If You Haven't Gotten Sick Of Seeing Me On Your Timeline, I'm Not Doing It Right. I'm Like A Challengers

the lgbt community wants to fuck him 🤐

ava. oh ava. my god you pull each nerve in my body until everything thrashes with hurt and need and still there's tenderness in the fact that you even know where to search to effect me at all. you are an artist, truly

lavender haze (acoustic) | art donaldson x reader

warnings: age gap (10 years), divorced!retired!art, divorce mention, cursing

The world is a blur of cameras and neon when you find him again.

Outside the Monte Carlo hotel, somewhere between a post-match press conference and the second glass of something too expensive, you see him—backlit in the haze of dusk, hands in his pockets like they don't remember how to hold a racket. Art Donaldson, former world number one, standing like a myth trying not to be remembered.

You don’t call out to him. You don’t have to.

He turns like he already knew you were there.

For a moment, you just breathe the same air. He in his shadow. You in your spotlight.

The lavender dusk of the city softens everything but him.

He looks the same as when you saw him this morning. Maybe a little undone. Hair slightly unruly from fingers running through it too many times. 

You’re still sweaty from the match. Still painted in makeup for the cameras. Still dizzy from the reporters who asked more about him than your fifth straight win on the tour.

Is it true you two were seen together in Ibiza?Are you dating a former champion to boost your media appeal?How does it feel to win on a court he made famous?

Your lips had twitched. You’d smiled like a good girl. Like you weren’t screaming underneath.

But now, here he is. And suddenly, you don’t want to be good anymore.

He doesn’t speak, just opens the door to the hotel like it’s a habit. Like you belong there. Like you always have.

And you do.

You’ve been in a committed relationship for nearly a year, not that it stops the press from acting like it’s still gossip. Like you’re still a secret. Like he didn’t sit courtside for every match of your first major title and kiss you in the hallway when no one was looking. Like he didn’t leave behind a legacy and ten million dollars in endorsements just to stop pretending.

You’re twenty-three. He’s thirty-three. It’s never mattered more than it does to everyone else.

To you, he’s just Art. Tired, brilliant, infuriating. To him, you’re the only thing that doesn’t make him feel like a ghost.

The door clicks shut behind you.

And the world falls away.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

Instead, he walks to the kitchenette, opens the mini fridge, and pulls out a bottle of water. Tosses it over his shoulder. You catch it one-handed, cap already half-twisted before he turns back around.

"You’re still favoring your right hip on the cross-court," he says.

You unscrew the cap. Take a sip. Let the silence stretch.

"You think I don’t know that?"

Art shrugs, leans against the counter. "Didn’t say that."

"Didn’t have to."

You cross the room. He doesn’t move. You stand close enough to feel the warmth of him through your sweat-damp dress.

“You watched from the lobby again?” you ask.

“Better view of you than the court,” he murmurs.

That pulls a breath from you. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. You let your forehead rest against his chest, eyes fluttering shut. His arms slip around your waist like he’s been waiting all night to remember how you fit.

He smells like something clean and simple. Not soap. Not cologne. Just him.

“God, they wouldn’t shut up about you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer. Not immediately. Just runs his fingers up and down your spine, slow enough to still your nerves, steady enough to make you ache.

“Then don’t talk,” he says eventually, like he’s trying to spare you. Like silence is something he can give you.

The words hit. Harder than they should. Not because they’re untrue. Because they’re too true.

“Come shower,” he says, fingers tracing the fabric at the small of your back. "You smell like sunscreen. And sweat."

“And you smell smug."

“Worked hard on that.”

You laugh against him this time, and he kisses the top of your head like punctuation.

There’s a comfort in this. In him. And it terrifies you, a little.

Because nothing this good stays untouched forever.

---

The bathroom is warm and fogged by the time you step out. Art hands you a towel without a word, like he’s done it a hundred times, like the rhythm of care comes easy to him in a way it didn’t used to. Not when he was still married to someone who saw him less as a person and more as a strategy.

He brushes a curl of damp hair from your cheek and presses a kiss just below your temple. Not hungry. Not possessive. Just there. Quiet and certain.

You dry off slowly. He changes the sheets.

Neither of you rush.

It’s the kind of night that unfolds like fabric—creased and familiar. You sit cross-legged on the bed, a hotel robe slung loose around your shoulders, watching him move around the room like he doesn’t need to be looked at to feel known.

