#josh oconnor

[emdorie]

smacked that smirk right off his face 😭😭😭

my favourite part in challengers is whenever tashi clocks patrick

[ace-with--a-mace]

bitches be like "we need more evil women in media" and they cant even handle tashi duncan from challengers (2024)

[hysteuria]

I JUST KNOWWWW THIS IS HIS DATING PROFILE

[samcarpenters]

JOSH O'CONNOR the 78th Cannes Film Festival

[seraserababy]

art had them sick.. the blonde boy and his manipulative ways have bewitched them

[musingsofheaven]

Everyone talks about homeless Patrick Zweig this. Hobosexual Patrick that. We get it. We all love seeing him messy. He sleeps in his car, and fucks girls to crash in their hotels. But what about you?

What if you’re the one without a place to sleep? What if you’re the one sleeping in your car?

Yeah. You.

What if you’re the one with a toothbrush in your old and nasty bag and a phone charger that only works if you bend it sideways? You’re the one in the parking lot of a 24-hour gym, while your phone is balancing on your thigh, your legs curled tight under you. The car smells like fast food and laundry. You’ve opened your socials especially, you have been refreshing Tinder all night… for no particular reason, no plan. Just bored. Just wet. Just trying to find a bed.

Then it buzzes.

“You’ve got a Match. Start chatting now!”

Then…

Match.

Patrick, 32.

Bio: Tennis & tits. Not always in that order. (My serve isn’t the only thing that’s hard to return.) Above average serve. Above average dick. Forehands, backhands, and you on your hands.

You blink. Then your eyebrow raised. Then laugh out loud.

His pics are… something else. Shirtless. Holding a racket, flexing his arm. That one mirror selfie with a towel slung so low it should be illegal. Looks like a typical fuck boy who looks for hookups often.

You type:

Is your bio real or just bait?

He replies fast.

Come find out. 9 pm.

And he sent his pin location to the conversation as if he’s not even scared or has any survival instinct in his body if you’re a killer or not. But you’re already changing your top in the front seat like it’s instinct.

Because honestly?

You’d use the last drop of your gas for air-conditioning, a mattress, and maybe…maybe… a cock if it comes free with room service.

Why not? You want somewhere to lie down where your legs don’t touch the steering wheel. And if Patrick Zweig going to rail you just to get it?

Fine.

He totally can. While you fall asleep face-down in his hotel pillows.

By 8:55, you’re walking through the doors of the hotel like you can afford the rooms. Patrick’s in the corner of the bar, sprawled on the stool like it’s own his place. He’s got a drink in hand, half a smirk, and legs spread just wide enough to make your thighs twitch.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says as you slide into the seat beside him.

“Didn’t think you’d be hot and real,” you tease him, chuckling.

He orders for you. Something expensive. Not that you care because he looks like he’s someone who will pay just to fuck someone. He doesn’t ask what you like, just says, “She’ll take whatever will get her tongue loose and sloppy.”

Your pussy clenches like it’s trained when he said that.

You just smirked at him before you sipped slowly at the drink that slid in front of you. He watches the whole time… mouth, throat, legs. He doesn’t even pretend that he’s not looking. He just leans in and murmurs, “You keep looking at my mouth like you want it somewhere.”

You shrug, tipsy already because he ordered something strong for you. “Maybe I’m just bored.”

Patrick laughs like that’s the right answer like it’s his favorite thing you’ve said all night. He knocks back the rest of his drink, throws a few bills on the bar without even looking at the total, and then lowers his face close to your ear.

“Come upstairs,” he says, low like he only wants you to hear it. It doesn’t feel pushy. Not needy and not begging for it. It’s just a simple, filthy suggestion, like you’ve already said yes with your body (the way you already squirming and shivering by just his hot breath touching your skin) and he’s letting your mouth part.

You don’t answer. Just stand, grab your things (basically just a small purse with 10 dollars in it, your phone, and lipstick), and follow him through the lobby like you’re supposed to.

The elevator ride is quiet, and loaded. You feel his eyes on your legs, your ass, your reflection in the walls of the elevator. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even move. Just watches you from the corner of the mirrored wall with too charming smirk that translates to something he knows exactly how this going to end. He looks like the kind of guy who jerks off to cheap porn. But you kind of respect it. Because you’re… well… you’re here to fuck him just to feel a soft mattress again, right?

Room 804.

He swipes the key card, nudges the door open with one foot, and steps back to let you in first. What a gentleman.

You walk into a king bed, with blackout curtains, and floor-to-ceiling windows and it’s clean in an expensive way. Air-conditioned hums, all white linen, and slick carpet, too perfect to fuck in. Which means he’s going to.

Patrick drops the key card on the desk, then turns and looks at you like he’s deciding where to start. Or maybe trying to break the ice.

“You want another drink?” he asks. His voice is deep now, raspier than it was at the bar. You don’t know if it’s the whiskey or you.

You nod. He pours. You take it. Neither of you sit.

He watches you drink. Doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, not really he just leans back against the dresser with one hip, one brow lifted like he’s sizing you up, or deciding what position he’s going to do to you.

“You always come back to hotel rooms with strangers?” he asks, voice low, dragging with that lazy accent. Dry. But feels like a tease, not an insult.

You swallow. “Only the hot ones.”

That gets a smirk out of him. Oh, that cocky smile. He tips his glass back, watching you over the rim. You’re close now. Too close. One step between his knees and your back would hit the wall.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmurs, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. “I don’t actually care what your answer was.”

