you yell at him or get snippy about things, so much so that he’s cried several times over it. He’ll never tell you that out of fear of seeming weak or overdramatic, but it’s true. Just you raising your voice at him can get his tears running hot, and he can’t even work up the courage to let you know that.

Thankfully, though, you’re truly an amazing partner and can pick up on these things on your own. Despite the soft little reassurances paired with that lop-sided, sad smile he throws your way when you apologize, you never miss how his eyes swell with thick tears that he desperately tries to blink back. You never miss how his hands shake as you brush over them, or how his shoulders hunch in defeat either, and all of it breaks your heart.

It may take a while, especially with Art so closed off, but the best way to make any progress with him in those times is to validate him. His feelings and emotions have already been discarded in so many aspects of his life, and that’s only solidified his belief that he’s not allowed to have them. So, hearing you, his entire world, tell him that it’s okay for him to be upset, sad, angry or however else he feels— it just melts all of his guilt away. It makes him feel like more of a person, entitled to the wants, needs, and opinions he tries to repress, and that in itself does so much.

During the calm down of an argument— the peace after the tension and tough talks— Art is, by nature, extremely clingy. After being on edge for such a long time, he’s just extremely exhausted, and really wants to be loved on. He craves your attention and affection again— it makes him feel safe and secure. He is very particular in the way he goes about asking for it, though.

If you’re the type of partner that needs their time and space after some conflict, he’ll give you that. He understands how draining it can be to be around people in general, let alone someone you just fought with. If you are up for some time with him though, this is the time where he’ll be as soft as he gets— and that’s saying something.

He talks very softly— almost in whispers, as if to not disturb the balance between the both of you. His voice is strained and flat, cracking every now and again from the choked tears resting in the back of his throat, and his lips are pursed in a thin line out of habit. Still though, his words are like the sweetest honey.

“Can I hold you now, baby?” He’ll whisper, eyes lowered and shoulders tense as he awaits your reply.

The second you’re in his arms again is the second his tears flow past. He’ll bury his face in your neck to hide them, still a bit embarrassed at how anxious he’d been, but you hear his muffled sobs nonetheless, racking through his body in huge waves. As much as you hate to see him like that, it’s all his way of processing, and it’s best to just let him let it out— you know that now. You can still comfort him in the best ways you know how, though. He really appreciates that. Gentle coos and “I know, baby’s” whispered in his ear; soothing back rubs and soft traces along his face; long kisses placed on his temple, hands, or wherever else you can reach; it all grounds him so much.

Once he’s in a calmer headspace, still soft but not as fragile, you can finally start to talk. If there were words left unsaid or points misunderstood, this is usually the time to get clear about them. The both of you are all drained of any fight, pride, or stubbornness that got in the way before, and instead, you both are just eager to come back together. So that’s exactly what you do.

Art’s not stupid. He knows that it’s easy to promise one another change and forgiveness when you’re desperate to be in each other’s arms. He knows it’s easy to whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ears just to get through the night. He knows it’s easy to make false promises that’ll make sure that the other will stay. He knows, he understands, and so he’s careful. If he feels it’s not the right time to talk things out, he’ll let you know, and he makes sure that you know that you have that option as well.

At the end of every fight there’s always one specific question that Art asks that confuses you every time he does. You could be laying in bed together, resting on the couch, doing a few chores or anything else for that matter, but he just has to know: do you still love him?

His eyes are usually full of anxiety as he stammers through the words, almost as if he doesn’t even want to ask it, but something’s making him. Perhaps it’s nerves, or his overthinking, or something you said to make him doubt, but either way, that question, and the anxiety it induces, reigns over him until he knows— until you give him a straight answer, even if it’s not what he wants to hear (it always will be).

To you, it’s the most obvious thing in the world. How could you not? How could you not love the man who just spent so much time fighting for the two of you? Who considers you more than himself? Who’s so in love with you that the mere thought of you feeling any differently runs him up a wall? To you, he’s the most lovable man on the planet, the Earth and Heavens to you, and every fight only highlights that.

And that’s exactly what you tell him.

And you get to watch his anxious eyes melt into those soft, love-filled ones you live to see. Every. Single. Time.

Make-up sex with Art comes in all different sorts of variations, but no matter the pretense, it’s oh so love-filled.

There are sometimes where Art’s in a more submissive head-space after y’all’s conflict, and he just wants you to take care of him. He’s already so drained from what’d just happened, and he just wants that little bit of personal attention, you know?

So, when he’s pulling you into the bedroom, button-down shirt half opened and stained by his tears, asking you to “Make up with him” through glazed eyes and a quivering lip, you know exactly what he’s asking for.

In front of your floor-length mirror, you’d have him resting against you, shirt off and discarded, with his pretty, pink cock in your hands as you fist away. He’d squirm and moan at your touches, occasionally begging for some rest or a slower pace, but you know just like he does that he needs this.