You pick at your cuticles. The ring light burn still lingers behind your eyes.

“I don’t want to do media tomorrow,” you say softly, not really to him.

“I know.”

You nod. You want him to say more. Want him to say he’ll fix it, or call someone, or take you away from all of it.

But he won’t.

Because that’s what he used to want from her.

And she knew better than to give it.

Later, you both end up under the too-crisp hotel sheets, the TV glowing in the corner like an afterthought. Art flips through the channels until he lands on coverage of the day’s matches—your match. A rebroadcast already looping into highlights. Neither of you speak. He leaves the volume low.

You watch yourself on the screen, hair slicked with sweat, mouth tight with concentration. You know how it ends. You know the score. And still, your fingers curl into the duvet like you’re bracing for something.

Art’s hand finds your knee beneath the covers. It’s instinctive, steady. Grounding.

“…and while her performance today was characteristically aggressive,” the commentator says, “some are wondering if the pressure of dating former world champion Art Donaldson is beginning to weigh on her—certainly a lot of eyes on her for reasons that aren’t strictly tennis.”

You flinch.

Not much. But enough for Art to notice.

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches for the remote.

You stop him. “No. Leave it.”

He hesitates, then rests it on the nightstand.

You both keep watching, but something shifts. Not the volume. Not the camera angle.

Just the quiet.

A few seconds later, your voice comes through the screen. The post-match interview. You’re smiling like your cheeks are glass.

“I’ve been working really hard on my serve, and I’m glad it paid off today,” you say.

The reporter laughs. “And is Art Donaldson part of that training routine?”

The smile on the screen falters—barely. A blink. A breath. The kind of flicker no one notices unless they know you.

You feel Art watching you now, not the TV.

You shift your gaze toward the screen and force a smile. “They never asked you about her, did they?”

His hand leaves your leg.

“They did,” he says. “They just worded it differently.”

---

The next day, you win your semifinal in straight sets.

Your serve is sharp. Your footwork clean. Your game ruthless.

You walk off the court flushed and breathless and so full of adrenaline it feels like your skin might split open. You're about to head to your first Open final. The crowd roars. Your chest aches with something like disbelief.

A ball kid hands you a towel. A line judge nods with something close to reverence. Even your opponent lingers at the net longer than usual—something like respect in her eyes.

And then comes the press.

The room is cold. Bright. Every chair filled. You’re barely given time to sip your water before the first hand is up.

Microphone passed. Camera rolling.

“Congratulations on the win,” the reporter says. “You played an incredible match today. Given that you’ve now made it to the final—do you think Art Donaldson plans to propose if you take the title?”

The question lands like a bruise.

Your smile doesn't falter. You’ve practiced it too much for that.

But something in your eyes flickers. The corner of your mouth. The twitch of a muscle in your jaw.

You laugh. Not joyfully. Not even politely. Just—mechanically. Enough to smooth the space around the tension.

“I think I’m focused on the match,” you say. “Let’s keep the attention on the tennis.”

They laugh, too. Some of them. But it’s the kind of laugh that says we’re not done asking.

You field a few more questions—strategy, surface preferences, what you’ll do differently in the final, what the color scheme of your potential wedding may be, what Art's impact on your win was. You answer all of them. Not perfectly. But well enough.

Still, when you leave the room, the only part that echoes is Do you think Art Donaldson plans to propose?

No one asked if you thought you could win.

No one asked what it meant to be here.

No one asked about you at all.

---

The car ride back to the hotel is quiet.

Art doesn’t ask how the press went. He must have watched it—he always does—but he says nothing, just keeps his eyes on the road, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the space between you like he’s thinking about reaching for you and deciding against it.

You stare out the window, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on your knee.

The city moves past you in golds and grays. Traffic, sky, noise. None of it feels real. Your pulse is still drumming from the match, your skin still humming with everything unsaid.

In the room, he unzips your gear bag before you can. Peels your wristbands off. Unlaces your shoes. Not a word. Just care, mechanical and precise.

You pull away when he reaches for your towel.

“I’ve got it,” you say, sharper than you mean to.

Art’s hands drop back to his sides. He nods once and takes a step back.

You pace the edge of the bed, towel in hand, still breathing like you’re on court.

He stands by the desk, watching you for a beat longer than necessary.

