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too-deviant · 1 month

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strategic manoeuvre.

— WITH…ART DONALDSON!

contains...babysitter!reader, age gap, 18+ MDNI, art cheats w reader but it is lowkey implied that tashi planned the whole thing, car sex, semi-public sex, head (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, inspired by this post from @traumatrios

You had never been interested in tennis before Art.

You weren’t interested in sports at all, really — you just wanted to buckle down and focus on your college work, earn some money with an easy part-time job. You didn’t have time to follow sports, or anything else.

But then you got a call. You had been in the middle of a lecture when your phone buzzed against your notebook, a California number shining up at you and enticing you to pick up. Normally you would’ve let it go to voicemail, but you had recently gone around some of the fancier hotels in your city with flyers, asking for babysitting jobs and posting your number, so you excused yourself with a wave and took the call in the hallway.

You didn’t know who Tashi Donaldson was when she introduced herself, but the hotel she’d asked you to come to later that night was fancy enough that you didn’t question it. You had done an extensive google search afterwards, of course, but simply raised an impressed brow at her repertoire.

Then you met Art, her tennis player husband and the father of the lovely little girl you would be taking care of, and suddenly you were pretty interested in tennis.

It started when Lily had a bad nightmare and you couldn’t get her down — well, it started when you met the guy, palm sweaty in his own as he introduced himself, but it didn’t really start until you had to put one of his old games on the TV for the girl to watch until she fell asleep at your side, tear tracks from her bad dream dry on her cheeks.

You had been planning on carrying her back to her bed when she was down for the count, but you had been so fixated on Art’s movements; his determined look, his arms, his legs, that you ended up dropping out too. You woke up a few hours later with a blanket over your body and Art standing quietly at the kitchen island behind the sofa.

“You looked peaceful. Didn't wanna wake you.” He’d said, sipping at his tea, and you knew you were done for.

Now all of a sudden you had time to watch a tennis match in the morning, play one as background noise while you studied. You had started following his tennis journey right from the Junior Open in 2006 — you didn’t think you'd ever actually see him again, but you could fantasise about it whenever you remembered the smell of his cologne as he thanked you for taking care of Lily, promising a big tip would go straight into your account in the morning.

(The money went in fifteen minutes after you’d left).

It came as a pleasant surprise when Tashi’s number popped up on your screen once more, a few months later. You had been in your kitchen, and took the call the moment you recognised the digits.

“We’re a little ways out of town.” She’d said, “But Lily raved about you for days after last time, and we know you better than a stranger. If you can’t make it out here, don’t worry, but we still wanted to try our luck.”

We she’d said. As in her and Art.

You cursed yourself for lusting after a married man in the uber to the hotel.

From then on out, you became their primary babysitter. Since they travelled a lot, and Tashi’s mom was with them most of the time, you only really sat for them once every couple of months. The town you lived in was sunny and had a huge private sports centre for professional athletes — a fact you weren’t aware of until Art told you over a cup of tea — so they always came back. You were glad you could count on them coming back — it was like magic, the way your phone lit up with Tashi’s now saved contact whenever the late night bingeing of matches and interviews stopped fueling your infatuation.

The guilt was almost enough to make you ignore it, say you were busy or just get a new number all together. But you never did. As much as you knew it was wrong, you always dropped what you were doing and drove to that cushy hotel where the receptionist knew your face and let you in with a smile. You travelled that same memorised route to the master suite, knocked on the door and made sure you were standing far enough away from the peep hole that you didn’t look weird and distorted when Art would look through before letting you in.

It was always Art now. Tashi had greeted you a few times but lately it had always been him — a sick part of you thought she might’ve known about your crush on him, played with it for fun because she couldn’t play tennis anymore. But that was crazy, and you really needed to sort yourself out.

You would greet him with a smile, push through the small talk, lean up against the kitchen island and watch his shirt stretch around the planes of his back as he made you coffee (On those unlucky days he would be wearing a shirt. Sometimes he would be just done with warm ups and physio and would answer the door half naked and covered in sweat. Those were the good days). Then Lily would come running at you from her room, hug you around your waist and pull you in to play; Art would laugh and grin at you, sliding the coffee cup in your direction and holding your eyes before heading to his room to get ready.

You would be knee deep in headless barbies and chewed up polly pocket clothes when he and would return, dressed up and ready to go. He would lean down, kiss Lily on the forehead, and press his hand to your back in a silent goodbye. Then he would leave, and you would spend the whole day trying to pull yourself together.

He was married. He was ten years older than you. He had a child, and was paying you to look after her.

But he always made you coffee when you arrived — just how you liked it because he remembered. He always checked in on you, asked you how your life was while you nursed the mug that was warm from the beverage and his hands. He would tell Lily to behave for you because We like her, and we don’t want to scare her off. He would let his land linger on your back half a second longer every single time he left.

But.

But Tashi was the one who would call you. She was the one who made you coffee the first time, told you it was the least they could do for you. She would walk out of her room with Art, smile at you and tell you how beautiful you look in that shirt. She would grin at you before leaving, waiting patiently by the door for her husband to take his hand off your back.

You were evil. Truly. The guy was married.

But as evil as you were, you always made sure there was an old game of his playing on the TV when they would return — because then Art would prompt you to stay and listen to him talk about it. And you would have an excuse to lean up against that island and watch him make tea while Tashi excused herself to bed. Hours would pass before he was checking his watch and hissing out an apology for keeping you so late, and then letting you leave.

The first couple of times he’d simply make sure you got in your uber safely. Then he started calling cars himself, the same ones that would drive him and his family to and from matches, press events. The same sort of service celebrites used, not their babysitters. You didn’t mind — it was a thrill, listening to him ask the person behind the wheel to make sure you got back safely.

(The bar was under the court at this point, but at least you were aware of that).

But tonight was different. In more ways than one.

In the beginning, all was the same. You were left sitting on the plush carpet of Lily’s room surrounded by lego pieces, a burning in your gut and guilt in your heart. You played doctor, you made dinner, ordered room service after her relentless begging, put on a movie, carried her sleeping form to bed, came back and watched Art play tennis until he returned.

You had started to run out of games to watch, ones you hadn’t already seen, so settled for an old game from 2006. He was playing against his old partner, Patrick something, and you wondered where the lesser known second half of Fire and Ice had disappeared to after that night.

Then Art came back, Tashi right behind him, and you smiled at them both over the back of the sofa. Tashi watched the game, something unfamiliar glinting in her irises, before blinking back at Art, “I’m going to bed.”

He responded a little slower, kissing her goodnight and looking back at you, “Tea? This game was one of my most memorable.”

“Even though you lost?” You teased, leaning against the marble.

He paused, looking back at you. He blinked, “Yeah.”

You drank your tea. You pretended like you weren’t full of shame for standing that inch closer to him. You let him talk until he had nothing left to talk about, and watched him check his watch. You waited for him to pick up the phone and call the car — only he paused by the phone, hand floating just before it, and retracted his steps to the kitchen, “I’m gonna drive you back, if it’s not too much trouble. Saves waking up my driver.”

“Oh.” Your fingers twitched, and you told them to stop. “Sure, of course.”

Art’s car wasn’t what you had expected. Thinking back on it, he didn’t seem like the sports car type, but his status and riches led you to assume you were about to get into one of the two seats in his Bugatti — you didn’t. The black jeep was expensive enough for someone like him, but close enough to home that you didn’t feel like an outsider climbing into the passenger seat.

The drive wasn’t all that far — twenty minutes both ways, so Art would’ve been back before Tashi fell asleep if he hadn't pulled into a parking lot five minutes out.

Your lips parted, eyes following his hands as they slid slowly off the wheel and into his thighs. His chest rose with a deep breath and his jaw constricted when he swallowed. Then he was looking at you, eyes piercing.

“Lily likes you.”

You were unsure, feet shifting beneath you, the sound encasing the silence of the space and forcing you to stop and blink, “I’m glad. I like her.”

“Tashi likes you.”

You weren’t too positive that she would like you if she could feel how you were feeling now — that all too familiar heartbeat pulsing between your legs with every one of Art’s breaths.

“I like you.” He finished, tilting his head until his temple rested softly on the headrest of his seat. His smile was almost taunting when he undid his seatbelt, “Which is your favourite?”

“What?”

“The games.” He clarified, knowing his question was too broad and that you would have to ask, “The ones you watch every time you’re over. The ones I assume you watch even when you aren’t sitting for us. My games. Which is your favourite?”

“Oh. Um —“ Slightly distracted by the way he shed his jacket, dumping it in the backseat. He’d lent all the way forward to take it off and his eyes didn’t leave yours once. “I don’t know.”

“The one you were watching tonight.” He asked then, “What’d you think of it? Honestly.”

“Honestly?” You swallowed, mortified that you were even entertaining this, “You looked a little distracted.”

He huffed a laugh, finally looking away and letting you breathe. It didn’t last long, because he was then getting out of the car and rounding the front of it.

The breeze was cool when it hit you, Art blocking most of it from where he stood in the gap. His hand was still on the handle, but you were busy unbuckling your own seatbelt — the message had been received, you had crossed a line and he was kicking you out of his car.

But when you turned, legs swinging carefully into the cold, his hand on your knee stopped you from really getting out. Your eyes snapped up to his, and you realised you had been caged — with one hand on the door and one hand on you, Art Donaldson had you right where you had been dreaming of him having you. It felt surreal.

“My opponent. In the game from tonight.” He breathed, glancing around casually like you were having one of your simple conversations over tea. “He slept with my wife.”

Out of all the things…

“What?” Your eyes darted between his, but the rest of your body otherwise remained still. Even when his hand on your knee travelled upwards.

“He’d slept with her before. In college. We weren’t together then.” He was now watching his hand move, like he wasn’t the one moving it, “But then he slept with her again, in Atlanta. After I’d already married her.”

“Wow.” You breathed, mainly because it was the easiest word you could slide out of your mouth whilst holding your breath. His fingers reached your thigh, begged to dip between them. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He was quick to respond. Your legs parted on instinct, and at this point you had surrendered to being an awful person — although maybe you’d fallen asleep on the couch and this was all a dream. You didn’t think you’d be able to face Art if it was. You couldn’t even face him now.

He took the newfound space for granted, stepping between your legs and holding them open with his body. His hand on the door followed him, taking its new place on your other leg. He rubbed up and down your thighs, but you couldn’t look away from his face.

“I don’t want you watching him play.” He spoke lowly, tracing his fingertips around your waistband, “I’ve seen enough of his games.”

“Okay.” You didn’t hesitate to let out, swallowing the hungered saliva that had built up in your mouth.

He unbuttoned your jeans, pulled the zipper down — painstakingly slow, but it allowed you time to brace your hands on the seat and the dashboard so you could raise your hips and let him slide them off you.

You were stuck in your head, but Art didn’t seem to notice since he was too busy folding your jeans and hanging them over the open car door. You dared question it through a heavy breath but he just moved on to your panties, throwing them precariously on the dashboard and exposing your glittering cunt to his bright eyes.

“We shouldn’t —“ It was a half-assed attempt at reconciling with your guilt, but the fact that you were half naked and spread eagle made it lose its meaning.

Art shushed you, kneeling down so he was looking at your pussy, “We can, and we will.” Then he glanced back at you, brow arched, “Unless you don’t want to.”

Any sense of rationale had fucked off when he put his hand on your leg, so you swallowed and said, “I want to.”

He wasted no time, licking a thick stripe from your asshole to your clit. You knocked your head back with a gasped moan, bucking into him and hissing when the gear stick poked you in the back when you led back too far.

You let out a shaky breath as he lapped you up, tongue dipping inside of you before travelling up to that sweet spot and sucking at it gently. You gasped and moaned, hands scrambling between holding yourself up and holding him down. His own were resting on your thighs — his calm and collected demeanour was a drastic contradiction from your own.

