#duncan asks

[amymbona]

Literally Patrick and Art

[jesuistrestriste]

(18+) milf!tashi and dilf!art sharing younger reader.

they worship your body with their hands and their lips and their teeth like you’re their first taste of sustenance. tash kisses up the nape of your neck while she pushes art’s head down to urge him to start licking at your warmth. she laughs into your skin when you jolt and reach back to grab her forearm, feeling art’s wet mouth engulf you completely as he hollows his cheeks around your sensitive parts. the blonde moans into your flesh and holds your thighs steady as he flicks his tongue, and tashi moves around to your front to ease you down into the cold sheets. she smirks and strokes your face.

“open up for me, honey,” she murmurs, in a tone that’s softer than you’ve ever heard from her before. you’re not sure why tonight is different, but it is. they can’t seem to keep themselves away from you.

and it’s easy to comply when she’s all you see; warm brown eyes and pretty bobbed hair. it also certainly helps that art’s drooling and suckling at you like you’re made of caramelized sugar. it melts you from the inside-out.

she waits until your head is laid flat on the bedding, and then she’s adjusting the purple strap that bobs above your nose. her gentle touch moves to angle the rubbery length down towards your parted lips. her own do the same when she watches the way you start to lap at the tip.

you do it like a pro because you’ve done this before—you’ve let them play with your body until your brain is clotted with breath-stealing pleasure and heavy amounts of praise. they both give it to you so willingly; always. they’re good at it.

she rocks her hips and lovingly forces you to take the inches down your tight throat. art humps the mattress underneath him to the same rhythm and begins to slide two fingers into your entrance, curling them repeatedly to dig into that special spot and tear whimpers from your chest. the woman above you only pauses her grinding pelvis to wipe away the tears of exertion that cling to your lashes. you see a flash of metal, her wedding band, and then you suddenly become aware of the fact that you can also feel art’s.. coated in your abundant slick and rubbing your walls as he fingers you relentlessly.

“that’s it.. you take us so well..” she croons.

and you do, coming with a muffled cry around the silicone and filling art’s mouth with your gratitude.

they like you best like that, anyways.

[the-gom-jabbar]

AI Search Engines: Why won't you use us? 😭

Me:

[patrothestupid]

Do you know of Duncan and Eddie? I’d love to see them in your art style :3

dnucan and addie

[tacobacoyeet]

Hiii, so I honestly suck at explaining what I want lol, but could you do something where Art is like freshly divorced and decided to start coaching? And he gets with his player who’s significantly younger(if you’re ok with writing age gap stuff! If not it doesn’t have to be included!!) and after a while she has her first time either him and it’s like sweet and soft?

set break | art donaldson x reader

hi, baby! loved this request so much. hope you enjoy!

warnings: SMUT 18+, divorced!coach!art, virgin!reader, implied age gap, cursing, hastily proofread

You'd been his student for a while now— long enough to carve out muscle memory and blistered palms, to mold your discipline into something Art could recognize with a glance. Long enough to make your name known to scouts and whispered about in locker rooms. You were young, all sharp edges and stifled softness, with a game that didn’t ask for attention— it demanded it. Unpredictable. Magnetic. Built from hours no one else was willing to give.

You rose before sunrise. Skipped parties. Trained through birthdays and bruises. Nothing existed outside of the court, and you liked it that way. You were obsessed, but it never felt like a burden. You wanted to be the best, and you lived like it— strict, singular, without distraction. There was no space for softness, especially not for boys who didn’t understand why your hands were always calloused or why your heartbeat aligned with the sound of a bouncing ball.

But Art understood. Maybe that’s why it started the way it did— slow, quiet, unacknowledged. A long look across the net. The rough warmth of his palm correcting your elbow. The way you lingered after practice with half a question on your lips just so you wouldn’t have to leave yet. It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t even conscious at first. But it built, the way pressure always does— somewhere low and steady, humming beneath everything.

He noticed when your breath caught as he adjusted your stance, when your hand brushed his at the ball bucket. You noticed when his voice dropped a little lower than it had to, when he watched you stretch and then quickly looked away. There was no line crossed. Not then. But the line had moved— or maybe it never existed the way you thought it did.

Somewhere in those shared silences, the space between you began to thin. His gaze started to hold longer. Your jokes softened into something more deliberate. His corrections became gentler, slower. And when your knees knocked on the bench, or your fingers lingered a second too long passing him a towel, neither of you moved away.

He told himself it was nothing. A trick of proximity. He’d just gotten divorced, after all— a quiet ending to a long, tired marriage. There was no scandal, no betrayal. Just the slow unraveling of something that had once been love. He and Tashi had parted like two people handing each other back keys. It was civilized. It was kind. But it was still loss.

And then you walked into his court, and it was like seeing that fire again— the one he remembered from the early days with her. Before the touring, before the burnout, before the silences. You had that same glint in your eyes, that same stubborn tilt of your chin, that same obsessive hunger to win.

It pulled at something he thought he’d buried. He tried to chalk it up to memory, to projection, to the ache of nostalgia. But you didn’t let him. You kept showing up— sweaty, flushed, laughing at his driest jokes like they were brilliant. You worked yourself raw. You gave him hell during drills. And you smiled at him like you trusted him with every fragile part of you.

He started noticing things he shouldn’t. The curve of your neck. The way your voice went rough from shouting line calls. How tightly you braided your hair on game days. He started catching himself thinking about you when you weren’t around— in the grocery store, behind the wheel, in the quiet before sleep. And when his hand slipped while correcting your grip, and you didn’t flinch— when you leaned into him instead of away— he realized it wasn’t memory at all. It was want.

Still, neither of you named it. You trained. You pushed. You stayed late. And he let you.

The tension didn’t arrive like a crash. It built— slow and tight and impossible to ignore. In the thwack of your racket against the ball, in the whistle of your breath between points, in the way you held his gaze just a little too long in what should have always been the most innocent moments.

You learned his moods by the shape of his mouth. He learned yours by the way you adjusted your grip between volleys. He started making excuses to keep you longer. You pretended not to notice.

And at night, when the sky was black and the courts were finally quiet, he’d go inside his home with white knuckles, jaw clenched against the memory of your thighs dusted with clay, your voice low and tired asking for just one more set.

It was unbearable. And it was holy.

You caught him once— late May, heat thick in the air, your tank top clinging to your ribs. He was watching you, really watching, and didn’t look away when you met his eyes. You didn’t smile. Neither did he. But something passed between you that made your knees feel loose.

You started thinking about him in places you shouldn’t. In the shower. In bed, staring up at your ceiling fan, heart pounding just from imagining what his voice would sound like in your ear. You hated yourself for it. And you couldn’t stop.