“You played well,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.

“I thought maybe we’d order in. Celebrate a little.”

You laugh. It comes out wrong. Bitter, high in your throat. “Celebrate what?”

His brow furrows. “The win.”

“Oh, right.” You toss the towel onto the floor. “The one I apparently earned just to get proposed to. Lucky me.”

Art flinches like you slapped him.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He says your name, quiet but firm.

And that—more than anything—makes you snap.

“You know what the worst part is?” you ask. “It’s that I knew it was coming. The question. I felt it before the words even left her mouth. I knew. And I still had to sit there and smile like some fairytale ending was more important than my fucking game.”

“That's not what they—”

“Yes, it is. That’s all they see. I could win a goddamn Grand Slam and they’d still find a way to make it about you. About us. About anything but me.”

His voice is low, careful. “You think I want that?”

You look at him, eyes blazing. “I think you’ve lived through it already. With her. And I think you still don’t know how to stop it.”

The silence is heavier this time. He doesn’t deny it.

---

The next day, you win the Open.

Straight sets. You don’t drop a single game in the second.

It’s one of the cleanest matches of your life. And when the final ball hits the back fence, you drop your racket and scream, but it doesn’t feel like joy. Not really.

You wave to the crowd. You thank the chair umpire. You wipe your face with a towel you can’t feel in your hands.

Art’s waiting at the edge of the court, behind the camera crew. His arms are open. He looks proud. Cautious. Already bracing.

You walk past him.

Not cruel. Not theatrical. You just keep walking.

He doesn’t follow.

And the cameras catch all of it.

---

Back in the hotel room, the trophy sits on the table beside the TV.

You haven’t spoken since the ride back.

Art ordered room service. He didn’t ask what you wanted, just got the usual. Pasta, grilled chicken, a green juice you’ll pretend to drink.

You eat half of it standing up. He eats none of his.

He moves around the room like a ghost—quiet, competent, unbearably gentle. Every drawer he opens, every charger he plugs in, every shirt he folds feels like an apology he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

The match plays on mute in the background.

You sit on the edge of the bed with your knees drawn up, watching yourself lift the trophy in slow motion.

Art disappears into the bathroom. The door doesn’t lock, but he closes it anyway. The sound of running water fills the silence.

You press the heel of your hand into your chest and breathe. In. Out. In.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

You lie down while he’s still in the bathroom. Face turned toward the wall. Back to where he’ll be. If he comes to bed at all.

He does. Eventually.

He doesn’t touch you.

You don’t ask him to.

---

You wake to light on your skin.

Gentle, warm, not quite golden yet. It filters through the curtains, spreads across the bed. The kind of light that feels like a hand on your back, like the world trying to tell you it’s okay to open your eyes.

You blink slowly. Turn your face toward the window.

And then, toward him.

He’s sitting in the armchair by the balcony doors. Hair a mess. One ankle tucked over the other. Elbows resting on his knees. Awake, but not fully. Holding the mug you always steal from him.

He looks like someone who stayed up too late thinking, then woke too early from not enough sleep.

You sit up.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes meet yours.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice rough. Honest.

He doesn’t ask what for. He just waits.

“I shouldn’t have walked past you like that,” you go on. “I was angry, and I didn’t know where to put it. And I—” Your voice catches. “I wish I could take it back.”

His jaw works, like he’s trying to decide how much to let you see.

“You’ve got nothing to take back,” he says finally. “You were angry. You were right to be. I just wish it hadn’t hurt you so much to prove it.”

Your eyes sting. You pull your knees to your chest.

“I think I needed someone to blame. And you were there. And kind. And that made it worse, somehow.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just stands. Crosses to the bed.

He sits beside you, not too close. Not yet.

“I knew what they’d say about you,” he says. “When we got together. I knew what they’d reduce you to. I told myself I could protect you from it.”

You look at him. “You couldn’t.”

“I know,” he says.

You lean your head against his shoulder. This time, he lets it rest there.

And when he wraps his arm around you, it feels like morning for real.

Not just another day. Not just damage control.

But something softer. Something that forgives you both.

Something worth building from.

You sit like that for a long time. Not speaking. Just breathing. Just being.

And then, quietly, almost like you’re afraid to break it, you say, “I do want to marry you someday.”

You feel the way his body stills. The way his breath hitches. He turns just enough to look at you—like he needs to see your face to believe it.

