zweigscherrypie

[zweigscherrypie]

cherry 🍒 she/her. gemini. 19. occasional writer and moodboard maker. delusional dreamer. self proclaimed film bro. glam rock lover. proud beyhive member. love child of marlene mckinnon and rue bennett. astrally connected to patrick zweig. chronically online.

most unhealthy obsessions: challengers; marauders; the pitt, sinners; criminal minds; the hunger games; tennis; euphoria; money heist; spiderman;

[zweigscherrypie]

how I see art

Art Donaldson is warmth. Not the sunburn kind, but the golden kind. The kind that pools through a window while you’re trying to sleep in.

He’s a sunset on a warm September evening. He’s post-it notes with dad jokes and tiny detailed drawings. He’s caramel syrup and popcorn and the smell of mandarins on your fingertips hours after you’ve peeled one.

He’s pretty when he cries. And he’s clingy and touchy and obsessive. He grasps jacket sleeves and hands, runs his fingers through hair, counts lashes. He gets jealous easily and he pouts like a kid.

He loves with his whole heart and hates with the universe.

Art Donaldson is warmth. The kind that burns if you hold on too long.

[zweigscherrypie]

whiskey on the rocks

Tashi Duncan x Patrick Zweig

•ू♡ summary:  what went unsaid in that Atlanta hotel bar

•ू♡ word count: 1k

•ू♡ notes: loosely based on the Atlanta 2011 scene, possibly posted on ao3

Atlanta, 2011

It’s loud again. Way too loud for Tashi’s liking. The volume of the TV in the dark hotel bar is turned down to just a measly line. But that’s still too much. Especially, when there’s a familiar face plastered onto the screen, and a name, so hauntingly ugly, is repeated over and over again. Blah, blah, Anna Müller, blah, blah, Wimbledon. It could drive anyone crazy.

She looks around the bar, eyes drifting between soft cushions and mahogany tables. Her eyes drift down to her drink, whiskey on the rocks. While swirling the liquid absentmindedly, her gaze is brought back to the blinding light of a white tennis skirt and tank top, long slender arms wrapped around The Venus Rosewater Dish. The German is clutching it so tightly, Tashi can almost laugh. Anna didn’t deserve it, that’s why.

But before she lets her thoughts swallow her, she tips the glass and takes a large gulp of the whiskey. Her mouth forms a thin line, holding back a reaction. She’s always been able to hold her liquor. Biting her tongue and avoiding the cruel light of the TV, she looks around. Two other people in the bar. Makes sense, it’s almost 1 am. A young man in a suit, sitting at the bar, has a pint in his large hairy hand. He’s bent over, typing on an Iphone 4s, placed on the wet and sticky wooden bartop, with one finger. Behind him, an old lady is slowly sipping a clear liquid from a glass. Maybe vodka. Definitely vodka. Her wrinkled lips are overlined to the gods and there’s a pearl necklace hanging around her neck.

This pathetic excuse for entertainment is not enough. It’s getting loud again. Anna’s name. Anna cursing at her in German years ago. “Good luck champ”. The gasps. The doctor saying “I can’t promise anything”. Art whispering sweet nothings into her ear when things got very bad and very real. The firm but not unkind voice of the athletics director telling her about the withdrawal of her scholarship. Her mom shushing her softly as she sobbed in her arms during the 5 hour drive back home. “I want you to join my team because I wanna win.” Art’s shaky, shallow voice as he gave the eulogy at his grandmother’s funeral. Art’s soft “I need you”s she hears daily, between the rumbles of sheets and weak moans. Art’s grunts when he plays. Art’s mumbled “good night”. Art, Art, Art.

It makes her head spin. She tries to drown it in whiskey, taking another sip and looking out the window, hoping to find a distraction. A cat fight, a plastic bag being blown away by the wind. Anything that could stop those tears from falling. She hadn’t cried since their engagement. She wouldn��t cry now.

A person walks furiously past the window. Her breath hitches. It all happens so fast, the man’s steps come to an abrupt halt, he turns around. Patrick. Their eyes lock for a brief second. Piercing blue making her blood run cold. It seems like she blinks once and he’s there, inside. He doesn’t say a word as he sits down opposite of her. Their eyes lock and it seems to be the only thing needed.

He’d grown up. His boyish features have become sharper, in his eyes she can no longer see childish arrogance. There’s just cold, unwavering distrust. A slight stubble covers his jaw. His facial hair has finally evened out, she thinks. He’s leaning against the back of the chair, a surprising warmth filling his eyes for a second, then disappearing. She looks down at the glass in her left hand.

That’s when he sees it. The ring. He has to bite down a scowl. Too pretentious, too big of a rock for her delicate fingers. But a family heirloom. He’s heard the stories from Art, he knows. That’s why he doesn’t ask. And she couldn’t be more grateful.

She leans back as well, trying to exude all of what she’s lost. The good posture, the slight tilt of her chin - they should all mean confidence. But he knows her, *he is her*. It’s just a mask. Her fingers tremble slightly, causing the rock to catch the light and then be engulfed in the darkness of the bar once again. She hasn’t glared at him even once, which is certainly new. Tashi seems to be avoiding his gaze, for the first time, maybe in her life, looking scared and broken and hurt. Her brows furrow involuntarily as she looks down at her drink once again. She takes another sip.

“Didn’t know you did scotch.” He mumbles, trying to find a way to bring the fire back, or the ice, whatever comes. It’s uncharted territory, she’d always carried it with her, no matter what. But now, she seems empty, hollow, a shell of what she once was.

She doesn’t look at him. If she did, she’d see true desperation. He wants her to yell, to curse, to go for blood. Patrick wants to know that she’s not gone, that *he* hasn’t sucked the soul out of her. But all he gets is a quick once-over. Her eyes drift back to the TV for a second, and her expression tightens further. He looks over his shoulder briefly. Oh Tashi, he thinks. Now he gets it. If he could give her tennis back - he would. If he could give her the world - he would. But someone else has promised to do the latter.

Her hand drops from the glass and remains on the table, the neutral ground between them. If he didn’t know her, he’s think she’s making herself comfortable. But he does. It’s not a first step, but it’s an invitation for one. Which is the most you can get out of Tashi Duncan. He looks down at her hand, then back up to meet her eyes, no longer narrow and seething with anger. Just big and hurt. It looks unnatural, wrong. A wave of nostalgia washes over him. Why does he miss the way they hurt each other?

She downs her glass and gets up, eyes lingering on him for that one extra second that explains it all. He follows her lead.

[zweigscherrypie]

new pet

Art, Tashi, Patrick & Lily

•ू♡ summary:  seven-year-old Lily awaits her parents’ return, only to be surprised when they arrive with a strange man, a smelly dog and a secret that shifts the dynamic of her world 

•ू♡ word count: 1.5k

•ू♡ notes: i think i posted this on ao3 a while ago, but i cant log in anymore so it’s gonna be here as well :)

Lily Donaldson has always loved dogs. They had been the first animal she’d learned to imitate as a baby, the first thing she’d look for when visiting her grandmother’s house. She still sleeps with a cocker spaniel plushy. Her mom says she’s too old for it, but she always finds someone to repair it when the left ear or the right paw gets ripped out while they’re traveling.

Lily had also always wanted a dog. She was only five years old when she forced her nanny to make a PowerPoint presentation about how much their family would benefit from a puppy. She’d picked the pictures and the animations and was extremely proud of it. Her parents weren’t so impressed when they were met by an exhilarated Lily at the door after a 14-hour flight. She was struggling to hold the laptop up, but her little fingers pressed the keys with rehearsed efficiency as she recited her speech. Once she broke out into song, Tashi had to put an end to it. That night, they had one of their big-girl talks. Lily listened with wide eyes as her mom explained how it was irresponsible for them to get a puppy when they traveled so much. The girl was too smart to deny that her logic made sense, but that didn’t stop a small, adorable pout from appearing on her face. That’s one of the main reasons Art wasn’t allowed to be present at this conversation. Had it been up to him, Lily would have a kennel and a half. But Tashi wouldn’t have it. So Lily got another plushy and a day at the zoo with her parents.

And with time, as her features grew more similar to her dad’s and her personality to her mom’s, Lily began dreaming bigger. She had many ideas, hopes, and plans. She thought about puppies less and less often. With school starting, she had so many books to read and so many pictures to draw.

She was now 7, and the hopeless dreams of owning a dog were long forgotten. Perhaps she had inherited her mother’s pragmatism or her father’s pessimism. It didn’t really matter. She was entirely over it, like any big girl could be.

It was an hour past her bedtime. The nanny was getting sick of reading stories, bringing water, and fluffing pillows. But Lily just wasn’t tired. How could she be sleeping when Mom and Dad were coming home soon? Her tiny ears picked up the soft purring of a car engine somewhere outside. Her eyes widened as a bright smile split her face. She almost ran into her babysitter and knocked down the mug of warm milk with honey that the woman was carrying. Loud pats echoed on the cold wooden floor, contrasting with the oppressive silence of the past two weeks since her parents had left. She stood at the door, chest heaving, big brown eyes gleaming with excitement.

The heavy door was soon pushed open by her father. The crisp night air hit Lily, and she shuddered. Dad froze with a slightly uneasy expression on his face, which was concerning, given the fact that he had just won the US Open. Lily had seen that with her own two eyes. She had kissed the TV, screamed, and jumped, while her grandma blew a whistle and clapped. But now he looked tense. She heard her mom let out a huff, then saw her poke her head inside, as if frustrated that Dad was too slow. She froze too. Tashi. Her mother, her rock, the ever-so-calm-and-collected Tashi Duncan was now nervous. They clearly hadn’t expected to see her there. But they should’ve known better. It’s Lily Donaldson we are talking about. 

Her tiny brows furrowed when she heard heavy breathing that was so very inhuman. Tashi let out a soft sigh of defeat and pushed the door open to reveal a scrawny dog. And a… scruffy man. That Patrick guy her dad had beaten in New Rochelle last month. She remembered Dad’s face after that match—something hadn’t been right, even then. But no one had ever explained. Mom and Dad had gone back to being funny and nice. And Lily had written it off as a result of the win.

Patrick’s expression was the calmest, as if he had expected to see Lily there. His hand dropped from her dad’s back and dipped into his pocket. She saw the way his eyes drifted between her parents’ backs with an *I told ya* type of glimmer in them, almost condescending. Mom and Dad shared a brief glance, out of their element for some odd reason. What had happened in New York? 

Wait… a dog? For a split second, her dream of a fluffy puppy flickered in her mind, but this thing? It smelled. And its fur was patchy. She almost fell for it. Keyword: almost. Her tiny arms crossed, and she gave the three of them a look that was a carbon copy of Tashi’s unamused expression.

“Are you having a new baby?” she asked, shamelessly. She had never been one to beat around the bush. Like mother, like daughter.

Taken aback, Art opened and closed his mouth. He was already fidgeting with the keys in his hand. She could see him swallowing thickly. The new guy was holding back a smirk and twisting the dog’s leash once more around his wrist. He had this weird air to him. Way too confident. Yet there was a glimmer of fondness in his eyes. He seemed to observe Lily with a mixture of amusement and true curiosity. Tashi knelt down to her level and shook her head.

“No, Lily bear, we’re not having a new ba—” Before she could continue with her rushed but shaky explanation, Lily interrupted her.

“Then what’s this?” A tiny finger pointed toward the big but skinny dog that had its nose deep in the nanny’s shoes by their doorway and was leaking a certain... smell. “Are you trying to get me to like you?” she said with impressive conviction. She wasn’t wrong per se. “Why would I not like you if you’re not having a new baby?”

Tashi looked down for a second, composing herself. Art was rubbing his neck anxiously.

“This is Rex, Patrick’s dog.” The singular wrinkle on her mom’s forehead was concerning Lily. She never had that unless something had happened. She would wait for an explanation first. Surely there was one...

“Rex?” Her tiny forehead creased, eyebrows furrowing. She had never been the patient type. Got it from her dad. “What’s it doing here? What’s he doing here? That’s the New Rochelle guy, isn’t it?” she said quickly, her lisp coming out once again. There went a year of speech therapy.

Tashi stuttered briefly. She almost corrected her lisp, but then she held back. 

“Well, yes. Patrick is staying with us for a while. Do you mind?”

Tashi’s voice had that slight edge, one that Lily knew all too well. She heard it when she hadn’t done her homework, or set her plate in the sink, or had left her easel in the living room. When she had made Mom irritated, but not angry. Yet the usual sternness was not present in her expression. Her eyes were ever so slightly wider, and she was holding onto Lily’s arms in a very strange way. Almost as if she were nervous. As if she were trying to get Lily to drop the entire subject, to rein in her curiosity. Her bottom lip jutted forward. But there was definitely more to the Patrick thing. The little girl’s eyes drifted between the three of them for a few seconds. She wanted to protest, to ask her questions, to get answers. But she decided to spare them the trouble. At least for tonight. She would be dreaming about it probably, or spending all night making up explanations in her head. The girl had never been able to just forget about peculiarities. But Mom and Dad looked tired. She freed herself from her mom’s hold and went to briefly hug her dad’s legs.

“Good job, Daddy.” He stared down at her, stiff and dumbfounded by her nonchalance, managing to only pat her back twice. With the corner of her eye she could see Mom glancing briefly at the new guy. Lily then pulled away and started dragging her feet toward the stairwell.

Her parents were frozen in their places, the Patrick guy was leaning against the doorframe, a smug expression on his face, and the weird dog had attacked the umbrella holder next. Lily rubbed her eyes.

“I’m going to bed. You guys are extra weird.” Before disappearing on the second floor, she mumbled, “I wanted a puppy. This thing smells.”

Patrick’s smirk grew just a little wider.

[zweigscherrypie]

hiii YOUR FICS ARE SO GOOD mayhaps could you potentially write connor murphy x reader where they're online friends and anonymous but find out they're classmates irl 👉👈

it's not livin if it's not with you!

college! connor murphy x reader

tw for angst kinda just mental illness mentions

you don’t know his name, not his face, not his major, not what dorm he lives in or what color his eyes are. but you do know the sound of his voice, you know that he taps his fingers when he’s nervous, that he only drinks coffee with oat milk, that he listens to shoegaze when he can’t sleep, that he’s kind in the quiet, raw way that isn’t always soft, but always honest. you met him on an anonymous forum at the beginning of the semester. he'd posted, "does anyone else ever want to disappear?" you'd replied, "all the time." and somewhere along the way, you'd become friends, or something like it. long late night text chains turned to phone calls.

you still don’t know how it happened, how a forum conversation at 2 am turned into every night, how strangers became something closer than friends. sometimes you talk until dawn, about everything and nothing. sometimes you fall asleep to the sound of him breathing, soft and steady in your ear. you don’t ask for names. or photos. that’s the rule. it’s vague, and possibly strange, but it’s safe. you don’t say it out loud, of course. because this thing, this almost relationship, this secret corner of your life, doesn’t have room for a label like that. and what would it even mean, if you don’t know his face, can’t reach for his hand in the hallway, can’t find him in a crowd? but it still happens. you feel it when he laughs at something you say, when his voice drops quiet at night, like he’s telling you secrets. when he says, “i’m glad you exist,” with the kind of honesty that only accompanies sleep deprivation.

you meet connor murphy on a tuesday. not on purpose, not in a fairytale sort of way. he just gets transferred into your chemistry lab after a scheduling change. your TA calls out his name and he mumbles a response, taking the empty seat next to you with a quiet apology. he’s all messy hair and black hoodie and biting sarcasm. closed off, careful. doesn’t make much eye contact. the kind of guy you might’ve avoided in high school out of pure self preservation. but he’s smart - unexpectedly so. he mutters funny commentary under his breath and corrects the TA when she mislabels the compound. you don’t mean to like him, not really, but you do. and the worst part is, he reminds you of him, your voice on the phone. they have the same dry wit, same kind of sadness, quiet and bitter like old coffee. same soft moments that slip through the cracks when he thinks no one’s looking. you find yourself smiling when he texts you for lab notes, flushing when he leans over to explain something. wanting to know more. and then, at night, you still talk to him. your mystery boy, the one you can’t see but somehow know more intimately than anyone else. it splits something in you, honestly, festers into this growing, aching guilt.

one day, during lab, he laughs. really laughs, dry and sudden and kind of breathless, and it clicks. your blood turns to static, cold and strange in your veins, because you’ve heard that laugh before. at 3 am when you told him about your roommate sleepwalking, because he laughed just like that. like he forgot to be guarded. he’s explaining something to the girl next to him, hands moving like he’s trying to sketch the thought into the air, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, rings on three fingers. he says something, half sarcastic, half sincere, and it hits you all at once. it’s him. your mystery voice, your 2 am comfort, the boy you told your darkest thoughts to. the boy who doesn’t know what you look like. your heart races, constricts, and before you can process your own actions, you shove your notebook into your bag and stand up, fast enough to knock your chair sideways. “you okay?” he asks, brows furrowed. "forestfire," his forum username leaves your lips like a curse. "shit. wait-" you don’t answer, just speed walk out of there, straight back to your dorm. you hear him call your name, but it sounds all wrong coming from his mouth.

you miss his first call, then his second. then, the texts come. 'i'm sorry.' then, 'i swear i didn't know. please talk to me.' you turn your phone facedown and lie there staring at the ceiling like maybe it’ll collapse and bury the part of you that thought this would never happen. you liked him. well, both versions of him. now that the two worlds have collided, you don’t know how to feel about it. you skip class the next day. it was cowardly, you knew, and probably immature, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care. he leaves you a voicemail at 9pm, his voice slightly shaky, "i don't know what to say. i don't want to make this worse. i just miss you, and i'm sorry, and i need you to believe that i had no idea. uhm, i guess that's it. call me back, please. okay, bye," your thumb hovers over the delete button, but you can't bring yourself to press it. finally, after hours of scrolling through old messages, you text him. 'i'm sorry i left. i just panicked, i guess. i liked not knowing, and i freaked out when that got taken away. i don't want to pretend it didn't happen.' he replies moments later, 'i get it. i'm scared too. can i see you?' 'yeah, sure. where?' 'that cafe off campus? i'm free after my 9am.' you hesitate, but picturing the look on his face when you left the room is all you need. 'see you then.'

he’s already there when you arrive, seated in a corner booth, dressed in a black hoodie with a to go cup in his hands. he looks up when you walk in, and his shoulders go still. you sit across from him, smile sheepishly. "hi," you murmur. "hi," he says back, quiet and gentle. you break the calm silence first, "i wasn’t supposed to know what you looked like," "i know," he nods, looking down at the table. "you weren't supposed to know what i looked like," "i know," he says again, glancing up at you, "does it ruin it for you?" he looks uncertain in a way that makes your chest ache. "no," you shake your head, "i guess that's part of the problem," his lips twitch into a tired half smile. "i liked you," you admit, "on the phone, in class. and now i don't know how to combine them," "yeah, me neither," he nods, biting at the inside of his cheek, "i didn't expect it to be you, but it makes sense, in a way. i felt like i knew you, even when i sat beside you that first day," he looks at you for a long time after that, soft and contemplative.

"i fell for your voice first," you say after a moment, "your words, the way i related to you. your face makes it so much worse," he laughs, breathy and loose, "why?" "you're just so much better up close," you say softly, "in real life. i don't know what to do with all these feelings," his eyes flicker to your lips, then back to your eyes, tentative and slow before he leans in, "can i-" you don't let him finish, just close the space between you, pressing your lips to his. it's achingly familiar, like remembering a dream days after it passed. when you pull away, he’s breathless. "hi," he grins, voice quiet. "hi," you laugh softly, breath fanning against his face, "you're good at that," you walk side by side after the cafe, not saying much. your heart still races every time your shoulder brushes his, and his fingers keep twitching like he’s debating whether or not to reach for your hand. you don’t speak until you’re halfway across campus. he clears his throat softly, "do you want to come back to my dorm?" you glance at him, partially surprised, "yeah, okay," he lets out a breath he’d clearly been holding.

his dorm is quiet. small, dim, a little messy but not in a bad way. there's clothes on the floor, half full mugs. stacks of notebooks with drawings on the corners. it looks lived in, real, like him. he kicks off his shoes, then hovers awkwardly near the edge of his bed. you stay by the door for a second, unsure. "you can sit," he says, "or lay down, or leave. whatever you want," you give him a look, "i'm not leaving, connor," he gives a small, shy smile, then drops onto the bed with a heavy sigh. you follow, curling up beside him, not quite touching, but close. you both stare at the ceiling."you were always on the other side of a phone," you say quietly, "now you’re right here," he turns his head toward you, "it's weird, right?" "yeah," there's a slight pause. "good weird?" you smile slightly, "yeah. good weird," the silence settles again, softer this time. "you ever think," he says, voice low, "how strange it is that you can know someone better through a phone than you ever could in person? like, i told you the stuff i never even told my therapist, or my sister, anybody. and you didn't even know my name,"

"you always felt real to me," you say softly, "even when i didn’t know your face," he looks at you like that means more than you realize. "can i lay closer?" you nod. he shifts, just enough that his knee brushes yours, and your shoulders press together. he smells like coffee and dryer sheets and something warm you can’t name. your fingers brush, and this time you let them stay that way. his voice is barely above a whisper when he says, "i think i liked you before i knew it. i just didn't have a face to put with the feeling," "i liked you too, connor," his breath hitches, his gaze flicking to your mouth and back. "can i kiss you again?" he murmurs. "of course," you nod, already missing the feeling. he kisses you like he’s learning how. slow and reverent, like the moment might break if he breathes too hard. his fingers find yours and thread together. it’s not urgent, not rushed. it’s just you, and him, and the ache of maybe love you’re both finally letting happen.

[zweigscherrypie]

ATP’S PETS HEADCANONS

Patrick has a big dog. One of those lumbering, slightly slobbery breeds. He’s had him since he was a kid, back when everything was simpler and naming his pup Rex or Max was just right. The name stuck, even as the years passed and Patrick started feeling that nothing is so simple and right anymore. Patrick torments him occasionally by making him wear dumb hats on walks, pretending to throw the ball and then cackling in his disappointed face, or shoving an unlit cigarette in his mouth and giggling as he takes photos to send to everyone he knows. But under all that is a fierce devotion. If anything ever happened to that dog, Patrick wouldn’t just be heartbroken, he’d come unglued. Rex is his last tie to childhood.

Tashi has an axolotl (or something like a gecko or a tiny frog) that is suspended in a carefully curated tank that could pass for a tiny spa. She became obsessed back when she was twelve, during a science unit. While the rest of the class scowled and gagged, Tashi fell in love. She spent weeks begging her parents until they finally caved and got her one for her birthday. And the fascination doesn’t fade because it’s now discipline. She tracks water temperatures daily, changes the tank on a strict schedule, feeds with surgical precision and will spiral into a forum rabbit hole if she even suspects a shift in behavior. For Tashi, caring for something that fragile, that demanding, scratches the same itch tennis does. It’s control, structure, accountability. But it’s also her escape. It’s the one part of her life where nothing depends on winning. Just consistency, care and the quiet satisfaction of getting every detail right.

Art has a cat. He doesn’t really know how she ended up in his house. One day she was just there. He never named her, but she answers to “hey” and that’s good enough for now. She was grumpy and mean and downright annoying in the beginning. She hissed at everyone and scratched when touched. It was like that until Art’s grandmother passed. It’s like she felt his loss and decided to help. It showed in the quiet way she started moving through the space. The way she’d sit near him without asking for anything exactly when he needs her most. His grandmother used to do that too - just show up in the room with a cup of tea and let the silence do the work. Sometimes when the cat watches him with that slow, unblinking gaze, it feels like something old and familiar has found its way back to him. Not her, exactly, but something like the echo of her care. He never planned to have the cat, just like he never planned to grieve so quietly.

[zweigscherrypie]

well yes

bacon, egg, and cheese | patrick zweig x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, dbf!patrick, this picture has awoken a beast within me, not proofread, this is a blurb

You really shouldn't have gone to that party.

Stumbling out as the sun was barely beginning to rise, makeup running down your cheeks, hair matted, the morning chill only accentuating the pounding in your head... yeah. You shouldn't have gone.

You sat down on the curb, not even caring about the dirt, phone slipping from your fingers as you stared blankly at the sky paling into color. Your head throbbed. Your mouth was dry. Somewhere inside, someone was still playing music—tinny, distant.

There was no way you could call your dad. No way.

You scrolled. Bit the inside of your cheek. Hovered.

Then you pressed Patrick’s name.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and a little raspy—just on the edge of sleep or maybe freshly caffeinated. “You okay?”

You winced. “Hi. I—um. I’m sorry. I know it’s early. I just... I didn’t know who else to call.”

A soft pause.

“Where are you?”

You rattled off the address, voice small. You were already kicking yourself.

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” he said. No sigh. No lecture. Just that calm, practical tone he always had when things went sideways.

“Are you sure?” you asked quickly. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I just—”

“Relax,” he said, and you could hear the smile in it, even if it didn’t reach his voice fully. “I’ve got morning practice anyway. You’re just giving me an excuse to swing through Starbucks.”

A little breath of laughter escaped you, surprised and grateful.

“Hang tight,” he said. “Try not to fall asleep on the curb or anything. I don’t wanna have to scrape you off the pavement.”

“Got it,” you murmured. “Thanks, Patrick.”

Another beat. A little softer now: “Of course.”

The car rolled to a stop a few feet away, headlights off, sun just beginning to bleed over the trees. The driver’s door creaked open, and there he was—gray hoodie tugged over his head, black sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair tousled like he’d barely combed it. His tennis bag was tucked in the backseat, half-zipped.

Patrick.

You squinted up at him, cheeks burning in spite of yourself.

“Didn’t I tell you not to fall asleep?” he said, voice teasing, with something gentler underneath. His eyes swept over you quickly—not lingering, but taking everything in. Your ruined mascara, the strap of your dress slipping down your shoulder, your legs curled tight to your chest.

You started to get up, but your balance betrayed you, and you staggered a little.

Patrick was already there.

“Hey, easy.” His hand closed around your arm, steady but careful, like touching you too much might cross a line.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, guiding you to the car. “Just get in. I turned the heat on for you.”

You blinked. “You did?”

“I’m a man of many talents.”

The passenger seat was warm. Or maybe that was just him—close now, buckling your seatbelt because you weren’t moving fast enough. You could smell him: clean, woodsy, like soap and early mornings. Your skin prickled where his knuckles brushed your collarbone.

When he finally shut the door and rounded the hood, you exhaled.

He slid into the driver’s seat like he hadn’t just touched you at all. Adjusted the heat. Picked a random radio station on low volume.

“You hungry?” he asked. “I’m stopping for a sandwich.”

You hesitated. “Kind of feel like dying.”

He grinned. “Perfect. Bacon, egg, and cheese it is.”

The gas station was almost empty when he pulled in. Patrick killed the engine and stretched—arms overhead, shirt riding up just enough to expose the cut lines of his waist. You looked away too fast.

“I’ll be five minutes,” he said, already climbing out. “Text me if you want anything that isn’t a heart attack on a biscuit.”

He shut the door before you could answer.

You closed your eyes while he was inside, but the moment the car door opened again, the smell hit you first—bacon, melted cheese, butter-soaked bread.

Patrick dropped a paper bag into your lap. “Eat. You look pale.”

“You look pale.”

He gave you a look. “You look like someone wrung you out and left you on the porch.”

You snorted and unwrapped the sandwich. It was stupidly good—warm, greasy, exactly what your stomach didn’t know it needed. You were halfway through it when you realized he was watching you.

“What?” you mumbled, mouth full.

He shrugged, biting into his own. “Just making sure you don’t pass out. Or choke.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You always stare at people when they eat?”

“Only the ones in tiny dresses who call me at sunrise.”

You swallowed a little too hard.

He didn’t look away. “You still cold?”

You nodded.

Without a word, Patrick reached into the backseat and pulled out another hoodie—his hoodie.

“Put this on,” he said. “Before you turn into an icicle and I have to explain it to your dad.”

You hesitated, fingers brushing his as you took it.

It smelled like him. Like eucalyptus body wash and sweat and something a little sweet underneath. You pulled it over your head and didn’t miss the way his gaze dropped—just for a second—to the way it dwarfed you.

He cleared his throat and looked back out the windshield. “There. Now you look even more like a bad decision.”

You raised a brow. “Yours or mine?”

That made him laugh. Low, quiet, kind of dangerous.

“Careful,” he said, glancing at you sidelong. “You keep talking like that and I’m gonna forget I’m supposed to be the responsible one.”

You didn’t answer.

You just looked at him.

And for a moment, the inside of the car felt too small. Too warm. Like maybe he was thinking the same thing you were.

The silence stretched. Not awkward. Not quite. Just… full.

Patrick reached for a napkin and wiped a bit of grease from the corner of his mouth. His eyes flicked to you again. He was still chewing when he said, “You’ve got something right—”

His thumb brushed just beneath your lip.

You froze.

So did he.

The pad of his thumb lingered longer than it needed to—half a second, then a whole one. His gaze dipped to your mouth, then flicked away.

“You’re fine,” he said, voice lower now. He looked forward again, like maybe the windshield had something urgent to say.

But his hand didn’t move far. It settled between you, fingers flexing once on the center console.

You didn’t think. Just placed your own hand over his.

His breath caught. Just barely.

“I’m not a kid,” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer.

“You don’t have to treat me like one.”

Still, silence.

And then—slowly—he turned his hand palm-up beneath yours. Interlaced your fingers.

His grip was warm, strong, sure.

When he finally looked at you, there was something behind his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“I know,” he said.

His thumb traced a lazy line along your knuckles. “That’s the problem.”

His hand tightened around yours.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

But something had shifted—something neither of you could walk back.

Patrick’s gaze dropped to your mouth again. This time, it stayed there. He leaned in just slightly, enough for you to feel his breath, warm and coffee-sweet, against your cheek.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured.

You didn’t move.

“Say it,” he added, barely above a whisper. “Say I shouldn’t.”

Your heart was in your throat.

Instead, you whispered, “I can't.”

That was all it took.

His lips crashed into yours—hot, hungry, reckless. One hand slid to the back of your neck, the other cupped your jaw like he couldn’t bear to let you go. You kissed him back with everything left in you—drunk on exhaustion, adrenaline, and him.

He pulled you toward him, over the console and into his lap. The gear shift dug into your thigh, your knee knocked the door, and both of you cursed in the same breath before breaking into breathless laughter. It didn’t matter. You climbed on top of him like you were meant to.

His hoodie bunched up around your waist as his hands moved beneath it—palms dragging over your thighs, your hips, your ribs. He kissed you like he was starving. Like he was tasting something he wasn’t supposed to have.

“You have no idea,” he growled into your mouth, “how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

You smiled against his lips. “Pretty sure I do.”

He kissed you again. Longer this time. Deeper.

Then, without a word, he shifted underneath you and leaned forward, reaching past you to push the seat forward. He jerked his chin toward the back. “Go.”

You blinked. “What?”

Patrick’s voice dropped. “Backseat. Now.”

You didn’t argue. You crawled through first, hands bracing on the center console, dress riding up with every inch. He followed right after, awkwardly maneuvering into the cramped space with a low, breathy curse as his elbow hit the ceiling.

The car was quiet again—no music now, no hum of the engine. Just your breathing. Just the heat.

And then his hands were back on you.

He looked at you like he was starving—like if he didn’t get his mouth or hands on you again, he might actually lose it.

“C’mere,” he murmured, breathless, yanking you onto his lap before you could blink. “Need you. Fuck, I need you.”

The kiss was messy, frantic—your teeth bumped, your noses knocked, and someone elbowed the door with a thud. You both burst into a quick, breathless laugh before diving back in.

His hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, sliding under your dress, palming your ass like he couldn’t decide what he wanted to touch first.

“You’re gonna kill your car,” you gasped as your knee hit something.

Patrick just growled into your neck, “Totally worth it.”

He pulled your panties down with a desperate kind of focus, bunching them at your knees. “These are mine now,” he said, tucking them into the pocket of his hoodie like a little shit.

Then his fingers were on you—slicking through your folds, pressing in like he already knew the shape of you. One finger first, thick and slow, then two, curling just right as he began to thrust them in rhythm. The wet sound of it filled the tight car space, obscene and perfect, while his free hand slipped under your dress to palm at your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. You couldn’t decide what made you burn more—his touch or the way he was watching you, jaw tight, like he was trying to memorize every twitch you gave him.

“You’re so wet already,” he breathed. “Fuck, you’re unreal.”

