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i've been thinking about drug dealer patrick FOR WEEKS at this point because there's this song i like but it's in russian but the lyrics just make me think about him so hard it's UGHHH (loose translation here)
and it's like i imagine art to be the guy from the first verse, like he's met this cute nice girl, she's beautiful, she's smart, she's pretty, she's everything he has ever imagined his perfect girl to be, of course he spends all his fucking money on her, pampering her with attention and gifts and everything, and he's in so deep he can't even imagine anyone else as his future wife now. it's just her or no one at this point. and his friends including patrick (!!) are like bro chill she's not this godsend angel you're making her out to be in your head, she's in it for the money, and he goes feral when they say it outright to his face because how could they? she's perfect. they're just a bunch of fake friends talking bullshit, being envious little dicks about her because he's the one who actually knows her, and he knows she's not like that
little does he know she is in it for the money. she likes art, don't get it wrong, but he just doesn't make her tick. he's nice, he's kind, he even loves her which is a lol moment because they've only known each other for so little time, but he's actually showering her with all this himself, right? it's not like she's asking for it. so it would be only logical for her to keep quiet, fluttering her eyelashes at him, smiling at him charmingly, flirting with him a healthy amount just to keep up the image
but it doesn't change the fact that she only ever feels alive when she's on a high, her mouth dry, pupils blown wide, and patrick's warmth is enveloping her whole as he's pressing her into the mattress, fucking her from behind like the whore she is, his arm thrown over her neck, having her in a chokehold as he thrusts into her like mad, whispering filthy, actually hurtful shit in her ear like "oh you'd really do anything for the dose, huh? slut" or "his cock's never gonna feel that good, yeah? yeah? take it while you can" or "how's that new dress treating ya?" in a cooing voice because the dress in question was art's anniversary gift, some really expensive shit he's spent hours picking out just for it to end up on the sticky floor of patrick's apartment, completely ruined, ripped off her body and drenched in god knows what because it's their third round tonight and definitely not the last and she's just a whimpering mess under him, a string of "uh-uh-uh yes-yes uh fuck uh love you fuck yes" spilling off her lips
she's so fucked, as always, that of course she doesn't notice the camera light on the nearby bookshelf. god, is art in for a surprise tomorrow
Drug dealer!Patrick Zweig x Fem reader <3
tw: mentions of drugs, no smut this time folks! (slightly incoherent, not proofread)
Patrick Zweig, who couldn't scrounge up enough money using challengers and tournaments this month- so he gets his weed dealer to help him out. he works for him for a bit before making enough money to actually sell his own product, he's never had so much money in these past few years! who cares where he gets it? it's not like he's using the hard stuff anyway. sure enough, one of his regulars show up with a innocent little friend, you. you barely look 21, compared to Patrick's 30 years of age. your friend was apparently a regular here, which didn't suprise you all that much. he explains that you had been looking to try out some drugs, live life not like the usual goody two shoes you are.
Patrick Zweig, being the dirty man he is; gives the pair a discount- but only if he can watch this cute thing get her first high.
they arrive at a secluded spot by a lake, and Patrick watches with eager eyes as you gulp down a pill of ecstasy. he's practically forgotten your name, all he can think about is how you makes his dick twitch..
After a few moments, you're completely out of it, struggling to walk and drooling all over yourself as you giggles out insincere apologies to your poor friend. Patrick is rock hard by this point, he keeps adjusting himself in his ever tightly growing jeans.
You look beautiful like this. lips parted, drooling, stumbling, tripping over your own words, being needy, clingy, and so fucking dazed. like some ditz.
he offers to take you home, be a gentleman. he'l take out a pen, writing his number on the pulse of your neck in red ink while you arent paying any attention.
Call me if you wanna feel even better, sugar
he whispers sweet nothings into your ear while he walks you home, Patrick cant help but imagine what you'd look like drooling over his cock, instead of some measly drug. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
"yeah? that's your name, eh? pretty name for a pretty lady."
"god, you are just so fucking pretty when you're so drugged out like this. not a single thought in your brain, ah? no? good."
good
"that's how it should be, pretty"
Patrick uncaps the marker again, writing all over the your body, not like toid be able to do anything. poor you. hearts on your boobs, stars on your thighs, and his name everywhere.
"Alright, this is your house? m'kay sug' be safe. sleep well, my cute little ditz. drugged out so perfect f'me..." the door soon closes, and you babble an incoherent goodbye.
next time, Patrick isnt gonna be a gentleman. he'll fuck you up, in every possible sense <3
(guys I hope this is coherent or atleast any good. luv yall!)