So when the snap finally came, it wasn’t soft or silent— it was ugly. Loud. Tense. It happened after hours in the sun, your forearms screaming from overwork, your throat hoarse from grunts and breathless curses. You double-faulted four times in a row and Art had said something— not cruel, just curt. But it hit too hard, landed wrong.

“Maybe if you’d stop overthinking and actually listen—”

You dropped your racket. “I am listening.”

“No, you’re reacting. And you're wasting energy doing it.”

You stepped in. Too close. “Then maybe you should coach someone else.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

You blinked, eyes stinging, your voice rising. “I give you everything—”

“I never asked you to!”

That was the crack. The silence that followed wasn’t calm— it was the kind that pulses in your ears when your heart is racing and you don’t know whether to run or fight.

You didn’t run.

You reached into the minimal space between you, grabbed his collar, and kissed him— hard. Reckless. Like you hated him. Like you needed him. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. You tasted like salt and heat and effort. He froze for half a second before kissing you back, one hand sliding to your waist, the other threading into your sweat-damp hair.

It all blurred after that— teeth, breath, hands. He pressed you back against the practice bench, fingers grazing the edge of your sports bra, dragging beneath your top, skin warm under his palms. His touch was firmer than you expected. You arched up into him, more instinct than strategy, wanting more. Needing.

And then you said it.

“I’ve never done this before.”

His hand stilled. He pulled back like he’d been burned, eyes searching yours, chest rising like he’d been running laps.

“What?”

You didn’t look away. “I’ve never had sex.”

It knocked the wind out of him. All at once, the heat and hunger gave way to something else entirely— something tender, something so achingly human he thought he might break from it. He stared at you, stunned. Not with judgment, not even shock. But with reverence.

Your face was still fierce, but your voice had gone soft. “I just... I didn’t want it with anyone else.”

He touched your cheek then, gently, like you were made of glass. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I want you to.”

And it shifted— the entire rhythm between you rethreaded itself. No longer frantic, no longer fighting. He kissed you slow this time, guiding rather than taking, hands steady and careful. He let you set the pace. Let you tremble. Let you breathe. He whispered against your jaw, your throat, telling you it was okay to be nervous. That he’d go slow. That you could stop any time. You kept your eyes on his, wide and wet, like you were trying to memorize the way he looked at you— not like a coach. Not like a man with regrets. Like you were a gift.

He didn’t let it happen there. Not on the court. Not with the sun still high and the sweat still drying on your skin. The moment your voice trembled with that confession, everything in him shifted— the hunger in his eyes replaced by something deeper, gentler, more reverent.

“No,” he said softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “Not here.”

You blinked, confused, until his hands fell to your waist and he pressed the softest kiss to your temple. “Your first time isn’t happening on a tennis bench,” he murmured. “Come inside.”

You followed him into the house without a word, nerves coiling low in your belly. The house was quiet, the air cooler than outside, your footsteps muffled against the hardwood. You’d only ever seen glimpses of it before— a mug in the window, a hallway through the screen door. Now, everything felt achingly intimate. Lived-in. Real.

He led you into his bedroom, the sheets rumpled, sunlight spilling through half-closed blinds. There was a pair of his shoes by the nightstand, a stack of worn books on the dresser. And then there was him, watching you with something tender and unraveled in his eyes, like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this moment.

“You okay?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

You nodded. “Just… nervous.”

“I know.” He stepped closer, cupped your face with both hands. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me. Not ever.”

That was what undid you— not the kiss that followed, not even the hands that slid beneath your top again. It was the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like he’d carry the weight of whatever this was, if you let him.

He kissed you slowly, thoroughly. Not like he was trying to take, but like he wanted to learn. His hands slid beneath your shirt, coaxing rather than rushing, and this time, you let him undress you piece by piece. He laid you back on the bed like you were something he’d prayed for. And when his body came down over yours, warm and solid and so heartbreakingly careful, you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

He asked again if you were sure. You said yes. Again.

And then he took his time. Not just in the motions, but in the pauses. In the way his eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to read every thought, every hesitation. He kissed your shoulder, your jaw, the soft dip beneath your collarbone. His hands were warm and broad as they traveled across your ribs, your hips, your thighs, not greedy, but grounding— like he wanted you to know you were safe.

"Tell me if anything feels wrong," he murmured against your skin. You nodded, already breathless.

When his hand slid between your legs, you startled— not out of fear, but out of unfamiliarity. He stilled immediately.

"Too much?"

"No," you said quickly, then quieter, “just… new.”

He smiled, soft and real. “New is good. We’ll go slow.”

And he did. His fingers moved with care, coaxing rather than demanding, reading every shift in your breath like it was strategy, like it was gameplay. You gasped when his thumb brushed your clit for the first time, eyes flying to his. He held your gaze.

"That's okay," he whispered. "That’s just you feeling it."

You didn’t know how to be quiet— not with him. You let the sounds happen. The soft whimpers, the ragged gasps, the way your hips tried to chase his touch without you even realizing. He didn’t tease. He didn’t push. Just stayed with you, murmuring encouragement, grounding you with his voice.

When he finally slid a finger inside, your breath caught. It wasn’t painful— just strange. Full. Real. Your muscles clenched around him, and he stilled again.

“Breathe,” he said. “Just like we do on the court. In through the nose.”

You did.

He moved slowly, gently, building rhythm. When he added a second finger, you whimpered, and he kissed your forehead. “That okay?”

You nodded into his shoulder, thighs trembling.

“God, you’re so good,” he whispered. “Doing so good for me.”

You’d never been touched like this. Never had someone take their time, pay attention, listen.

By the time he pulled back and reached for the drawer— a condom, the sound of the foil tearing— you were half-gone with need.

He knelt between your thighs, eyes on you the entire time. "You ready?"

You nodded.

"Words."

“Yes. I’m ready.”

And when he finally pressed inside, it was slow and careful. Your breath hitched, your body tensing despite your trust. He held still, his forehead resting against yours, hand cupping your jaw as if to remind you he was there, fully, completely. His voice was barely a whisper: “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You nodded, your thighs trembling around his waist, your hands clutching at his shoulders. He kissed your cheek, your eyelids, waited for your breathing to slow. “You’re doing so good,” he murmured. “Tell me when.”

It took a moment. A heartbeat. Then another. And then, quietly, you whispered, “Okay. I’m okay.”

He moved in increments, barely-there thrusts, watching your face for every wince, every exhale. You could feel every inch of him, slow and thick and unrelenting, stretching you more than you thought you could take. Your legs trembled, your fingers curled against his shoulder blades, and he kissed along your jawline, whispering your name like it grounded him. Every press of his hips made your body jolt, nerves alive and blinking, your breath stuttering in your throat.

"You're so tight," he murmured, groaning low as your body tried to adjust around him. "Fuck, baby— you're driving me insane."

The slick glide of his thumb over your clit returned, gentle but insistent. Your thighs quivered, heels digging into the mattress, hips lifting just slightly to chase him. You felt stretched, overwhelmed, but full. Filled in a way that settled somewhere between ache and pleasure.

He kissed your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, again and again. “Just let me take care of you.”

The pain dulled, warmth replacing it. The friction started to melt you open.

Your voice cracked. “Don’t stop.”

He paused, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “There.”

So he followed it. Stayed there. Kept it shallow and tender, murmuring praise between kisses, telling you how beautiful you looked, how proud he was, how much you were giving him.

You weren’t sure it would happen. Everything was so overwhelming— your body, his body, the unfamiliar ache that pulsed low in your stomach, the constant tension of wanting more but not knowing how to ask for it. But then his hand slipped between you again, his fingers finding your clit, and he murmured, “Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Your breath caught. You nodded, but he didn’t rush. He adjusted slightly, slowing his hips, angling deeper— and with each pass, his fingers moved in rhythm. The pressure started building almost without your permission. Your thighs flexed. Your fingers clenched in the sheets. You gasped something that wasn’t a word and clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice rough now, pleasure curling through it. “That’s it, baby. You’re so good. So fucking perfect. Just let it happen.”

The feeling crested slowly, the way a wave might swell before it crashes. You arched beneath him, breath shaking, lips parting as the world narrowed to sensation— his voice, his fingers, the sweet ache of him inside you. And then it hit.

You came with a soft, gasping cry, every nerve ending lit up, your back bowing, your thighs trembling around his waist. He didn’t stop. He kissed you through it, holding you like you were breaking open in his arms.

“That’s it,” he said again, so tender it made you want to cry. “So good. So good for me.”

And only after, when your body relaxed, when your eyes fluttered open and you saw the way he was looking at you like you were some kind of miracle— did he let himself go. Thrusts stuttering, jaw clenched against your shoulder as he followed you into it, hips rolling once, twice, and then still.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Your breathing slowed in sync. He rested his forehead against yours, still inside you, his hand cupping your jaw with aching care.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded, eyes wet. “Yeah. I’m really okay.”

He kissed your nose, your cheek, your shoulder. And then he pulled you close and didn’t let go.

It didn’t last long. It wasn’t perfect. But it was yours. Real and raw and impossibly tender. And when it was over, when he curled around you with one hand stroking your back and the other cradling your face, you felt something settle inside you— quiet, certain.

Later, when you were rested against him in bed, fingers drawing patterns over his chest, he’d think about the walls you carried and the way you finally let him see past them. He’d think about the trust it took to open up. And he’d promise— silently, fiercely— to take care of you, just like you deserved.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream @nozhdyved @asheepinfrance @love-ella333 @jesuistrestriste @cha11engers

want to be tagged in the next one? join here!

[jordiemeow]

mama tashi's turn??? (casual dominance)

MAMI TASHI'S TURNNNNN

it's no surprise that she takes the natural lead in your relationship. not in a domineering way; everything she does is entirely out of care for you. she just adores you, so much so that she has a matching bracelet with your name on the same wrist as lily's.

speaking of jewellery, you have a locket from her with her picture in it so that she's always with you. when you get your nails done, her initials are always incorporated in some way. she's paying for them, after all—you have to allow her some input. just subtle little ways for her to lay her claim on you.

she has no issues with you going out with your girls when she's too busy to join you. you're your own person, after all, but she does ask that you give her periodic updates through the night. she likes to see pictures of you in your pretty dress and heels, beaming at the camera or videos of you dancing with your friends. mostly, though, she likes the pictures to be able to monitor how drunk you are throughout the night without actually being there. when you send one with glassy eyes and lazy smile, she knows it's her queue to send an uber to pick you up. you never argue—tashi knows best.

monitors your drinks when she's with you, too. tells you when to ease up or slow down. for the most part, you listen, but when you're being particularly difficult or she doesn't want to ruin your fun she just discreetly tips some of it out when you aren't looking.

tends to order your food for you. never condescending about it, it just slips out naturally. her hand on the small of your back, rubbing gentle little circles when she glances to you for confirmation. most of the time, you just smile shyly and nod your head. it never fails to fluster you how well she knows you.

always there to praise you with a "that's my girl," even after you complete the most mundane of tasks. it can be anything varying from her delivering that line with a kiss to the cheek after you've finished an assignment, to a much breathier version when your face is nestled between her thighs.

loves showering you in hickeys. but she's a classy woman, so most of the time they're somewhere that isn't glaringly obvious. her favourite place is your thighs; holding you down while her breath ghosts over your soft skin, biting and licking while the pair of you giggle about your little secret.

definitely has post notifications on for you. whether it's a story or a post, she's always the first like. she makes sure she's tagged in all of your photos if she isn't present in them, too. her instagram handle tagged between your tits so that everyone knows who you really belong to.

once again discussed w watch party thank u all for indulging me <33

[barrenclan]

After all she's gone through Daffodilcloud does deserves a silly goofball of a man to be happy with :)

Duncan moodboard

[coolgiantpastaperson]

Based of this TF2 meme by Iycantrin: https://www.tumblr.com/lycantrin/711225535654772736/i-made-these-silly-images-of-the-mercs-holding-mlp?source=share

This started off as a shitpost but here's some lore...

.

Duncan and Geoff caught DJ watching MLP but instead of making fun of him they ended up watching the entire 1st season in one sitting. Word got around and now all the boys have MLP marathon sleepovers.

.

Ezekiel called them cringe for liking a little girls show, he was later evicted from the cabin. He has since grown as a person, and now watches Monster High with the girls.

.

Noah and Alejandro claim they only watch the show ironically, but Owen overheard them having a heated argument about the unicorn master race on a Fallout Equestria RP server.

.

Chef has been a MLP fan since G1. Chris has only seen the smile HD, pony.mov type videos on YouTube

[beverlycrushr]

STAR TREK VOYAGER 5.17

[s-grunge]

Well, somebody's head exploded...

This is why anger gets you nowhere, Cody.

This has to be one of the dumbest things I've drawn in a while.

Character pngs under cut

[amymbona]

I see this gif more often than I see my own family.

[olympain]

Remember this moment! You're here! You're right here! And you're ready to fight!

[the-gom-jabbar]

[chlmtsdoll]

omg omg yes patrickkk!! maybe something like he says something in regards to her relationship with art and tashi and how one day she’ll be alone and they’ll leave her after she retires and she gets all sad and just lots of angst ???

YES OMG this is just what I needed !! Even though Patrick is a real bully in this one I had a lot of fun with thisss I love writing intense emotions 🤍

NOTHING WITHOUT YOU

౨ৎ Pairing: ballerina!reader x Patrick Zweig/Art Donaldson/Tashi Duncan

౨ৎ Summary: Art and Tashi leave you home alone with Patrick, deciding to keep your distance from his dislike of you only goes but so far when you get caught in his wrath

౨ৎ Word count: 3.8k

౨ৎ Warnings: no use of y/n, sensitive!reader, sugar baby! reader, lots of angst, some fluff at the end, hurt/comfort, light verbal abuse, mentions of bullying, age gap (reader early 20’s), older!Patrick/Art/Tashi, protective Art & Tashi

While Art and Tashi had been out for the night seeing their daughter Lily in a local tennis tournament they were having for all the kindergarteners qualified in town, you’d stayed back at the penthouse the couple had been renting out for the time being. Although, you hadn’t been staying back alone — you were accompanied by the maid that waited on you all day to day and Patrick, who well, was brought along on this months tennis cycle.

It was mandatory you weren’t home alone during this time though. Tashi had been extremely potent on the matter, a strict rule about you being by yourself or out of her or Art’s view with Patrick. She made a big thing about how she didn’t trust the vindictive man that Patrick was around you. Even though it was known to you he was trusted within the couples sanctuary and personal life — they also were sure to remember he was Patrick at the end of the day.

With his deadly looks and slightly verbal abuse towards you since you met, down to his canine like draw that led him towards using his cruelty as shield for his compulsive desire that made him want to tear you down piece by piece. You didn’t know if it was because he still just couldn’t quite figure you out, or your purpose with the Donaldsons — why they were so intrigued with you or the fact that he wanted them, you, to himself.

It wasn’t overlooked by anyone that Patrick couldn’t stand the light that you were in Art and Tashi’s lives. With your innocent stares, fawning eyes at them like they were your world and stars, or how you always had a sense of obliviousness to your encounter. Always walking around the place in the tiniest shorts or pastel leg warmers trimmed with things he thought was all too ridiculous for you to be really real. At least not enough for him to take you seriously. Like ruffles or dainty flower trimmings of some sort that made his senses go untamed. You saw it whenever you’d walk by his robust presence as he’d sit and have a beer with Art. His eyes following your waist and perfect stature to do virtuous things like help the maid out with the laundry, kind smiles and sweet “please” and “thank you’s” as you folded attire. Or when you’d be quiet as a mouse in your the side of whatever massive place Art and Tashi would rent when you’d join them on tour during your off seasons, to pick up a thousand piece puzzle. Clench your fists in the cutest of ways when you got stuck in a loop of no hope to finish. But you always finished. You were the perfect sweet little thing.

He found you to be nauseating.

Your sweetness like a straight poison, always just too polite and never having outburst or a temper rise. To Patrick it seemed too good to be true, and you were. Just too good. Just to sweet for him. He wanted to destroy you.

Corrupt you, chew you up and spit you out.

And you just hadn’t known how to handle it or approach him at all, so not even knowing the appeal that Tashi and Art saw in him, you mostly ever just stayed away.

With the man being over an entire foot taller than you, you had no problem in keeping your distance. Any time you two were caught walking down a tight hall, his towering presence over you, he’d knock right into your miniature body. On purpose. Making you fly the other way, or when you’d basically spent most of the summer reading, he’d take your books by the spine and toss them across the room. If you were watching tv he’d snatch the remote from the coffee table and turn on a tennis match.

He was a grown man and a full blown bully.

You’d only put up with it because you knew it was in response of him not getting the same savory and tender treatment that Art and Tashi gave you. You were taking it all. Stealing their affections and hogging it from him with a naive (annoying to him) little smile on your face.

So you’d take a couple pushes and teasing if that meant you could hurt him in his weakest ally.

And you respected Tashi’s wishes of not sharing space with him for caution of yourself, but when the maid had to run out suddenly for an abrupt emergency — that plan had went downhill quickly.

You were left with Patrick Zweig all by yourself.

“Okay, I hope everything’s alright… see you next week.” you’d said your goodbyes to the maid as she hurried out of the place and you’d shut the grand doors behind her gently, turning on your heels to approach the kitchen area as your cold feet lightly toed against the marble floors. You decided not to bother making too much noise now that it had been just you and him. If you could just get through the next hour without having to get into an interaction with him and upset Tashi, it would be fine.

Nearing the close kitchen, you could hear switches of the second stove being turned and messed with. The sound irritating and getting louder as you stepped closer. Gas. Not the electric one that had also been provided right next to it.

When you walked in, of course Patrick had been hunched right over the stove, what looked like trying to light his cigarette in the most odd way that made you raise a brow on sight — until you remembered the rant he went on to Art and Tashi about leaving his one and only lighter back at one of the other rental homes in La. His fingers taking a quick break to scratch at his only slightly shaven dark colored beard to neck in modest confusion as he toyed with the fire. Just a couple seconds from catching onto his jeans.

You viewed the scene for a quick moment before letting out a piqued small sigh as you’d let him deal with that at his own funeral. You went to grab a soda from the fridge a few steps away from him.

Going through the loaded refrigerator stacked with only the highest healthy planned meals and smoothies, accompanied with fruits and cut up vegetables, you reached in the drawer to get a Diet Coke. The sound of Patrick just a couple moments away from burning the entire penthouse down made you scrunch your face up in annoyance before shutting the fridge by the handle.

“Could you not do that ? It’s really dangerous.”

His expression was hardened, Patrick looked up from his amateurish work to meet your glance when the sound of your soft chary voice had reached his ears.

“it’s fine, pipsqueak. I know what I’m doing.”

You rolled your eyes at the name he’d call you, and raised the sharp edge of the soda can to your lips as you watched the top of his cigarette beam a bright crimson at last. The taller fit man matched your gesture as he brought the stick to his mouth. Pink, and not reaching for a care in the world he let the smoke he breathed in travel out and above. You watched with hesitation to bring up the fact that the smoke detectors had been near flashing a signaling light just above him, you eyed the small but alarming circle before your eyes drifted back down to Patrick’s dark curls framing his face.

“You really shouldn’t smoke in here,” you crossed an arm over your cropped pj top that had displayed your belly button by a few inches. Patrick lifted his chin and peered down at your small figure to inspected you from your socked feet to your head through lidded eyes.

“Relax. Mommy and daddy aren’t here right now,” he scuffed in slight displeasure of your voice already. “Don’t you ever do anything apart from what you’re told ?.. ever ?”

“I’m just trying to be safe.” You had to crane your neck to look up at him, so it was much easier to just stare down at your feet against the floor before shifting your weight to the other. Patrick turned from your exposure already tired of you sticking your nose in his business anyways. He had looked at you like some stray kitten walking around the place unwanted and unfamiliar to his prey attitude.

“Well go be safe somewhere else.” His voice gravely before he started to chuckle in thought, you frowned. “Isn’t it pass your bed time anyways ? Oh, wait.. I forgot, you just have to stay up so you can see Art and Tashi walk through the door right ? Like some needy puppy or something ?”

Your eyebrows furrowed and you swallowed to coat your now dry throat in slight offense as you dropped your arms to your sides.

“Art always makes sure to make me tea and kiss me good night.” You defended even though your tone remained faint and Patrick only grinned in ignorance at your comment wanting to laugh a bit more at your seriousness for a joke.

“God. I almost feel bad for you, y’know.. you’re so dependent on them. They’re not your fucking parents.”

Patrick had pointed his cigarette to your presence and you shook your head at his words.

“I never said they were.”

“You don’t have to. You’re addicted to them.”

“And so are you.” You raised your voice a bit and Patrick moved to the counter in front of you with frustration. “You were just as lost as me before they acknowledged you again. Now all you do is pick me apart for it but you’re the same… and you’re just too jealous to admit it.”

Patrick had looked away as he begun to laugh with a smile that hid his insecurities deep down. Only to meet your eyes again, the most disquiet look of enmity in his stare that made you start to back up in regret. Right into the cabinets behind you without even realizing it.

“Jealous ? Give me a fucking break. You’re a pet.” He verbally spit at you and your lip quivered a bit at the name, he once again, had the upper hand on you. Because when he started to move closer, starting to tower over your fragile space you once called personal — you should of just gotten out of it then. But something stopped you from getting away.

You were frightened, his words too big, too rough for you to escape.

“And you know what’s sad ? Your brain isn’t even developed enough to know the difference. You’re gonna keep this up with them. Get so tightly wrapped up in this.. whatever the fuck- - and get your feelings all fucked up and confused thinking it’s love. That they really could love you, till one day you’ll be stuck on the side of the road with your life fully flipped over when they get sick of your little shit get up.”

His words were harsh as he snapped at you. Your body was frozen there as he backed you up into the deep of the kitchen, and even though you knew you could leave. Just walk away. Your limbs slowly started the tremble as well, nose flaring and redden as you fought back tears. You couldn’t let him win. But what if he was right ?

You knew he hated you enough to say anything to make you cry, but what if it had all been true.

Something inside of you broke.

“That’s not true,” your voice shaken as you shook your head to fight the anxieties,

“Yes. And you know it. They’ll leave you one day. Are you really that stupid, you can’t see it ? You think this will last ?”

You didn’t answer, and Patrick grinned.

“You’re a fucking tool, that they can play with and you let them. A toy.”

You tried to muster up the power to block him out. You were failing. Your heart pounded and you gripped the counter behind you in correlation to your discomposure as you begun to sniff.

“The way Tashi hardly looks in your eyes unless you’ve won every god damn tournament, they way your definitely as much to Art as a doll he can fuck to keep himself in the game. Face it. You’re no better than a hooker on the go.”

“No.” You started to cry, tears falling from your ducks before your brain could alarm your hands to wipe them, you uttered the word out as you faced Patrick and he still got in your face even closer. The man scowled at you as he pushed his words into you, cramming them in your head. He cornered your petite body in the side on the kitchen and you could feel the overwhelming hurt take over your body.

“Yes. You mean nothing to them.”

“No !” You screamed at him as tears streamed down your face as you tried to fight off his presence, not knowing what to do or where to go so you stood there and cried. And it felt pathetic. You let him win. He was bigger and smarter and knew better. You don’t know why you tried to stand against him, lord knows you were never going to win and now you were left the fool, crying like a child while being dog leg by Patrick Zweig.

You suddenly heard heavy foot steps and the sound of heels clashing against the floor as Art and Tashi rushed into the room at the sound of your scream.

“What the fuck is going on here ?” Tashi’s voice over powered the entire room as she dropped her bag and called out the maids name in hurried frustration of the scene she observed. “Where the fuck is she ?” Tashi huffed before telling her mom to take Lily to her room quickly, then storming back in to stop whatever they walked into.

“Baby ? Hey hey hey,” Art made his way over to your quivering body, face taken over by utter concern as he immediately took your shoulders into his hands and pushed Patrick roughly to the other side of the counter.

“The fuck are you doing, man ??” He cursed out at the other man. If you weren’t overwhelmed with emotion, you could say this was the first time you’d ever seen Art so terribly angry. But all you could do was turn away and sob into Art’s chest as he held you close, eyebrows furrowed deep and a fire in his eyes as he stared at Patrick like he could snap.

“I got this. Take her upstairs,” Tashi gestured to you and Art as she pushed between the two of them. It was in one swift motion that she tugged on Patrick’s ear by the lobe, forcing him to follow her out of the kitchen. He winced through his trailing behind her.

“Ow! What the- -”

Tashi jabbed him in the arm, and then again, then again till he he jumped back from her furious state.

“Are you a fucking idiot !? What is the matter with you ?!” Tashi roared at him with straight daggers in her eyes. “What did you say to her ??? I told you to stay the fuck apart !”

“Your brat came bothering me!” He grabbed Tashi’s wrists to yank her away from enforcing anymore pain on to him, but she just snatched her arm away mercilessly again. “She’s a little shit, so I told her the truth. You and Art just baby the fuck out of her for gratification. You don’t give a fuck about her, admit it. All of you are delusional !”

He argued and Tashi closed her eyes for a brief second with a deep breath before she got in his face.

“You’re a fucking piece of shit.”

Patrick rolled his eyes, but Tashi caught him off guard when she shoved him straight in his chest again.

“Who the fuck gave you the right, Patrick ? Are you blind ?? No one gives a shit about you ! It’s you !” Tashi had grunted with eruption, only getting madder because he had madden her so much already. She and Patrick both knew her words had only been half true, but it didn’t matter right now when he was playing so dirty and spitting words carelessly after the other. He truly did have no right.

Patrick stood there and looked at her, there was no use of more words when she had gotten like this and he knew she knew exactly how he felt about it all.

“Just- just- dispose of yourself somewhere. Go.”

“Where do you want me to go ?”

“I don’t give a fuck. Away from here, away from me. You’re an asshole.”

Tashi’s eye slightly twitched while she looked at the man in repulsion, and he was stone cold as he pushed passed her, knocking her shoulder as he slouched by, Tashi folded her arms.

“You will apologize to her first thing in the morning or you can pack your shit.” The irked woman gave a forced sympathetic smile before glaring at him and walking away, leaving Patrick there groaning in vexation as he shook his head.

Upstairs, you had been curled up in Arts lap. He held you in his arms as your soft cries and salty tears melted into the cotton of his shirt, he rubbed small circles against your back while he sat there in thought.

Art was distraught by the fact that whatever Patrick had said could of disturbed you so bad he had to find you crying your eyes out and shaking in the kitchen. He tried his best not to let you see the way his fists clenched and unclenched with his anger fueled throughout him, since he didn’t want to scare you or make you worry any more.

No matter what, Patrick always found a way to be a fucking dick. He just couldn’t understand the motive around why he’d want to make his perfect girl hurt or scream like that.

He felt your breathing start to steady as you sniffed and your face had been all hot and flushed, your heart had gone back to a normal pace, but you still were quite shaken as you curled farther into Arts embrace with a low wine.

“Baby, look at me. Can you sit up for me ?” Art’s voice chimes in sweetly through the sunken air of the room. He lowers his head to stare down at your state in his arms and you moved so you were sitting on your knees on the bed, you sniffed and Arts thumbs went to caress your face as he wiped a few tears from your damp cheeks. His icy blues met your wide teary eyes that were filled with sadness and your lip had been just swollen a touch.

“What happened ? Can you tell me what he said to you ?”

Your eyes travel down to his hands brushing your face and you held one of his wrists, your expression was laced with sorrow. You whimpered a little just from the memory, which Art noticed with a sigh. You knew it would feel better if you just got it out. Emptied the words from your chest because your kind and caring Art always took care of the worries for you, but it had been different this time. Because it involved the ideal of him leaving you.

You took your time to think as you sat on that bed with him. And Art watched your face soften under his comforting touch.

“He said I was nothing. That you’d leave, Tashi would leave. And i’d be stuck heartbroken with nothing because I don’t mean anything to either of you.” Your voice was sparse and trembled as you spoke to get the words out, Art already started to tense up as he listened. “Maybe- I- I am too dependent on you both, and I shouldn’t be because I’m so young and you guys don’t need another child on your arm to have to look after. I don’t want to be stupid.. I’m so- stupid.”

You wanted to sob again, your voice cracking and your hands going to cover up your face, the corner of Art’s lips twitched as he frowned, “no, no, no, sweetheart. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

Art had brought you back into him as you cried softly under his chin, your arms wrapped around his torso and the older man sighed deeply. “Nothing is ever determined, and life takes us all in ways we just can’t predict, but I want you to know that whatever you choose to do, or want along the line — Tashi and I will always be here to support you. We’re not going any where and we would never leave you. Fuck that. You’re so loved, by us. You’re always welcomed in our lives no matter the circumstances that may come upon.”

You wiped your nose briefly before leaning up to look at the blonde once more, eyes searched his face for any uncertainty but all you found was honest and pure devotion.

“Really ?” You budged tenderly and Art brushed a few stuck locks that were caught in your wet face. He nodded with a light simper.

“Really, Princess. We adore you’re company and the person you are dearly. And you don’t have to think about all those bad thoughts right now, okay ?” He kissed the top of your head to your cheek while you hugged him like a lifeline. A feeling of warmth spread within you from there, worries calm and you felt collected of your emotions once again. You just wanted to be reassured. Words cut you and got to you deep. But right now being with Art, it was like the perfect bandage to your wound that was although bittersweet in theory, a very delicate heart.

You heard footsteps nearing as Tashi walked into the bedroom. She was looking exhausted. Absolutely tired from the inside out as she sat on the bed next to the two of you, your eyes met hers and you immediately curled up and laid your head in her welcoming lap when she settled. Soft hands against her leg where you felt the fabric of her dress pant brush your cheek, and a sullen sigh escaped the woman’s lips.

“He won’t bother you again, baby.” Her sultry like voice filled your senses and your chest collapsed with ease once again. Her fingers went to journey through your loose locks gently as the vigilant but warm woman relaxed you now physically too.

“I’ll go make you a hot chocolate, and Tashi will run you a warm bath. We’re gonna make you feel better, love.” Art left you with tender adoration as he promised to you, and reached to leave a delicate stroke on your thigh with a fond smile before he stood from the bed. Tashi nodded him off as she held you there for a moment more, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple.

[tacobacoyeet]

Patrick x reader where it’s kinda grumpy x sunshine where at first Patrick is so annoyed by reader because reader is a bundle of joy but as time goes on he starts to fall in love with her and then maybe something happens but they end up living happily ever after anyways

sunrise | patrick zweig x reader

a/n: patrick zweig my shayla :( thank you this was such a lovely request!!!!

warnings: ??? alcohol mention? one or two curse words? not proofread!

Patrick Zweig is not doing well.

Everyone knows it. The commentators circle around it like vultures, calling it a "rough patch" or a "mental hurdle," like saying it gently makes it less humiliating. But the truth is, Patrick is spiraling.

He's been crashing ever since the season turned sour and never stopped. No wins. No headlines that didn’t sting. No place to call his own for more than a week. Motel rooms and borrowed couches. A bag that holds too much grief and not enough clean clothes. Sometimes he wakes up and has to remind himself what city he’s even in.

There’s no control left. Not in his grip, not in his breath, not in the way he wakes up every morning with the same memory looped behind his eyes: Tashi kicking him out, Art not looking back, his name echoing in an empty room.

He hates himself for still caring. Hates how much space they both take up in his chest. He thought anger would save him. It doesn’t. It just keeps him awake at night.

He doesn’t want to be known as the guy who used to be good. The kid who won the juniors and became a failure. The guy who let it all slip. And yet, every time he steps onto the court, he feels smaller. Shrinking under the weight of what he used to be.

He hasn’t won a match in weeks.

He hasn’t looked anyone in the eye in just as long.

But then...

It starts with your laugh.

Not the first time he hears it, no. That time, you’re across the coffee shop with your back turned to him, mid-conversation with someone who doesn’t matter—because all he notices is the way your laugh cuts through the room like sunlight through a fogged-up window. Sharp. Warm. Relentless.

Patrick looks up from his phone and hates the sound of it. Hates how it slices through the air like it’s got permission to reach the parts of him he’s tried to deaden. It’s the kind of laugh that reminds him what it was like to feel light—careless, once. And God, does he hate that it still lands. That it finds its way in.

By the time he meets you officially, he's already decided you're too much. Too loud, too bright, too everything. You talk too fast, you smile too easily, you compliment strangers in line and tip too much and bring your own reusable straw. He loathes people who try too hard to be liked, and you do it effortlessly.

But you keep showing up.

You're always in his space somehow. In line ahead of him, sitting at the corner table he likes, talking to his coach’s assistant like you’ve known him for years. Laughing too loud during his interviews. Leaving your water bottle on his side of the bench, like it's yours just as much as it's his.

Eventually, someone introduces you. A bright-eyed, bushy-tailed new hire. In town for the season, touring with the ATP media team, apparently.

You say something about capturing "emotion in motion" and Patrick already wants to scream.

You call him “champ” the first time you bump into him outside the venue. He raises an eyebrow. “Bit generous, don’t you think?”

You just shrug. “Fake it till we make it.”

The next time he sees you, it’s raining.

You’re sitting under the patio awning of that café across from the practice courts—the one with the crooked yellow chairs and chipped espresso mugs—and you’re talking to someone with your whole face. Patrick doesn’t understand how people do that. All that smiling. All that eye contact.

You spot him. Of course you do. You wave him over like you’ve been waiting for him all day.

He pretends he doesn’t see you. He keeps walking. But the next morning, there’s a cappuccino waiting for him on the counter of the media lounge, his last name spelled right, foam in the shape of a little leaf.

No note. No explanation.

He drinks it anyway.

He tells himself it’s just coffee, despite the fact that the next day, when it's there again, he forgets to be annoyed.

But he doesn’t walk away. Not then. Not when he should.

And when he sees you again—alone this time, sitting on the floor of the media lounge with your back against the vending machine and a lollipop in your mouth—he finally speaks.

“Why do you keep doing that?”

You look up like you knew he’d ask eventually. “Doing what?”

“That,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “The coffee. The... cheerleader act.”

You blink at him. “Would you prefer I told you you suck and the whole world hates you?”

He stares.

You shrug. “I can do that too. You suck. The whole world hates you. Also, you smell like yesterday’s socks.”

He snorts before he can stop himself. It comes out sharp and unwilling.

Your grin widens. “There he is.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“No,” you say, “but I think you need it anyway.”

The next morning, he finds you outside the practice courts with your shoes off and your ankles up on the railing like you're sunbathing on a damn yacht. You're eating a croissant with your fingers, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"You know you're not allowed to sit here, right?" he says, more annoyed than curious.

You squint up at him, then take a deliberately slow bite. "Then call security."

He should. He really should. Instead, he rolls his eyes and keeps walking. You call after him: "Cappuccino with cinnamon again today, yeah?"

He mutters something unintelligible. You take it as a yes.

Later, when you drop it off beside him at the locker room door, you don’t say a word. Just tap twice on the frame, leave the cup, and go.

He drinks it while it’s still hot.

And when someone asks why he’s smiling that afternoon—barely, faintly, a twitch more than anything—he lies. Says he isn’t.

---

He expects you to get bored of him eventually. Everyone does. That’s the pattern—he pushes, they pull away. He says too little or too much, and they leave.

But you don’t.

You start bringing him snacks—random things. Trail mix. A banana taped with a sticky note that says “eat me or perish.” A protein bar you claim tastes like cardboard but is “great for mood regulation.”

He doesn’t laugh. Not at first. But he stops throwing them out.

You start sitting beside him during press conferences, off to the side, scribbling something in a notebook he can never quite see. One time he leans over and asks what you’re writing.

You blink at him. “A poem.”

He snorts. “What, about me?”

You tilt your head. “Would that be so crazy?”

He doesn’t answer. But he spends the rest of the afternoon wondering what rhymes with asshole.

He thinks you’ll grow tired of playing games with someone who never plays back. But every time he shows up, you’re already there. Smiling like he’s worth it.

You start keeping a mental tally of how many times he glares at you in a day. Three is average. Five is a personal best. Once he glares at you for a full five seconds without blinking, and you clap like he’s just landed a dismount.

He mutters, “You’re insufferable.”

You beam. “I’ve been called worse.”

He doesn’t understand you. Doesn’t understand how someone so full of light hasn’t been snuffed out by the world yet. You wear joy like armor, and it pisses him off. Not because it’s fake, but because it isn’t.

He sees you talking to a player who just lost a brutal match. You’re crouched beside him, one hand on his knee, saying something Patrick can’t hear—but he sees the way the guy breathes easier after. He sees the way you absorb the sadness and never show the strain.

You are not sunshine. You are the damn sun. And it’s blinding.

“Do you ever turn off?” he asks one day, mid-warmup, sweat already clinging to his back.

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Wouldn’t you miss me if I did?”

You start teasing him just to get a reaction.

When he scowls at his locker: "You know, if you smile too hard, your face might crack."

When he swears at a bad call during practice: "Wow, the ball has feelings too, you know."

When he winces mid-match: "Should I kiss it better or call a medic?"

He rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he hasn’t given himself a migraine. But the thing is—he stops snapping. Stops shutting down. Starts sighing instead, muttering under his breath, giving you just enough to keep going.

One day, he actually asks you something. Not snide. Not sarcastic. Just quiet:

"How do you stay so... not miserable?"

You blink at him, surprised.

"I don’t know. I guess I just decided a long time ago that if I was going to survive the world, I might as well like being alive in it."

He stares at you like you’ve said something in a different language.

Later that night, he lies awake and thinks about how you looked when you said it. How your voice didn’t tremble. How you didn’t look like you were trying to prove anything.

He doesn’t get it. But he’s starting to want to.

It happens slowly. Stupidly. A slow leak of resistance until he's letting you in without realizing he left the door unlocked.

One morning, he shows up early. The sun’s not even up, dew still clinging to the bleachers, and you’re already there—hood up, legs crossed, sipping iced coffee like it’s not fifty degrees outside.

He sits beside you without a word. You don’t look surprised.

“You’re early,” you murmur.

“You’re always here.”

You shrug. “Sometimes the world is quiet enough to hear yourself think at this hour.”

He huffs a dry laugh. “That sounds horrifying.”

You smile at your coffee lid. “Maybe. But sometimes I like what I hear.”

He doesn’t respond. But his knee brushes yours and he doesn’t move it.

That night, you send him a photo you took—just the two of your shadows on the concrete, stretched out and long from the low sun. No caption.

He stares at it for ten full minutes.

Then saves it to his phone.

It builds after that. Little things. Invisible stitches he can’t remember letting you thread through him. Moments that shouldn’t matter but linger like fingerprints on glass—smudged and undeniable. You’re everywhere now. In his routines. In his quiet. In his goddamn bloodstream.

You fix the tag on his shirt one morning without asking. He flinches, but you don’t pull away.

He brings you a coffee once. Doesn’t say a word when he hands it to you, but it’s your order down to the extra shot and oat milk.

One afternoon, it rains hard enough to cancel practice. You find him loitering in the hallway, staring out the window like it’s offended him. You offer to drive him to his shitty motel—just a casual thing, a favor.

He says yes, because he can't afford gas right now, anyway. That's the only reason.

In the car, the silence stretches but doesn’t strain. You play some ridiculous radio station, nothing but boybands and bubble pop, and you sing like you mean it. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t join in. But he doesn’t tell you to stop, either.

You’re at a red light when it happens.

You turn to say something—something dumb, probably—and you catch him looking at you.

Really looking.

His expression doesn’t shift. He’s still. Still and dark and unreadable. But the air gets heavier.

"Patrick?" you whisper, like if you say his name too loud, you'll blow him way.

He leans forward a little—just a little—and then pulls back like he’s touched something hot.

“Light’s green,” he mutters.

You drive.

Neither of you says anything the rest of the way.

It shifts after that.

Not immediately, but enough for you to notice. He starts showing up a little later. Stops meeting your eyes as easily. The coffees stop. So do the texts. That photo of your shadows? Still saved. Still unopened.

You try to ask. Only once. Lightly. Carefully. You say, "You good?"

He says, "I'm fine."

You know he’s lying. But he’s always been good at that.

What you don’t expect is for him to snap a week later. You find him after another loss, shoulders tense, expression carved from stone. You hand him a towel. He throws it.

"I don’t need a fucking babysitter," he says, voice low and mean.

You blink, stunned. "I didn’t—"

"You think if you smile at me long enough, I’ll magically stop sucking? Newsflash! I’ve always been like this. I’ve always been this. You just didn’t see it."

You open your mouth. Close it.

He shakes his head and looks away, like he's disgusted with himself. Or with you. You can’t tell.

"Just... stop," he mutters.

So you do.

No more coffees. No more morning greetings. No more lollipops or playlists or sticky notes.

You don’t stop caring. You just stop making it easy to see.

He notices in the silence.

In the way his mornings stretch too long now, too quiet. In the empty side of the bench where your coffee used to sit. In the lack of your humming echoing through the halls. No more sticky notes. No jokes mid-interview. No shadow stretching next to his.

It’s pathetic, how fast the absence takes up space.

He loses another match. And this time, no one meets him at the locker room door.

No you.

Just the echo of everything he didn’t say when he had the chance.

That night, he drinks alone. His phone burns a hole in his pocket. He scrolls through your messages—there aren’t many—but each one is a goddamn spark. Each one a moment he didn’t deserve.

He almost texts. Doesn’t.

Almost calls. Doesn’t.

Instead, he goes back to the hotel, looks in the mirror, and says, out loud, "You fucking idiot."

Because he is.

And for the first time in weeks, he wants to stop being one.

His breaking point comes the next day.

He wakes up late. Misses breakfast. Loses a set in practice to a player ten years younger who doesn’t even break a sweat. His racquet slips on match point. He hears someone snicker in the stands. He doesn’t know if it’s about him, but it doesn’t matter. He feels flayed open, raw and rotten underneath.

He goes back to the locker room and punches the wall. Doesn’t break anything except his pride.

His coach tells him to take the rest of the day off. Patrick doesn't argue. He leaves, heart thudding too hard, jaw locked like it'll shatter if he lets it go.

He ends up at your apartment without thinking. He doesn’t remember driving there. Doesn’t remember deciding to show up at all.

But then he’s standing at your door. Knuckles raised. Breathing uneven.

When you open it, you're in an oversized tee and no shoes, eyes wide like you were mid-laugh before the knock interrupted.

You don’t say anything.

He looks at you like he’s run out of ways to pretend he doesn’t care.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You blink. It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him say those words.

“For what?”

He swallows hard. “For being cruel when I was scared. For pushing you away because I didn’t know how not to need you.”

A long pause.

You tilt your head. “And now?”

His voice breaks a little. Just a little.

"I need you anyway."

You don’t move. Not at first.

You just look at him—really look. At the way his shoulders are hunched like he’s bracing for impact. At the quiet panic under his words. At the boy beneath the fury.

Then you step aside.

“Come in.”

He does.

You close the door behind him and the silence settles like dust. He doesn’t sit. Just stands in the middle of your apartment like he’s not sure he belongs in rooms like this anymore. Rooms that are warm. Lived in. Safe.

You walk past him, head to the kitchen, and flick the kettle on without saying a word.

He watches your back. The curve of your shoulders. The ease of your movements. He thinks he might cry.

When you hand him the mug a few minutes later, hands brushing like you can somehow transfer your warmth to him. He doesn’t thank you. But he holds it like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

You lean against the counter. “Why now?”

He swallows. “Because I lost everything that ever mattered to me. And I thought that meant I didn’t deserve anything good.”

“And now?”

He looks up. Meets your eyes.

"It doesn't feel good. Especially when it's my fault."

You set your mug down and cross the space between you without hesitation.

Your arms wrap around his middle like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He stiffens at first, because of course he does, but then you feel it: the slow, painful melt. The way his hands come up like he doesn’t trust them, one resting on your back, the other tangling gently in your shirt.

He buries his face in your neck. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

You hold him for a long time.

When you finally pull back, his eyes are glassy, rimmed in something quiet and cracking.

“I’m not good at this,” he murmurs.

“You don’t have to be,” you reply. “You just have to try.”

---

It’s two weeks before his next match.

You don’t say anything about it. You just show up to practice like you always used to, dragging a lawn chair to the edge of the court, sipping coffee like you never stopped.

He doesn’t say anything either. But the first time your eyes meet across the net, he doesn’t look away.

The win doesn’t come easy. Three sets. A tiebreaker. Sweat and grit and every bone in his body screaming. But he wins.

And the second the match point lands—his chest heaving, the roar of the crowd crashing like surf in his ears—his gaze tears away from the blur of court and racket and sweat. Instinct cuts through exhaustion, and he searches. Not for the scoreboard. Not for a camera. Not even for air.

He looks for you.

And there you are. Leaning over the railing. Laughing.

That laugh. The sound of it cuts straight through the roar, through the lights, through the ache in his bones. You're not sunshine, he thinks. You're the sun—steady and searing, ever-present. And for once, he’s not afraid of burning.

Later, you find each other outside the stadium, tucked away behind a row of vendor tents, where the buzz of the crowd fades to a low, distant hum.

He’s still in his kit, sweat drying against his skin, hair damp and curling at the edges. His hands are shaking slightly. He doesn’t know if it’s adrenaline or something else.

You don’t say anything at first.

Just step in. Press your forehead to his. Let your fingers curl into the hem of his shirt.

He exhales, slow and shaky. “Did you see me?”

You nod. “Every second.”

He closes his eyes.

“Feels different,” he whispers. “Winning. With you there.”

You tilt his chin up with one hand. “Good different?”

His smile is small. Soft. “Best I’ve ever felt.”

And then you kiss him.

It’s not fireworks. Not at first. It’s grounding. Steady. A homecoming. A sigh through the chest. And when he kisses you back, it’s with everything he didn’t know how to give until now.

When you finally pull away, he presses his lips to your temple.

“Don’t leave,” he says.

You smile. “Only if you promise to buy my coffee.”

He laughs into your skin. “Deal.”

-----

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

[rogueapostle]

more incorrect challengers tweets cause y’all liked the last one