Then he reaches for your waist.

It’s not gentle. He drags you in like you just did something bad and he's angry about it and he spins you fast, presses your front body against the edge of the dresser before you can make a sound. Your glass nearly topples, your palms slap the wood, and you exhale so hard it’s almost a gasp.

“You don’t seem like the type to waste time,” he says, breath skating your ear.

And you don’t answer, you don't need to because your brain’s already gone mushy.

His fingers are at your waistband a second later, moving fast now, impatient, like he’s had enough of the games and already knows you’ll take whatever he gives. Well, he's not wrong in that field. Not really. He drags your jeans down so roughly the button nearly pops, muttering something like fuck under his breath while he strips them past your thighs, past your knees, like he’s got a plane to catch and all he wants is to be inside you first.

“You wore this for me?” he scoffs, looking down at your underwear, that’s barely there, probably slightly damp already. “Or you always like this?”

It shouldn’t turn you on. It shouldn’t. But your whole body pulses with heat at the way he says it. Mocking. Mean. Like he knows something about you that you won’t admit out loud. Like he’s reading the part of you that gets off on being disposable. Or being just a hook-up. No feelings. Just casual things.

He grabs your chin in one hand, rough and possessive, tilting your face up until you’re looking at him. His pupils are blown, jaw flexing like he’s trying to hold something in. But he’s not gentle. You are not a glass. You are not special. Not when you just meet on Tinder and you don’t even have a proper conversation besides him telling you to find out if he has a big dick.

Never pretended to be nice just to get something.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you in my room,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s daring you to object. “You walk in here soaked through your jeans, looking like you’ll beg for it.”

You gasp. His hand is between your legs now. Just pressing, not even moving. Holding you there like he wants to feel the twitch of every heartbeat through your cunt. Just cupping it whole in his big hand.

“…and you think I’m gonna play nice?”

You can’t speak. You can even barely breathe.

And when he finally moves behind you, grabbing your hips, walking you, and pushing you more inside like he owns you already? Your legs go weak on instinct. All wobbly. Knees not working.

And that’s the moment it hits you: you’re not here because he’s hot. You’re here because he doesn’t care why you are here. He doesn’t even have to dine or wine you.

You raise an eyebrow but don’t move right away. Just stand there with your drink already in half and your lip curled like you’re weighing whether this man is worth using your gas for.

Then, slowly, you start walking… left the glass on a flat surface and walk past him, into the dim room, tossing your purse to the floor and crawling onto the mattress like you own it. You stretch out on your back instead of your knees, legs crossed at the ankle, one arm behind your head like you’re posing for a photo shoot he wasn’t invited to.

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you murmur, glancing toward him with a smile. Taunting him. “You always bark orders before your dick’s even out?”

He hums. “You always talk this much before opening your legs?”

“I just like to check if the bait you put in the app is legit.” Your fingers drag slowly down your front, teasing the waistband of your panties. “Tennis pro and… ‘Above average dick’ was it?” You even use your hands to quote the above-average dick from his bio just to piss his shit off.

That makes him pause.

Then he starts walking.

“No pressure,” you add lightly, nails scraping the lace. “I’m sure it’s hard to live up to all that… size.”

He’s at the edge of the bed now, shirtless, belt undone, looking at you like you just took his trophy away from a tennis match. His cock is already thick behind the zipper, straining. He palms himself once. Not for pleasure… just to show you. Proving a point, maybe. But it ends up being shown to you when he pulls his pants down.

“Tell you what,” he stated, grabbing your ankles and yanking you flat to the bed, dragging your body toward him, your calves getting out of the bed frame. “Why don’t you keep talking shit… while I stuff you so deep you forget how words work.”

You laugh, head tipped back, knees falling apart as he shoves your panties down. “Wow,” you say breathlessly, “that’s… motivational”

And then he leans in, hand fisted around the base of his cock, and smacks it against your cunt. Once, twice, wet and heavy. And he’s lining it up.

Your hips twitch with every hit, cunt slick and practically clapping back at him. The squelch is obscene. You’re hot from the chest up, grinning like a girl with nothing to lose. Honestly? You don’t have anything to lose at this point. Gain, maybe. A bed, that’s it.

“You always find pussy this easy between matches?” you ask, eyes half-lidded, baiting him. “Or just desperate ones who’ll take you raw off an app?”

He snorts but doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head, lazily, like he’s deciding whether to answer or fuck you for that. You see the way his grip tightens around himself, cock jumping against your folds.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you whisper, just enough to mock him.

He leans in suddenly, bracing one hand beside your head. The other fists your hair back until your neck arches sharp.

“You talk a lot for someone this wet,” he mutters, and slides in without warning, deep and thick, and you are thanking yourself because you got so wet easily and it doesn’t hurt much anymore. Your body… or cunt, rather, is not used to his size.

You choke. Actually choke. Hands scrabble against his stomach, nails dragging down as your back bows off the mattress. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease in. He just bottoms out like he owns the goddamn part he’s sliding between your legs.

“F-fuck,” you whimper.

He’s not even fully inside before he starts rocking slowly, maybe he’s nice enough to see that you want him to let you settle with his size first. It is just enough motion to feel every inch split you, drag you wide, make you clench and seize around him like a fist.

“Should’ve led with your pussy instead of your mouth,” he growls in your ear. “Would’ve skipped the drink.”