-xoxo Ari <3
#patrick zweig#patrick zweig smut#patrick zweig blurb#art donaldson#art donaldson blurb#challengers 2024
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just had a random thought of patrick having a one-night stand with a girl while heâs on tour and she ends up knocked up?? and heâs actually trying to be an adult about it like hey letâs discuss our options and sheâs like babe there are no options my dadâs guys are gonna shoot your dick off if you leave me now and heâs like đđđđđś what?
and it turns out sheâs actually not joking?? her dad is dead-ass a part of mafia or some shit and now heâs remembering she even actually let it slip just because of how drunk she was but he was barely listening because she was already on top of him and he was thinking about how sweet that pussy is going to feelâwell maybe he shouldâve fucking listened for once because now heâs 20 and kinda being threatened into marrying a girl he barely knows just because his swimmers are so strong :( he loves his cock too much he doesnât want it shot off :(((
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gestalt therapy
college professor!art donaldson x fem reader
word count: 5.2k
warnings: 18+ MDNI, swearing, student!reader, age gap, porn w/ a little plot, head (f receiving), fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, slight degradation (question mark?), one mention of "daddy"
synopsis: you're done with your senior year at college, and all you want is a parting gift.
a/n: my first full fic here wow my first ever smut WOW the only thing that's not a first here is english because it's my second language so be patient pookies. college prof au has been haunting me for days so i needed to get it out. even though i have no fucking idea how colleges work in the us ;) hope you like it! happy reading
The first thing he notices about you is how ridiculously smart you are.
It's not even a stretch or him trying to justify the instant attraction he feels towards you. No, you're genuinely, undeniably brilliant, especially for your age. You've got this way with words, and concepts come to you so easily. You pick up on all his lead-ups to lecture topics, knowing exactly what the main conversation will be about a good five minutes before the rest of the class. You smile smugly, crossing your arms and leaning back, your eyes seeking his because you want him to know that you know.
And honestly, he'd be mad at you for being so smug if you weren't so damn smart.
The way you walk up to him after class to discuss your latest essay, your stance confident and voice sure, as you argue over why you deserved a 100 and not a 98. He's looking at your essay, then at you, then back at his computer screen, squinting just to appear like he's thinking it over, but he knows you're right; of course you are. Your essay is perfect. He was just being a dick about it, nitpicking because he couldn't admit you're basically flawless.
He's getting self-conscious about his teaching. There's nothing he can teach youâyou come so prepared for every class that he wonders if you even have a life outside his classroom. Maybe your brain just works like that, but a small, selfish part of him hopes you spend hours prepping for his classes. The thought that you do it for him and not the subject is a nice one, but he shoves it away.
At least that way, it wouldn't be as pathetic for him to spend nights rewriting his lectures, perfecting his presentations to the point where he's sitting in his bed at 3 AM, pondering whether Times New Roman or Arial would make his point come across better.
He's always been a perfectionist, living by the book, striving not for greatness but for the reserved maximum of his natural capabilities. He never really pushed himself. But youâoh, fuck, you. Fuck you. You make him want to lose sleep just to prove to you or himself that he's certainly smarter than some college senior.
He calls you a lot of things in his head. A know-it-all, an "excuse me" because you're always "excuse me"-ing him like he doesn't have a name, a smartass, a bitchâhe hates when he's in a mood like this last one because it signals it's time to sleep. You're a lot of things, but you're not stupid.
In fact, he starts wondering if you're a once-in-a-lifetime talent. Because he's rather young for a professor, he hasn't seen as many students as his colleagues, who always crack up anecdotes about past students, someone who graduated 15, 30 years ago, but the older professors still remember them. He wonders if he's going to remember you like that. He's pretty sure he will.
He's never even thought about you as a woman and not just his student. He's just respectful like that. Sure, you were hot, which only added to your confident allure. He's not blindâhell, he'd admit it if he had toâbut he's never thought about you like that.
But apparently, you have about him.
You appear at his office doorstep minutes before he's about to clock out for the night. You're looking pristine as always, and with your silhouette illuminated by the office's dim lights, he wonders for a second if you're even human with your endless drive, brilliant mind, and hair that always looks like it's animated because it's impossible for real human hair to flow that perfectly.
"Good evening," he greets you, eyebrows creasing slightly in confusion. You've never visited, your final grades are in, and you're graduating in a week. He's already said his goodbyes to your class, and when he did, you shot him a little smile that he read as everything being good between you. What are you doing here then? "Can I helpâ"
âAre you impotent?â you cut him off, arms crossed, a challenging look in your eyes.
He actually chokes on air. âE-excuse me?â he mutters under his breath, his expression shocked, his voice strained. God, heâs ridiculed you for years in his head for addressing him like that, and here he is now.