His eyes are glassy. Open. Younger than they usually let themselves be.

And then he smiles. Not wide. Not smug. Just… honest. Hopeful.

The way someone does when something they didn’t dare ask for is suddenly being offered.

You don’t need him to say it back. He already has.

You just lean a little closer.

And this time, he meets you there.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow

The war has returned again, Gaza is under bombardment and my area is being subjected to heavy shelling. We have lost hope in our rights. We must evacuate this city where there is no security. Donate to my family again, you are our only hope.

Donate here

raised 50$/10000$

Vetted by : 90-ghost

Zendaya for On: Zone Dreamers

Mel fanclub meets at the applebees on 5th on fridays

Take me to Church! ib: take me to church by hozier, this is a very loose interpretation i just couldn’t get this trope out of my head. also loosely based on a larry fic I read a million years ago. i’m also not catholic so im sorry if I got something wrong 😭

preacher’s son!art x patrick

cw: nsfw(18+), dacryphilia if you squint, religious imagery of sorts, patrick corruption kink

Art had always put his faith first. He had to, he didn’t want to go to hell. He went to church every Sunday to watch his dad deliver service. Even when he was younger he refused to go to children’s church, wanting to receive the real word of God with the adults.

Now he was old enough to lead youth service to the pre-teens. It was very rewarding. Getting to teach them about the different scriptures and relating them to parts of life they could relate too. It was awkward having to introduce the idea of purity rings and why they should all have one, saving their innocence. But he enjoyed the practice, hoping to become a preacher one day like his dad.

He was grateful that he didn’t have to teach the older teens who were sure to ask more questions about why pre marital sex was bad, and he didn’t even want to get into that conversation.

Art’s best friend was the complete opposite. Patrick was an atheist. Strayed very very far from the word of the Lord. Patrick was raised jewish and still wears his star of david to appease his parents, but he didn’t really care about religion.

Art has tried to save Patrick time and time again but it never worked. If anything the complete opposite happened.

Patrick slowly but surely started to corrupt Art. It started with kissing.

“C’mon Art it’s not a big deal, kissing isn’t a sin,” He says.

“Not technically but the bible talks about appropriate boundaries and…,” Art trails off, keeping eye contact with Patrick. The tension was so thick Art thought he was going to suffocate. Patrick would always give him that look. Like Patrick wants to eat him. Or worse.

It would make Art’s stomach feel funny.

They were sitting really close together in Art’s room. Patrick bites his own lip lightly causing Art’s gaze to flicker down to Patrick’s lips.

Art doesn’t stop Patrick when he leans in to kiss him. So he says ten hail marys that night in his room.

And it doesn’t stop there. It was never going to stop there, not with Patrick.

The next time they hang out Art says they have to be in the kitchen where Art’s parents could see them. He would not succumb to Patrick’s desires.

Art’s parents leave for date night and Art ends up getting a blowjob on his living room coach. The image of Patrick on his knees forever ingrained in his memory.

He can’t keep doing this. He always feels ridiculously guilty. He said 20 hail marys that night.

Now Patrick had invited Art to his house this time. Patrick promised Art he wouldn’t try anything and his sisters would be home.

Technically that was true.

Both of Patrick’s sisters were tucked away in the rooms, not to mention Patrick’s house was humongous. Even if more people were home, Art is sure he wouldn’t be able to tell.

They’re making out and Art is so confused on how they even got here again.

“I wanna try something,” Patrick whispers.

“No Patrick we can’t, I can’t, I wasn’t even supposed to be here—“

Patrick moves his hand to grab Art’s erection, “I think you want to,” he smirks. “C’mon it’ll be so quick.”

Art groans. He twists his purity around his finger, a nervous habit. Patrick plays with the cross dangling from Art’s neck, leaning in to kiss up the side of Art’s neck. Patrick is just so convincing.

That’s how Art ends up on his hands and knees and Patrick’s tongue in his ass. It was called rimming. Or he thinks that's what Patrick called it.

“Patrick,” Art gasped when Patrick first licked across his hole. It felt really good. Art didn’t know what to expect but the pleasure was taking over him.

He was moaning and whimpering like crazy, feeling the tears start to well up in his eyes. Gasping out things like, “Patrick we shouldn’t be ahhh doing this,” and “We have to stop,” while simultaneously pushing himself against Patrick’s tongue to get more relief.

Patrick pulled away causing Art to whine. “Okay if you feel so bad why don’t you say your act of contrition. If you stop, I stop.”

Art is stunned. He’s shocked Patrick even knows what that is. An Act of Contrition was a prayer usually said to express the sorrow of sins.

Art could hear the smirk in Patrick ‘s voice but his brain was scrambled, “W-which one?”

“Whichever one you want, pretty boy,” Patrick smiles before leaning back down to get to work.

Art decides to go with Confiteor because it’s the first one he ever learned and it was the first one that came to mind.

He starts off shaky, “I confess to God and to b-blessed Mary ever-Virgin.”

“To blessed ah—Michael the Archangel and blessed John the Baptist, mmm jesus Patrick,” Art gasps as Patrick pushes a finger past Art’s rim.

“Keep going,” Patrick says, muffled since his mouth is preoccupied.

“and—and to the holy apostles Peter and Paul ah-along with all the saints and you Father: Patrick,”

“You know I wouldn’t have minded if you called me Daddy, don’t think Father is my thing,” Patrick teases as he pulls away to add another finger.

“This was not—“ Art starts but stops once Patrick stills his fingers.

“That doesn’t sound like it’s part of your prayer,” Patrick warns.

Art sighs, letting his head hang down, “through my fault (thrice) I have sinned by pride in my abundant evil ah-iniquitous and heinous thought,” he rushes out.

“Nah ah ah, take your time. Wanna hear you fall apart for me,” Patrick calls out. He moves his free hand to start jerking Art off at the same time.

Art moans again, all of the feelings taking over, “speech, pollution, suggestion, delectation, consent, word and deed, in perjury, adultery, sacrilege, murder, theft, false witness, fuck Patrick I’m—can’t keep going much longer,”

Now Art cursing is new. He’s never heard Art curse ever. For some reason that just turns Patrick on so much more. He pulls his hand away from Art’s cock not wanting to end this experience early, “Keep going baby, doing so good for me.”

Art squeezed his eyes closed trying to remember where he left off, “I have sinned by sight, hearing, taste, smell and touch, and in my behaviour, my evil vices.” Now ain’t that the truth.

Knowing that Patrick is reason for all this sinning, for corrupting sweet innocent Art, makes him really fucking hard. He pulls his mouth off of Art’s hole to pull down his own shorts, jerking himself off. He grabs a nearby pillow to place under Art’s hips.

Even though Art started on his hands and knees, he was more on his knees and elbows now, gradually leaning down further. So Patrick putting the pillow under his hips allows Art to grind down. Getting some relief but not too much.

Patrick leans back down, continuing to lick at Art’s entrance, continuing to jerk himself off.

Art can hear all this happening behind him. His body starts to grind down on the pillow and pushes him further towards the finish line, even though he wishes it didn’t. The tears are falling, he can’t stop them. He feels so dirty, but he’s never felt this amount of pleasure before. This is so wrong. So wrong on so many levels. So why does it feel so right?

“I-I beg blessed Mary ever-Virgin and all the saints,” Art takes a deep breath hoping to finish out this out, “and these saints and you, Father—,” But Art can’t hold it anymore.

“to pray and intercede for me a sinner to our Lord Jesus Christ!” He yells out as he cums all over Patrick’s pillow.

Patrick sits up, cumming all over Art’s ass, “Holy fuck, Art.”

He grabs a washcloth from his closet to clean them both up.

Art still feels like he wants to cry. Or scream. Or both. How many hail marys should he do this time?

“Well at least you already repented or whatever. So now you don’t have to feel bad. Wanna play Super Mario Bros?” Patrick smiles, while pulling on new pajama pants he grabbed from his closet. Like nothing even happened. Like they didn’t just commit the biggest sin Art’s ever done.

Patrick really doesn’t get it, does he?

taglist: @tacobacoyeet @artdonaldsonbabygirl @newrochellechallenger2019 @antxnxlla

wanna be tagged when I post? click here :)

OHHHH MY ANGEL BABY :(

Happy Challengers Anniversary #1 !!!

I present to you: Tashi Duncan’s Diary

Click for better quality

Author’s note

This is an interpretation exclusively based on the character.

I didn’t add much about Art or Patrick because it’s also a point of view where Tashi was only 18. A girl trying to figure out who she was —just like they were— and trying to build a life she could be proud of.

Before anyone tried to define her.

Some things she already knew: She wanted more. She wanted to be the best. She wanted to be herself.

This journal is my interpretation of that Version of Tashi.

It’s not perfect—it’s personal.

It’s a glimpse of her, through my eyes.

Thanks for reading. <3

Projecting

to be loved as someone else should be.

an: credit to @nicodefresas for the dividers!! and thanks to those who offered to beta read. hope you like the finished product.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

When you lift up your leg, the imprints of the blades of grass beneath you run angry across your skin. If it was something else, something sharper, you’re sure it would hurt, maybe bleed, maybe turn white from lack of circulation. You peek out of the corner of your eye at Tashi. You decide not to mention it. You offer her a hand, she stares at it a moment, then looks back out in front of her. 

“Tashi… come on.”

“No.”

You open your mouth to speak, but what is there to say to something so concrete? What is there to say to someone like Tashi, who is so desperately trying to hold her head above water?

“Is this about earlier, because if it is-”

“I wish you would’ve been meaner.”

You anxiously pick at a piece of dried skin on your lip, one that she never brought up when she’d kissed you a few hours ago. It’s unlike her. You place your hand on the one spot she wished you wouldn’t, bending your thumb so your nail is pressed into the jagged line of her skin, up and down. Usually, it’d be soothing. Now, she wishes your nails were sharp enough to split her open. The way you look at her, like she deserves affection in any way, does. She fears looking down to find herself open. 

“You… wanted me to be mean?”

You laugh, and it’s the worst possible thing you could’ve done. Her eyes are darker now, thin slits peeking out from soft, velvet skin. She’s hurt without any right to be, but then again she’s been hurt without any right more times than she’d have liked. She wants to bite. She wants you to walk away and sting, even if you’ve only ever been good to her, and she swears she’s not a mean person. Cold at times, defensive, but sweet. You’d seen her be sweet. You know she can be when she lets herself out of the mindset of winning, mentality fixed to the court, where love is interchangeable with aggression. She’s almost always stuck there, an invisible string guiding her to the home her own body forced her out of. But she’d seemed calmer with you, if reluctantly. Slowly but surely, pulling her out of exile, back into the world she’d once been so indispensable in. The bite, though, never went away. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but apparently, you can’t teach it unlearn the former ones either. So she bites at the hand that feeds her, and comes right back to lick at the wounds. 

“If you’re gonna let me treat you like shit, then treat me like shit back. Stop walking around and fucking taking it. Get angry at me, for once in your fucking life.”

“Tashi, I-”

“No, I’m sick of it. Stand up for yourself for once. Get in my face. Come on, yell at me! Tell me off for being a bitch!”

Drops of harsh, stinging saliva speckle your face, and you can’t even find it in yourself to back up. All you’d wanted was to help. All you were good for was help. Who were you if not obedient?

A guard dog. Loyal to a fault.

“Tashi, you’re not- don’t call yourself that…”

“God… you are such a fucking pussy. If you’re gonna let me kick you around, then I’m done. I won’t let myself be taken care of by someone who’s too weak to take care of herself.”

She hardens, shuts down, curls in on herself. How dare you think her good. How dare you not want to insult her, when she so obviously has not given you half the care that you’ve provided her. How dare you accept a life of mediocrity when she can’t seem to do it herself. She needs you to be angry at her. She needs to feel horrible. She needs you to know you’re better than this. You don’t seem to agree.

“Tashi, I said I was sorry earlier. If this is about me trying to help you out, it’s-”

“I don’t need your god damn help. Help yourself.”

You swallow around nothing, though you’re sure you can feel the contraction of muscles in your throat. It’d be pathetic to speak. It’d been pathetic to help. You stand with ease that Tashi pales at. She wants to move. You offer her your hand, a smile, a sign that all would be forgiven if she just stopped needing you to be someone you’re not. If she stopped needing someone that she used to have. She stares at it, then back up at you. You swear you can hear her whimper. She never takes it. Tashi was the cruelest woman you’d ever met. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“You know, I was thinking we could get dinner tomorrow night. I could get a babysitter, see if Tashi’s around, have a night to ourselves. Sound good to you?”

You turn over your shoulder, staring at Art staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. His hair got so much darker with age. The blankets beneath your skin have turned scratchy with age, but they’ve been there since you moved in. They’d probably been in there since before he signed those papers that placed him in your lap. A chance encounter with a chance connection. You both tended to avoid her name like speaking it was some kind of curse. You hear the distant pitter-patter of Lily’s feet across hardwood flooring. She’d been put to bed an hour ago. 

“We could do that if you want to.”

He spits into the basin of the sink, water running a moment as he turns to you, looking weary regardless of how much sleep he gets. He’s never looked fully awake in all the time you’ve been with him, even if he lights up like a child on rare occasion. Maybe that exhaustion runs soul deep, and there’s nothing a night’s rest can do. There’s only so much that a break can do.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You try to laugh, and it just comes off as a neutral hum. He feels the stab of perceived disinterest run through his stomach and come out the other end. You’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, though, so he can’t be mad for too long. He seats himself next to you, lowering his head into your lap. Like a cat. Like a child seeking comfort in their mother. So unfit for adult life. So unfit to parent someone when still functionally a teenager himself. 

“We can go out, ok?”

 You look down at him, stroke a hand through the cropped hair on his head, and he chases after it when it leaves his skin. He shifts, presses a tender kiss to your knee, one that squishes up his cheek against the solid bone beneath it. 

“What was that for?”

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. You both know the answer to it.

“I forget sometimes, you know.”

“You forget what?”

He looks you over, reaches a hand up to brush some hair behind your ear.

“You’d look cute with shorter hair.”

You laugh quietly, bring a hand to his cheek. 

“Yours would look cute longer.”

He lets out a deep breath through his nose, shuts his eyes as if its meditative. He turns his face to press a kiss to each of your fingertips. 

“Maybe we can do dinner next week.”

You force a smile that he can’t see, look down at your legs. There had to be something close by sharp enough to give you the scar he wishes was there. You’ve never felt more inadequate for being untainted. Maybe there is only beauty in pain, and that’s what he misses. He wishes you had suffered just that bit more. At least then, you’d match. You run a hand over the thickened skin of his shoulder where his shirt sleeve lifts up. You didn’t feel human. If being human was hurting to be able to know that there is good, then why can’t your body have suffered? Maybe you’d never been alive at all. Maybe he knew that.

“Yeah. Next week sounds good, babe.”

He never moves, neither do you. He sleeps comfortably, gripping at your unmarked skin, murmuring his praises against it. The name that comes after them isn’t yours. Your leg begins to go numb. You let it happen. Feel the bad to know there’s good. He never turned the sink off.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The car smells like sweat, trapped in its small, enclosed metallic body. Despite the heat, the fogged windows, the refusal to leave his proximity, he offers another source.

 “You smoke?”

You huff a laugh, lift your damp cheek from his bare shoulder, and it peels like skin to leather on a summer day.

“Does it seem like I do? Besides, aren’t you an athlete. I thought you guys were meant to take care of yourselves.”

He shrugs, flips open a lighter he’d pulled from the flannel crumpled on the floor, along with a cigarette from a packet he’d stored in the same pocket.

“I started when I was a kid so, you know… whatever, man. If it was gonna kill me, it would’ve done that years ago.”

He turns his cheek to yours, glowing red center pointed between your eyes like a laserbeam. 

“You wanna try one?”

Normally, you’d adamantly refuse. But you look at your bare ring finger, your body that never quite fit that role it needed to, undressed and appreciated for once, and decide to stop valuing yourself. You weren’t someone who had enough worth to have values to uphold. 

“Why not?”

He grins, pops your cheek open with a squeeze of his thumbs, and presses it between your lips. He offers no advice, just a wide, smug grin. He hopes to see you fail, just so he can feel good about himself after building you back up. You suck in a breath, cough, plumes of smoke bursting out with each harsh puff of air, and he laughs, cheek pressed to yours. A part of him hopes the nicotine reaches your brain.

“Your beard is scratchy, you know. You should shave it when you get home”

He bristles slightly, offers a quick nod.

“Yeah. When I get home.”

“I’ll get to visit sometime, right? Maybe next time?”

You look up at him like you genuinely want to, like the idea of seeing him again doesn’t disgust you, and he wants to push you out the door. He hasn’t ruined you yet. If that cigarette doesn’t light the car on fire, he hopes to shove it down your throat. He offers a tight-lipped smile. He is home.

“I’m sure you will.”

You grin, place the cigarette between your lips. You cough again, but don’t break. Inhale, exhale, break, continue. He hasn’t been someone’s teacher in how to ruin themselves in a bit. He doesn’t think you really deserve to be hurt, and that makes him think you deserve it more. Because you’re hurting him with your stupid innocence, and your sweet disposition, and the absolute unbearable way your nose crinkles when you laugh. It’s sending him reeling. He feels like he’s sharing contraband cigarettes with an old friend again, watching himself make another person worse in real time. Watching them get addicted to it. He taps his fingers restlessly against the back of the passenger seat. 

“I think you should get dressed.”

“...What?”

“I think you should get dressed. Now, please.”

He rips the cigarette from your hands, places it between his own lips, picks up what he guesses are your things and forces them into your arms. 

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t really fucking need to.”

Slowly, as if waiting for the length of time to drag long enough for him to change his mind, you pull the supplied shirt over your head. It’s his. Some gray, graphic tee with some text that’s so faded you can hardly read it. You slip your cardigan over your shoulders, look at him. He doesn’t look back. He can’t even bother to get out of the car, just climbs into the passenger seat, despite the space being too small for the maneuver to be comfortable for a man of his size. You breathe in the scent of his space one more time, now riddled with smoke, and open the door, walking into the night. You watch him speed off, reckless, skidding. You pull your cardigan a bit tighter around yourself. You choose a direction to walk in. You will find a new place to come second in.

Im kissing your brain so passionately rn

WHITE COLLAR .

Tashi Duncan, Art Donaldson, and Patrick Zweig were never meant to be criminals.

They were meant to be icons—flawless, untouchable, transcendent. The prodigies of the court. They were supposed to be the kind of legends etched into history books and Wheaties boxes, draped in gold and immortal praise. Together, they were the wings, the sandals, the laurel crown of Nike herself—divine symbols of strength, speed, and victory.

But fate, as it often does, had a different trajectory in mind.

Tashi's career ended in a single, brutal snap—an injury that never quite healed, physically or otherwise. Patrick spiraled beneath the weight of expectation, his once-electrifying talent drowned out by inconsistency and a reputation he couldn’t outrun. And Art, sweet, unshakeable Art, lost the one person who ever made the tour feel like home. When his grandmother died, something essential inside him went quiet. He didn’t walk away from tennis. He simply stopped showing up.

The three of them could’ve faded then. Could’ve let the world move on without them. Could’ve become cautionary tales whispered about in locker rooms and bar corners. But they didn’t. They wouldn’t. Being forgotten was never going to be enough.

The spark came from Patrick, as it often did. He was crashing in another woman’s bed—charming, broke, and always a little too clever for his own good—when he noticed the vase. It stood on a pedestal near the window, backlit by city lights. Porcelain. Imperial yellow. Eighteenth-century Qing dynasty. The kind of thing you see once in a lifetime, if you're lucky—or reckless.

While she was in the bathroom, he did a quick google search. Qianlong era. Estimated value: nine million dollars.

That night, Patrick did something he never did—he scheduled a second date. Then he called Art. Then he called Tashi.

The plan was stupid at first. Then brilliant. Then inevitable.

Ten years later, they were infamous.

The trio had become the most elusive white-collar criminals on the international stage. They slipped through countries and identities like water, leaving behind only splintered champagne bottles, forged documents, and the distinct scent of audacity. Their work was seamless, often beautiful, always just out of reach. They didn’t chase greatness anymore. They stole it—paintings, diamonds, tax codes, ancient artifacts, entire reputations.

And despite the dossiers, the witness statements, the surveillance photos and whispered confessions, not a single case ever stuck. No court ever held them. No handcuffs ever locked.

But there was you.

The head of the FBI’s White Collar Crime Division in New York. Unshakable, relentless, methodical. You’ve built an entire career on patterns no one else sees, on connections no one else believes in until it’s too late. You know them better than anyone else alive. You know their methods, their tells, the rare moments they falter.

They know you, too.

You’re not just a threat—you’re a problem. The kind they can’t buy, charm, or blackmail their way out of. They laugh about you sometimes, over drinks in villas under fake names. But lately, the laughter’s been thinner.

Because you’re getting closer.

And this time, they feel it.

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream

my angel princess

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

right!!! :( </3

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

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

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