Then he flips you.

He grabs you by the hips and turns you over like you weigh nothing, like you’re just another girl (technically you are) in his bed who talked too much before taking cock. Your cheek hits the mattress, breath punched from your lungs as his palm splays across your back, holding you down. But he started caressing your back while his other hand remained on your hips as if he didn’t want you to move at all.

“Ass up,” he mutters. “Don’t make me say it again.”

So bossy. So annoying. But you’re already moving, legs shaky as you scramble to your knees, arching without thinking, without pride. On all fours. He drags the length of his cock through your slick again at a mocking, slow pace like he’s checking to see if you’re still wet after the way he talked to you. Spoiler? You are. Worse. Sloppier.

“Jesus,” he huffs. “You’re soaking. What, the drink made you this needy?”

You want to snap something back. You really do. But the second you open your mouth, he’s pushing in so deep it feels like it hits the back of your throat. Your fingers claw at the sheets, a choked gasp catching in your throat as he bottoms out.

And then he just stays there. Settling inside you.

Deep. Full. Letting you feel it. Letting your pussy flutter and grip around him while he doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, just leans over, like he’s waiting for you to admit how desperate you already are.

He doesn’t thrust. Not yet. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, cock twitching like he’s enjoying the way your cunt tightens in waves around him. You’re breathing through your mouth, face crushed against the sheets, knees barely holding like your whole body’s trying to compute what the hell just happened.

His fingers drag up your spine, light and lazy before he fists your hair and pulls you back enough to whisper it.

“Say it.”

Say what? You think. Your jaw clenches. You won’t. You won’t. You are not that desperate, right?

But the weight of him has you trembling. He has your thighs quaking like you’re trying to hold back something dangerous. And when he finally rolls his hips, just once, slow, like he’s testing you, it knocks the wind out of your lungs.

“Say it,” he breathes again, mouth in your ear now. “Say you needed this.”

You whimper. Hips jolted back against him without permission. You hate him. You hate him.

You love how it feels.

He laughs under his breath like he already knows. Like you’ve already told him without a word. His other hand slides to your throat, not tight, just enough pressure to make your whole body hum. To feel something.

Then he pulls out halfway. What an asshole. He lets you feel the drag, the loss before slamming back in with one deep, punishing thrust that makes your mouth fall open in a helpless, broken moan.

“Jesus,” he groans, voice ragged now. “You’re fucking made for it, aren’t you?”

You’re not… you’re not. It just happens you are using your body to your benefit to get something you want. Bed. Soft pillows. Nice room. Nice sleep.

His hands grip your hips like he owns them. Like you’re not just some girl he picked up after two drinks and suggestive ‘come with me upstairs’ bullshit. He holds you there, steady like he’s making sure you feel every inch of him, the weight, the stretch, the pain of being filled without warning. No rocking, no thrusting, just the full, filled, unrelenting pressure of his cock deep inside you while your body tries to adjust around it.

You breathe hard against the mattress, hips twitching under his grip. He doesn’t let you move. Not really.

“You’re not saying anything,” he mutters, low and cocky, hovering over your back. Chest almost touching your back. “What, cat got your tongue? Thought you had a lot to say about my profile.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m just… getting used to being split in half, thanks.”

He laughs. Like there’s something funny. Fuck there isn’t. He probably thinks you’re pathetic. “Yeah?” Then he pulls out slowly, dragging against everything inside you, and slams back in with a snap that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Let me help you get used to it.”

Now he moves. Rough and fast, no rhythm at first, sloppy like a virgin, and the sound of skin and breath and the slick, filthy wet of it all. He rocks you forward on each thrust, forcing your knees wider, his hands digging in harder, using your hips like handlebars. Like a grip for leverage, not care. You swear he gets deeper every time or he hits the spot with each thrust.

Your fingers claw the sheets. Your thighs shake.

“Fucking made for it,” he growls again, more to himself this time, like he can’t believe how tight you are, how wet, how much you’re already falling apart for him.

You feel it in your teeth when he slams in again. Feel it in the base of your skull, where your forehead’s mashed to the sheets, in the pathetic little gasps you keep swallowing against the mattress. He’s panting harder now, muttering filth under his breath, swearing, low and ragged, things like “fuckin’ tight,” and “so wet for a stranger,” like it’s a compliment and a threat rolled into one.

He doesn’t stop moving. Don’t pause to let you catch your breath. Just tightens his grip around your hips, bruising, and pulls you back to meet every thrust like he wants to hollow you out.

“Should see yourself,” he grits. “Fucking dripping. Like your cunt knew I was coming.”

You let out a cracked little moan. The kind you can’t swallow. The kind that sounds like yes even if you don’t say it. One hand fists the sheets. The other’s somewhere under you, numb, forgotten. Your whole body’s gone slack, pliant, just flesh he can fuck into whatever shape he wants.

Then he slows.

Not soft. He stays deep, grinding it in like he wants you to feel every inch, every twitch, every fucking vein. You choke. Your thighs shake.

“Bet you say this to all the girls,” you manage to whisper, voice hoarse, cheek smeared with drool and heat. Just to get back to his words earlier. “Any city. Any hotel.”

He huffs a breath right over your ear, dragging his cock out just enough to make you clench down, desperate.

“Nah,” he murmurs, hips pulling back.

Then he drives it back in, all at once, deep, and just how you like it. “Just the ones who take cock like you do.”