You turn your back to him, lock the door, and make your way to his desk in confident steps. You sit on the edge of his desk, looking at him over your shoulder. "I asked if you're impotent," you shrug, arching your eyebrow.
âNo,â he blurts out, his expression still one of pure horror as he doesnât know where to keep his gaze, his eyes darting between the papers on his desk, and his computer screen, and his hands, anywhere but you. âGod, no.â
âWhy you never fucked me, then?â you ask, your tone still almost accusatory, but your voice soft. Itâs almost like there is a hint of genuine regret in your words, and he doubts his sanity right now, wonders if heâs imagining things. He pinches his thigh under the desk, just to make sure.
âWhat do you mean, why?â he stutters, his cheeks flushed. âB-because.â Oh, God, itâs really bad. Heâs really speechless, his mind unable to conjure up a full sentence. âBecause youâre my student, and I respect you, and there are boundaries that shouldnât beââ
âIâm not your student anymore. Not technically.â Your tone is matter-of-fact, one heâs too familiar with. One youâve used to tell him about all the typos in his handouts, all the mistakes in his tests, all the times heâs fucked up grading someoneâs papers. Only now youâre telling him⌠Fuck, he really canât grasp what it is youâre telling him.
âI canât argue with that, but I really donât understand the point of this conversation. Youâre completely out ofââ
âConsider it gestalt therapy,â you shrug nonchalantly. Heâs getting mad, really, with you cutting him off like that, like youâre getting back at him for years of having to listen to his lectures without having an opportunity to talk over him. It takes him a second to grasp what youâre implying. He clears his throat.
You sigh, letting your arms drop to your sides, sliding off the desk, walking up to him in these fucking deliberate strides, spinning him in his chair so he faces you, his hands lifted up in the air as if he is surrendering. He doesnât know to what, exactly.
âJust really have to get this out of my system, Mr. Donaldson,â you sigh almost guilty, your gaze landing on his lap. He's hard, his cock straining the fabric of his trousers. Of course he is, what the fuck?
You cup him, eliciting a soft sigh from his lips, his eyes falling shut. You start stroking him through the fabric, confidently like everything you do. It makes his blood boil. Youâre such a bitch. A know-it-all. A smart-ass. And so, so hot that he canât bring himself not to kinda wish youâre intending to fuck his brains out.
He opens his mouth to say something, maybe a weak protest to give you a final out, but you lean down, pressing your lips to his in a languid, deep kiss, a thorough exploratory one like every single one of your fucking essays has ever been.
You move to his lap, straddling him, the chair creaking under your combined weight. Only when his hands move to your hips does he understand youâre wearing a skirt. God, he hasnât even noticed that. He lets his hands stay there, caressing your bare thighs as your skirt rides up, and you lean in for another kiss.
There's no raw hunger. If anything, heâs sure heâs incapable of it in this situation, his mind still trying to catch up, trying to relabel you as not forbidden. Youâre grinding against his growing erection, tugging at his hair as you deepen the kiss, your curves so unexpectedly perfect against him.
He only realizes youâre working on his belt and zipper when he hears them. Instinctively, he moves his hands to your wrists to stop you, but you just shake them away like youâve shrugged him off all these years. He gasps into your mouth as you wrap your hand around his freed cock, stroking the length expertly, thoroughly, meticulously, as your lips never leave his. He actually relaxes into the chair, his hands gripping your waist, tugging your top up to reveal more bare skin.
No bra. Of course you didnât wear any. Youâve come prepared as always.
You chuckle quietly, your lips continuing to move in unison with his, finding a lazy rhythm that drives you both insane. He reads this chuckle as you being amused at him taking any initiative. It makes his blood boil.
He breaks the kiss, one hand squeezing your breast firmly as he leans down, capturing your left nipple between his lips, sucking gently before biting. His other hand lands on your ass with a loud smack, making you gasp. Finally, some reaction.
He starts bucking into your hand, seeking more friction, moving his mouth to your other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, leaving a bite mark on the side, making you wince but moan. That moanâfuck, that beautiful sound. Now heâs angrier at himself than you are at him for not having fucked you sooner.
He understands you were expecting to ride him, like heâs some sexless creature, a toy to use, a dick attached to a fantasy that has nothing to do with the man he is, and it makes him even madder. Heâs always admired your insightfulness, your capability to get right to the gist of things through walls of useless shit, but heâs feeling his respect for you slipping as he understands just how wrong you mustâve been about him in your head.
He peels himself off your chest, lips glistening with saliva, smacking your ass again, harder this time, groping both cheeks as he lifts you off his lap to sit you on his desk over the papers heâs grading. Heâll just tell everyone he spilled a drink. No one will miss them.