His head nodded calmly between your legs, relaxed in its position — yours, shaky and tense all at once, neck bracing whenever you fell back. His hands tapped soft melodies on your skin whereas yours tightened around whatever was in their old, whether that be the leather of the seats or the blonde of Art’s hair.

When he finally came up for air, his chin was coated in your slick, and he licked his lips clean before straightening up above you. You watched, paralysed, while he unbuckled his belt, threw it over the door with your jeans, and sent you a look under his lashes that you’d only seen him wear during his tennis matches.

You had been keeping quiet earlier, but when he bottomed out inside you and started to piston, your mind went wild. Choruses of Oh my God and Fuck!, shouts of Art’s name and whimpers under your breath — it all came tumbling out and you couldn’t even try and stop it.

Not that you wanted to; your vocality seemed to make him go faster, harder. It made him vocal, no longer calm and relaxed as he had been when eating you out, but loud and gruff. Grunts and moans you had dreamt about hearing outside of a television screen, now being huffed into the air you shared.

You came with a whine and Art followed not long after, and you settled there for a moment — legs spread in his passenger seat with him standing between them — until you could muster up the strength to push yourself up.

Five minutes later and you were both dressed, Art’s black jeep parked outside of your apartment building. You hadn’t exchanged any more words, but when you turned to slam the door once you had jumped out, you found his eyes on yours.

“I have a game this weekend. Two hours out. Tashi wanted you to come. A gift, for all you’ve done for us.”

(You went to the game. Art won. Tashi grinned like she’d made it happen and then offered to buy you a drink).

divider by @cafekitsune !!

#art donaldson #art donaldson x you #art donaldson x reader #art challengers #art donaldson smut #babysitter!reader #challengers #challengers movie #@lia’s works #tashi duncan

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rosesaints · 14 days

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✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* game, set, match!

pairing: gojo satoru / f!reader / geto suguru rating: 18+ explicit (minors, do not interact) word count: 6.0k warnings: heavily inspired by challengers, infidelity, freaks matching each other's freaks, threesome, fingering, fem receiving!oral, feral geto and gojo, size difference, pussy eating, so much sexual tension it's crazy

SET ONE

G. Satoru: 0-0

G. Suguru: 0-0

It’s the final match of the U.S. Open.

You sit front row center at the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, shaky hands fiddling with the hem of your white dress. You force them to still, eyeing the sparkling spectacle of a diamond ring on your finger before looking up to see a few cameras pointed at your spot on the sidelines. It makes you sit up straighter, chin held high.

Journalists have become increasingly brutal these days, especially after your marriage to Geto. There are articles upon articles that have cemented your reputation as this unbreakable, unreadable coach—you will not sacrifice that today.

When you finally spare a glance at the court, you know that this is unlike any other match you’ve seen before. Their long standing rivalry finally comes to a glaringly tense standstill as they prepare for the toss.

There, on opposite sides were two of the greatest tennis players in the world standing across from each other from opposite sides of the net, looking like they’re about to fight to the death.

The tension is palpable; you can feel it in the way the linesmen on the court stand stick straight under the blistering heat of the sun, the ball boys crouching low to the ground, ready to run for the ball at any moment like a taut string waiting to snap. The umpire presiding high above the court in his chair clears his throat. “Gojo Satoru has won the toss. Electing to serve first.”

Gojo Satoru is the best player the world has ever seen. The strongest, the most decorated by nearly every measure, a talent that this generation has never seen before, powerful, proud, confident.

There’s countless documentaries and books about his playing style, his life on the court, off the court and he holds millions of dollars worth in sponsorships, and he carries himself with the easy knowledge that there’s no one else in the tennis world who can even come close to challenging him.

(It’s the life you could’ve had.)

He sees you at the edge of his periphery, and grins at the familiarity of it all. Once again, your two boys on the court, like they’re playing for a chance with you all over again. It doesn’t go unnoticed by your husband, eyeing the destination of Gojo’s gaze. It makes him grip his racket tighter, knuckles going white.

When you found your way back to Geto all those years ago, he was already an amazing player in his own right but he was always stuck under Gojo’s shadow during his years as a junior. He had been content to take Gojo’s seconds.

But with you—Geto crept quietly and restlessly up the tennis world rankings during the past five years, deceptively and quietly taking home slams of his own underneath Gojo’s vast shadow until he became a true rival. It’s the first time that they’ve faced off in years, and you would be a liar if you said it doesn’t have your heart drumming in your chest.

Whether it’s from fear or excitement, you cannot say.

You know Geto like the palm of your hand. Geto’s opponent knows him like the other piece of his soul.

Gojo bends his knees. He knows all of Geto’s weaknesses, strengths, exactly what makes him tick. Which is why he goes for the underhand.

For a moment, the ball suspends in the air, and with a snap of his wrist, sends a red hot 160 mph serve towards Geto. His serve is short, low, fast, and wide. It whips so quickly that Geto has to scramble to meet the ball, but he receives it with just as much startling power—an intense volley begins.

A few days ago, Gojo animatedly and vividly described all the ways in which he intended to deliver a swift and decisive victory in his favor. The column of his throat had bobbed as he laughed, head falling back, as if this was nothing serious to him, something expected and guaranteed. “I plan on decimating Getou Suguru.”

You let your eyes close and exhale.

You know Geto’s more than capable of stepping to the challenge. You wouldn’t have coached him, wouldn’t have accepted his proposal, and taken his last name if you didn’t think so. But one glance—

On Gojo’s side, you make eye contact with a certain pale-haired man that’s been staring daggers at you the whole day. He looks straight through you with an intensity that would make any other person tremble. His eyes are aflame, daring and demanding you to see him.

A split second, and—you remember the way his warm breath lingered on your neck the night before, the desperate way you clawed onto his back, moaning, crooning his name as if it was the only language you knew. Gojo’s maneuvering one of your legs onto his shoulder to reach you deeper, and you’re close, getting oh-so-close, and the smug son of a bitch knows it. Licks a hot and downright filthy stripe up the shell of your ear, causing shivers to reverberate throughout your spine.

You can still feel his sharp grin on your skin, goosebumps following the trail of your thoughts.

That’s the thing about Gojo. He demands, demands, and demands, restlessly and unequivocally. It’s what initially drew you and Geto to him in the first place, a painstaking desire to become the best.

It’s an intense moment, causing you to sit ramrod straight for just a moment, until you feel another set of eyes on you. Your husband. Geto’s jaw tenses.

When it’s Geto’s turn to serve, you gaze at the strengthened profile of his back, as if renewed. He’s given two balls with ease, gripping one silently, tossing the other one back, frowning as he faces his opponent. Dribbles the ball. Gets into the position to serve. You know that frown. (You wore that frown nearly seven years ago. You were good, really good. But that was a long time ago.)

For a moment, you inhale in anticipation, as he lets the ball up in the air. It almost feels like he’s going to serve it to you.

─────── · ·

Seven years ago. Japan Open Boys Doubles Final.

“40–30.”

The sun is unforgiving at this time of the day. It’s scorching hot, and Geto feels a sheen of sweat drip down his forehead to his upper lip, then to the hard ground underneath him. If he had to guess, there were about a hundred people in the stands. To his front, Gojo’s in the receiving stance, eagerly shifting his weight between the balls of his foot in anticipation.

Under the rays of the sun, back rippling with glorious tension, fingers thrumming on the handle of his racket, he thinks that Gojo looks magnificent.

It’s the final set, and they’re at match point. Geto’s muscles ache under the strain of a long, long match and he’s ready to get this over with.

He steps up to the line and prepares to serve, and he knows that Gojo’s grinning ear to ear, crouched low to the ground. The weight of the ball is light in his fingertips. Let’s win this, he remembers his words from earlier that morning. And let’s win every damn game together after.

To everyone else watching, Geto is a beautiful player. He’s all methodical and precise strokes, he can hit a mean groundstroke, and sometimes his serves can reach 120 mph. There are dozens of colleges who have sent him offers and he reckons that he’s up in the rankings after their performance this week.

But he doesn’t even begin to hold a candle to the beauty with which Gojo plays. He’s wild and intuitive in each shot, dive, slice. There are nights when he obsessively plays back the ways that his best friend plays, and his heart aches.

Haven’t you ever wanted to be number one?

He serves the ball and watches as it soars to the other side of the net. The other doubles pair receives.

Geto is faced with the fact that Gojo is something else, simply on another level: he’s an absolute monster on the court, adaptable and innovative with his racket in ways that have never been seen before. He watches, entranced as his partner moves like a rocket, rapidly zipping the tennis balls on his side of the court, collapsing the other duo’s defenses. They’re getting tired and sloppy, and he knows the end is near.

Years of playing together have led them to a mindless, easy synchronization, in the middle of a ruthless volley. It’s so easy to get lost when it’s with Gojo. Somebody once asked the two of them during a conference after a game about how they reached this point of trust and telepathy.

Gojo had cackled then, shrugging lightly. “We’re just better at tennis.”

It’s Gojo who wins them the game with a brutal dropshot. Geto can hear their opponents’ hearts stop in their chests.

“Game, set, and match, Geto and Gojo,” The umpire reads off their victory as Gojo rushes toward him, absolutely vibrating with glee. It takes him half a second to jump into Geto’s arms, and he allows himself to breathlessly laugh and bask in what they’ve accomplished together. Above him, Gojo is cupping his face and looking at him with so much pride and adoration that it makes his heart tumble into knots.“Two sets to one, seven-one, seven-six, six-two.”

They fall to the ground together, and they come up as Japan’s Junior Boys Doubles Champions.

Geto can’t help but grin and lean into Gojo as they face the ESPN camera crew for the hundredth pose in a series of photos that will no doubt be hung on their coach’s wall. For the first time that week, the air is light and nothing is wrong or bad in the world, and they have just become winners. He knows there’s another match tomorrow, and they’ll have to face off against each other, but for now, he savors the moment.

If Gojo’s hand lingers around his waist for longer than necessary, he pays no heed to it and continues to smile for the camera.

After the blur of post-game interviews and a few quick calls to family and friends, they become lucid again at the concession stands, each with a soda nestled in their respective trophies and a hot dog on one hand. “A toast,” Gojo raises his hotdog proudly and he can’t help but join him in this silly little gesture. “To a well-fought game.”

“A well-fought game,” Geto grins for the thousandth time that day. “And to many, many more.”

That grin promptly falls when Gojo wiggles his eyebrows at him in the infuriating way that he does when he wants to get up to no good. “No.”

“I haven’t even told you yet!”

“Whatever it is,” Geto begins to rise and collect the rest of his items, Gojo following in suit, albeit with a slow childishness that has remained even after they left elementary school. “I know it’s not gonna be good.”

“Come on!” His partner pleads, voice raising an octane in a way that he thinks works on Geto. It doesn’t. “There’s this Nike clothing line party happening tonight and there’s supposed to be free alcohol—”

“You know I don’t drink.”

“There’s going to be hot people.”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” Geto raises an eyebrow and begins to walk back towards the outdoor courts. “And besides, I want to make sure I’m ready for our match tomorrow.”

“Seriously?” Gojo looks at him as if he’s grown an additional head, like the very concept of practicing for their match is a foreign concept. He’s not sure if the thought of that is comforting. “We play together all the time. If I throw the match, will you go?”

He acts like the mere suggestion doesn’t offend him. Gojo can take the loss tomorrow and barely drop a sweat in the rankings, but the thought of a manufactured win makes his fingers twitch.

“Absolutely not,” He shoots his friend a glare, but lightens at the way Gojo deflates. “But you should just go. Really.”

Gojo pouts. “It’s not going to be fun without you there though.”

They’re full and sated by the time they return to the same court to observe the Girls Singles final, and to Geto’s surprise, the people in the stands have seemingly doubled. It’s a task in itself to find a couple of empty spots in the bleachers, and when they do, they’re crammed in between two sets of families.

Just in time, the overhead sound system booms with the announcer’s voice, “Now entering the court, all the way from Kyoto, girls singles number eight is Utahime Iori!”