You cry out, unfiltered. And he laughs, he’s even pleased, and breathless, still buried in the base like he’s never pulling out again.

You’re half-gone already, mouth slack, eyes wet, fingers curled into the sheets like you’re trying to claw your way out of your own body. He’s still there, deep, solid, anchored, driving into you like he knows your pussy better than you do like he’s trying to teach it something it won’t forget.

And it listens. It flutters. It chokes on him.

“Jesus,” he pants.

You want to talk back. You want to laugh, or moan, or say something smart and cruel, but your brain is slowing down or maybe you are just cockdrunk, all heat and pressure and stretch. The slap of skin fills the room, louder now, rougher, wetter. Clap, clap, clap. He’s close. You can feel it, his rhythm faltering, hips stuttering, breath catching like his body’s trying to warn you.

And then you hear it.

That groan.

That deep, helpless, fucked-out sound that says he’s about to come and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

Your forehead pressed to the mattress, thighs trembling like you’re about to snap in half.

“You gonna pull out?” you pant, blinking tears off your lashes as he rails into you.

He doesn’t answer.

Don’t slow down.

Just grunts under his breath and grabs your hips tighter, dragging you back into each thrust like your body belongs to him now, like the question was rhetorical. Like the answer’s already happening.

You know it. Feel it.

The stutter in his rhythm. The tense, desperate twitch of his cock inside you. The soft, breathless noise he makes when he presses all the way in and stays there.

Then…

Spilling. Flooding. His cum forces its way deeper as your body clenches around him.

You freeze. Your mouth opens. “Patrick,”

“F-fuck sorry,” he breathes, forehead resting against your spine, totally unbothered. Too calm. You can hear the smug in it. Hear the fucking smirk. You can tell he’s not really sorry.

“Patrick.”

He shifts his weight, presses deeper, somehow still half-hard, and exhales like he just did something inconvenient, like dropping a towel on the floor.

“Felt too good. Couldn’t help it.”

Bullshit. He didn’t even try.

You start to push back against him, thrusting your ass to him, but he pins you there and drags a palm down your spine like it’s no big deal. This is just what happens now.

“You’ll be fine,” he adds, quieter. Still inside you. Still leaking.

“Don’t act like you didn’t like it,” he adds, cock heavy and wet against your ass, half-hard and twitching like he could go again if you even looked at him the right way.

You hum, cheek pressed to his pillow, lashes sticky and stuck together. “It was… good,” you murmur, voice a little shy, a little too quiet. You fiddle with the comforter between your fingers, then, almost too fast to clock, you add, “You’ll, um. Cover Plan B, right?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets out a breath through his nose, like he’s smiling but trying not to give you the satisfaction.

He snorts, rolls onto his back, and throws one arm behind his head like he’s getting comfortable. Not leaving. Not tossing your clothes. Not panicking about what you’re gonna do next.

You roll over too, slower, adjusting your leg like it’s not leaking from the cum he just spilled inside of you, like gravity isn’t already doing its humiliating thing. “It’s late,” you murmur. Yawn a little, all fake innocence. “Didn’t even realize it was almost three.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares up at the ceiling like he’s waiting for you to say what you actually mean. But you won’t. Not out loud. You just stretch, and mumble, “Kinda dangerous out. You know. Sketchy.”

Still, he doesn’t bite. Just blinks at the ceiling. So you sigh, dramatic and helpless, like the thought hadn’t occurred to you until now.

“Would it be so dumb to drive somewhere now, huh? Like… might as well just crash and go in the morning or whatever…”

Patrick turns his head. Raises a brow, he’s just holding himself not laughing. “Are you asking if you can stay?”

You blink back at him. Too shy to ask if you can crash. “What? No. I’m just saying it’s late.”

He huffs. Then throws the comforter over both of you and mutters, “Jesus. Just go to sleep.”

This isn’t what he does. He doesn’t do this. In normal times like this? It’s clothes back on before the sweat dries, some fake ass words like “You get home safe, okay?” while he’s already unlocking the front door, not looking back. Or he leaves, whatever’s easier. He doesn’t let them stay. Doesn’t let them sink into his sheets like they belong there.

But he hasn’t moved. And you’re still here. All warm skin and soft whining and sticky thighs and little sighs like you won something. Like you planned this.

He clears his throat. Stares at the ceiling. “And, no cuddling or whatever,” he says, like it’s an important reminder that he needs to say it before it happens.

You don’t answer. Just shift a little closer, calf brushing his under the comforter. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away.

No cuddling. No promises. No ride home.

Guess the app works.

[filmsdkye]

and if i said art is so repressed in his feelings for patrick that he see’s most of patrick’s expressions of love or praise as condescending, and doesn’t understand why he’s so broken up over patrick winning tashi’s number and that scene in the sauna was him having power over patrick for the first time ever (on screen), and patrick is so hurt by it because he’s being sincere but art can’t or won’t see that. what then.

[zwiggyro]

THE HEAD TILT THE HEADD TILLLLT THEEEEE HEEAAAAD TILLLLT

[thisriver1swild]

i could be so good to him.