His lips find yours again in a searing hot kiss. Itâs messy, all tongue and teeth like heâs trying to hurt you, but heâs not. Of course not. Itâs just that something dormant is being woken up in him. You whimper as he cups your mound through your panties, making him chuckle. Well, look whoâs laughing now.
"You've seriously dreamt about this?" he whispers against your jaw, his long fingers sliding into your underwear, finding your slickness. Fuck, you're so wet for him, it almost makes him black out. "Wanted me to fuck you on this desk? Or the one in the classroom? Or in the library? Or right in the fucking hall, huh? Why not? Let everyone watch."Â His tone is almost taunting, his every word accompanied by a painfully slow and teasing circle of his thumb over your swollen clit.
"Yes, yes, yes," you mutter, eyes squeezed shut, forehead pressing against his shoulder, hips bucking helplessly into his hand, seeking friction. Itâs not clear if youâre answering his questions or begging him to go faster. It doesnât matter; his smirk is already in place, his eyes glistening with amusement as he looks down at you, breathing hard through his nose.
"Yes, what?" he chuckles, shrugging, his eyes scanning every reaction on your face. The way your head falls back, your lower lip caught between your teeth, your cheeks flushed. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Yes, what?" he murmurs softly, his hand in your panties slowing down to the point of stopping.
A groan of disappointment escapes your lips as you snap your head back up, eyes darting open. He can see your pupils blown wide even in the dim light, the lamp on his desk illuminating you from behind like a renaissance painting. "Yes, fuck me," you say dryly, like itâs obvious, still seeing him as some pathetic, stupid nobody, but youâre slightly out of breath when you say it, so thatâs a win in his book for now.
Just means heâs gotta try harder.
His arms wrap around your waist, holding you in place. Heâs standing between your legs, keeping them spread wide for him. He pulls his hand out of your panties to bring it to your face, shoving two fingers into your pretty smartass mouth. Your eyebrows crease, eyes falling shut at the action, a hum leaving your lips, vibrating through his skin, but you still suck on them obediently, tasting yourself on his fingers and coating them in your saliva.
He slips one finger right inside you when it makes its way back down. He starts thrusting it into you at a steady rhythm, his lips finding your neck, nibbling on it, his teeth grazing your delicate skin, tongue sliding over the little marks his teeth leave there, as he curls his finger inside you, thrusting deeper, deeper, almost aggressively.
"God, I really thought you were smart," he mutters under his breath, hot against your skin as he adds another finger and starts stretching you, eliciting a soft moan from you. He leans down, sucking on your tits again, noticing how hard your nipples are now, almost painfully so, matching the way his dick is rock hard, still standing at full attention against his clothed abdomen. "Thought you were different. Hard-working. Proper." He sinks onto his knees in front of you, looking up at you with a glint in his eyes you canât quite read. "Turns out youâre just a slut."
He tugs your panties down, his tongue finding your cunt, one of his hands moving to throw your leg over his shoulder, keeping it there tightly as the fingers of his other hand re-enter your cunt, starting to finger it at the same urgent pace, his tongue moving feverishly over your clit, making you moan quietly because, yes, there are still people in the building, you have to keep quiet, but a part of him, the one youâve awoken, wishes the circumstances were different, that he could hear you scream for him.
Heâs getting high off the taste of your juices, off the scent of your arousal filling his nostrils, his nose pressed into your pelvis as he fucks you with his fingers in a relentless rhythm, curling his fingers inside you, feeling your walls clench down onto him, searching for that sweet spot thatâs going to make your toes curl.
âTell me,â he rasps out, pulling away from your cunt just for enough time to say what he needs to say, peppering your inner thigh with kisses in the meantime. âTell me exactly how long youâve wanted this. And how you wanted me to fuck you. Leave no details out.â
You whimper when he delves back onto your clit, sucking on it, not caring to keep his teeth from grazing your sensitive skin here and there, but itâs a good feeling.
âS-since that lecture. Sophomore year,â you breathe out, you throat tight from holding back so many moans that are begging to be let out. Your mouth falls open in a silent âohâ as he sucks your whole clit in, lapping at it with his tongue inside his wet hot mouth, your hand snapping instinctively onto his head, gripping his hair to pin yourself down to the reality. âYou wore that slutty turtleneck, and of course Iâve thought youâre hot, but then you had one wrong date in your presentation, and I got so fucking mad at you. Thought youâre too careless to teach.â
He hums against your cunt, encouraging you to go on, or agreeing with your point, he canât tell himself anymore. Heâs completely gone at this point, drinking your juices like heâs drinking in your words. Amidst all this, he actually appreciates you not calling him stupid. You mightâve, but you didnât.