There’s a series of polite claps as a slender girl with long black hair exits the tunnel, and they watch as the girl smiles and waves to the crowd, a familiar image of the prim and proper girls they’ve encountered before at boarding school. Nothing exciting.

“I still seriously think you should go to the party,” Gojo turns away from the girl, already bored. “We can leave within twenty minutes, shake hands with a few people, sneak a couple of hard seltzers, and then we’re done!”

He shakes his head, ready to squash any of Gojo’s hopes of going to this party, when the speakers announce your arrival.

When they catch a glimpse of you for the first time, it’s as if the world suddenly spins on its axis.

You’re eighteen years old and you’re on top of the world.

You step out on the court like it’s a NYFW runway, glistening with the newest pieces from your Nike tennis clothing line, unbothered and paying no mind to the dozens of cameras that click upon seeing you with an ease that’s acquired from winning. And you win a lot. There’s murmurs that you’re the next big thing, the next Serena Williams or Billie Jean King, Japan’s own wonder child, and somehow, Geto disagrees.

No, you’re your own thing entirely. You’re going to surpass them all.

Any words that were previously on the tips of their tongues have died out. Forgetting themselves, Gojo and Geto lean forward, entranced by the sheer magnetism you exude.

And as if you could feel the weight of their gazes on you, you look up and they’re blinded by the sun. For a moment, your eyes narrow and then hyperfocus. You smile at them.

That’s when Geto knew it was over.

They’re glued to every single one of your actions from that point on, no matter how miniscule. The way you place your racket bag next to your bench, the subtle way you adjust your necklace, and—Gojo gasps—how you stretch to near impossible angles, showing off legs that ripple with muscles that have grown over time. Internally, Geto groans. “Fuck.”

When the match starts, it becomes increasingly difficult to remember that there’s one other person on the court.

You make the person on the opposite side of the court all but disappear. Your signature move, a precise and powerful slice that is sharp as steel and oh so lethal. You’re forcing Utahime to play to your rhythm, to work for it, all the while barely breaking so much of a sweat. In the back of his mind, Geto comes to a slow realization that you play like the culmination of him and Gojo, raw, unfiltered talent mixed with undeniable control and discipline.

It’s absolutely breathtaking.

When you serve an ace that’s just right on the line to win the set, Utahime breaks down and slams her racket down on the ground repeatedly.

Geto looks down and realizes that Gojo’s hand is on his thigh.

The rest of the match is sealed at that point, and to no one’s surprise, you add the singles championship trophy to the storied collection that has to be growing exponentially in your home.

They find you afterwards at the junior players’ tent, positively beaming and surrounded by dozens upon dozens of reporters. You answer all their questions with frightening poise and confidence, and they’re struck once again that they may just be in the presence of someone great.

Someone like Gojo, Geto thinks distantly. Someone I can reach.

When the dust settles and the reporters finally flock from your side to discuss your clothing line with a Nike representative, you’re left standing merely a few feet away from them. That’s their cue.

“Hi, I’m Getou Suguru—”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“I know who you two are,” One side of your lips curls upward. “I’ve been hearing an awful lot of you guys the past few days.”

“Really?” At this, Gojo grins, but it’s similar to a lion baring its teeth. “Are you a member of the fan club?”

You hum. “Not yet,” Slowly, your gaze drifts to examine both of them from head to toe, and suddenly the room feels hot. “But maybe you can sign me up for a newsletter.”

Before Gojo, ever the opportunist, can retort, Geto feels the inexplicable pull to grab your attention by any means necessary. For the first time in years, he doesn’t know if he can share this with Gojo. “You were otherworldly.”

“Thank you.”

The words are tumbling out of his mouth without thinking, set on autopilot. It’s not like him to get flustered, to stumble over his words but the need to vocalize her impact is stronger than his will. “It was like watching a masterclass of the sport–it didn’t even feel like watching a sport, it was like a performance, like… like art.”

They can still hear Utahime’s sobs from outside the tent.

“You absolutely massacred her. It was kind of brutal,” Gojo says with no hint of pity or malice; if anything, he seemed proud.

“She’ll be fine,” You shrug. “It just takes her a moment. We’ve been playing each other for years, and she comes out better for it after every loss. Moments like these are gonna shape her tennis career.”

Geto bites back the retort that’s simmering on the edge of his tongue. Her career will be marked by a series of losses to you—she’ll be a footnote on the biographies that will be written in your name. Gojo beats him to it. “So you think she can beat you someday?”

“No.” You say the word like it’s an undisputed fact.

You and Gojo slip into an easy conversation and that’s when Geto starts to feel a bit pushed back, until you snap him back to reality. “You’re going to UTokyo right?”

“Yeah,” Geto furrows his brow in confusion, head still reeling from the fact that he’s even anywhere in your radar. “How’d you know?”

“I just committed. Figured I’d read up on the roster.”

Besides him, Gojo’s leaning forward in disbelief, as if the very notion of something so mundane and boring as college could possibly contain you. “You’re not going pro?”

You don’t even attempt to humor him. “Not for a while.”

“You could take home even more trophies, start going up against real opponents,” Gojo’s eyes are aflame with all the possibilities surging through his head. He looks at Geto like the very idea stings him. “Solidify your place as one of the best. Why stop all that momentum in its tracks?”

“Have you ever considered that I might want to learn a thing or two besides hitting a ball with a racket?” That makes both of them pause. Who chooses real life over tennis? Before they could probe further, a representative from ESPN is motioning for you to exit. If Geto visibly deflates, he tries not to show it. “I’ve gotta go do this interview, but there’s this little party going on tonight. You guys should come.”

“Yes!” Gojo lights up at the mention of the party, and the prospect of seeing you again. “We’ll be there!”

“Cool,” As you walk away, you look back at the two dumbstruck fools. “I’ll see you two around.”

They stand in that cramped tent for longer than necessary, processing the interaction and mulling your words over in their heads repeatedly, over and over again, until it becomes static noise. At the edge of his periphery, he sees Gojo lean against a table, positively beat and entranced for the first time in a long time.

Gojo sighs, blowing strands of white hair away from his face. “I’d let her fuck me with a racket.”

─────── · ·

There’s posters of you around the party in various states of athleticism. Some of you staring the camera down, looking like a force of nature with your racket in a position to swing. A few candids of you actually playing on the court, your forehead creased in a focused and determined frown. But there’s one in the center of it all that they’re drawn to.

He thinks he remembers this one. The match had been played at the back of his coach’s office once, and he thought back to the way your last name had flashed on the screen and paid it no mind. Your opponent was this girl on the precipice of going pro, and tennis critics and fans alike had remarked on the way you seemed to come alive.

You jumped to deliver a crushing blow, and he thinks you look like an angel.

On the other side of the room, you’ve been surrounded by adoring fans and interviewers alike all night, taking photos with your shiny new trophy, and every attempt of theirs to grab your attention has gone unnoticed. While they wait for their turn to be seen. Geto clears his throat. “How are we going to go about this?”

“What do you mean?” Gojo tilts his head, eyes still not breaking away from your form. “Go about what?”

“I don’t want to scare her off. We’re like two bulls in a china shop together. We’ll cancel each other out.”

Gojo weighs his words, and shrugs. “Two negatives and one positive make a positive.”

“That doesn’t even make sense—”

“Hey!” Suddenly, you’re approaching them very quickly, finally finding the opportunity to break away from the crowd. You’re wearing lip gloss, he notices, and his throat suddenly dries up. “You both made it.”

Gojo and Geto enthusiastically greet you back, and then there’s an awkward beat. None of you are really sure how to proceed. A hug feels too intimate, so you all settle for awkward little waves.

“I didn’t realize that your final match was tomorrow,” Your hands are on your hips, examining the two of them appraisingly. “Are you sure you don’t need to practice or something?”

“We both know how it’s going to go.”

Geto stares blankly at Gojo, like he could kill him, but he tries to regain his cool. “What Gojo means to say, is that we’ve been playing with each other for a long time. We know each other well enough not to sweat it.”

“All in good fun!” Gojo chirps in, all smiles and joy.

You raise an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Well, I’m glad you guys came.”

There’s a quiet, peaceful moment when all you do is stand there, relishing in the atmosphere of the party. Before you could cut that silence, Gojo beats you to it.

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

You know you shouldn’t. There’s sponsors you should probably talk to, your manager’s driving herself into a flurry, and your parents were already eyeing the pair with something along the lines of suspicion.

But your cheeks are aching from all the smiling and the way they’re looking at you, as if you held them in the palm of your hand is too tempting to ignore. You’re the number one junior girls tennis player in the world. Who’s going to stop you?

“Yeah,” You smile. “Lead the way.”

—

Their hotel room is shabby and dark and littered with half-empty bottles and takeout, which they scramble to hide and throw away as you keep examining the rest of the room. You see a polaroid of the two of them that must’ve been taken sometime during the tournament, Gojo gleefully leaning over Geto and striking a peace sign.

“Sorry about all that,” Geto rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, and it evaporates any sort of nerves you may have had on the walk over. “We weren’t really expecting company.” Gojo brings out a six-pack of beer and your night truly begins.

It’s unexpected how easily you open up to the two of them. It’s hard to develop peers in tennis, not when you simply function on another level, but you look at the two of them, really look at them and think that they might just understand. They look at you with nostalgia and a remembrance that you can’t explain.

You think it might be similar to how they feel for each other.

It’s only around midnight when you start to get antsy, and they can feel it too.

You’ve seen the way they stare. You’ve been dancing around it all day, willing yourself to stay painfully oblivious, but you can feel that delicate string of tension start to go taut, and you know that snap is coming.

When you rise, slowly, you can feel the way their gazes sear into your skin, committing you to memory. Gojo’s eyes travel throughout the length of your body, examining every part of you like it’s a revelation. Every inch of smooth skin, curves delightfully peeking out of the Juicy Couture set you have on, that necklace of yours you were playing with earlier.

But it’s Geto’s eyes that remain locked solely with yours, as if looking away would physically pain him. Otherworldly. Like a performance, like art, you thought distantly. He looks at you like there’s nothing else in the world that matters.

You hum. You’ve become even more painstakingly aware just how in control you are and it sends a rush of heat between your legs.

Without acknowledging either of them, you travel to the foot of one of their beds, sitting down with your hands on your lap. “Come here.”

“Which one of us?”

Gojo doesn’t even hesitate, taking his place next to you on the bed without question. It compels Geto to follow, sitting on the opposite side of him. You look over at the two of them sitting next to you, diligent and obedient and ready for what you have to offer.

Interesting.

It’s silent for a singular second as you appraise each of them, sincerely liking what you see. But there’s something that drags you into Geto’s orbit; it’s magnetic, it’s contagious, and it’s why you pull him to you first.

Geto kisses like he’s restrained, and it takes you lightly pulling his hair and bringing him closer to allow him to let loose, muscles going placid under your touch. He surprises you in turn, nibbling on the bottom of your lip before dragging his tongue to mash against yours and reaching towards your hips. You like this version of him a lot.

Behind you, Gojo gently holds your hips, his large and inhuman body fitting against yours as he waits not so patiently for his turn.

When you finally turn towards him, he’s unashamed, burning with desire and drinking you in like you’re the oasis in a dessert. It’s demanding and a lot, but you keep up with him anyway, demanding more from him in return, practically meshed together as you feel Geto snaking his hands up your stomach and appreciating the way his feather light touches leave goosebumps.

You pull back for a moment to look at both of them, really look at them, a part of you gets greedy. Whatever it is between the two of them, whatever you do next, will surely open the floodgates. The concern dissipates as fast as it comes.

There’s not a part of you that can bring itself to care, not when they’re looking at you with so much need and desire. Not when you can see just how badly they need this, need you, need each other.

When you all lock eyes, there’s an unspoken agreement. You all dive in together.

The three of you kiss like you’re all starving, all warm tongue and groans. Gojo’s caressing the curve of your cheekbone, gasping into your mouth, on the precipice of devouring you. You’re grinding yourself into him wherever you can get pressure against your center and you can feel the attacks on your neck, Geto’s hands beginning to undo the zipper on your pretty pink jacket.