[wronganswerforehead]

I can not 🤣🤣

I just know they're all ready to go home

[aurealrequiem]

twitter saw it first .... all these tastes are based on adolescence in 2000, especially my older brother's because i thought he looked cool

[madebymaid]

[sweetfridays]

♡ JOSH O'CONNOR vanity fair

[yasministration]

three days - patrick zweig

summary: patrick makes sure to fill his phone with content he can jerk off to because he can't even last three days on a game trip without sex. wc: 0.9k+ cw: fingering, filming

Your back laid flat against Patrick’s muscular chest, his arms lazily slung over your waist, one hand pressed against your stomach underneath your tank top, caressing the skin with his thumb. His other hand rested between your spread thighs, fingers lazily pumping in and out of your soaked cunt. Moans filled the small dorm as Patrick’s fingers continuously thrusted inside you, squelching sounds of your drenched pussy filling your boyfriend’s ears.

Head resting on Patrick’s shoulder, you exposed your neck to him, which he took advantage of by pressing sloppy kisses to, biting down teasingly just to see the way your hips thrusted upwards, desperately chasing his touch. Your legs were bent, feet pressed down on the bed on the outside of Patrick’s extended legs, stopping you from clamping your legs shut at any point.

Patrick’s computer was open at the edge of the bed, the film you were watching now an abandoned distraction. The computer only remained for its new purpose; to keep Patrick’s phone propped up, the camera open, filming everything. Your boyfriend’s gaze stayed glued between your face – screwed up in pleasure, mouth open to release high pitched moans – and your cunt, dripping proof of your pleasure onto the white bed-sheets.

In the screen’s reflection, Patrick groaned at the sight of his cum-coated fingers, a reminder of the orgasm he had already pulled from you several minutes ago. Your breath hitched as his fingers grazed the same spongy soft inside you; one he can so easily reach, but avoids just to keep you on edge. The rough palm of Patrick’s hand pressed against your clit, making you squirm in his arms, legs fighting to shut as you whined loudly.

“My sweet girl, keep those legs open for me.” You whined loudly as Patrick’s free hand travelled from your stomach to gently grasp one of your thighs, pulling it to the side to make more space for his hand. Patrick slid his fingers out of your cunt and you whimpered, looking into your reflection on the phone, watching as he brought his fingers to your clit, rubbing it harshly in quick circles. “Oh, Patrick.” You panted, back arching against his chest, just barely feeling his erection poking into your lower back.

“I love you so much.” Patrick mumbled, pressing his lips against your temple. “I love you too.” You replied in between choppy breaths, gasping as he pushed his fingers into you again. You bucked your hips against his fingers, desperate for him to curl his fingers into you just right and bring you over the edge.

“Patrick” You whined, a hand clasping around his wrist, trying to push his fingers deeper into you. Patrick chuckled, free hand pinching your cheeks between his fingers, pushing your head in the direction of his face so he could slam his lips onto yours. You whimpered at the feeling of his lips onto yours, mouth parting as he pushed his tongue between your lips, meeting yours in a sloppy kiss. Down below, he curled his fingers into you, pushing them inside you to the third knuckle so they grazed your sweet spot just right.

Moaning incoherently, you instantly fell apart on Patrick’s fingers again, one hand gripping his thigh as you came, legs trembling as hot pleasure shot through your body, lips separating from your boyfriend’s to rest your head on his shoulder again. Patrick removed his fingers from your cunt slowly, teasing you by running his wet fingers up your slit, dragging them over your clit. You gasped loudly, thighs attempting to clamp shut, but Patrick eased his legs open even wider, pushing your feet further apart to make more space between your thighs.

“Nuh-uh, Patrick.” You pleaded, fingers desperately tugging his hand away from your cunt. “Shh, don’t worry baby.” He told you, staring into the phone’s screen as he gathered the remnants of your orgasm, spreading them around your cunt. “Need something to look at when I go for the game tomorrow.” Your thighs twitched, and you followed Patrick’s gaze, your face going hot at the realisation that you’d soaked the sheets below you, your cunt glistening with wetness.

Patrick grinned widely as he separated his fingers from you, bringing them up to his mouth to suck on them eagerly, eyes fluttering shut as he tasted you. “You’re only gonna be gone three days.” You finally said, bringing your shaky legs between Patrick’s so you could extend them on the bed with a weak flop. Patrick let out an exaggerated sigh, wrapping his arms around your torso to bring your in a rib-crushing hug as he turned onto his side. You squealed as you were manhandled onto your side, breathing becoming heavier as Patrick began leaving kisses on your neck again.

“So you don’t love me?” Patrick asked, pressing himself as close to you as possible, letting you feel the exact imprint of his cock. “I do! It’s just- You can go three days without sex.” Patrick ignored your words, one hand leaving your waist to trail down your back. His fingers played with the hemline of your top, and he tugged it upwards until you took pity on him, helping him take it off. Patrick hummed, pressing his cock into your ass and groaning softly.

“Think you can take another one?” He asked, but didn’t give you any space to answer as he was already tugging his shorts off, sitting up for a brief moment to grab his phone and move it to get a better angle of you.

“Never mind what I said about lasting three days without sex, you can barely go thirty min-oh Patrick!”

taglist: @animalcrossingshameless

[miley1442111]

(part 1) before his choice- a.donaldson

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a/n: i imagined a fem reader but as per usual, imagine what you like :)

this is like the prelude to the other stuff but i get that it's confusing that it's coming out later- i didn't think i'd turn this into a series so i didn't exactly have a plan, sorry :)

this is 18+, mdni plssss

summary: how it was before art ruined your relationship

pairing: art donaldson x reader

warnings: smuttttt, 18+, piv using protection (don't be silly, wrap it), oral (f receiving), cute couple moments

(i think that's it but pls tell me if i forgot anything:)

Part 1 of 12

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“There goes Stanford’s favourite couple!” Megan rolled her eyes playfully. Art had his arms draped around your shoulders as you walked around campus as the sun set. Art chuckled and flipped her off, smirking as you laughed. Megan had been your roommate in your first year and you’d been best friends ever since.