You’d pull and pull and pull, occasionally slowing down to run your thumb over his slit, a motion that sends chills down his back in an instant, before returning to your original pace. His balls don’t go neglected either, being rubbed and messaged by your free hand in relatively face pace motions to match your strokes. The entire time, you’re leaned down to his ear, whispering the filthiest words you could imagine.

“My pretty, pretty boy, leaking and shaking for me like this,” you’re mumble, pressing a small kiss against his neck, earning a light, drawn out moan from Art.

“God, I could watch you do this all day.” You’d giggle, looking him dead in the eyes as his cock spurted streams of hot, white cum all over your hands and his stomach. He’d struggle underneath you, both from the overstimulation you’d begun and the over powering urge he feels to reciprocate. He hates to be greedy, and after the first orgasm, he feels you’ve taken care of him plenty, but you wouldn’t let up though, forcing him to sit through another orgasm or two before you decided he’d had enough.

In the moments following, you either licking his cum from your fingers or feeding it to him, all that Art can think about is getting his mouth on you. He has quite the oral fixation, and you shoving your fingers past his lips, letting him suck on them to his hearts content, only triggers it more than it already had been.

So, you’re never surprised when he turns around in your arms, pulling you by your thighs until your back rests against the floor, legs splayed out and pussy on full display.

Art eats and eats like a man deprived of nutrients, lapping at your swollen little clit like a depraved dog of some sort. He sucks up all your juices, eyes rolling back as he tastes you and cock only growing harder at the position he’s in. To have your thighs wrapped around his head, pressing tighter and tighter around him the closer you get; to have your moans ringing through his ears, getting louder and more high pitched the more that he goes; it’s a dream come true for him, and an extremely big fucking turn on, showcased by his desperate humps against the floor.

The second you tell him you’re on the edge, so close to letting it all go for him, is the second he really starts to lose it. His grip on your thighs gets impossibly tighter, keeping them locked around his face as he ravages you, and his moans and groans get even more intense, sounding like something straight out of a porn, to be completely honest. He keeps his eyes locked up towards you, desperate to see every second of you falling apart for him, and the second you do, a sense of pure and utter euphoria runs through him.

He lets you pull and tug on his long, shaggy locks all the way through your climax, releasing your clit just long enough to place long, gentle kisses against your pussy. He doesn’t even realize that the bottom half of his face is covered in the sheen of your juices once he’s done, nor does he care, far too brain fucked to even register it.

What he does register, though, is your restless hands in his hair once again, pulling him up from in between your legs as you sit up from out of your position on the floor. He registers how you pull him in for a slow, deep kiss and push your tongue past his lips, massaging his own with soft, gentle flicks. He does register how you push yourself on top of him, grinding your pussy against him back and forth as you two get even more high off of each other.

You continue that for a while, grinding and kissing until you can feel him making a new pool of pre-cum underneath you. Then and only then do you break away, much to Art’s dismay, and look down towards the space in between you two.

He’ll beg and beg for you to touch him again, kiss him, grind on him, fuck him— something, anything— but you don’t pay him any mind, instead opting to take his cock in your hands and run it between your folds. The way you rest your hand against his stomach as you do this, pressing down on his lower belly, is enough to make him finish right there, but he tries his best to hold out. Nothing feels as good as cumming inside you, that he knows.

When you do finally decide to fuck him, having had enough of the silly little games, you really give it to him. He’s not the biggest guy in the world, an inch or two above average, so it doesn’t take you long to get adjusted, and once you finally are, you waste no time bouncing on him like your life depends on it.

He always loves when you fuck him like this— like a dildo or a sex-doll just meant for your pleasure. You’ll tug on his hair or grab on to his tight, broad shoulders for a better grip, leaving imprints and scratches all across him, and it just drives him wild. He loves being marked by you, covered in your love bites, hickies, and scratches. All just a reminder that he was useful. All just a reminder that he’s yours.

Once your hands find there place back against Art’s lower stomach, he knows he’s a goner. You’ve made him cum in a matter of seconds with that move every single time you’ve done it, and this times damn sure not gonna be the exception.

What really pushes him over the edge is the way you practically keen as his cock goes up further, hitting your g-spot at the perfect angle to have you practically singing. The shit that leaves your mouth then is something that he’ll play in his mind forever.

“Fuck, you’re gonna do it, baby. You’re gonna make me cum, mmhm.” You moan out, head nodding off as you bounce even harder against me.

“Tell me you love me,” you’d demand as neared your climax, words all slurred from how good you feel. He does, of course, whispering sweet praises and declarations of his love for you as he gets closer and closer to that sweet relief.

“God, you’re so—fucking—good,” you’d call out as you finally came, body shaking and twitching above him as you struggled to hold yourself up. He’s not far behind you, tight coil in his stomach finally snapping as he sees you bottom up on top of him.