Closing your eyes, losing yourself in the sensation of both men’s firm and strong bodies moving over your frame. At some point, you lean your head back on Gojo’s chest and feel calloused fingertips stroke down your throat and it causes your brain to short-circuit.

Geto runs his tongue over your lips, and nails press into your side. You moan, and it’s a small, light thing, barely audible, but Geto thinks he wants to keep that sound coming out of you for the rest of his life. He travels back to your neck and grazes blunt teeth against the smooth expanse of your neck and finds that he enjoys your sharp intakes of breath much, much more.

Your jacket’s long gone at this point, and you can feel two sets of hands starting to make their way into your sports bra. There’s so much sensation, so much desperation. It’s a competition to see who can force more sounds out of you.

Gojo runs his thumb across your nipple and gives it the same attention he’s been giving to your neck. The whimper that comes out of your lips is unprovoked, and you can feel the cruel smile forming against your hair.

When he pulls back, you whine, until you see that conniving glint in his eyes, like he knows something you don’t. You become hyper aware of his hands finding its way to Geto’s face, maintaining eye contact with you the whole time.

Eyes half-lidded and smiling, Gojo hungrily, deliciously tastes Geto and Geto alone, one hand reaching to wrap around one side of his neck and a hand making its way up your thigh and into your shorts, chuckling delightfully against Geto when he feels just how soaked you are.

You lick your lips, taking in the sight before you.

Geto clambers at Gojo’s face, his neck, his chest, burning with the need to touch all of him, all at once. He sucks at his bottom lip and bites, pulling more of those beautiful sounds from Gojo’s parted mouth.

When Gojo finally retreats, examining the mess he’s made of Geto, at his heaving chest and desperate groans, he turns back to you and smiles from ear to ear. “You want us to fuck you?”

You’ve already pulled off the rest of your clothes, tugging the shorts down your legs at a tantalizingly slow pace. But the way your chest is heaving is betraying the cool exterior you’re trying desperately to maintain. “Yeah.”

And just like that, they’re back to leaving scathing, hot and wet kisses up your neck, whispering so many obscenities in your ear that make your head spin.

You’re fucking amazing, you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, you, you, all you, so fucking sexy, want to fuck you right now, fuck you with Geto, make you feel our love.

Geto’s eyes are dark. “Say please. Show us how you want us.”

“Please,” You’re babbling, barely coherent, and the sound is lost amid the noise. “Oh god.”

In a rare state of lucidity, you took one of their hands and put it right where you needed them, forcing their palm to cup you between your thighs, grinding so deliciously and whimpering at the small bit of friction you taste. And then another hand—at this point, you can’t keep track of who’s where, it’s a mess of limbs and breaths and you can’t find it in you to care—strokes against your slit, teasing and rubbing and purposely providing you with little to no relief.

You need more. “Satoru—”

Gojo sighs, drunk off of the way you feel, and slides one finger in with no resistance. “God, you’re so ready for us.” You tilt your head back and let your hair fan out on the pillow behind you, whining and mumbling and reaching for any semblance of sanity.

When you look back to the two of them, they’re tangled in each other’s hair and grasping each other with such devotion and need, but it’s when they look back at you with those dark eyes, pupils blown wide with desire and slowly start to descend together that your heart drops in your chest. “Just relax.”

Breathy and exasperated, you nod. You’ve never been this wet and you’re all worked up, so sensitive that Gojo chuckles at what he finds underneath, in awe. “I think we gotta help our girl out, Suguru.”

“Mhm.” Geto seals his lips around your cunt and your back arches off the bed. He was so gentle earlier, but the way he’s sucking, moaning, and dragging his tongue back and forth is rough and unpredictable. Paired with the way Gojo’s other hand is roaming the expanse of your body, playing with your chest, rubbing soft circles around your thighs, while the other is locating the sensitive spot inside you, and it’s too much.

Too much, too much, too much, too much, too much, too much—-

You’re pulled away from your delirious thoughts when Gojo comes into your periphery, as if sensing the way you’re slowly floating up into the abyss. “Stay with us.”

The noises spilling from where Geto’s seated underneath you, lewd and graphic and coupled with his delighted moans makes your mouth hang open. The ascent is nowhere near like the slow, building pressure you’ve felt with other partners. Instead, it’s liquid fire, lightning that threatens to pull you under at any moment.

Gojo hits a rhythm that has you singing, needy and desperate and you don’t recognize the way you beg for release, so different from the tough exterior you put up earlier during your match.

Geto spits into the mess between your thighs, nasty and unprovoked. And then you’re breaking, crying out, hips jerking with such an intensity that you know you’re going to be sore by tomorrow.

When you come to, chest panting and eyes dazed, the desire to return the favor bypasses any exhaustion. “Your turn.”

─────── · ·

SET ONE

G. Satoru: 6

G. Suguru: 2

Tennis was Gojo’s first love. Geto was his second. And then you became his last.

Gojo can’t lie. He’s having the most fun he’s had in ages—the scene unfolding in front of him was delicious. From the opposite side of the court, he’s just provoked Geto Suguru to his first point penalty of his career, a far cry from the composed and stoic persona that he’s cultivated with the media these days. He watches, satisfied, as Geto finally, finally releases all that tension, all that anger beautifully and beats his racket mercilessly to the hard concrete.

It’s a sight that brings him so much joy. It’s like seeing someone you haven’t heard from in a long time.

On the sideline, you’re watching your husband, transfixed. It’s subtle but he can see it in the way your chest descends and ascends in rapid successions, barely there but he knows. Geto’s perfect and pristine wife and manager, the former undisputed queen of tennis, and he’s got you playing into his game.

No one ever talks about the beauty or grace of tennis anymore. There’s glimpses of it in the way Geto plays. On late nights when he can’t sleep, he plays back your old tennis matches. But on this court, he’s determined to carve it out of both of you once more.

The only thing he has left to do is guide Geto to redirect all those emotions, all that passion back to the game. But he believes in him. He has full faith that the game will only get much sweeter from here.

He knows, like an immovable, unstoppable force, that he’s probably going to win today.

So Gojo takes the first set, but they have all day. He eyes his opponent across the court and sees Geto grin, but it’s more like a baring of teeth. There you are. Welcome back.

#she's unedited and messy and not the greatest but I NEEDED THEM TO MATCH MY FREAK #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo x reader #gojo smut #geto suguru #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru smut #geto x reader #geto smut #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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fandom · 19 days

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Bridgerton Season 3: Colin's Monogamy Era

The friends-to-lovers trope is in full effect on the latest season of Bridgerton (if Colin has anything to say about it), but fans will have to wait until next month to see how it all plays out. The latest chapter of Jujutsu Kaisen left fans feeling confused and hopeful, but mostly confused. Interview With The Vampire is back for a second season with all the immortal gay flair we’ve come to love and expect. And, a tennis match for the ages, Challengers made sports fans of us all. This is Tumblr’s Week in Review. This is Tumblr’s Week in Review.

Bridgerton

Dungeon Meshi

Artists on Tumblr

Palestine

Polin | Penelope Featherington & Colin Bridgerton, Bridgerton

Interview With The Vampire

Doctor Who

Marcille Donato | Dungeon Meshi

Laios Touden | Dungeon Meshi

Fantasy High: Junior Year

Falin Touden | Dungeon Meshi

Challengers

Jujutsu Kaisen

Supernatural

Colin Bridgerton | Bridgerton

Penelope Featherington | Bridgerton

Izutsumi | Dungeon Meshi

Hazbin Hotel

Batman

House of the Dragon

#week in review #05/20/2024 #bridgerton

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solemnarration · 9 days

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𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter one

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and you’re forced to embrace a life in the sport you’ve been too afraid to claim for yourself. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, descriptions of anxiety, swearing, allusions to controlling mother, use of y/n 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: y/i means your initial of your first name. i hope you enjoy the first chapter!! 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒’ 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 – 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟗, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟔

Waiting in the entrance corridor that led to the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, you nervously fiddled with the homemade friendship bracelet on your wrist, an anxious habit you picked up over the years. The snapping of the elastic band on your skin distracted you from your spiralling thoughts.

You were a whirlwind of nerves and compulsive overthinking.

Even though you knew with certainty how the match would go that day, you couldn’t shake the anxiety that pulsed through your body before every game.

MOTHER: Duncan’s backhand is going to win her the whole damn Championship if you don’t get your act together.

DAD 🩵: I love you, win or lose. Have fun with Tashi and call me when it’s over! Best of luck. Hugs, Dad.

Making friendship bracelets before big tournaments was a tradition your dad started when you were eleven. It let you relax before nerve-wracking events and allowed you to spend time with your dad amidst your busy schedules. Surprisingly, it ended up being a fun, creative outlet as well. You enjoyed focusing on the details of something other than tennis, and sharing it with your dad only made it more special. Given how many years you had to practise, you were good at creating intricate patterns and now had a vast collection of bracelets. Most of them had your name, Tashi’s name, “Dad,” and the year and location of your favourite tournaments and memories on them.

The bracelets were your good luck charms, and you were comforted by the weight of the beads on your wrist.

The one you wore that day had a T and Y/I interwoven amongst pretty beads, creating deep pink and white flower shapes. They represented the stargazer lily, your favourite flower. You made the same bracelet for Tashi to wear during the US Open Junior Championships, and her beads were light and dark purple to represent her favourite flower, the sword lily. The meanings behind your favourite flowers were accurate for your roles in the friendship, given that Tashi’s sword lily – technically not a lily at all but an iris – represented strength, victory, and pride. Your stargazer lily represented innocence, purity, and prosperity. She was the heated tennis champion, while you were her gentle, equally successful friend.

The two of you thought it was perfect. Having your favourite flowers be lilies was just one of the many invisible strings that tied the two of you together.

Your father used to say that you and Tashi were the sun and the moon, and you had to agree. Tashi was fiery and outgoing, dominating the tennis world, just as the sun dominated the sky. Passionate and intense. You strived out of the spotlight and were introspective in a way that added serenity to your friendship. Warm-hearted and gentle. “The most important part is the balance,” your father would say when you grumbled how Tashi’s attributes sounded better. “The sun and the moon represent harmony. Together, they are day and night. Work and rest, visibility and mystery, rationality and emotion. Beginnings and endings.”

Perhaps that was why your life felt bookended by meeting and falling out with Tashi. It was the beginning and end of your adolescent life and the reason you made such drastic changes when your friendship ended. You couldn’t be the same person without her.

In the corridor, you could hear the crowd getting restless. Each shallow breath you took caught in your throat, and your anxious thoughts swirled like a tornado in your mind. The spectators were rightfully excited for the beautiful game of tennis they were promised if Tashi Duncan was playing. The fact that you, her talented best friend, were playing in the finals against her had them lapping up the match like they were starved for entertainment. In many ways, you supposed they were. The Junior Championships were dull without you and Tashi bringing the heat, and your matches turned the traditional game into a glittering spectacle of excellence.

Somewhere in the stands, Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig nursed disposable soda cups and waited for the match to start.

“Don’t you want to meet Tashi Duncan and Y/N Y/L/N?” Patrick wondered, shocked by Art’s indifference to attending the Adidas party that evening. While Art went to the Junior Girls’ Final to see fresh talent in their sport, Patrick knew something far more exceptional awaited them. Art burped, and Patrick stared in disbelief. “You don’t get it, man. You’ve never seen them in person. They’re in another league,” he insisted.

Art glanced down at where Patrick’s knee pressed against his thigh. “You mean their game?” he asked sarcastically. Knowing Patrick as well as he did, Art was aware of the reason for his best friend’s obsession with Tashi Duncan and Y/N Y/L/N.

“No, I mean they’re the hottest women I’ve ever seen,” Patrick proclaimed. He was buzzing with an excitement Art rarely saw; Patrick was glowing. A devilish grin painted his lips, and his eyes darted across the court regularly in hopes of catching a glimpse of you and Tashi.