You and Art were Stanford’s favourite couple. You were tennis prodigies, both extremely talented and both of you were friends with basically everyone. Everyone was always rooting for the two of you, apparently there was a fan page dedicated to your relationship. 

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“How was practice with Tash?” He asked, his arms circling your waist as you leant against the wall, waiting in line in the canteen. 

“Fine, she’s getting better,” You shrugged. Tashi had never been able to beat you, but she was getting better.

“She’s not going to beat you,” He smirked, pressing kisses against your cheeks.

“She’s really good!” You giggled, feeling his hands squeeze your waist harder. “I wouldn’t mind, maybe then she wouldn’t hate me.”

“Tashi doesn’t hate you,” he shook his head. He knew it was a semi-lie, Tashi didn't like loosing. You were the only person capable of making her loose.

“She doesn’t like me Art, it’s fine, I don’t mind,” you sighed. “Anyway, enough tennis, what are we doing tonight?”

Art smirked. “We have that party-”

You groaned. Art always wanted to go out, then leave early. In your opinion, why not just cut out the middleman and go straight to your dorm? “Art, what is the point?”

“You look hot in dresses,” He shrugged and chuckled as you playfully hit him on the arm. “Come on, it’ll be fun! We can dance and hang out with our friends.”

You rolled your eyes at the way he’s pretending it’s a choice. “It’s not like I have a choice, I picked date night last time.” 

“Exactly, so we’re going,” he grinned and you cupped his cheek, kissing him heavily. He was so beautiful, what else were you supposed to do? You pulled away quickly and moved up in the line, beginning to order both your lunches. You drove Art insane sometimes. Your pretty tennis skirts, your sweet lips on his, you. 

He did recognise that his brain was still stuck in the gutter like a teenage boy when it came to sex. He didn’t seem to mind much though. 

He placed his hand on your ass as you ordered for the both of you and he saw how you gulped.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one who’s head was in the gutter. 

You collected your food and sat at a table together, enjoying the canteen food.

“You’ll wear the red dress, right?” He asked. It was his favourite colour, and the colour of the college that the two of you would be representing. 

“No, Nike sent over something for me to wear, I think it’s purple,” you shrugged. Your partnership with Nike meant at every event you went to, you were representing them. That meant they were often sending you new things. 

“Purple?” He questioned.

“Yeah, like plum-y purple,” you shrugged. 

“Can’t wait,” he winked at you and you kicked him under the table. 

Tonight was going to be a long night. 

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You finished styling your hair as Art walked into your dorm, baby blue shirt and some black formal trousers on, his blonde curls looking particularly beautiful. The dress Nike had sent over was beautiful, Art’s jaw dropped when he saw you. 

You were gorgeous. 

“Hey baby,” You smiled at him, pressing a kiss to his stunned cheek. 

“You’re so beautiful,” He stated. You chuckled at him as his hands gripped your waist, making you look at him. “You’re so, so beautiful.”

“You look handsome,” You smiled, smoothing out his collar. “Ready to go?”

“We’re not going anywhere,” he decided, lust-filled eyes staring into yours before he pressed his lips to yours in a searing kiss. 

You kissed back immediately, your hands running through his curls. You probably had a ‘thing’ for his hair. His hands smoothed up the expanse of your back, pulling you impossibly closer. This is what he was, passionate, loving, and a little bit possessive. He radiated heat, his chest against your as he pushed you against the wall, his lips never leaving yours. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your lips as your hands dipped lower, going directly for his trousers zipper. 

“So are you,” you smiled, kissing him again. His hands found the zipper at the back of your dress, letting it fall to the floor at your feet. You unzipped him then started working on his shirt buttons, both of you forgetting about the party. 

His hands quickly pulled at your bra and underwear, leaving you bare as he stripped himself, thanking his past self for keeping a stock of condoms in your bedside table. He leaned over, quickly grabbing one and opening it with his teeth, sheathing his hard cock as you looked at him under you. He met your glazed eyes, lustfully looking at him, a soft smile on your face. 

You were so beautiful. 

You sank down on him, never quite used to the stretch he provided. “Fuck,” you moaned out. 

His eyes rolled back as you buried him inside of you. His hands gripped your waist, the faint remnants of bruises left from earlier in the week, when he was in this exact position. He pulled your face down to his as you started moving and started kissing up and down your neck between moans. He changed the position slightly, thrusting up into you to reach the gummy spot inside of you that made you scream out for him.

“God,” he groaned. “Fuck… f-fuck.”

You felt so good around him, it was one of his favourite feelings, the absolute euphoria of having your wrapped around him, using him to get yourself off.  

“You’re so good,” you whined breathlessly. “So good.”

Your voice and moans spurred him on, he loved your voice. He loved everything about you. 

“You gonna cum?” He whined, thrusting up into you. You nodded, bouncing on him harder as you began reaching your climax. He felt you tighten around him and he gasped, trying to not cum so quickly. 

“I’m c-cumming,” You groaned in his ear and he was a goner. He cupped your cheek, hap-harzardly kissing you to swallow the scream that was bound to leave his lips. You gripped his hips to still his uncoordinated and subscious thrusts as you both came down from your highs. 