âAnd you were always s-so passive, like I tried arguing with you, reading all that shit instead of going out just to get a rile out of you, and you never fucking bucked. I-I-Iââ you stutter, your mind going into overdrive for a second as he continues abusing your g-spot, his fingers moving at a frantic speed in and out, in and out. He smacks your thigh to get your attention back on the topic. âI just couldnât fucking believe you. I was being a bitch, I was nagging you, just because. And you didnât even care.â
He smiles into your cunt, a huff of air leaving his nose. At last, you admit it. He suddenly doesnât feel bad at all for calling you a bitch in his head. He can feel your walls contracting around his fingers, your breathing irregular, youâre practically panting, your grip in his hair tightening as you guide him closer, rolling your hips against his tongue and fingers, seeking release. Youâre close.
He pulls away, earning another cuss and another groan of disappointment off your lips. He smacks your thigh again, hard, the action leaving a red print of his big palm on your skin. âYou didnât answer,â he rasps out, delving back into you. Fucking students, he thinks to himself. Always so smart, thinking they know it all, and always forgetting to answer the second part of the question after theyâre done answering the first.
Your mind is so hazy at this point, it takes you an effort to rewind the interaction in your head to understand what he means. âL-like this,â you whimper, your thighs trembling as he grips the one thatâs not on his shoulder to stop it from shaking too much, keeping you in place. âI-I didnât want you to be nice. Youâre always so fucking nice, itâs not human, I knew it wasnât true.â
Heâs too set on making you cum to chuckle now, although it is pretty funny. Heâs been doubting youâre human, too, but the way you gasp for air, trying desperately to hold back your moans as he feels you coming closer and closer to release, it tells him all that he needs to know. Youâre just flesh and bones, not the perfect genius heâs painted you to be in his mind.
âFuck!â you whimper, giving his hair one last tug before your hand springs up to cover your mouth, biting into your index finger to keep yourself quiet. It takes one slide of his fingers, one roll of his tongue, five seconds, and your muscles go taught as your hips buck off the desk, his pens in the glass standing on the edge of it clattering against each other, the keyboard of his computer flying up for a split second from impact of your ass slamming back down onto the desk. Itâs like a mini-earthquake, thatâs left your world erupt into white behind your closed eyelids.
He fingers you through it, lapping his tongue over your clit until you wince quietly from it hurting, and he pulls away reluctantly, standing up from the floor to stand in between your legs again. His neck and back hurt like hell from crouching down on the floor for so long, his muscles are not what they used to be, after all, and for a split second he considers actually giving up and letting you ride him, but it would be your win in his book, and he canât allow that.
He spits on his hand before he leans down to kiss you, his tongue sliding back into your mouth, letting you taste yourself once again, as he brings his hand down to stroke himself, breathing softly out of his nose at the relief of some friction, finally. âYouâre such a hypocrite,â he murmurs into your lips, softly, almost lovingly, the same fucking slightly condescending tone heâs always used in his classroom.
You open your mouth to ask what the fuck he means, but he pushes his tongue back into your mouth, all thoughts of a protest evaporating from your mind. You slide closer to the edge of the desk instinctively to accommodate him when he eventually pushes into you. You almost canât wait.
He gropes your ass to position you like he wants you, his fingers digging into your plump skin maybe a little too hard. You donât protest. He breathes heavily, like itâs physically paining him to hold back any second longer â it does,âand his brows are furrowed in concentration while he slides his tip over your clit, coating it with your slickness, the same way he frowns when heâs grading papers or goes over tomorrowâs lecture in his head.
He pushes inside in one determined thrust, piercing through you, a quiet grunt escaping his lips, a soft moan escaping yours. Before you have any time to adjust, he starts pounding his hips into yours, one of his arms hooked around your torso to keep you in place as his free hand flies to your chest, squeezing your right tit roughly, pinching your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and index finger, making it harden again.
âCareless?â he scoffs, an expression of pure disbelief on his face at the fact youâve even dared to say that. He grunts again, his hand falling from your breast to your hip, gripping it firmly as he continues pounding into you, your breathing quickening again. Heâs rather big, and it hurts a little from you still being sore from your orgasm, but you still moan softly under your nose, your wrists hurting from you leaning on the desk behind your back for so long.
âYou call me careless for a typo in a presentation I made six years ago, and itâs not careless for you to come here, asking me if Iâm impotent? Fuck you,â he grunts again, a grin pulling on his lips as he throws his head back, the rhythm of his hips never faltering. Youâre squeezing his cock so tightly, thereâs no way in hell youâre ever going to be asking him or yourself that question again.
He lets go of you, reaching behind your back to pull on your wrists, tugging them further to himself, which makes you fall back on the desk. âFuck you,â he repeats, his words almost sounding like a moan now as he holds your wrists near your stomach, basically transfixing you. He moves one of his hands up to throw your leg over his shoulder again, another continuing holding your wrists down, as you both groan quietly at the change of the angle, the new one allowing for him to go so deep heâs touching parts of you you didnât know existed.