Answering your nervous prayers, Tashi finally joined you in the entrance corridor. “Hey!” She smiled, carefree and confident, like you weren’t about to play in the Junior Championship Final. The sun, you thought. She’s the sun. You wondered what it was like to shine so brightly and effortlessly. “Are you ready?” Tashi wondered, linking hands with you. Your friendship bracelets touched.

You sighed, squeezing her hand as you calmed your nerves. The crowd’s cheers faded in and out, interrupted by intermittent ringing in your ears. Your heart pounded, and you tried not to hyperventilate. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied reluctantly. Your doubts and fears were a suppressive weight, glueing you to the spot.

Tashi nodded encouragingly at you. She knew you weren’t as scared about playing the match as incurring your mother’s wrath afterwards. Her eyes scanned your expression as if it were the map to the inner workings of your mind. She had a sixth sense when it came to reading your emotions. “You’ve got this, Y/I. You’re a fucking tennis player, and you’re going to kill it,” Tashi declared, squeezing your hand back. “Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”

She inhaled deeply, motioning for you to follow her with her free hand. You complied, following Tashi as she exhaled slowly. “I’m a fucking tennis player,” you agreed when you caught your breath, trying to keep your voice from wavering. For now, a voice in the back of your head reminded you. It’ll all be over soon.

“And we’re going to play some fucking tennis,” Tashi added.

You chuckled. “Thanks, T.”

“Let’s go.”

As you entered the court, the umpire introduced the two of you, “Winner of the Junior Australian Open, Tashi Duncan!” The crowd cheered as you and Tashi stepped onto the blue hard court with intertwined hands. “Local star and runner up of the Junior Australian Open, Y/N Y/L/N!”

You let the adrenaline rush take over and smiled, waving at your audience as you approached the benches. The applause for you wasn’t quite as blaring as for Tashi, but your home base of New Yorkers was pleased and proud to have you representing them.

From his seat, Art watched with wide eyes as his breath hitched. He watched your lips curve into a grin and felt his cheeks and ears heat up. Seeing you had ignited an insatiable fire in his chest, spreading south quickly. You were like a masterpiece come to life, sending a jolt of electricity through his veins and his senses into overdrive. Patrick glanced sideways at him, empathising with the lovestruck expression on his face.

“See you out there,” you told Tashi, grinning before parting ways and setting your bag down. She pointed two fingers at her eyes before turning her hand and pointing to you, reminding you to stay focused on the game and not let anyone ruin it for you.

It was an appreciated gesture. Tashi had known you long enough to notice when your mind wandered anxiously. You were reminded that your mother was in the crowd examining your every move; each step you made was deliberately catered to appease her. As long as you did what she said and got through the tournament, you could breathe easy. You took a few sips of electrolyte water, stretched your body, took deep breaths, and practised the visualisation methods your dad taught you.

Art leaned forward in his seat, eyes trained on you and periodically flickering to Tashi as you both stretched. “Holy shit,” he murmured appreciatively as the flouncy skirt of your white Nike tennis dress revealed the curve of your ass when you bent over to touch your toes. Forget a moth to the flame. Art was like a starving, panting dog waiting for his next meal. He and Patrick had been silent since you and Tashi walked out, blatantly staring with parted lips, too entranced to clap with the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this final round match will be the best of three tie-break sets,” the umpire declared for the audience to hear. “To the left of the chair, from the United States, Y/N Y/L/N. To the right of the chair, also from the United States, Tashi Duncan. Duncan won the toss and elected to serve.”

At the umpire’s cue, you grabbed your racket and walked behind the baseline. Art’s eyes trailed you, admiring how your hips moved as you sauntered across the court. “Fuck,” he remarked. He didn’t think he’d ever looked at someone and thought they had a sexy walk, yet there he was, helplessly looking to Patrick for an explanation. What was it about you that made you so perfectly captivating? “Patrick…” Art trailed off, powerless to your elegant charisma.

His best friend only laughed. “Just wait until you see them play,” Patrick warned Art eagerly.

Behind the baseline, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You envisioned yourself flawlessly executing aces and volleys, being deliberate with your movements and not getting hurt. Positive visualisation was something you started doing recently when your anxiety got the best of you, but you never pictured yourself winning. Not when you played against Tashi.

For a moment, right before the match started, it was just you and your best friend smiling at each other from across the court with an unspoken understanding. No matter how it went, you had unwavering love and support for each other. You were beyond rivalry, and tennis connected you rather than drawing a line between you. This was one of your favourite moments in tennis: the calm before the storm, the moment of anticipation when nobody knew how the match would play out.

Not you, though. You always knew.

“First set, Duncan to serve.” The umpire motioned to Tashi. “Ready? Play.”

Nothing could have prepared Art and Patrick for the match they were about to watch.

You crouched, waiting for your best friend to serve. Just as it had the day you first met Tashi, her backhand was like a sledgehammer strike each time she vaulted the ball over the net.

“Look at that fucking backhand,” Art groaned appreciatively at Tashi’s powerful two-handed backhand. Patrick merely shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.

At one point in the rally you hit wide, and the ball flew out. The umpire called, “15–love, Duncan.” Everyone applauded the point.

You gained the next point when Tashi hit the net. 15–all. Even though Tashi had that lightning-fast backhand, your rallies were thrilling and beautiful. Tashi took the first game, and then it was your turn to serve.

This was where you thrived.

You bounced the ball on the ground a few times before taking a deep breath, tossing it in the air, and firing it over the net so quickly that Tashi and the audience barely saw it coming. Your serve was quick as a whip, and Tashi couldn’t return it. An ace. A murmur rang through the crowd as the monitor displayed the speed of your serve: 120 miles per hour.

Art nearly whimpered, “Holy fuck!” He’d never seen a girl his age fire a serve that powerful, precise, and fast. Art shifted in his seat.

Patrick sighed reverently. “I think I just came,” he quipped.

You took the first set, 6-4 in your favour. Tashi took the next. The final set had everyone in the stands on the edge of their seats, waiting to see how things went. You and Tashi were stuck in a 6-6 tiebreaker, and this next point would decide the game. If you won this point, you would play another set to determine the winner of the match. If Tashi won, she would win the US Open Junior Girls’ Singles Championship Final.

There was an electric energy in the air, and Art and Patrick could hear their heartbeats hammering in their ears. The game unfolded remarkably. Everyone held their breaths in anticipation as Tashi served. You returned each stroke with precision and power, allowing the thud of the ball to echo through the court intermixed with your grunts.

It was a moment of pure bliss.

For once, you weren’t thinking of your mother or her overbearing expectations of you. All you could focus on was you, Tashi, and the ball floating between you. The tension was palpable and thick; nobody in the audience knew how they wanted it to go. Tashi was the clear fan favourite, but her losing this point would mean at least another half-hour of watching the two of you play. Nobody could deny that would be a gripping end to the match.

As if ignited by a rush of raw determination, Tashi struck the ball and sent it soaring across the court, kissing your baseline and winning her the entire match.

With a primal, reverberating roar of passion, Tashi crouched, clenched her fists, and screamed, “Come on!” Her voice echoed through the court, thundering above the crowd cheering for her.

Everyone present knew they’d seen something phenomenal, and they weren’t sure what to do now that it was over.

"Game, set, and match, Duncan. Seven games to six in the final tie break,” the umpire said over the clamour.

You laughed, dropped your racket, and shrieked when Tashi leapt over the tennis court to pull you into a hug. Breathless and sweaty, you wrapped your arms around your best friend and giggled deliriously. All your matches with Tashi were fantastic, but this was one of the most riveting. You pulled away enough to exchange bright smiles, heart pounding with exhilaration from the intense match. Your spirits were high, mirroring Tashi’s excitement and revelling in the knowledge that you had fun and entertained the crowd. For you, that transcended the outcome of the game.

“Now that’s tennis,” Patrick commented, giggling giddily.

Art got to his feet and clapped, speechless.

“Congrats, T! You just won the goddamn Junior US Open,” you exclaimed, lightheaded from the adrenaline rush. After the gruelling match, you felt your muscles twitching from the exertion. Your body was drenched in sweat, physically and emotionally exhausted by the demands of the sport you and Tashi dedicated your lives to.

Tashi chuckled, beads of sweat dripping from her temples. “Who cares? You just showed me that you’re not ready to give up on tennis yet,” she retorted, smirking triumphantly. You opened your mouth to argue, but Tashi shook her head. “I know you think you want to quit but you haven’t even given yourself a chance yet! Think about it, your mom isn’t going to be riding your ass when we’re at Stanford. You might just fall back in love with it,” she pointed out.

You rolled your eyes and smiled fondly at her. She meant well by encouraging you to keep up with tennis, but nobody could convince you to keep going.

When you and Tashi turned to bow and wave at the crowd, Patrick stood beside Art. “What time did you say the Adidas party was?” Art asked, wonderstruck.

Patrick’s lips curled into a brazen smirk, like a cat that had just caught the canary, and his eyes sparkled with a knowing gleam. “I knew you’d come around.”

𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍, 𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐀 – 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟕, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗

“We need to get you some more match time, then,” Tashi decided. She and Art were sitting in their hotel room in Atlanta after his crushing defeat by a French teenager. Grabbing her phone, she checked what other tournaments were happening before the US Open.

“I can play Cincinnati,” Art protested, not wanting Tashi to pull him out.

“No. No, you cannot. Not like this,” Tashi disagreed. It wasn’t that she would be embarrassed if Art lost; she loved and respected him more than his wins. It was the fact that she knew he had more in him. More fight and more passion. Tashi just needed to find a way to reignite the flames. “Okay, how about--” she paused. New Rochelle, New York. Around the corner from where Y/N Y/L/N grew up and currently resided. Speaking of reigniting old flames… “How about New Rochelle?” Tashi proposed.

Art’s shoulders tensed. He exhaled shakily, mind immediately going to you. Tashi wasn’t oblivious to how her husband had a visceral, physical reaction whenever you were brought up. The last time either of them saw you – really saw you up close – was three years ago at the French Open, the year you and Art took home the Singles titles. Art and Tashi were invited to the Nike afterparty celebrating your second French Open Singles win in 2016. Tashi thought Art would faint at the rate he held his breath each time he saw you. His hands clutched the table whenever you laughed; it was like his hands itched to reach for you, like a bee drawn to the sweetest flower.

“That’s a Challenger,” Art stammered, trying to change the subject.

Even though he tried to keep his mind off you, his thumb subconsciously traced the friendship bracelet on Tashi’s wrist. It was one of the many bracelets Lily made for her, a skill their daughter learned from her father.

Tashi recalled when you were teenagers, and you tried to get her to make bracelets with you. You must have convinced her to do it a handful of times, but she never had the patience to focus on anything except tennis and gave up every time.

The only person who ever took the time and care to make you a bracelet was Art Donaldson.

Tashi ignored his obvious shift in topic. “Yeah, I know that. It’s in a couple of days. Maybe we can get you a wildcard,” she suggested. Art scoffed quietly, averting his eyes and fiddling with the colourful beads on her bracelet. “Art?” He hummed nonchalantly. “You need to start winning,” Tashi told him firmly. Moments like these made it hard to walk the line between spouse and coach. “Right now, you’re getting crushed by guys like Du Maurier. So we need to go somewhere, where there’s absolutely nobody on the other side of the net who can shake your fucking confidence. Okay?” Tashi underscored the importance of the Challenger. “That’s why we’re going to--” she glanced at her phone-- “Phil’s Tire Town Challenger.”

Art chuckled. Even when he first started in the professional tennis world, he’d never gone to a Challenger with a name like that. “That’s the only reason we’re going to New Rochelle?” Art asked, smiling knowingly at Tashi.