Art still wasn’t done, he needed to taste you. “Let me taste it, please?” He begged, pulling himself out of you. “Please?”

“Art, we’re already late,” you reminded him through your sex-fueled haze. 

“Please, just let me kiss it,” he begged, kissing down your body, his fingers finding your sopping core. You moaned at the contact and nodded, a meek ‘please’ leaving your lips. 

That was all the confirmation Art needed. He latched his lips onto your clit, drawing out moan after moan. His fingers pumped in and out of you slowly, paying special attention to your g-spot. His tongue sucked over your over-sensitive clit and brought you to another two orgasms, not being able to stop himself from humping the bed in his enchanted state. He loved how you tasted, he couldn’t get enough of it, he never wanted to. If he could spend his days between your legs he would. 

After you came for the third time that night, he connected your lips again and smiled at you. “Thank you.”

Your fucked-out face was truly a sight to behold, and he had the pleasure of seeing it whenever he pleased. 

“Come on, we have a party to go to,” He smirked and you whined as he cleaned you up by running three fingers through your soaking core and licking them clean. 

He appreciated the new marks on your neck that he had created as you slowly got up. You dressed yourself in the beautiful dress once again, fixing your hair and makeup, then spraying yourself with some more perfume, attempting to cover the smell of sex. 

As you sat in the passenger seat of his car, he thought about how perfect you were, his hand in yours as he drove you to the party. 

Little did he know that this party would lead to the beginning of the end of your relationship.

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art donaldson masterlist :)

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games, challengers :)

[aurorlia]

꒰ no one told you to try and fix him ₊˚⊹ ꒱

— patrick zweig x coach!reader

♡ tags / warnings — 18+ — semi-public area, p in v , cunnilingus, praising / praise kink , squirting , light angst, cheating ?

♡ — you were warned but he begged, he really did. He needed you as a coach after tashi had rejected and what choice did you have? you were a damn empath but that has consequences.

♡ taglist — @pittsick @nozhdyved @forgetmenotnympho

♡ notes ! — ok giys..don’t mind the header it looks a bit ridiculous.. anyways!! don’t be afraid to leave request in my inbox ! <3 and i actually had fun writing this ..

Everyone told you not to take the job. Not when it came with him. “Zweig’s a lost cause,” they’d said. “Too much attitude, not enough discipline.”

“Waste of potential.”

“Cocky, lazy. Gets by on talent and arrogance.”

“You’ll regret it.”

You wish they had said something else. You wish they had warned you about how beautiful he’d look when he wanted to impress you.

How ruinous his attention would feel when it landed on you like heat after a storm. How he’d burn for your approval until there was nothing left to give.

You took the job because you wanted a challenge. Coaching men’s tennis at a prestigious university meant cutting your teeth on reputations and egos. You were the first woman to take the role in twenty years. People already thought you’d fail.

You didn’t expect your biggest obstacle to have a jawline like a Greek tragedy and eyes like something smoldering at the bottom of a whiskey glass.

Patrick Zweig.

He’s all swagger and sweat the first time you see him. arguing with a ref during a scrimmage, throwing his racket at the net, sneering when he loses a point. You hated him instantly.

But you didn’t miss the way he moved. Precise. Powerful. There’s something animal in it—something desperate. Like winning might be the only way he knows how to stay alive.

And when he sees you? God. It’s like the world stops. He smirks. That stupid, infuriating smirk. “Didn’t know we were hiring models now,” he drawls, offering a hand that’s still calloused from the court.

“Didn’t know we were keeping tantrum-throwing toddlers on the team,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “Looks like we both have some surprises in store.” His smirk falters. Just a little. You think: Good.

But then his eyes flicker over your face again, and for a second..just a second, you see something shift. Respect. Curiosity.

Something that scares you more than his attitude ever could.

The weeks go by.

You push them hard. You push him harder.

No shortcuts. No ego. No coasting by on raw talent. You make him do footwork drills until his shirt is soaked through, serve until his shoulder goes tight with strain, run until he snarls at you like a feral thing.

But he never backs down.

Never quits. Never misses a day. And you start to notice how he looks at you.

Not with the cocky flirtation you expected, but with something quieter. Sharper. Like he's starving.

When you correct his grip, his eyes flick to your lips. When you say “good job”, he flushes like it matters. Like it means more than any win ever has. He lingers after practice. Always.

One night, he corners you by the lockers. “You ever going to say something nice to me?” he asks, low voice tinged with something wounded.

“I say nice things when people earn them,” you reply, brushing past.

He catches your wrist. His grip is gentle—but firm. His mouth is close to your ear when he says, “I want to earn it. Just don’t know how.”

You should tell him to back off. You should report it. You should be the professional.

But God, he says it like a confession. Like he’s never wanted to be good for anyone until now.

And you..stupid, soft thing that you are, you want to believe him. He doesn’t hesitate to tug you close before slamming you against the lockers, the sound of your body hitting it loud, present. He hungrily kisses you, making you gasp against his lips. Your eyes wide.

clenching your eyes shut as his roughly kissed down your neck, his breathing very heavy like he craved this. He needed this, he was hungry for it. he growled against your chest, making you shiver.

his lips pressed your ear. “I just..want you to compliment me. Can you do that? tell me I’m a good player.” His whispered, almost like he was challenging you. You hesitated but you managed, “you—you’re a good player.” You whispered, making him look back up at you.