âSo, you wanted me to be a good teacher and a good dick all at the same time?â he muses, a smirk pulling on his lips again as he looks down onto your dishevelled form, your tits bouncing out of your tugged-down top, you skirt ridden up to your waist, your fucking face, so unbearably beautiful, flushed and your lips swollen from his kisses and from you biting on them so much. He canât fucking get enough of how silent you are now after running your mouth at him for all these years. âDid you want me to be your boyfriend, too?â he chuckles, shaking his head, his expression faltering as he picks up the rhythm for a good minute, pounding into you so hard all the items on the desk are clattering, and you have to bite on your lips again not to scream from him practically tearing you apart, because you canât cover your mouth anymore with your wrists held by him.
âDaddy never loved you, right?â He understands heâs probably taunting you too much, his words almost feeling cruel, but heâs too far gone at this point, heâs making a forceful effort to continue looking down at you to imprint the way you look right now into his memory to revisit later, even though his eyes are almost rolling back from just how good your cunt takes him. âThatâs why youâve been pining for my dick for fucking three years? Are you getting what you wanted?â
âY-yes,â you whimper weakly. Yes to all that, actually, but he doesnât need to know that. He feels too good, filling you up to the brim, you can almost feel him in your guts, heâs making your toes curl. And heâs finally not acting nice. Just like you wanted him to.
âGood,â he growls, letting go of you for a second before his hands find the undersides of your knees, bringing them close to your chest, changing the angle again as he starts hammering down into you, the room filled with the sound of your shared ragged breaths, the desk creaking under you and the sound of his pelvis slapping against yours. âFu-uck, youâre taking me so good, none of your schoolwork was ever that good,â heâs lying through his teeth. Not about the sex â youâre taking it like a champâbut about your schoolwork. It was, indeed, that good.
He basically has no power left over what words leave his mouth, heâs completely drunk on you, the taste of your cunt and your mouth still lingering on his tongue. âAre you gonna come again?â he pants out, slowing down, feeling your walls clenching down on him, squeezing him tight.
âY-yeah,â you mutter, fluttering your eyes open to look at him from under your eyelashes, but you can pretty much only make out his silhouette with how hazy your vision has become with just how good heâs fucking you. âI knew,â you repeat, your throat feeling tight again, your head falling back on the desk as you bring your now free hands to your mouth, covering it to muffle out the scream you know is there, brewing, destined to roll of your lips when he drives you to release again.
âYouââ he starts in disbelief, but heâs getting closer, too, thereâs no point in arguing now. He just canât fucking believe the nerve on you. What do you mean, you knew? Knew he could fuck you like you wanted to? Knew you would be walking out of here with a limp? Such a know-it-all, always thinking sheâs two steps ahead everybody else.
He sighs shakily, a broken, needy sound as he brings his hand in between your legs, finding your clit again, his other hand still holding your knees pressed to your chest. He rubs at you in sync with the thrusts of his hips, his pace picking up, up, and up, until he finally lets out a low grunt, stilling, slipping out of you as he watches you bite on your hand, tears streaming down your cheeks as he feels your pussy convulsing under his fingers, another orgasm hitting you, and in a matter of seconds, after a few fast strokes, he comes, too, thick ropes of his seed landing all over your stomach and knees, and some of it lands on your chin.
For a few seconds, he just stands there, catching his breath, watching over you. He opens his desk drawer, pulls out a tissue pack, and wipes himself before doing the same for you. You're still lying there, face hidden in your hands, your outfit a mess. He's already caught you crying and knows you might feel awkward doing it in front of him, so he just makes sure you're clean for when you leave.
He tucks himself back into his trousers, fastens his belt, and walks to the other side of his office. You hear him rustling around while you try to get your breath back and keep your emotions in check. His soft footsteps approach the desk again, and you feel him gently patting your knee. You open your eyes to see him holding out a cup of waterâa peace offering or an apology. But you know he doesn't owe you either. He just gave you everything you've wanted for the last three years. And he even brought you fucking water. Because he's disgustingly nice like that.
You nod in gratitude, sit up, and take the plastic cup from his hand, downing it in one gulp. It actually brings some life back to you. You breathe out shakily, fix your top, and tuck your tits back in before sliding off the desk. Your shoes land softly on the floor, your legs still trembling, your knees feeling like they'll give out any moment. You tug your skirt down and sheepishly meet his gaze, unsure where to go from here.
He steps closer and brings his hands up to your face to fix your hair. His eyebrows furrow in concentration again as he smooths it down, making sure you don't look disheveled when you walk out of here.