She didn’t care that he’d caught on to her scheme. “You’re telling me you don’t want to see her?” Tashi retorted, raising an eyebrow at her husband. “If she was right in front of you, you’d just turn around and walk away?” Their silent exchange of glances spoke volumes, acknowledging the unspoken truth that he loved you. Amidst the tension, there was a quiet understanding between them. Tashi knew what it was like to have loved and lost you. Perhaps not in the same way as Art, but in your friendship that once meant everything to her. “Because I think you’d hold on and never let go of her again,” Tashi argued.

Art couldn’t disagree with her. After all, a man never forgets his first love.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: how are we feeling after this chapter?? i hope you enjoyed the way i incorporated the friendship bracelets and lilies (yes art and tashi named their daughter after the fact that your favourite flower is a lily asdfghjhkhl) thank you for reading xx

#challengers #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson #patrick zweig #tashi duncan #challengers x reader #challengers fanfic #challengers fanfiction #mike faist x reader #josh o connor x reader #art donaldson x you #art donaldson imagine #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig imagine #fic: guilty as sin?

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nuisancehelicopter · 1 month

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Yooooo

The dramatics of the snek 🐍

#chinapuri #chinese pot #match tennis juniors #lu xia #baiyang

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carajilloplz · 6 days

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Omg can u write a fic abt Art Donaldson and Patrick trying to hit on foreign exchange student!reader, could end in fluff or smut

no bc this is literally my fantasy i’m an international student at a D1 tennis school IM GONNA GO FERAL. loosely based off of my experience with the cornell men’s tennis team but we’re not talking about that.

warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI, patrick x international student!tennis player!reader, this might be bad i wrote this over the course of like 3 days and changed the plot completely lol, smoking and drinking, oral!male and female receiving, facesitting, technically cheating? vague but everything is morally dubious with these three, unprotected p in v, hair pulling

uh enjoy ig i hope it's not too bad

Tashi? You’d known her since forever. You attended the same tennis camp when you were girls and never lost contact. Having played a few matches during Juniors, you stayed pretty close. So when you saw her on your match schedule for the upcoming month, you shot her a text saying you had to go out together when you were at Stanford for the weekend.

Your match rolled around and you were definitely focused. Winning meant you stayed at the top of your conference, which wasn’t the ATP ranking but it was still important to you. So you trained, and hard. You were a good player, quick on your feet, and the training paid off in your first doubles game that weekend. Before your game, you got to catch a wave and a smile from Tashi sitting in the stands, next to a mousy-looking blonde guy and a very cocky brunette. You noted that the brunette was more your type, but the blonde was cute enough. Must have been Tashi’s friends.

You started your match, extremely harmonious with your partner, and you swiftly caught every ball headed your way. From the stands, Art and Patrick were shamelessly throwing around comments as they saw the ball bounce back and forth.

“She has an insane serve. I heard she’s like a tennis prodigy in her country.” Art gushes, getting cut off by Patrick quickly with “I don’t know how you’re paying attention to her serve when she has such nice legs. I’d like to have those wrapped around my head soon.”

Winning the game 4-6, you were happy with the result.

You watched Tashi play her doubles match, flawlessly annihilating your teammates. When the time came for yours and Tashi’s match, you felt the playfully challenging energy in the air. Patrick and Art were at the edge of their seats, and as the game started they both were practically drooling at the match. They couldn’t decide whether to look at you, or Tashi, or the ball. Both you and Tashi were smoothly tearing each other to shreds, grunting and running around, you always catching the ball just in time.

“I don’t know how she’s doing it but I think she’s going to beat Tashi” Art mumbles, slumped into his seat as he switched his focus from the ball, to the way you moved, to your figure.

“I call dibs” replies Patrick. He was staring at you too, staring intently and admiring the way your arm smoothly hit the ball with a thwack in a way that threw Tashi off.

“Don’t do that to Tashi.” mumbled Art again, playfully hitting the brunette next to him. He didn’t even take his eyes off of you. He knew too damn well that Patrick could not care less, and didn’t know whether to feel for you or Tashi. Pat and Tashi had been having a rough time anyways, so it was really a matter of time before either of them caved.

Finishing the match, you and Tashi gave each other a friendly hug. You noticed that the two boys that had been sitting with Tashi were rushing down to congratulate the two of them.

“Great game, babe.” The brunette said, giving Tashi a small peck. You noticed that she didn’t really appreciate the gesture. The boy turned to you, “And this is?”

Tashi introduced you, explaining that you went to tennis camp together, the whole history. “And these two idiots are Art and Patrick.”

“Nice to meet you too, you guys play tennis?” you ask, intrigued but it was kind of obvious.

Art answers before Patrick can open his mouth— “Yeah, I play here at Stanford too, I’m just injured right now,” he says, pointing to his shoulder, which had muscle tape peeking from the sleeve of his shirt. “Pat’s just… there.”

“Hey! I play too, dipshit. I’m playing the Miami Open in a few weeks.”

Tashi was done with her games of the day, and said she’d be taking a short break. “I’m going to take a shower and heading to bars later, want to come?” She asks.”You can come and get ready in my dorm with me.” You nod in approval, following them as you headed to the locker rooms. Patrick and Tashi were walking together as he was clearly rambling about something that she was unfazed by.

“So they’re a thing huh?” you ask Art, who was walking next to you.

“Yeah I mean, he comes to visit every once in a while but I don’t think that they’ve quite put a label on it yet.” He answers quite honestly, “She’s a very focused person.”

“I know, that’s why it was strange to me that she was with somebody.”

Art nodded in understanding, “I know, I say the same thing and they’re surprisingly sticking it out.”

“Honestly I don’t know how she does it.” you admit. The few times you had been involved with someone it went to shit because of your schedule.

“What do you mean? I thought Tashi said you were dating someone.” Art asks, furrowing his brow.

“Oh no, I broke up with him forever ago, he was on my team before he had to stop playing because of an injury. He’s a full-on NARP now and that really got in the way.” You scoff slightly, laughing to yourself and shaking your head. “Doesn’t seem strange to me that Tash wouldn’t check my Facebook, I’ve deleted all my posts with him since.”

“Yeah she’s like that,” muses Art. “Lives in her own world and we’re all moons revolving around it.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

After changing in the locker rooms and staying to watch the rest of the singles games, you headed to your hotel to freshen up a little to head to Tashi’s and get ready.

Walking over to the dorm, you run into Patrick, already wearing what you assumed to be his bar clothes — some jeans, nikes, and a gray shirt that says ‘I told ya’.

“Hey Patrick, you heading to Tashi’s?” you say amicably, trying to strike conversation with your friend’s…? You don’t know what he was.

“Yeah, you?” he asks, pulling out a carton of cigarettes and lighting one. Pat sends the pack your way as an offering “Want one?”

“Yes please, and yeah, I’m getting ready at Tashi’s for tonight. She’d said we would go to bars?”

Patrick goes to light your cigarette and you two continue your walk towards the dorm. “I think you look gorgeous just like that, but to each their own.”

You roll your eyes and fill the rest of the walk with small talk, which to your relief was a relatively short walk so it didn’t get too awkward. As you headed into the elevator, you went to press the button and couldn’t remember what floor Tashi had mentioned. “On what floor does she live?” You ask, as the elevator comes to a close. You could feel his eyes on you. Looking back at him, you catch him staring and give him a questioning look.

“Patrick?”

“6th floor”

A moment of silence passes between you two. He, of course, breaks it. “Your accent is cute. I don’t know, it fits you.” Patrick is very clearly snaking his eyes up and down your figure, and you didn’t know whether you wanted to stop yourself. “You’re not from around here are y-”

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Patrick, but you’re with my friend and that is not something I want to intrude in.” You snap. It felt a little mean but it’s not something you’d want to do to Tashi.

He snorts, laughing to himself and furrowing his brow, “I’m not with Tashi, if you haven’t noticed. She barely gives me the time of day unless she wants me to fuck her.”

You’re surprised at his statement, a little less so at his crass choice of words, but you realized that that’s the kind of person he was. Extremely conflicted with how to react, you noticed the lustful look in his eye and the little bite he gave the inside of his cheek. You couldn’t. You turned away and looked at the numbers of the floors go up excruciatingly slow. Pat hesitated, but at this point he had nothing to lose.

“If it raises the chances of you being interested in me, then no. For all intents and purposes I am not with Tashi.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Later that night, at some dingy college bar, both Patrick and Art were inquisitively leaning towards you and Tashi. You'd all had your fair share of drinks and there was something in the air, you didn't know what it was but it made you feel magnetic, especically towards Art and Patrick. You liked Art and everything, but you couldn’t help but notice how he would always be catching a look at Tash and sweeping in to mediate when she and Pat would begin a harmless spat. Patrick, on the other hand, had very much caught your eye. Something about him made you curious, maybe it was his nonchalance and light cockiness towards everything. But from your previous conversation, you now knew that he was clearly intrigued by you, leaning his head to the side like a confused puppy as he listened to you explain that you were an international student.

“Oh so you’re far far from home” He comments, “And you’re not from the US?”

“Don’t act too surprised Pat, a lot of international students come to US universities to play tennis.” you reply, “And yes, I’m pretty far from home”

He nods in understanding. “That’s cool, honestly. I’d love to visit and see what your country’s like.”

You smile back, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes and the liquid confidence taking over, “You can come anytime.”

Eventually, you and Patrick keep up the conversation, drinks flowing, and notice that Art and Tashi had disappeared, God knows where.

“Did they really leave us here?” Patrick asks, bewildered when he noticed that Art and Tashi were nowhere to be seen. You shrugged. “I mean, I don’t mind it to be honest. I had to head to my hotel so I would have been going back alone anyways.”

“I can’t let you do that, that’s dangerous.” Patrick said, quickly inserting himself as the hero of the situation. “I’ll take you to your hotel. Where are you staying?”

“Oh just at a Holiday Inn down the street.”

“No way! I’m staying in that one too,” he says. “C’mon I’ll walk you back.”

You don’t know if it was the drinks or the tension you still had from today’s game but somehow, you ended up making out with Patrick in the elevator on your way up to your room. Patrick’s lips clashed against yours, bringing you closely into his embrace as you two killed the time before getting to your room. You separated the kiss for a moment, looking Pat dead in the eye.

“Not a word to Tashi about this.”

“No worries baby, she wouldn’t even care. She’s probably busy doing Art right now. She prefers him.” he admits, shrugging unconcerned and leaning back in to kiss you.

Luckily, your room was one of the first ones accessible as you got out of the elevator, so you reached into your pocket as you both stumbled towards the door. You fumbled with the key for a moment as Pat left some kisses on your throat, lost in you and your every move.

Finally being able to open the door, you two connected in a kiss once more and clumsily moved towards the bed, clothes coming off sloppily. Bumping against the end of the bed, you and Patrick fall onto the soft and fluffy duvet, heavenly on your tired muscles, heightening the pleasurable sensations of Pat’s lips on yours.

His kisses were desperate, frantic, rushed, matching all the possible descriptive words for the way he was reaching at all of the grippable parts of you as he sloppily kissed you, teeth clashing. He was panting, and you were also desperately clawing at his t-shirt, moving your tongue against his and travelling your hands back into his hair. There was something about how the two of you just melded together, maybe fuelled by the underlying guilt of what you were doing, but also the insatiable need to blow off some fuckin’ steam.

You could feel how he was starting to grow hard in his jeans, starting to kiss your jaw and neck.

“Let me get on top, Patrick” you gasp, out of breath, pulling him back into the kiss and rolling over so you’re straddling him. He’s reaching up to you, grabbing your ass as you wrap your arms around his neck in order to keep him close. You start rolling your hips, bringing yourself to hit that sweet spot, easily accessible through under your skirt, and moaning into his mouth at the feeling. Gripping the edges of his shirt, he follows your lead of taking it off as you remove your top as well. For a moment he stops, slowly leaning back into his elbows, taking the sight of you squirming on top of him.

“Suck my dick.” He says, something so gluttonous yet pleading in his eyes. “Please.”

You look down at him, licking your bottom lip at the mere though of hearing his moans with your mouth on him. Nodding, slowly, you start kissing at his body, making your way down and occasionally looking back up at him. He’s got his head thrown back taking in the tenderness of your touch. You get to his jeans, tented up by his hard cock and start unbuckling his belt. Making your way through his layers, you reach into his jeans and start palming him, feeling how hard you had made him feel. You hear him moan shamelessly at this, saying your name and encouraging you to continue.

He starts pulling his jeans and underwear down, barely enough for you to be able to access his cock, which you grab in your hand and spit on, beginning to pleasure him. His moans are loud as you continue, licking his tip and sending him into a spiral, moaning a load of curses and your name. As you keep going, he starts tangling his hands in your hair and trying his best to get it out of your face.

“God, baby you look so good like that sucking my cock, fuck.” He groans, throwing his head back. You look up at him, and his blissed out expression just fuels you even more, his stomach muscles contracting and his eyes scrunching closed giving you more of a reason to keep bobbing your head up and down on his cock. You gag around him, your mouth already salivating and sloppy, and you went up to take a breath.

“Want to return the favor, Pat?” you ask, looking up at him through half-lidded, pleading eyes while you kept languidly stroking his cock. He took a single look at you and nodded.

“Yeah, of course baby,” he says as you sit up. “C’mon, get on me.”

You furrow your brow— “You want me to sit on your face?” You reply with a smirk, climbing up his body

He smirks back, “How else would I return the favor?” Pat leans in to give you one, long hard kiss, the taste of himself in your mouth making his dick twitch. “Can’t wait to taste ya, babe”

You giggle, straddling him as he moves backwards a little in order to reach under you. At the first contact his lips have with your throbbing pussy, you let out a surprised moan and you grip his hair. He grabs your hips, a strong grip pulling you down towards him and making you have to find support against the headboard.

“Fuck, Patrick that feels so good.” You moan, throwing your head back and leaning into his grip. You didn’t care if he suffocated right now, at this point what was of utmost importance was the pressure in your stomach building as he continued to run his tongue along your folds, taking his time to kiss at your sensitive clit. He really did know what he was doing.

“Patrick please, shit you’re gonna make me come.” He doesn’t budge, just pulls you closer and nods his head against you, speeding up his movements and making you a moaning mess, gripping at his hair and rocking your hips against his mouth to keep that momentum and buildup in your belly. Patrick clearly senses this, moving his tongue faster and more intensely.

“Cum, baby” you feel him mumble. Immediately at his words, you feel yourself snap and a rush of energy archs your back and makes you gush all over his face. He comes up, making you straddle him, and he smiles at you with his mouth still glistening with your release, looking voraciouslt at you.

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

Patrick brings you into a passionate kiss, once again sloppily coming together with him manouvering himself to be on top of you. All of your clothes had come off at some point, all of the contact had been so frantic, truly taking your mind off of everything else as you felt him on you. He was rock hard, still aroused from your blowjob, and he started nudging the tip of his cock on your entrance. You come back to your senses, pushing him away for a moment and giving him a look, which he quickly realized what it meant.

“Fuck I— I’ll just buy you a pill tomorrow.”

This was enough for you to give him a nod and make him start sliding inside you, letting out a heavy groan as he bottomed out. You let out a tense moan, grabbing at the bedsheets next to your head, and bringing your arms around his back as he began his thrusts, breathing hard into your neck, kissing it erratically between moans.

“You’re so tight, oh my God” He groans, picking up his pace, making you a moaning mess and pulling him closer to you. He was hitting a spot inside you that was bringing your orgasm back, the pressure in your belly building again as he roughly grabbed your hips. Patrick brought his lips back to yours, sloppily kissing you with tongue to shut your high-pitched whines up. “Don’t be too loud baby, your neighbors are going to complain.”

A solution clearly comes into his mind as he sits back and turns you around to be on all fours, the sudden force on you making you yelp as he pushed you down against the pillow. He teases his cockhead against your folds, then reaches down to speak wantonly into your ear. “Now you can be as loud as you want baby.”

At that, you melt in his touch and let out a long, languid moan at the feeling of him slipping into your cunt, sopping with your arousal and absorbing his hard thrusts. You scream into the pillow as the pressure in your core keeps building and his thrusts hit the right spot that send you into a delirium. Patrick is a moaning mess behind you, the obscene combination of sounds, skin against skin and pleasurable moans making him even more aroused. He’s harsh, pulling your hips to match his pace and you feel him reach up and pull your hair back, revealing your fucked out face to him. “Make me cum again, please Patrick.” you groan, rolling your eyes backwards in pleasure as he speeds up his thrusts, bringing you closer to your orgasm.

“Fuck, I’m going to come baby—” he moans, his thrusts made more erratic at the sensation of your cunt around him. You begin to feel yourself let go as he thrusts sloppily one, two, three more times and pulls out of you, coming all over your back. You collapse under him, and he kneels back to admire your gorgeous ass painted by his work. “Patrick, you better not tell Tashi about this.” He hears, mumbled tiredly from under your messed up hair. Shaking his head and rolling his eyes (because really, you were thinking about that now?), he gets off the bed, walking into your bathroom to grab a towel for your spent, cum-stained body.

a/n: hope u enjoyed ig !! took me forever lol but if you liked this would like to request some ideas you are more than welcome to !!

#patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #patrick zweig smut #tashi duncan #challengers

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callyourose · 22 days

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match point, chapter one.

↳ masterlist

⸺ In which Art and Patrick find themselves intertwined with the relationship of tennis superstar Tashi Duncan and her best friend, Lennon Caddel.

LENNON CADDEL WASN'T SCARED OF TASHI DUNCAN. I mean, she was her best friend. Sure, Tashi was rude to some, intimidating to most. But Lennon might have been the only tennis player at the US Open that year who wasn't scared of her. She had learned that following her best friend around like a lost puppy was the best tactic, and she had gotten pretty good at it. She loved Tashi, adored her. No matter how good of a tennis player Lennon was, sometimes even better than the superstar herself, she would blush and smile and shy away from any praise from her. Tashi was the one that everyone noticed. The way she dominated the tennis court, even in a duos match. The way she swung her braid over her shoulder post win, while her opponent was throwing a temper tantrum just across the net. Everyone was enthralled by her. And Lennon understood it because she was too.

"I'm just asking," Patrick said in between sips of Coke, standing in front of a poster of the stars of the evening, "If you had to pick, Lennon or Tashi?"

Art just shook his head. He and his best friend had been having this conversation for the better part of the day, beginning as soon as the girls finished their duos match. "I already told you dude," smacking Patrick on the back of the head, "I can't pick. I won't."

"Ever the feminist, Donaldson," the brunette replied turning his back to the posters and his friend. "It doesn't matter to me anyway. I'd let either of them fuck me with a racket."

Art tilted his head and raised his eyebrow, turning his neck to look at the boy next to him. A remark was on the tip of his tongue but he didn't get to start it before he was smacked on the shoulder and urged to look in the direction Patrick was pointing.

He turned his body fully, scanning the lawn to find what Patrick was so urgent he see. There, standing around a table, was the duo of the hour. Lennon and Tashi were only about 20 feet away from them. They were huddled together, whispering and glancing at... them? Art caught Lennon's gaze and Patrick caught Tashi's and the two girls looked away quickly, giggling to each other. Tashi pinched the outside of Lennon's arm, causing the girl to yell out an "Ow!" and laugh.

"Dude..." Art started, but Patrick was already in route. He was halfway to the girls before Art even had time to think.

Jogging to catch up, he was right by Patrick's side when he started with a "Hi."

The two girls froze before slowly turning around, Lennon's face was red and Tashi was biting back a laugh. "Hi," Tashi echoed.

There was a beat of awkward silence before Art jutted his hand out in Lennon's direction. "Art Donaldson," he introduced himself to Lennon before offering his hand to Tashi. Patrick followed suite with the introductions causing Tashi and Lennon to glance at each other and smile.

"We know who you are," the taller girl responded before bumping her best friend's shoulder.

"Oh yeah, we know all about Mr. Fire and Ice," Lennon winked and Art and Patrick were convinced they were going to faint right there. Tashi Duncan and Lennon Caddel were not only talking to them, but they knew them? This is what their dreams were made of.

"Uh..." Patrick started, unsure of how to respond before Art jumped in.

"You guys were fucking incredible today. Truly."

The girls bid their thanks and echoed their praises. The two best duos in junior tennis, magazines would call them.

It wasn't long before Lennon and Tashi's parents had to steal them away. Photos with their trophies and kissing each others cheeks were in order. Patrick and Art hung back, gazing at them in awe. Each boy had subconsciously chosen a girl that they had their heart set on, even if it wasn't obvious yet. You could see it in the way their stare lingered on one girl before moving onto the other. You could almost feel it in the air.

Patrick and Art lingered at the party for longer than they intended to. They wanted the opportunity to talk to the girls again; get one more glance at the expanse of Tashi's legs in her dress and the batting of Lennon's eyelashes. They were about to give up, but almost as if they read their minds, Lennon and Tashi descended the stairs and into the area where the boys were sitting. Patrick called them over, the duo whipping their heads in their direction before sharing a smile and heading over.

"You guys are still here?" Lennon asked, leaning into Tashi's side.

"Uh, yeah! Great party," Art responded. He was leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He might as well have had hearts in his eyes.

The girls shared a glance, and echoed their thanks. Both Art and Patrick were practically drooling in their presence. It was cute to Lennon, cute and embarrassing to Tashi. She was used to this.

"Don't you guys have a final in the morning? That you should be... I don't know. Resting for? " She asked, trying to have a real conversation. She was tired of the praises for the day.

"I mean, yeah," The boys looked at each other and shrugged. "But we pretty much know how it's gonna go."

Lennon and Tashi shared a look. It was getting late and even if Art and Patrick weren't going to rest, they were.

"We should probably-"

"You should come by," Patrick interrupted.

Tashi bit back a laugh. "Come by where?"

Patrick and Art scrambled to their feet. "Our hotel, he means. I, we, would love to talk about tennis with you guys. And Stanford. And..." Art glances them up and down, "Whatever else you want to talk about."

Tashi glances at her friend, who's already looking at her. There's a silent plea in her eyes, one only her best friend would be able to pick up on.

But Tashi grabs Lennon's hand and begins to pull her away with her. "Goodnight," she winks. Lennon waves them goodbye and turns in the direction Tashi is pulling her. The boys can hear them bickering quietly as they leave.

"Was that a yes?" Patrick asks.

Art keeps his back turned to him, his gaze still following the girls as they leave. "It wasn't a no."

#art donaldson smut #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #tashi duncan x reader #tashi duncan #tashi donaldson #patrick zweig #patrick zweig smut #patrick zweig x reader #challengers x reader #challengers #zendaya #mike faist #mike faist x reader #josh o’connor #josh o’connor x reader #05162024

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artdeco-zweig · 22 days

Text

hitting partners | patrick zweig

part one

patrick zweig. even the way his name sat in your mouth annoyed you. everything about him did, from his smug smirk, to his attitude he convinced everyone was charming. everyone but you. you saw right through him. patrick zweig was nothing more than a privileged rich kid who never had to work for anything he got. and even worse, he believed he deserved it.

you on the other hand, devoted every moment of your life, since you were 8 years old, to tennis. you breathed it. you worshipped it, like a god. your family wasn’t wealthy, but they were good enough off to afford a tennis coach for you, and your equipment. but that was it. you sacrificed every birthday, christmas, and any other gift worthy milestone for tennis. and you were good, great even, though still young, and bursting with potential. but you would never be a prodigy. where you lacked natural talent, you made up for in discipline and utter devotion to your craft.

something patrick zweig could never even begin to comprehend. patrick was passionate about tennis for all the wrong reasons. he wanted to be great, the best even. but he had no desire in becoming the best. there was no work ethic, no diligence. potential? sure, tons of it. but no backbone to fulfill it. patrick zweig played tennis like he thought the trophy already had his name engraved into it.

and now? now he was your hitting partner.

you had never spent much time considering a career plan besides tennis. for that reason alone, the idea of college never really excited you. you weren’t interested in playing girls with no chance of going pro. matches that didn’t challenge you felt like a waste of time, and a risk of injury not necessary to take. you wanted to be a tennis player, a professional tennis player. so you started touring as soon as you graduated high school and were eligible.

unfortunately enough for you; that was also patrick’s plan. you first bumped into one another at the Tampa Bay Challenger tournament. it was both of your firsts. you watched the men’s final, zweig vs. tornids, and that was when your annoyance began. you had heard of patrick before then, seen his playstyle, you knew the reputation he held. his nickname of ‘fire’ following him into professional play. but without his ‘ice’ counter part, he played more like an inferno.

throughout the final match, you witnessed him smashing his racket to bits, audible swearing, and a brief verbal altercation with a line judge. none of these things were particularly character damning offenses, but they showed a lack of respect for the game. tennis has always been a clean sport, elegant almost. the behavior and temper of the players directly impacts the scoring of the matches. he was giving points away over anger. anger at himself no less, as he was the one tanking in the final set. you found it embarrassing. you knew you could be a bit of a prude with the seriousness you placed on tennis, and its equally prude rules at times. but it was all you had, all you had ever known. and watching someone as naturally talented as patrick zweig, throw games away got under your skin.

at the after party, later that night, you had the displeasure of meeting mr. zweig. you, the women’s Tampa Bay Challenger champion, and him, the men’s runner up. your managers knew each other, so they insisted you meet. you decided to play nice, as patrick had never done anything to you; his play style just had a way of annoying you. your managers briefly pointed to one another before occupying themselves with a conversation with each other.

“patrick zweig, it’s nice to finally meet you” he said outstretching his hand. “and congratulations” he added, as he nodded to the glass trophy settled atop your manager’s table next to you.

“y/n, yes, we must have just missed each other during juniors” you said as your hand, gently reached out and shook his. the gesture feeling a bit formal, but appreciating it nonetheless. his hand was warm, and much softer than you expected. your fingers ghosted past one another, almost aching not to be separated. before you could start out a lie about how he played well and had an unlucky break in his match, he met your eyes directly and asked

“do you always play so timidly, or was that just today?”

“excuse me?” you blinked at him and cocked your head slightly, thinking he must have misspoken and had a different intention behind the question.

“I mean your play style” he continued with no hesitation. “you looked like an entirely different player for the final set. you looked scared, almost shy. you didnt even really celebrate when you hit the winner” he had looked away from you by now, eyes drifting as if he was replaying your every move from the match in his head.

“do you always play that way?” he finished, eyes finding yours again. when he saw your furrowed brows, and blank eyes staring back at him, something washed over him. maybe it was a hint of regret, sorry for the way his question must have sounded, but you were in no mood to pay that any attention.

“actually patrick” you started, eyes locked on his, practically spitting the words down his throat. “i play to win. which i did. which i usually do” you placed your drink on the table, keeping a cool tone, despite the anger bubbling within you. “maybe if your play style were a bit more adaptive, or you showed any hint of control, you would as well” you retorted with a smug smile fueled by the signs of annoyance, your mention of his loss left all over his expression.

“hm” was all he could muster before he picked up the drink you had placed on the table next to you both. your eyes never parted, as if who ever looked away first was resigning the match. his hand steadily brought the glass to his lips and he took a big sip of whatever it was you were drinking. as he placed the glass back down, he smirked slightly, seeming almost fueled, or intrigued, by this rather polite argument. you broke the silence as you wanted to limit any possibility of him getting the last word.

“i have practice early tomorrow, so i need to get going. im sure you have an off day scheduled tomorrow, so please do enjoy the party.” you turned on your heels, perfume catching the wind and blowing right into patrick’s face. you walked away, swaying, content with how the conversation ended in you favor. a tiny part of you wanted to turn around, wanted to know if he was watching you walk away. the larger part of you, somehow, already knew that he was.

two hours later in your hotel room, showered and tucked away for the night, you brooded over his line of questioning again. how dare he? after everything, after how hard you worked, after securing your first professional tournament win, people like patrick zweig still questioned your skill… scared? shy? you were none of those things. you were a tennis player. the very thing patrick had yet to prove himself to be. yes he was talented, incredibly so. but he played tennis how he wanted to. you played tennis how you needed to.

you stirred, unable to drift asleep, thinking about him. you were hung up on the idea that he was willing to ruin your night, question your skill, despite having more than proved yourself just hours prior. hung up on the way he stared back at you, fire burning in his eyes. god, he was so annoying. somewhere, deep down, you were also hung up on the slight shine of your lipgloss painted across his bottom lip; where he had laid his lips a top the gloss stamp yours left on the rim of your glass.

#guys help is this good #are we intrigued #do we want more #enimes to lovers #my favorite #challengers #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig fic #patrick zweig imagine

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sebscore · 1 year

Note

Hey I’m not sure if you’re taking requests, I’m so sorry if you’re not! but do you think you’d be able to do a gig with the Leclerc brothers where their sister maybe plays a sport and she gets Injured very badly and how they’d like comfort her! I’m sorry if it’s too much! Love your works! Don’t forget to take a break!

THAT IS REALLY EMBARRASSING

pairings: charles leclerc x sister!reader / lorenzo leclerc x sister!reader / charlotte siné x leclerc!reader

warnings: injury. unaccurate medical advice. swearing. the sport wasn't specified so I choose tennis, i'm sorry if you don't like that (but I do and if there are more tennis fans pls be my friend, I dont have any tennis friends).

author's note: another Little Leclerc chapter after a long time! hope the wait was worth it and you enjoy this fic! thank you so much for loving my works and I hope you have a great day!!

masterlist

• • • • • • •

Similarly to her older brothers, the youngest Leclerc enjoyed passions of her own, but instead of a steering wheel, she thrived with a tennis racquet in her hand.

She started playing at quite a young age, but her time was cut short due to her family's financial situation where they could only support one child's hobby- that being Charles' racing career. It had upset both her and Arthur, but it was an understandable decision.

Once Charles started making his own money, the two youngest siblings slipped back into their own passions. It had been hard on the young girl at first as all the girls her age were much more advanced and she almost had to start back from scratch. However, she pulled through and began to compete against other players around the area. She wasn't the new Sharapova by any chance, but she had won several local junior tournaments and was seen as quite a big competitor in Monaco.

Y/N had to prove that at the Monte-Carlo Country Club Junior Tournament, arguably the biggest junior competition in the country. Many girls and boys from different nationalities participated in the event, and it spanned over 2 weeks.

Little Leclerc had never been able to win the tournament before, her best result being from the previous year when she was stranded in the semi-finals. Y/N had had a good tennis year and was one of the favourites to win her category at the prestigious competition.

Y/N had seamlessly made it into the quarterfinals, having won all her previous matches in straight sets. Her mother had been present at every single match, not wanting to miss one second of her daughter's play and loving the attention the youngest was receiving.

Lorenzo, Charles and Charlotte joined her at the girl's latest match, having missed most of them due to work. The brothers were glad they could finally watch her play after such a long time of not being able to attend her tournaments.

''It's weird seeing her so serious.'' Charles mumbled as they waited for her to do her first serve, her focused face being one he didn't get to see often.

Lorenzo chuckled. ''I know, she's always clowning around.'' He responded, shutting up as soon as his sister tossed the ball into the air.

The serve was too fast for her opponent to return, resulting in an ace for Y/N and another game won- the score now 5-1 for Leclerc. She received an applause, the clapping of her family standing out and giving them a timid smile.

She was on her way to win the first set, but not everything always goes as planned. Her opponent hit the ball to the opposite side of where Y/N was standing, the young girl having to make a long run to return the ball. Because it was a grass court, the players have to wear special shoes, but they often stick to the ground making it harder to run very fast. Her right foot became stuck to the court so Y/N had to put all her weight on it, causing a twist to happen as she chased the ball. She fell to the ground, clamping to her right ankle.

Pascale immediately stood up from her seat, her heart dropping to her stomach as she saw her daughter go down on the court. Lorenzo processed the moment for a few seconds before standing up as well, and Charles and Charlotte stayed seated, the woman's hands covering her face in shock.

They watched the umpire climb down from his high chair and approach her, crouching down next to Y/N and asking her if she's okay. ''My ankle hurts a lot.'' She answered him, holding back tears.

''You want to continue playing?'' The man already knew the answer would be no, but he was mandated to ask her.

Y/N shook her head. ''No, I think I need a medic or something.''

The umpire nodded his head at her words and pulled out his walkie talkie, calling for a medic to enter the court. He received an answer on the other side and turned back to her. ''Can you walk, Y/N?''

The young girl tried putting pressure on her ankle, but a throbbing pain shot through her foot and she yelped. ''No, I can't.''

''Get a wheelchair as well, she can't walk properly.'' He spoke into the device, receiving a short 'understood' from the other side of the walkie talkie.

Y/N could see the concerned looks on her family's faces, giving them a thumbs up to ease their worries. Her mother let out a deep sigh, relieved her daughter seemed at least okay on the surface.

Eventually, two medics arrived with one of them holding the wheelchair in their hand. They unfolded it and carefully helped the girl get up from the ground. They sat her down in the chair and rolled her off the court while the audience gave her an applause, showing their appreciation for the match and her hard work.

The Leclerc Family made their way towards the inside of the stadium, wanting to get to their youngest as soon as possible. ''It looked like it hurt a lot, did you see it twisting?'' Charlotte said, the moment replaying in her head.

''Yeah, and she was trying so hard not to cry, I could just see it.'' Charles responded, holding onto his girlfriend's hand for some sort of support.

''Maman, the medical center is there!'' Lorenzo redirected his mother as she almost went into the wrong hallway. Pascale quickly turned the right way, running on her motherly instincts.

She knocked on the door, opening it before being given permission to actually enter the room. ''Oh, look at you.'' Y/N was laying down on the doctor's table, her ankle being inspected by one of the medics.

Pascale embraced her as well as she could while her daughter laid down, caressing her face. ''Does it hurt a lot?'' She glanced at the ankle, seeing it already swelled up.

Y/N shrugged her shoulders. ''It only hurts when I move it or stand on it.'' She answered, tears escaping her eyes.

''Don't cry, Chérie! You're so strong, you're a brave girl.'' Her mother tried comforting her, wiping the tears away and kissing her cheek.

The medic scratched their voice, gathering everyone's attention. ''It's 100% not broken, but it is sprained,'' they explained, ''I'm gonna tape it and then you're free to leave, but I advice you rest your ankle for the next week and don't strain it too much, cause then you'll have to go to the hospital.'' They finished off, grabbing the support tape from one of the cabinets.

''Okay, thank you.'' Lorenzo weakly smiled, grabbing a chair and setting himself down next to the table.

''I was doing so well and then of course I have to fall.'' Y/N exclaimed, radiating frustration.

Her oldest brother grabbed her hand. ''It can happen to anyone, even the big players fall and get injured.''

''But it's embarrassing falling in front of that many people- I wanted to die right then and there.'' His sister argued, her hands covering her face as if she was reliving the moment.

Pascale chuckled at her daughter's dramatics. ''There are worse things to be embarrassed about, Chérie.''

''Yes,'' Charlotte spoke up, ''remember when I had to make a Twitch account so he would open the door for me? Way more embarrassing.'' She said, gathering laughs from everyone.

''Or when Charles wore that banana costume on a livestream!'' Lorenzo added.

''And Arthur with his 18-hour screen time? You've got nothing to worry about.'' Charles chimed in, directing the focus to Arthur's embarrassing moments.

Y/N's tears had stopped and laughed along with her family, appreciating their attempt at cheering her up and making her feel better about her fall. ''Ooh~ she's smiling again.'' Charles poked at her dimple, a giggle escaping her mouth because of it.

''Remember when Charles-''

''She gets it, Enzo!''

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