#young art donaldson

[martiansodas-blog]

“should i write a full on art dumbification fic or no”

YESSSSSSASS 🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🥵😫😜😝😋

right here !

i still can’t believe how it got so many notes so quickly. 💞 there may be a part 2 coming… maybe

[martiansodas-blog]

i say this to him cause he’s my little guy and deserves princess treatment

"you're so pretty" in between kisses >>>>

[jesuistrestriste]

cw (18+): sub!art, afab + femme!character, age gap, crying/dacryphilia, art being a sad and lonely hot guy in his forties, tashi and art never really got together, creampie

˚ ﹒⟢ ˚ ﹒⟢ ˚ ﹒⟢ ˚ ﹒⟢ ˚ ﹒⟢ ˚ ﹒⟢ ˚ ﹒⟢

dilf!art getting with a pretty young thing from down the block. . .

he always admired her effortless confidence and the way her body moved when she walked down the street to the corner store every weekend.

always watched her return from his brownstone apartment window; a pack of cinnamon gum and a case of peach seltzer in her hands.

she’s beautiful and bouncy and everything he didn’t get to have in his youth when he was too sucked into tennis to let himself live a little. he lost tashi to patrick. that was that. and he never tried dating again until about ten or so years ago.

they were all flings that crashed and burned their way through his thirties. meaningless moments where all he was left with was a wet dick and a heaviness in his chest. he hated it. he was done with it.

until her.

she was different.

she sparked a conversation with him one day when they ran into each other outside his doorstep. she was cracking jokes that only made her seem more intriguing because art didn’t understand the social context behind them— he was no longer hip and cool, he’d accepted it. but that, combined with the pop of her hip she did when she was making him laugh (not to mention the way she smacked her gum + batted her lashes when she smiled; all pearly whites) made him feel like even more of a creep.

but now she’s bouncing on his cock and gazing down at him while he gasps and squirms like a livewire underneath her.

they’ve only really known each other for a week and a half.

“say thank you, Artie,” she purrs, her hand tracing the spattered flush on his chest, “say it.”

he bucks his hips up as much as he can to meet her movements, and bites his lip hard enough to taste metal when his tip bumps her cervix.

“thank you, oh my god, thank you— thank you, thank you—! ha-aah-!”

he babbles; a broken record of whines and shaky moans. his throat hurts from all of the sounds being pulled from him when the most he’s talked all month has come from just a couple of boring, remote interviews about his athletic career.

and her, of course.

god, it’s all her..

he swallows and keens, and then his eyes are watering.

and then he’s sobbing. he’s choking on his tears and yet he’s still feeling the tight coil of warmth tense further and further and further-

“don’t cry,” she whispers, leaning down to kiss the wetness from his cheeks, her hips swiveling to ride him harder just as the first slimy blurt of his orgasm spills inside, “you’re a good boy, okay? you’re perfect… a total catch…”

she smells like candy. she’s wiping his tears now.

“oh fuck, thank you-uu—hnghh!”

art lifts his hips, his face crumpling with pleasure and sadness, before he yelps and his climax wipes him out. his whole body trembles as he feels his cock pulse and coat her pussy with gooey clots of his spend. he’s practically wheezing.

he grips onto her hips fiercely; like if he doesn’t squeeze hard enough she’ll just go *poof*, and then he’ll be alone again.

“.. ungh, ‘m sorry, im cumming inside you, im cumming, im so sorry,” he whimpers, the aftershocks leaving him feeling bare and weak. stripped of all of his armor. if he even had any left to begin with.

she kisses his shoulder gently, and then she’s dipping her glossy lips down to whisper right next to his ear. her dainty necklace chills his skin when it dangles from her body and meets his collarbone. she’s so close to him.

“don’t worry, Mr. Donaldson…

you’ll be a great daddy.”

[girliism]

stanford art is so cute and whimsical but i need dilf art deep in my guts

[dulcescorderitas]

begging on my hands and knees for you to write something for art 😓 (preferably dilf!art)

notes: MY SHAYLA! jay your wish is my command! 🧞‍♀️ i was supposed to post it tomorrow but i’m so happy with it, i had to do it tonight!

the sun hangs low in the sky, bleeding gold and amber across the backyard, where the remnants of the barbecue linger. smoke curls up lazily from the grill, the scent of charred meat and beer-soaked laughter still heavy in the air. your dad’s old friends are still around, scattered across patio chairs, the low hum of their conversation blending with the crickets just starting to sing.

but your eyes aren’t on them.

they're on art.

he’s standing near the grill, beer in hand, the condensation dripping down his fingers, rolling over the ridges of his knuckles. his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, exposing forearms that have no right looking that good—tanned, dusted with hair, corded with muscle that flexes every time he brings the bottle to his lips. his dark eyes flicker toward you for a moment, catching you staring, and you swear there’s a ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth before he turns back to whatever your dad is saying.

heat curls in your belly, twisting into something dangerous.

it’s been like this all afternoon, stolen glances, the way he watches you when he thinks you’re not looking. and you know you shouldn’t be looking at him like that—your dad’s friend, too old, too familiar. but you can’t help it.

later, when the night settles and the party winds down, you slip into the kitchen for a glass of water. the house is quieter now, the distant murmur of voices fading into the background. you reach for a glass in the cabinet when a presence looms behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him before you hear his voice.

“you really shouldn’t be lookin’ at me like that, sweetheart.”

his voice is low, rough, scraping along your spine like a match against flint. your breath catches in your throat as you turn, finding him closer than he should be, closer than he needs to be.

“been watchin’ you, y’know.”

his eyes are darker now, heavy-lidded, the kind of look that sends a shiver rolling through you. you wet your lips, heart stuttering, hands tightening around the cool glass in your grip.

“you’re playin’ with fire, angel’.”

but he doesn’t move away. and neither do you.

his gaze drops, flickering over your face, your mouth, before dragging back up to meet your eyes. something in his expression shifts, hardens. it makes your pulse quicken, makes the air between you thick, electric.

“art—”

he exhales sharply, his jaw ticking, like he’s warring with something inside himself. but then his hand is at your waist, fingers pressing just firm enough to make you shiver, to make you lean in.

“this ain’t smart,” he murmurs, but his grip doesn’t loosen, his thumb stroking absently against the fabric of your dress. “your dad…”

he trails off, something unspoken hanging between you. you know what he’s thinking—what he’s trying to resist. but you don’t care.

not when you’ve spent all day watching him. not when he’s here now, so close you can smell the smoke and cedar clinging to his skin.

“he doesn’t have to know.”

your voice is softer than you intend, almost a whisper, but he hears it. you know he does.

his eyes darken, something slipping in them, something breaking. then, without another word, he’s leading you down the hall, into the quiet hush of your bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

there’s hesitation in his hands when he touches you, fingers ghosting over your arms, your hips, like he’s memorizing the feel of you before he lets himself have it. like he’s savoring the moment before he ruins you.

“tell me to stop,” he rasps, voice tight, strained.

but you don’t.

instead, you pull him closer, tilting your chin up to meet his mouth, soft at first, tentative. but the second he groans against your lips, something in him snaps. his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you flush against him as he deepens the kiss, slow and hot, stealing the breath from your lungs.

his hands wander, slipping under the hem of your dress, dragging it up, up, until it pools at your waist. his palms are warm, calloused, rough where they slide along your skin. he swears under his breath when he finds you bare beneath it, his grip tightening as he presses his forehead to yours.

“fuck, sweetheart.”

his voice is wrecked, thick with something heavy, something desperate. his breath is hot against your skin as he moves lower, sucking and biting at the sensitive flesh of your neck, leaving his mark, claiming you. his hands spread your thighs wide, fingers teasing over your swollen, dripping folds before he drags his tongue through the slick heat of you, groaning at the taste.

“so fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. his fingers slide inside, curling just right, making you gasp and clutch at his hair, pulling him closer. he eats you like a man starved, tongue flicking, sucking, his name falling from your lips in broken moans.

when you’re trembling, on the verge of unraveling, he pulls away, eyes dark with need. he fists his cock, dragging the tip through your slick, watching the way your body shudders, your legs spreading further for him.

“tell me you want it,” he demands, voice hoarse.

“i need you,” you whisper, breathless, desperate.

"you do, honey?" he thrusts in, inch by inch, stretching you, filling you, growling low in his throat. “fuck, you’re tight.”

his pace is slow, teasing, making you beg before he finally gives in, fucking you deep, hard, relentless. the sound of skin slapping, the wet, filthy noises between you fill the room. he grips your thighs, spreads you wider, watching himself disappear inside you over and over.

“look at you,” he groans. “taking me so fuckin’ good.”

your body arches, pleasure building, your nails raking down his back as he pounds into you. he presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight circles, pushing you over the edge. you come with a cry, muscles clenching, spasming around him.

he follows with a rough curse, thrusts turning erratic as he spills inside you, filling you with his heat. he collapses against you, breathless, his lips trailing lazy kisses along your skin.

when it’s over, when he’s still hovering over you, spent and satisfied, he presses his lips to your temple, lingering.

but the guilt creeps in, slipping through the cracks, and when he pulls away, there’s something distant in his eyes.

“this can’t happen again,” he murmurs, but there’s no conviction behind it.

you don’t believe him.

and neither does he.

special tags: @faiszt @bluemerakis

[newrochellechallenger2019]

art donaldson's boner makes a cartoon 'boing' noise when it appears send tweet

[shehasrisenbabygirl]

"I could fix her." WELL I WANT HER THE WAY SHE IS.

[deadunderorbit]

Mike Faist as Art Donaldson in Challengers (2024) dir. Luca Guadagnino

[pzweigs]

wip wednesday

artpatrick, pre-canon, away on an international tennis tournament, art finds patrick with another guy

“Don’t you think your first time with a guy should be with someone you’ve known longer than one second outside a club?”

Patrick scoffs. “Like who, Art? Like you?” He swears under his breath, about to turn away, go back inside and try his luck again, and the sight of it makes his blood run cold. Art can’t watch that happen. He’s angry, and he’s jealous, and so confused—but he just can’t. It feels as if he could lose everything in a moment if he doesn’t just speak up and say—“Yes.”

He blurts out, quickly and a little too loud, but it works— stopping Patrick in his tracks entirely. He turns back to Art, rigid, eyes shrinking from shock to suspicion.

“Yes? Yes, what?”

“Yes, someone like me.”

Neither of them speak for a minute. Art’s heartbeat rattles in his throat, his entire body. They’re sliding into unknown territory now.

“What do you—Art, what do you mean?” Patrick says very carefully, enunciating his words, looking as scared as Art feels.

“I mean…” What does he mean? He’s been scrambling for sense the moment he saw Patrick walking off with some guy. “I mean, why not me?” Art asks back pathetically, a cop out but a sincere question, one not without bitterness. Amidst all the panic and confusion, Art is still inexplicably mad at Patrick, wounded that he’d seek his desires anywhere else in spite of his own reticence.

“Why not—Art, are you kidding me?” Patrick looks at him in disbelief, like he’s speaking a strange, alien language. He tugs at his own curls in his frustration, pacing, and then stopping, and then starting again. He’s never seen him so stressed: Art wants to take his hands and hold him tight. “For one thing, you don’t like guys.”

“I like you.” Art admits, like it’s a simple, easy fact, like that isn’t the tip of the iceberg of his feelings for Patrick Zweig.

Patrick’s bewilderment turns to anger. He steps closer to Art, back in his face, eyes fierce and smile bitter.

“Yeah? You like me?” His laugh is brittle. Disbelieving. “Enough to have sex with me? To fuck me?” He gets even closer. “To let me fuck you?” Art’s body heats up, from Patrick’s words, his proximity, this entire conversation. He can’t help his skin turning red at Patrick’s quite successful attempts to fluster him. He watches Art flounder for a moment before stepping back, eyes clenched in pain and his hand back to clawing at his scalp.

“I mean, fuck, Art, why are you even doing this? Just so I won’t go off with some guy? You won, ok? I won’t. I’ll be a good little heterosexual boy like you and go home. Just—“ And then, Art watches the strangest thing happen. Patrick deflates. Art watches his body shrink, small and limp, and it’s so unlike him that he suddenly appears almost unrecognizable. Patrick doesn’t even look at him, eyes shiny as they lock on his own feet. “Just leave me alone, okay?”

[eyesaremosaiics]

MASTERLIST ᓚᘏᗢ

⟿ feel free to request! i mainly write for yellowjackets, but feel free to request challengers, panic, outer banks, DUNE, F1 drivers, young justice, or really any DC character!

Yellowjackets

Travis Martinez

"Oh, Cruel Fate." — undefined relationship, hurt very little comfort

"To Know That You're Mine." — afab reader, travis being pissy

Outer Banks

Unspecified relationships

"She's not special, or a pogue." — reader goes off on Kiara for her ignorance

visit my straw page to find more of me!

[martiansodas-blog]

🎾 🤍💐✨🎀

i take it back. juniors era art was getting digits left and right.

he was using his boy best friend charm.

he’s saying, “that’s so sad you and your bf broke up :( i would never do that to you.”

hes a introverted freckled american boy and he knows he’s hot.

he’s teaching you how to serve by standing right behind you. like you can feel his breath on your neck.

and when you get it right, he’s putting his snap back on you , which is way too big for your head.

“wow look at that. gonna pass me soon. don’t forget me when you’re famous.”

he’s laying it on thick.

he’s playing to win.

[girlfcker]

i’m gonna say it again but i really don’t like how y’all are forgetting tashi’s status as a low income black girl was very crucial to her character and identity in the beginning of the film.

i already made a point on this in my last post but like? we don’t know enough about her backstory to know everything about her but i feel like compared to patrick or art, we know a lot to make points that are crucial to understanding tashi’s frustrations and fears so it’s weird y’all are still making her out to be the villain of her own tragic story, not really sorry.

[cnka]

And in today's episode of rozi won't finish her art!!!!!!!

[brightyearning]

words truly cannot describe the feeling of seeing my favorite relationship dynamic onscreen. as a born lover girl, certified menace, i can name three (count em, 3) separate times i was Tashi Duncan betwixt my own Art and Patrick. nothing was more intoxicating, nothing was more toxic. and it always ended in carnage. and that was always my favorite part. but some of what makes Challengers so monumental for me is that it works. i had a hunch, but this is the praxis. the formula was right, but my numbers were off. this is the most hope i've had in the modern relationship dynamic in what feels like years. also, i think (fingers crossed) we'll be seeing movies like this again. for the past decade we've been inundated with cinema groping for meaning where there is none. stop trying to tell me how to think/feel/believe. just show me your fucked up little story and i'll take it from there. within reason of course, i'm still a lady.

[buckysteve]

mike faist potentially in talks to star in the new hunger games prequel, i used to pray for times like these

[insomnaticwriter]

can god please stop making me gay except for one (1) gay looking blonde boy a month, please.