He sighs, letting his arms drop to his sides, and keeps looking at your face as if making sure you're not just looking okay but are okay too. âI didnât mean that. The âfuck youâ. And the âslutâ comment. Well, I kinda did,â he shrugs, averting his gaze with a humorless chuckle, âbut I didnât.â
You punch the air out of his lungs as you pounce on him, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug. It takes him a second to gather himself, but he hesitantly hugs you back, just letting his hands rest on your lower back as you nuzzle your nose into his chest.
You had to get it out of your system, but now that it's in, you feel like youâll never get enough. He feels like a beacon, one he's always been for you. The guy you picked a rivalry with your first week of sophomore year just to push yourself harder, to strive for greatness. He wasnât even aware there was a rivalry to begin with. He's an academic, though, theyâre all fucked up in the head, he must understand a part of it, at least.
And he understands. Truly. He just hopes you wonât start crying again, because he doesnât know how he'd handle that. He pulls away slightly to look you in the eyes, cupping your face in his hands, and plants a soft kiss on your forehead.
âYouâre a smart girl,â he says, his voice low, the small, friendly smile on his lips sincere, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly as he looks down at you. âYouâll figure it out. I donât doubt it.â
He had this whole speech prepared for the class about how adult life is going to treat them, the challenges they'll face, how scary itâll be, but also insanely rewarding. It was long, sentimental, with a few jokes thrown in. Some girls cried, but it was all bullshit. Whatâs real is this. Him understanding your fears without you having to voice them. Him telling you youâve got this.
âAnd until you do, you always know where to find me,â he nods to the side, obviously meaning his office, a lopsided smirk making him look a good decade younger. His gaze finds yours again, and he pulls you into another tight hug, one he initiates this time.
In his mind, heâs already thinking how long it would be appropriate to wait before he can invite you for a coffee.
#art donaldson#art donaldson x you#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson smut#art donaldson fic#art donaldson angst#art donaldson fluff#challengers 2024#challengers x reader#challengers fic
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How I be looking at my phone, reading the word cock 100x times in an hour
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thinking about 2019 art finally becoming too fed up with his diet. all these strange-colored liquids that taste like shit, the protein shakes that make him sick and stay on his tongue no matter how many times he tries brushing his teeth, because it feels like itâs in his dna after years of doing this shit. the sight of his meals makes him want to barf because they all look so bland, so lifelessâthe chicken breast so disgustingly white he actually finds himself wanting to cry a few times because heâs thinking of all the poor bastards that had to die to end up on his plate only for them to taste like shit and for him to not even enjoy eating them.
and you just know heâs had to slip up a few times. theyâre staying at another hotel, tashi is sleeping by his side peacefully, the room is completely dark, and heâs just lying there on his back, his eyes open wide as he stares into the ceiling, images of all the shit heâs eaten in his life passing behind his mental gaze, like those shitty burgers from the college cafeteria, or the ice cream he would sneak from his childhood home fridge because he liked the thrill of it and he knew it was forbidden to eat so much of it but he just couldnât help himself, and those delicious cookies his grandma used to bake that tasted like love. and he can almost taste it on his tongue, but itâs not enough. itâs like, in his head, him actually enjoying food is connected to the simpler times, to the happier times, and he misses the food, but at the same time he misses his youth, and his hopes, and his dreams, and most of them have come trueâhell, tashi is still by his side, his beautiful daughter is sleeping in her own room, he has a tournament tomorrow morningâbut he just knows he wonât be able to fall asleep tonight because he just wants to revert to his younger self for a fleeting second.
so, he crawls out of bed, careful not to wake tashi up, slides a hoodie on, and he feels like a fucking criminal as he calls an uber to the closest subway. he feels like heâs pulling a bank heist or some shit, but heâs not really thinking for himself at this point. and as he sits down into the car, he knows heâs being stupid because there were lilyâs snacks back at their hotel room, but he would feel guilty for eating them because what if she woke up craving them and found out they were gone, and she would be sad, and he wouldnât be able to handle it, and what if then tashi would question him about where they wentâno, he canât risk that. and heâs so far gone in his thoughts and anxieties that heâs sure everyone at the hotel is in on it, too, that everyone will find out if he walks down into the lobby and orders a quesadilla, and they will deny him, like, âsorry, mr. donaldson, this dish is off the menu, and this one, too, and that one, and actually everything is off, here is some water for your worries,â and he already feels embarrassed even though none of it has happened and all of it is in his head.
he would rather tashi thinks heâs off cheating on her or something in the middle of the night than her knowing the truth, that heâs just so desperate for some empty calories, for something so sugared-up it makes his brain feel fuzzy, that heâs driving through the night cityâs empty streets, already anticipating absolutely devouring that shit. and when he finally gets there, the fluorescent lighting of the subway hits him like a deer in the headlights, making him feel like heâs being questioned as he makes his way to the counter, feeling the only other personâs gaze on him, sure that he knows him, sure that he judges him. he sees the girl who works there smile at him, and he doesnât even look her in the eye as he places his order, and it would be enough for lily to last a week or to feed a group of five or something, and he actually ponders eating it all in the parking lot like a stray dog just not to stay under these fucking lights for any second longerâ
âwould you like cookies or some ice cream with your sandwich?â the workerâs soft voice snaps him out of his whirlwind of shame, and he looks up at her, his lips pressed tightly together, it taking him a few seconds to process the question, and then he nods once, the corners of his lips pulling up slightly to mirror the girlâs polite smile.
âdouble chocolate chip, please,â he says quietly, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he suddenly feels like he is a teenager all over again, doing something he knows is wrong, but it feels better with him feeling like he has an accomplice in the face of her.
when he gets back to the hotel, heâs gonna sleep like a baby through the rest of the night.
#art donaldson#art donaldson fluff#art donaldson blurb#art donaldson fic#challengers 2024#challengers fic
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thinking about art finally marrying his high school sweetheart, feeling like the happiest man alive. as heâs standing under the wedding arch, hearing you recite your vows, heâs completely out of it, his brain short-circuiting. he can hear your voice, but the words just donât reach his mind. heâs gonna have to ask you to repeat them to him later because he understands youâve poured your heart into them, but he just canât bring himself to pay attention right now. not when his heart is thudding like mad against his ribcage, and youâre so beautiful, and his brain is having trouble registering that youâre really agreeing to be his for all eternityâ
and then you go on your honeymoon, and heâs gone all out with it. he didnât have much saved up, his career is only starting to pick up, but heâs made sure to book the nicest plane seats, the nicest hotel, the nicest spa treatments. he doesnât want you to doubt your decision of marrying him even for a second. he wants you to understand that youâve signed up for a life of just thisâhim treating you like something precious, like youâre the queen youâve always been in his eyes ever since you offered to help him with his english homework back in 9th grade. he still doesnât know, but it was just you trying to find an excuse to talk to him. but in his head, it was all the gods imaginable that pushed you towards him that day because you looked purely angelic in your awkward school uniform and that perm that you cringe inwardly remembering. but he loved it as he has always loved every single little thing about you.
he canât believe how youâre still by his side as you both are getting older. youâve become so hot he just canât believe his luck. and he canât believe it now of all times because wow, itâs truly happened. heâs going to grow old by your side, and thereâs nothing in this world heâs ever wanted more. he always makes sure every single little part of your lives is documented, his phone out of his pocket at all times, just in case. because if he sees the sunlight catch beautifully in your hair, he wants to capture it, wants there to be some sort of physical proof of that moment. sometimes he really starts wondering if this all is just his fever dream and youâre going to disappear or some shit when he eventually wakes up because he canât believe itâs real.
his photo roll is just a bunch of some random screenshots and youâyou smiling on the beach, you petting a random dog, you laughing as you spilled your drink all over the table, you looking at him, all hearty-eyed, completely ignoring the phone being shoved into your face, your head propped up on your hand as youâre looking at him sitting on the opposite side of the table. heâs returning to this picture constantly, and itâs on his lock screen, and on your contact. because there is that glint in your eyes that makes him wonder for a second, maybe, just maybe, you feel all those things, too, and heâs not crazy to be so head-over-heels with you even after all those years youâve already spent together.
and at night, heâs fucking you like he loves youâthoroughly, paying attention to every single hitch of your breath, drinking in every little sound pouring out of your mouth, his dick buried deep inside of you, his moves slow and deliberate, making sure you feel every inch as heâs making sure he feels every inch of you, too. his lips not leaving a single spot of your body unattended, because heâs already memorized every single mole, curve, and dip of your body. but with you, every single time feels like heâs rediscovering it all for the first time ever. he canât wait to see how your body changes over the years. he canât wait to see all the wrinkles that will appear on your beautiful face because itâs inevitable with you smiling so much all the time. and he already loves them all, even though theyâre not even there yet. but he still canât remember how to breathe sometimes when he catches a glimpse of his wedding band on his finger and understands that itâs all real. youâre real.
and when the receptionist calls you âmrs. donaldsonâ when youâre checking out from the hotel, his heart flutters like the first time he saw you, a goofy, boyish smile touching his lips. heâs just giddy being yours.
#art donaldson#art donaldson fluff#art donalson x reader#art donaldson blurb#art donaldson fic#art donaldson x you#art donaldson smut#challengers 2024#challengers fic#challengers x reader
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