He’ll moan, beg, shake, and cry as his orgasm crashes into him like a roaring wave, knocking his brain off kilter as the pleasure overtakes him. He shoots such a big load, watching as your bounces spread it up and down his cock in such a pretty mess that’s so satisfying to him.

You’ll give him a few more bounces, riding through the rest of your highs before your lips are on his again, this time in a much softer, sweeter way. Your hands would rake through his hair, finger pads massaging over his scalp in efforts to ease the tension from your pulling earlier, and your other hand would move down to grip his hand in yours, just how he loves.

“I love you, baby.” You’d whisper as you pull away, hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling his heart beat still pounding.

“I love you so much more,” he’d respond, soft smile crossing his lips as he stared up at you through his lashes, “I promise.”

[felldowntherabbitholefics]

OMG HIII

I need more mike faist fics in my life so your doing God's work

I was wondering if u could possibly do a fic with an singer/actress!reader who is finally able to come to mikes house due to having a day off, maybe she surprises him while he's still in bed or something (you can literally take it in any direction u want, whatever your heart desires😁😁)

I see you and I hear you and I am obsessed with singer!reader

I imagine she’s on tour; during the first leg, Mike was able to follow her around for at least parts of it. Cheering her on from VIP, watching amongst her friends, and the two would be spotted exploring the cities together the day before or after shows. Which would of course begin to spark rumors and curiosity online. I feel like they got together before Mike was crowned white boy of the month/challengers era so he isn’t recognized by all the fans but everyone is still curious if they’re dating or just friends. 

Unfortunately, he couldn’t keep up the groupie lifestyle for the second leg. And the two are now in a long term relationship, for the time being. But they've been calling every night, and texting all day, and counting down the minutes until they can see each other again. 

Which is how we get here. She has a slightly longer break between shows, let’s say four or five days instead of one or two. There obviously isn’t a question of how she should spend it. As soon as she gets off the plane (and grabs breakfast of course), she’s heading for his place. Even though it’s early in the morning, she can’t contain her excitement; she’s just pounding on his door. Annoyed by the rude awakening, Mike’s stomping out of bed and to the front door because who is knocking like this before 9:00 a.m. But once he opens the door and sees it’s her, he’d just get so giddy. She could not pass up her chance to surprise him and see the look on his face. 

They spend the morning in his apartment, eating their bagels and drinking the overpriced coffee she loves. And for a few hours, they just talk and talk as if it’s been years instead of months. Later in the day, they venture out for a museum date. Mike and her would be holding hands the whole time, whispering about the exhibits to each other, filling up that red iphone with photos. She’d have on just the right outfit for the occasion, praise her stylist, and together they’d look right out of a pinterest board. In fact, these two would end up on pinterest boards because Miss Singer Songwriter cannot go anywhere without a sneaky photo being taken. I imagine some candid pictures would end up online and would begin the conversation of “who is that with her?” and “so those two definitely are dating”. But then some fan in particular would ask her for a photo, which Mike would take. In recounting the story to the internet, it would pseudo-confirm that the pair was such. She would be much more offline during this break than when she’s alone on tour, so she wouldn’t see any of this until she’s back on the road. They can just bask in each other's company for the next few days. They’d go to dinner and her favorite bookstore. But what she’d cherish most was just being at home with him. She may not have said it to him, but he was really the only person who could make her feel normal. 

That wasn’t super long but I may keep writing within this storyline if people want. Also I’m not sure if people prefer third or second person for reader insert stuff so lmk what yall like.

[g4yforethan]

Please please please write Art getting eaten out… did you see that thang leaning over the bed?? He’s got so much i didn’t even know what to ask for in this request! The reader (male please!) can still be the bottom

-🤹‍♂️ (juggling art’s tits with my hands fr)

oh you mean this?!?! had to pause the movie when i saw this for the first time 🤭 definitely taking ur request!!! should it be like reader and art alone after a workout or getting drunk in a hotel? please gimme ideas cause i cant decide 😭😭

[jerrydevine]

i hate this fucking website you go to find gifs from 2021 west side story and the only shit in the tags is mike faist reader insert fic. like shut UP. i'm trying to INSERT these fingers into ariana debose.

[itsmarsss]

omg idk if u know what i’m talking about but i see u write (wrote??) for Dear Evan Hanson and it made me think of this one fic where connor and the reader are like enemies (or sometbing) but both are in the theatre club. their play/musical of choice is heathers and reader and connor are the leads (veronica and JD) and they are doing the dead girl walking number and it just ughhh i clearly still think kf thks

oh yeah i did write for deh a few years ago! i only wrote one kleinsen fic tho lol

dude tbh I never looked up any reader insert for deh i think? send me the link I’ll check it out!! I’m in love with Mike faist

[fandomnoire]

day five of challengers anniversary week!

everyone else can move on, but personally, i'm still here:

(AKA i'mma clog up the tag until someone talks to me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )