Wish I Could Tell Them That Everybodys Got A Thing

Send me 15 million dollars if you want to see him again

my angel princess

As a slut for Tashi I feel so bad that in most challenger stuff she's always the least picked. Where's the love for my pretty princess? 🥺

right!!! :( </3

seems v apparent she is Not gonna win my last poll but i do have a few reqs for her so... tashi stuff on the horizon! but yeah i get the white boys are hot and u want to see them kiss but cmon... the original fujoshi is right there and i want her just as bad

ugh just look at her... my baby :(

Take It Like a Champ!

or art and reader are loser virgins

an: hey look its talia trying smut out. and it even got the art donaldson seal of approval (see first photo). specialest of thanks to @artstennisracket, @cha11engers, @jordiemeow, @diyasgarden and the BIGGEST special thank you to @newrochellechallenger2019 i love you all. this was the poll thing so wooooo hope you enjoy.

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Trying to watch movies with Art is always a thing. First, he’ll take at least seven bathroom breaks. Every time. Without fail. It’s kind of impressive, but a part of you doubts that he even needs them beyond that weird calm that just comes from sitting in a cold, tiled room for a few minutes. By the time his fingertips have gone pruney from the amount of times they’ve been run under the faucet, he’s digging under his bed for snacks, looking almost canine with the way he scratches at nothing but carpet, legs sticking out behind him. You’ve brought them, too, knowing the routine, but he absolutely insists on pitching in with a three month old bag of unsalted popcorn. But hey, it’s the thought that counts. But you’re finally here, and his hyperactive body just won’t sit still. It wouldn’t bother you if he wasn’t absolutely insistent on holding you between his open legs, back to chest, chin to shoulder, and watching you watching whatever chick flick it is you’d brought (he thinks that’s Mark Ruffalo?). Unfortunately for you, he is that insistent, and so is whatever has been poking at your back for the past 34 minutes and 52 seconds, based on the time left on the movie (‘Wait, you’ve never seen 13 going on 30?).

“Art, if you keep pressing your bony fucking knees into me, we’re gonna have a problem.”

He swallows around nothing, close enough you can hear the saliva in his throat push over itself in a wave and glide down his throat. He nods, spreads his legs a bit wider allowing you more room. Huh. Must be his keys. 

“Art, seriously, can you-”

And then you’re met face to face with a bright red Art with quite the obvious issue. 

“Uhmm…” you both say at the same time, staring at each other, eyes wide, breathing heavy. 

“Shit, sorry. I am so fucking sorry, I can’t control it-”

“No, no, it’s- it’s fine! I mean, it’s like, nice? No, it’s flattering, or-”

You both stop rambling at the same time, meeting each other’s eyes and giggling like idiots. Bashful around each other for the first time in the months since you’d started seeing each other. Seeing each other? Sounds too adult. Regardless of a label on things, it’s been months of innocent kisses and this stupid movie night routine, and absolutely nothing beyond a bit of hands under shirts and slipping tongues. There was one time he caught you changing after a shower, down to just some ugly cotton panties you’d never choose to wear if you knew he’d see them and a bra, and he got so embarrassed he left the rest of the day.

“Do you… want me to do something about it?” 

He looks down, and if the fact he’s breathing like he just ran a marathon is telling you anything, it’s that he wants you to.

“No, uh… ‘s fine.”

Oh.

“So… um…”, you both say simultaneously, lips pulling into Cheshire Cat grins. ‘You first!’, ‘Jinx!’ It’s cute, in a way, to be so in sync, but it’s really not getting you anywhere.

“Art… I’m not trying to pressure you or anything, but are you sure you don’t want some… assistance with that? For one, I feel like that’s gotta hurt, but also I wouldn’t offer unless I wanted to.”

He seems to go brain dead for a moment, staring at you with his jaw hanging open, and he doesn’t even notice when you place three fingers under his chin to pop it into place. You can practically see your words slowly bouncing around the inside of his skull, not unlike the DVD screensaver. All at once, he comes back to consciousness, haphazardly tugging at his shirt to pull it over his head. 

“Yeah, fuck, please-”

The sudden transition from entirely reluctant to stripping like his clothes are burning off his skin is a bit jarring, but you aren’t going to even pretend to be upset about it. Especially not when he finally gets his sweats off (‘Ha… sorry, these are… strings are really tight’) along with his boxers and he’s staring at you like you’ve got the solution to all his problems in your potentially capable hands… or mouth. 

He leans up on his elbows, loose and uncoordinated in his movements like a poorly handled marionette, to press a brief kiss to your lips. He settles back down, staring at himself like he’s never seen his own body before, then meets your equally shocked gaze. 

“Um… good luck?”

You roll your eyes, don’t even justify the comment with a ‘thank you’, and start searching your wrist for a hair tie. That’s a thing girls mention when they talk about giving head, as you can recall from drunken conversations with your much more adventurous friends.

“Why are you scratching your wrist so hard?”

You look down. Not one in sight. Awesome.

“Shush. Just let me… do it.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but closes it soon after, shrugging briefly as he lays back. Look down, look up, his eyes are screwed shut so tight his eyelids have wrinkled.

“Why do you look so scared? I’m not gonna, like, bite it or anything. I mean, unless you want me to-”

“I do not.”

You huff, suck in a deep breath. Here goes nothing. You lean down, tentatively poking your tongue out from between your lips to take his weeping tip in. You press a light kiss to his thigh first, smooth skinned and just as red as the rest of his body from some combination of heat and anticipation. 

“Eugh.”

He pops his right eye open, leaving him perpetually winking, his face running even redder. God, this man cannot hide anything he’s feeling to save his life, and especially not right now. 

“Is it bad?”

“No, you just… it’s like pool water.”

“It’s like what?”

He shuts up fairly quickly when you pick up where you left off, thank god, dipping his head back. Right back to the clamped shut eyes, which hopefully isn’t an indication of anything hurting. Hopefully. 

It’s an odd feeling for sure, being close enough to legitimately taste him, and he smells kinda sweaty in a way that’s somehow still appealing? You’ll never quite understand how everything he does manages to have this innate beauty to it, and that includes the gross, human being stuff, too. He’s fucking whiney, too. You’re not entirely sure that he isn’t in agony at this point, considering the way he’s writhing around. Whimpering. Pathetic. Cute. When he grabs at your hair, though, just a bit too tightly to be pleasant, you get the idea you’re doing a good job. Bonus points for removing the need to tie your hair back. You can feel your throat starting to burn a bit from the lack of oxygen, sucking in a sharp breath through your nose, though it still feels inadequate with everything else. Art couldn’t care less, that or he’s genuinely too unaware of his surroundings to notice the incredibly obvious gagging on your end, caught up in babbling up at the ceiling about how good it feels, hands covering his closed eyes. 

“Wait, shit, hold on-”

You register the feeling of something hot shooting down your throat before the words, pulling yourself off of him with a wet pop and a hacking cough. You glare at him through teary eyes, obviously provoked by his carelessness, pushing air out of your lungs and into the crook of your elbow. When you look down at the skin, little flecks of white appear mixed in with your spit. Gross.

“W-hat the fuck, Art?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just thought- I don’t know, I thought you’d take it like a champ!”

This absolute moron. When you’ve caught your breath again, you crawl up the length of his body to press a kiss to his pretty, pouting lips and god please don’t let there be cum on your mouth. With the enthusiasm he returns it with, hands pressed flat on your back, softly humming from the back of his throat, you’re guessing there’s not. Or he likes that there is. Neither would shock you. You sit back on your heels, wipe your lips, they’re clean, and seem all too proud of yourself for having given what was probably just subpar head. 

“So… come here often?”

He frowns, looking genuinely concerned for far longer than was comfortable. 

“Babe, that was the first time we’ve ever-”

“Jesus Christ, let’s just go to bed.”

yeah i think im gonna block you forever now

— Sun Bleached Flies .ᐟ

CHARACTERS: PASTOR’S DAUGHTER!TASHI x FEM!READER WORD COUNT: 2.4k CW: religious guilt, LOTS of internalized homophobia, general angst 

a/n: okay this isn’t 100% accurate to christianity and such… i tried though… i tried so hard… please don’t hate me… i hope you enjoy! <3 (and i'm apologizing now) link to main post!

— Tashi shouldn’t be feeling this. 

She knows she shouldn’t. She’s the Pastor’s daughter. This is wrong. Blasphemous. Sacrilegious. 

The way she feels when she looks at you sitting beside her in the front pew, when she sees you standing with your family at Sunday service, and she feels the need to grasp onto the cross hanging around her neck, like a lifeline in stormy waters, to remind herself that what she feels for you isn’t right. 

You’ve always been a little different than the rest of your family and the church, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Not outwardly different, no, you dress and maintain yourself the same, but there’s just something about your behaviour that stands out in an inexplicable way. 

Tashi watches you from her spot next to her father, you laughing with your family, looking around the church when the conversation is about something dull and uninteresting. When your eyes lock on hers, and your face lights up with a small wave, she realizes she’s been caught staring, and her brain short circuits. She can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, the way her whole body goes warm, and her hand grabs her necklace with such a force it almost tugs it clean off her neck. 

Only after you chuckle at her reaction does she give a small wave back, her smile forced and tight-lipped as she looks away and stares at one of the various icons of Jesus surrounding the church, begging him to plead with his father for forgiveness. 

When she looks back to where you were standing, you’re already gone.

She lays awake that night, head angled back into her pillow so she can stare at the cross hanging high on the wall above her headboard, her mind racing with the thoughts about you that she wishes she could block out. 

The way you look when you’re sitting on the pew, or kneeling during service when she sneaks glances beside her while her head is bowed and resting on her hands, or walking up to the front for communion. The way your skin looks so soft, and your eyes sparkle, and your body moves. The way you’d look–

No. 

Bad Tashi. 

God loves her, but not enough to save her. Not if she keeps thinking like this. 

So she shuts her eyes, rolling onto her side and curling into herself, almost in fetal position, as though she can find some way to be reborn, reborn without these thoughts fueled by Satan, reborn as a normal girl. Reborn as a normal girl who does as she’s supposed to, as a normal girl who likes boys.

When she does fall asleep, it’s restless, plagued by the thoughts of her abnormality, of her wants, her desires. 

But the sun rises and sets, days passing. Each night just as restless and guilt-filled as the next. 

She thinks that if she doesn’t acknowledge it, if she doesn’t speak it, if she just keeps pushing it down, it won’t be true. It can’t be. 

So Tashi tries to keep her thoughts in check, staying with her father as though he is God Himself, able to grant her forgiveness for Him. She reminds herself of her faith, praying first thing in the morning and just before bed, hand always wrapped around that cross pendant as she toys with it on the chain, begging its holiness to seep into her. 

But the cycle begins again when she gets to church next Sunday, sitting in her pew in the front row as usual while Father Duncan is elsewhere in the church, preparing for service. 

As she hears people begin to trickle in, Tashi looks behind her, and there you are. 

She looks up to the crucifix behind the altar, and has half a mind to kneel and start praying. 

But you take your seat beside her, as usual, as Tashi works on composing herself. 

“Hi, Tashi.” You smile as Tashi looks up at you, and her heart squeezes. 

“Hi.” she croaks. 

“Would you wanna hang out sometime this week? I have a few tickets to see that new movie that just came out.” 

Tashi can’t think straight. You want to hang out with her? Is she dreaming? No, not a dream, a nightmare. Maybe if she hits her head against the pew she’ll remember that this is all fake and not real and wake up from this nightmare, and all will be okay. She won’t have to hide from her father or the Father. 

“Tashi?” You snap her out of her thoughts, and she’s never been so embarrassed. She can hear her blood rushing in her ears, her hands clammy and body hot. 

“Uh, yeah—I, um. I might not be able to go to the movie, but we can, um, we can definitely hang out.” 

You nod as service starts, and whisper to her. 

“We can talk after service.” 

She nods in return, swallowing hard as you both stand for the procession. 

The service starts, and it feels like torture. Every time you kneel for prayer, she glances over at you, her mind wandering, imagining, going places it shouldn’t. When communion starts, Tashi almost doesn’t go up. She feels too guilty, like her father will be able see through her, into her secrets and the deepest, darkest parts of her mind.

Service finally finishes and Tashi looks over at you again. 

“Are you free tomorrow?” she manages to get out. 

“Yeah.” You beam. 

“How about a walk and a picnic?” 

“Sounds perfect. Ten? The old trails behind the church?”

“Eleven?”

“Eleven it is. See you there, Tashi.” 

“See you.” She smiles back, waving as her father calls her over. 

You wave back, and she feels both like she’s flying, weightless and giddy, and like she’s being dragged down to the depths of hell. Like if even indulging in this ‘friendly’ outing will make her the biggest sinner her father has ever met. 

She watches you leave again, just like every week before, but this time with a small smile on her face. When she leaves with her own family, she immediately starts planning the picnic, baking and cooking and packing. Tashi doesn’t know why, but she feels the need to make everything perfect. Just for you. Tomorrow is going to be a big day. 

She even thinks about telling you her sins. 

That night, she sleeps a little easier. Still restless, but she’s hopeful there’s a chance you’ll be able to knock some sense into her. 

Until she starts having nightmares of you again. You, kissing her, with those soft, soft lips, the ones she’s stared at countless times. You, with your hands on her, that delicate touch you save for only the most fragile things used on her, like she’s something beautiful that could shatter. Her, on her knees in front of you, worshiping you like you’re taking His place. Like you’re actually her God. Like you’re actually her Jesus. Or the roles reversed, with you on your knees in front of her, staring up at her like she’s your God. 

And sleep becomes restless once more. 

When she wakes up, curled in on herself once more, Tashi’s cheeks are crusty with dried up tears. She doesn’t know when she started crying during the nightmares, but she quickly becomes conscious of the fact she broke one of the Ten Commandments in her nightmares, and they quickly start back up again as she slides off her bed and kneels against the side of it in prayer. 

Today she’ll tell you. She’ll tell you, and you’ll tell her how wrong it is. Shame her into normality. Shame her into conforming. 

Tashi gets ready for the day, mentally too. She’ll need to be strong to have the conversation. 

She meets you by the old trails behind the church, picnic basket in hand. 

“Hi, Tashi!” Your voice is excited, like you’ve been waiting all night for this, and she can’t help but smile in return. 

“Hi.” 

“Morning was good?” 

She can’t exactly tell you about her nightmares, about the fact she went against the rules so clearly set in place for a good Christian, so she lies. “Yeah. great.” 

The walk to the clearing is peaceful. You and Tashi speak about your lives, your plans, what you’re here for, your faith. She almost brings up what she wants to tell you on the way there, but decides against it. It’ll be better if you’re both sitting down. 

When you reach the clearing, you help Tashi set up the picnic, salivating at the food she prepared. 

“These look incredible, Tashi…” 

“Yeah?” Her heart swells, she’s always loved compliments from you. 

“Yeah.” 

You two sit, eating and laughing, falling into easy conversation. If there’s silence, it’s comfortable, as you look around the clearing at the surrounding flora and fauna, Tashi just staring at your face, trying to figure out when to ruin what you two have got going on. 

She decides to do it when you’re both about to pack up, standing up, picnic basket in her hands.  

“Hey, uh—”

“Yeah, Tashi?” 

Tashi’s throat is dry. Her voice is small. Shaky. Unsure. Her eyes gloss over, not quite tearing up yet, but she knows she’s nearing that point. 

You notice immediately. Of course you do. You’re different. You’ve always been so good at reading people. 

“Tashi, oh my god—are you okay?” 

“I, um. Oh, yeah—yeah, of course. I, just—I have to confess something to you.” 

“What is it, Tashi? You can tell me anything.”

Anything but this. At least in Tashi’s head. 

“I—um—oh, god. How, how am I supposed to say this? God, I’m going to Hell—” Tashi’s near hyperventilating by this point, the tears finally welling up. 

“Hey—hey, hey, hey, Tashi, look at me.” you speak softly, grabbing her shoulders gently, as her head shoots up to meet yours. “Breathe with me. In… out… in… out…”

She follows your instructions, breathing with you. Slightly calming down as she stares into your eyes, looking at the way they soften around the edges as you look at her, the way your lips curve into that small smile as her breathing returns to somewhat normal. 

“What’s up?” 

“I—I’m such a bad person. I have these thoughts. These awful, awfully depraved, sinful thoughts. I have these nightmares where God isn’t my God anymore. But someone else. I—I’m going to go to Hell.” Tashi repeats the last part quietly, like she’s trying to prepare herself for it.

She pauses. Takes a deep breath, composing herself as the tears roll down her cheeks. 

“I have, I have these thoughts about, about—”

You’re silent, giving her the chance to speak. To get it off her chest. 

To make it real, to acknowledge it, to stop pushing it down, by speaking it into the world. 

She doesn’t know how she manages to get the next words out, but she spits them in your face like she thinks they’re venom. She wants them to be. 

“I have them about you.” She tacks your name on at the end, trying to make it fatal, for both of you. 

She waits for you to yell at her. For your face to twist into disgust and tell her she’s plagued by Satan, agree that she’s going to Hell. To push her away, and run back to the church to wash your hands with the holiest water, just to get any trace of her off you. 

But none of that happens. 

Your face softens, eyes welling with your own tears, as you pull her into the softest, yet tightest hug ever, like she’s a delicate flower you’re afraid will wilt if you’re too rough with her. 

Tashi doesn’t know what to do. She’s conflicted. She thought you would hate her, why are you being so kind to her? This isn’t right. 

She drops the basket, letting the leftovers, the laughter, the happiness, the joy between you two spill onto the ground, and pushes you away, her face twisted into something nasty. 

“Why don’t you hate me? This is wrong!” 

Your face twists into one of sadness, no, not sadness. Pity? And she hates it. She hates the way it sends a pang through her heart. She hates that you pity her. 

“Tashi, it’s not wrong. Just because you like a girl doesn’t make you a bad person.” 

“No, it does! This is wrong, it’s a sin! And you’re just as bad as me for accepting me.” she spits out. 

“You know what, Tashi, maybe I am. Maybe I’m even worse because I’m just like you and I accept you. Because I like girls too.” 

She freezes at that, the tears flowing down her cheeks. 

“You—you do?” 

“Yeah, Tashi. I do.” 

It suddenly makes sense, and she stares at the ground to process it all. 

Why you’re different from the others. 

Why she’s been drawn to you from the beginning. 

You’re both the same. 

But you’re not. Because Tashi isn’t like you. Not really. 

She grabs the cross around her neck, and looks back up at you. 

“I’m not actually this way. I’m normal. You’re just corrupting me. You’re here from Satan to corrupt me, to bring me to Hell with you. And it won’t work. It won’t. I won’t let it.” 

She can see your face crack, can see you try to hold back tears. 

It shatters her heart. 

So she delivers one final blow. 

“This was a mistake. I’m not going to Hell with you.”

Tears start flowing as you watch her walk away, walk along that trail you took together. You kick the picnic basket, sending it flying somewhere, and sink to the ground, sobbing into your hands. 

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. 

Tashi gets back to the church, sobbing, and locks herself in the confessional to grieve you, and confess to God. Tashi knows it’s nothing unless she talks to her father, but she hopes this is enough anyway. She can never tell Father Duncan what she feels. Never. 

If it’s meant to be, then it will be. 

And Tashi Duncan doesn’t think it is, so it won’t. She’d rather let the guilt eat her from the inside out. For the rest of her life. 

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Mel strikes again and we all say thank you

Heartbreak Girl! ib: Heartbreak Girl by 5sos please listen while you read :)

pairing: stanford!art donaldson x fem reader

cw: nsfw(18+), just a lot of yearning fr

i’m right here when you gonna realize, that i’m your cure

It was the same old story. You and your on again off again boyfriend would break up and the next minute you’d call Art. He was honestly exhausted quite frankly.

You sounded like a broken record. Every time it was My heart just hurts Artie or How could he get over me so fast?, until eventually you start crying on the other end of the phone.

Art would push all of his feelings down to comfort you. Lying, saying things like I’m sure he’s not over you yet, she’s just a rebound. In reality he knew your ex didn’t respect you and it was debatable whether or not your ex ever really loved you in the first place.

He prided himself on always being able to make you feel better despite making himself feel worse. Your crying would die down enough for you to say Thanks for always being there for me, you’re such a great friend. That last word always stabs him in the heart.

But he would let you rant about your ex as much as you wanted because at his core, Art really was just a sucker for anything that you do.

It was so draining but he would never say anything to you because you were his best friend. When the two of you had met at Stanford’s freshman student athlete orientation it was like magic. You two vibed so well together and Art hadn’t connected with someone so well, so fast since Patrick. And since moving to Stanford, he had a Patrick size void to fill.

Art developed feelings for you quickly. His friendship boundaries are almost non-existent due to the nature of his only previous close friendship being with Patrick. You two hung out anytime you had free time. Your schedules always aligning since you're both student athletes.

He would constantly be invading your personal space. Whether that was cuddling during movie night or just resting his head on your shoulder or in your lap so you’d play with his hair.

You found it a little weird at first, never really having a guy best friend you were that close with physically, but the novelty wore off as time went on and you grew accustomed to it (after Patrick came to visit you realized where Art got it from).

When Art realized you had a boyfriend he was crushed. But he never let that show. He was still just as ‘supportive’ of your relationship regardless. Draining his energy, going in circles over and over again listening to you talk about the same problems in your relationship a million times over.

The next time you called, he picked up as always. You’re crying, mumbling through your tears about how you and your boyfriend ex-boyfriend have called it off for the so-called final time. You guys are done for real. All Art wants to do is scream out You can be with me now, but he bites his tongue.

It’s not the right time. As much as Art wants to tell you how he feels, it’s too soon. You’re not ready and it’s so frustrating. Your ex treats you so badly while Art treats you the way you deserve to be treated, with respect.

So he tells you what you want to hear instead. More reassurance that he’s sure your ex still loves you and it’s your ex’s loss anyway. You still feel like shit but it helps somewhat. Art always makes you feel better, so you end the call with I’ll call tomorrow at 10 after practice.

And here Art was, waiting for your call the next day, still stuck in the friend zone again and again.

A few months had passed by without any calls about your ex, so Art was hopeful that meant you were over him. He still didn’t feel like it’d ever be the right time to confess his feelings because he didn’t want to ruin your friendship.

It wasn’t until a day that Patrick came to visit Tashi but still tried to convince Art he was really here to see both of them. Sure.

“Did you ever end up asking out that girl?” Patrick questions from his place seated on Art’s dorm bed.

“Huh?” Art was confused because he never told Patrick how he felt about you.

“That girl that you always follow around like a sick puppy. It’s obvious you like her, so did you ask her out?”

Even after two years spent apart Patrick could still read him like an open book.

Art shakes his head no, “You mean Y/N? No, I feel like she just got over her ex so. And I don’t want to ruin the only real friendship I have here.”

Patrick laughs, “You’ve always been such a pussy.”

Art gets defensive because who is Patrick to tell him what he is, “Fuck off. Just cause I think before I speak and realize my actions have consequences? Maybe you could learn a thing or two.”

“All I’m saying is, tell her how you feel. No harm no foul. It’s clear you’re in love with her. Just tell her.”

You had been standing in front of Art’s dorm room for the better part of 10 minutes, eavesdropping. You were meant to be coming over around this time. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop but once you heard your name your ears perked up and pressed against the door.

Your feelings towards Art have always been complicated. Of course you liked him. He was cute and smart and always there for you. But you had been with your ex for so long, you ignored the butterflies in your stomach whenever you and Art would cuddle during movie night.

Honestly a lot of the fights you’d get into with your ex were about Art (and the endless cheating from your ex but you know, also your friendship with Art).

He didn’t like how close you guys had gotten no matter how often you reassured him you guys were just friends and nothing more. In the end it was actually you who decided to break it off. Your ex gave you an ultimatum to choose between him and Art, and you didn’t want to lose your best friend. It still hurt and you still cried to Art about it but you never told him what really happened.

Hearing his confession made your heart rate pick up and your stomach twist in knots. You lose your balance falling against Art’s door with a thud. Fuck.

Before you can soothe where you hit your forehead on the door, it swings open and you’re face to face with Patrick. Seeing Art out of the corner of your eyes sitting at his desk.

Patrick smirks before stepping past you, “Have fun,” he winks. Leaving you standing in the door frame staring at Art.

“How long were you standing there?” he asks standing up from his desk abruptly.

“Long enough,” you respond, walking over to him and crashing your lips together. You didn’t even realize what you were doing until you were doing it. Two years of pushing your feelings down to prioritize your relationship. Two years of denying the way Art made you feel when he’d look at you with those eyes. Two years of giving your all into a relationship that didn’t serve you, needing a change but not realizing it until this very moment.

He’s startled. Strangled moan leaving his lips before his hands fly to your waist, gripping hard. Like he’s scared this isn’t real, and it’s all a dream.

You pull away, pushing his shoulders down so he’s sitting back down on his desk chair. You climb into his lap while he asks, “What about your ex?”

“Over him,” you say shortly before bringing your lips back to his. You're grinding down against him, feeling him grow hard under you.

His hands are back on your waist, before moving down to grab your ass, “Fuck,” he mumbles against your lips.

Breaking the kiss again to pull your shirt off and unclip your bra. His eyes are glued to you, watching your every movement with his mouth hanging slightly open. Now with your tits in his face he couldn’t focus anymore.

You reach down, pulling his hard length out of his shorts. Spreading the pre-cum that pooled at his tip so you can start to jerk him off.

“Shit,” he gasps as you start to stroke him. He leans in to take one of your nipples into his mouth. Flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. You moan, still grinding down against his lap while picking up the pace of your strokes and tightening your grip slightly.

“Want you inside me,” you whine, your freehand tangling in his curls to pull his mouth off you. You stand up to pull your shorts and panties off quickly before returning to your place on his lap.

He nods quickly and dumbly, like there’s not a single thought behind his eyes. Only thing on his mind is you, you, you, your tits, your ass, your pussy. Everything made him feel dizzy.

His pink tip leaks more pre cum as you guide him to your entrance. You rub it against your hole to cover him in your own juices for extra lubrication. Art almost cums from that alone. He wants to ask about condoms until he remembers you’re on the pill from the various alarms you had that would always go off at the same time everyday. When he asked you about it you explained it to him why.

You start to sink down on him, your walls closing in around his dick. Thank god you fingered yourself when you were masturbating this morning because Art was bigger than you expected. A reasonable length but the girth was a lot. You could feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, “Fuck Art, feel so full,” you moan out.

When you finally sank all the way down to the bottom, Art let out a groan, “Holy shit. You’re so beautiful. Gripping the fuck out of me, fuck.” He pulls his t-shirt up, holding it in his mouth so he can see your hole stretched, gliding up and down his cock.

You start to ride him, bouncing up and down, rocking back and forth , and occasionally grinding down, “Fuck Art, you feel really fucking good.”

He’s watching your tits bounce in his face, and the stimulation of you riding him is way too much, he’s already close. He grabs your hips and starts pounding into you with fast, hard strokes.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” your moans getting louder as he assaults your g-spot. He’s grunting, t-shirt still captured between his teeth. Abs flexing as he lets out a deep breath through his nose. He moves one hand so his thumb can swipe back and forth over your bundle of nerves. “Yes fuck, right there,” you gasp.

His hips stutter, faulting his rhythm. He holds your hips down so he’s completely inside you before spilling inside you, filling you up.

The pressure of his cock against your gspot and the stimulation from his thumb grazing over your clit push you over the edge, “I’m—coming fuck.” You finish right after him, walls spasming, squeezing every last drop out of him.

He drops his shirt from mouth, catching his breath. “A-Are you sure you’re over your ex?”

“Sheesh you couldn’t wait until you weren’t inside me anymore to ask again?” you laugh.

He blushes like you guys didn’t just have sex, “‘m sorry.”

You climb off of his lap to make your way to his bathroom so you could clean yourself up, “Yes Art. I am over him I swear.”

He nods, grabbing a rag from his drawer to clean himself off, “I don’t know, it could've been like a rebound hookup thing and I didn’t…”

“You didn’t what?” you ask, going to grab your shorts to pull on.

“Didn’t wanna get my hopes up,” he finishes, slowly and methodically.

You plop down on his bed, laying on your side, “We broke up because I didn’t want to stop being friends with you.”

Friends. That’s what he was afraid you’d say. The F word haunts his dreams, his nightmares, every second of every day that he’s in your presence. He should’ve never got his hopes up. Fuck. That’s what he gets. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could he so stupid? Of course sex doesn’t mean anything. He shouldn’t of—

“Hey I’m not done,” you say softly, hoping to pull him out of his head. He was clearly zoned out and you knew Art could get in his head sometimes. He refocuses on you as you say “I want to be with you Art. Not just friends.”

Oh. When those words fell past your lips, it didn’t definitely didn’t feel real. The words he was praying to hear for the past two years.

And so what if he had already mentally planned out your first date? Two years is more than enough time to have planned something.

taglist: @tacobacoyeet @newrochellechallenger2019 @marimacaron @antxnxlla @hanneh69 @urmomsucksfrogs @k4mlg @ctrl-mari

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tears of joy streaming down my supple cheeks and gorgeous thighs

now playing: ava's challengers anniversary playlist

TRACKLIST 01. lollipop – atp x reader 02. lavender haze (acoustic) – art x reader 03. wassup - artrick x reader 04. let’s be friends – tashi x reader 05. a kiss – patrick x reader 06. harder to breathe – art x reader 07. ever since new york – patrick x reader 08. love me harder – art x reader 09. princess of china – patrick x reader 10. where were you in the morning? – art x reader 11. like real people do – tashi x reader 12. bodyguard - patrick x reader 13. morning light - art x reader 14. my boo - atp x reader

BONUS TRACKS 01. grow up – art x patrick 02. we cry together – patrick x tashi 03. hum hallelujah – art x tashi

2 fics per day • links will go live as fics post • celebration hosted by tacobacoyeet • songs are linked to numbers • celebration will take place from april 19, 2025 - april 27, 2025 • i will not be answering requests during this week

if you haven't gotten sick of seeing me on your timeline, i'm not doing it right. i'm like a challengers fan fiction cold sore! i'm not sure if i like this, but then again, i say this about everything i've ever posted and still make it publically available. i hope it's cute and just yearny (??) enough because what is a challengers fan if not a yearner? i will probably post something again in the next 24 hours maybe less so.. who's ready for a patrick fic? patfic. woah... hope you enjoy and feel free to leave tips and critiques as per usual<3

Societal conventions of platonic relationships are boring, and that’s why you all rejected them. I mean, sure, every time you said that you weren’t dating one of them the response was always “You know you can tell me anything, right?” but seriously! You’re all just very good friends. Best friends, more accurately. So, yes, you helped each other out. That’s what friends are for. Patrick needs a fake girlfriend for one of his parents’ parties? You and Tashi are on it. Art wants a date to some tennis gala? You’re all jumping at the chance. It’s not like it’s hard to fake something like that, because you’re all close already. A kiss on the cheek and a hand on the waist are essentially nothing. You wouldn’t bat an eye if it happened outside of one of those contexts, either. So it’s fine when it does, and it doesn’t make your heart race.

It also never bothered you to admit that they were incredibly beautiful people, because that’s just a conclusion that you can draw by having eyes. Even without your little set up, you’d certainly feel that way. So Tashi’s birthday party, which she’d dragged you all to some club you can’t legally be in for, was fine. It was fine that Tashi was dancing with her arms outstretched above her head like a prayer, slightly offbeat to the timing of the song, and yet still so in place. She’s dancing like she forgot there’s always eyes admiring her, skirt swaying around her long legs, eyes closed like she’d absorb the moment if she concentrated enough. And she looked gorgeous, the way she always did. Which you’re allowed to say, because best friends always support their best friends. And sure, when she opens her eyes and waves at you from her spot on the floor you start giggling despite having had nothing to drink, but it’s because you’re happy for her. It’s extra fine that Patrick soon comes up to join her, large hands to sharp hip bones, and they start swaying like one unit, and they both look lost in one another until suddenly they’re lost in you. You don’t bristle when Art leans into your side and mumbles that someone ‘looks really good, huh?’ and you don’t quite make out if the sentence started with ‘he’ or ‘she’.

It’s fine when Tashi pulls you up to some makeshift platform of a stage for karaoke, screaming the lyrics just a bit too loudly into the microphone, and clinging onto you for dear life. There’s a second mic hanging limply to your right, but it’s been deemed unnecessary because she’d insisted on pulling you close and sharing the one in her hand. From this close, you can smell the perfume she’d chosen for the night, which you note isn’t her signature, and the faint coconut of her shampoo. You can make out two sets of smiling eyes from the same shitty table you’d claimed, nursing drinks in calloused hands that still manage soft touches. 

It’s fine when you get a little solo and you manage to squeak out a few notes, voice thick with nerves and lack of proper use, and feel the way that three people’s worlds have stopped to take in each sound before they pass. They’re committing you singing to memory, and you’re not sure what’s telling you as much, but you know it’s true. It’s fine when the song’s over and Tashi leads you back to the table with a hand on your lower back, and her fingers are so long that your mind drifts without your permission, and your steps become a bit more rigid than they’d usually be. 

It’s fine when you’re pressed between Patrick and Art in the rented limo Patrick had arranged using his parents’ money, and two different hands meet your thigh, and you can just barely feel Patrick’s pinky grazing the hem of your skirt. It’s fine when Art begins feeding you praise like it’s his life’s goal to make you drown in it, because the compliments sound sweeter in his voice, so you can take that sickening butterfly flutter in your ribcage and crush it under the stiletto point of your heel. 

It’s fine when you’re all laying on dew-dampened grass somewhere near Patrick’s apartment, staring up at the sky, and the crowns of your head are all touching, because there’s a need to not acknowledge the obvious, and a deeper need to indulge in it. There’s a voice in the wind that’s rustling Tashi’s hair and creasing Art’s shirt that’s telling you to just give in to yourself. You wonder if it’s only talking to you. It’s fine when you turn to look at Patrick to find he’s already looking at you, and he’s got the wonder in his eyes you see on people gazing into a Van Gogh. He’d take staring at you over any painting in a heartbeat, he’d tell you if you asked. 

It’s fine when you find yourself in Patrick’s bed, goosebumps littered across cold-air-kissed skin, with your back to Tashi’s chest, and she’s cradling your head like it’ll fall off if she doesn’t hold it up herself. You find yourself liking the feeling of Art’s lips scattering feather-light kisses across the inside of your thighs. You lean further back against Tashi when she starts cooing some kind of praise you’re too hazy-minded to make out, but it sounds nice with the inflections of her voice, demanding but soft. You don’t mind watching Patrick’s lips connect with Tashi’s, then with Art’s, because you can focus in on how their bodies melt and their fingers bend. You can pick up on each little click of a broken kiss, and each sigh of a newly formed one. The night’s some kind of haze of warm hands, adoring eyes, and wandering lips with glints of white teeth that you can’t quite put in place. What you can definitively say is that it felt like coming home. It felt like sleeping in your bed for the first time since you’ve been away, and it molds around your shape like you hoped it would. It feels like falling asleep with Tashi’s hair in your face and a pool of Patrick’s drool building atop your stomach and not caring. It feels like getting a kiss goodnight from Art because he’s just as naked and giddy as you are.

It’s fine to admit to yourself that you’re in love when you don’t want to be. Love apparently didn’t care that you wanted a step-by-step plan, a playbook, a set of rules to follow. Love didn’t care that you’d been planning on keeping things simple, because lack of acknowledgement means lack of potential rejection. Love didn’t care because love is like a mother, it knows what’s best for you, even if it’s less than pleasant to sit with. But love was deeply breathing against your neck and snoring a little too loudly. Love was going to wake you up at sunrise to make them all hangover cures, should they need them. Love was going to let you fall asleep and dream about it, just to wake up and realize it’s still there.

Need mike to do one of those whats in my bag videos

😭😭 literally. get him on vogue’s in the bag NOW

No, Challengers (2024) does not have a train in it