“thank you.” He muttered, “thank you.” He nodded, walking out as if nothing had happened. It was odd, it was weird but you liked it. You liked him.

He starts to change. He starts helping the younger players with drills. He stops arguing with refs. He texts you questions about strategy at 2am like he’s dreaming of it. He reads the plays you assign, takes notes. He shows up early.

He plays like his life depends on it.

And in some strange, intimate way, like your opinion is the only scoreboard that matters. He brings you coffee without asking your order.

He stops flirting with other girls.

He starts... staying late. Talking. Sitting on the bench beside you, legs bouncing like he’s nervous. Once, after a grueling win, you touch his shoulder and say, “That was your best game yet, Patrick.”

He stares at you like you just handed him the world. “You’re not supposed to care what I think,” you say, quietly, watching the way his jaw clenches.

“Too late,” he mutters, then walks away before you can answer.

It happens after a tournament win.

You both stay behind, alone in the locker room. You’re pacing, coming down from the adrenaline, rambling about a misjudged shot—he’s just watching you like he’s drowning.

“You’re the only one who ever expected more from me,” he says. “Everyone else just let me be a fuck-up. I wanted to be better for you.” You turn, ready to shut it down, but he’s already in front of you.

His hand cups the back of your neck. His lips brush your forehead. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers. You don’t and when he kisses you, it’s not wild or rough—it’s terrifyingly tender.

he softly hums into your lips, a big difference from the last time he’d kissed you but you knew that would change. you closed your eyes before kissing him back. He doesn’t hesitate to reach for the bottom of your shirt, tugging it to signal that he wanted..or needed to take it off of you.

you agreed, raising your arms and he immediately rips it off of you. groaning when he sees your bra, his calloused hands going to cup your covered breast. his hands eagerly grabbing your bra clasp, unclasping it with such ease it makes you gasp.

the disgusting and yet cold air of the locker room hitting your bare chest. His hands quickly switched to your ass in that tennis skirt, his mouth had also switched to your neck once again.

you felt your skirt being lifted, shivering at that feeling of being grabbed so tightly. though that changed when he pulled it down quickly, along with your shorts and that’s how you were laying on a bench that was in the locker rooms. It was disgusting knowing how many men had sat there but you were desperate, it was worth it when Patrick’s tongue dug deep into you.

your moans echoing across the locker room, you had a somewhat fear that someone was going to hear you but did you care? hell no, not when his tongue was hitting you in the most perfect spot.

it quickly ended, leaving you empty and whining. He didn’t even give you a chance to finish. his shorts down and his cock up, red and throbbing. Looked painful but you were gonna help, and fuck— you were soaked and that was good enough for him.

he slid in, inch by inch. it wasn’t a great feeling but he let you get a few minutes and by the time he was thrusting, it felt amazing. you grabbed onto his tan bicep, moaning as he held you down against the wooden uncomfortable bench. he quickly leaned down and kissed along your neck then went to your ear. “Compliment me, do it.” He groaned, you whimpered.

you quickly began to blabber, your voice once again echoing. “oh my gosh yes— you’re..mphh! you’re amazing!” you gasped, scratching along his bicep and back. That made him wince, your eyes rolled back quickly and your back arched. “I’m coming!—“ you squealed, his head nodding frantically against your forehead. “good—good girl. You got this.” He spoke breathlessly.

and that’s when you came, it was amazing. The release and the feeling, he bit his lip watching as your juices flew out of you. He rubbed your side, “that was amazing.” He nodded before pulling out. Stroking his own cock, painting your stomach white.

after that? things weren’t exactly the same. Not in an awkward way but it kept happening, same time, same place.

But here’s what no one told you, Wanting someone doesn’t make them right. Needing approval isn’t the same as love. A broken boy doesn’t always know how not to break what he’s given.

You find out from a teammate. A dumb comment in the locker room. “Zweig still sneaking off to see her?” someone laughs. “What was her name..tashi?”

Tashi. You freeze. The world swims. Patrick never mentioned her name.

You confront him that night. He’s waiting in your office, all soft eyes and hidden hands. “Is it true?” you ask. He knows what you mean instantly. His face goes blank.

“I’m not with her,” he says. “Have you been sleeping with her?” You ask, firmly and all you got was..silence.

until, “That was before us,” he says weakly.

“Don’t lie to me, Patrick.” He looks gutted. “I didn’t know what this was—” before you interrupt, “And now?” voice shaking. “Now that I gave you the praise you wanted? Now that I let you in—what the hell is this to you?”

He steps forward. “I chose you. Every time I was with her, I wanted it to be you. That has to mean something—” You flinch like he hit you. “It means nothing,” you whisper. “You lied.” He grabs your hand. “I didn’t know how to be good, but I was trying for you—”

“No,” you say, pulling away. “You were trying to be admired. That’s not love, Patrick.” His eyes shine. “I can fix it. Please.” But you already know the truth.

You wanted to save him. He wanted to be saved. That’s not the same as being ready. You step away from the team at the end of the season.

He tries to call. Tries to text. You delete them all. Your chest aches every time you see his name in the news. He’s still winning. Still beautiful. Still tragic.

But you’ve learned something. Some people need to be left behind—so they can learn what it feels like to stand alone.

And you? You don’t regret loving him. But you regret believing that wanting to be good would ever be enough.

and now you know to never make that mistake as you walk in to meet your new students.