You moaned, hips jerking into his hand.

He kissed you again—hard—then leaned back just far enough to watch you fall apart. His thumb circled your clit while two fingers thrust deep, slow and steady, crooking just right.

You tried to hold back the noises, but they spilled out anyway. Every stuttered breath, every high-pitched gasp, just seemed to make him harder beneath you.

“Don’t go quiet on me now,” he said, grinning even as his voice cracked. “I wanna hear it.”

You clenched around his fingers and came hard, head buried in the crook of his neck, thighs trembling as you rode it out.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he whispered. “That’s so good. Jesus.”

You were still shaking when you reached for his waistband. “You next.”

He didn’t hesitate—just groaned and fumbled for his wallet, tearing the foil with shaking hands.

You both laughed when his knee knocked into the door again. “We’re gonna destroy this car,” he muttered.

“I’m shocked it hasn’t exploded yet.”

You rolled the condom on for him, and when you sank down onto him, he let out the kind of sound that made your whole body clench again.

“Holy shit,” he gasped. “You’re—god—don’t move yet.”

“Why?” you teased. “Gonna embarrass yourself?”

“Absolutely,” he groaned.

You grinned and rocked your hips, slow and deliberate. He hissed through his teeth and grabbed your hips like he needed something to ground himself. Your thighs were slick where they met his, your breath catching every time you bottomed out. His hands roamed constantly—up your sides, around your back, down to your ass—never still, like he needed to touch every inch of you at once. The sweat-slick friction between you, the squelch of movement, the heated press of skin to skin—it was all too much, and not enough. He cursed so loud it bounced off the windows.

You started to move in earnest then, both of you panting, bodies slamming into every surface possible—door, seatback, each other. Every time you changed rhythm, Patrick swore and begged you not to stop.

“Feel so fucking good,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me. This is how I die.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

You were dizzy. Slick with sweat. Fingers tangled in his hoodie.

The second orgasm hit harder. Your whole body locked up, pulsing around him as he pulled you tight against him.

“Shit—fuck—fuck,” he groaned, following you over the edge.

You collapsed into each other, lungs on fire.

Your knee was definitely bruised. His elbow was definitely going to swell.

Worth it.

Neither of you moved. His nose was in your hair. Your hand rested over his heart.

And the car finally went quiet again.

Everything buzzing. Everything perfect.

He kissed your cheek, your shoulder, the corner of your mouth.

"Your dad’s gonna murder me."

You laughed, still breathless. "You’d put up a fight."

Patrick grinned. "Glad one of us has faith in me."

He glanced down at the crumpled seat beneath you. "Shame. These were nice seats."

You snorted, tugging his hoodie back over your head. "Guess that’s what happens when you treat a Honda like a motel."

He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a grin that had no business being so soft. "If anyone asks..."

"We were getting breakfast," you finished.

He smirked. "Damn good breakfast."

-----

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

[zweigscherrypie]

summers with tashi duncan 🌊☀️

[zweigscherrypie]

summers with art donaldson 🌊☀️🌊

[zweigscherrypie]

summers with patrick zweig ☀️🌊🌼

[zweigscherrypie]

Don't forget us please🇵🇸❤️ Don't forget Palestinians' life🥺🍉

They are slaughtering us for more than two years as if we are animals. Where are human rights‼️‼️‼️ I need to raise my voice to people of humanity.

Breaking News ‼️‼️

6/5/2025 6:48Am in Gaza.

Israel will take the rest of Gaza and we don't know where to go next.  Also hunger is surrounding me and my family from everywhere. We are so hungry. One bag of flour reach 600$. So please do your best to save my family and help us 🙏🙏‼️‼️💔💔

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters , my number verified on the list is ( #515) ✅️

My full story 🙏💔

I'm Areej I was an English teacher and a creative writer at we are not numbers before war and everything change after October 7. Also I'm a creative writer at we are not numbers.

Dear my kind donors!

I am a mother of three children. We have lived through the war for a year and a half, and we have lost everything we own. My husband is a man who did not work. Before the war, I did not have a breadwinner or any source of income. During the war I didn't give up to teach so I volunteered and had good chance to help some students to get engaged again with English in a very creative way.

Please Save those innocent kids from war 🥺‼️🙏🙏

We are in tents for almost two years because our home was destroyed and my kids are starving now with no enough food  😭‼️🥺After our several evacuation from place to another.Now we don't have a house after it was destroyed by missiles. I now ask you to help me rebuild my house. And buy basics for the daily essentials for my children and I need money so that we can stand up again and start again.

This war wasn't easy at all it has taken many friends at work, students and some of my colleagues at the university. They are almost ten souls I won't never forget . Their laughter, their presence, their love… all of it is gone, leaving behind memories that are both precious and painful. Every day, I carry the weight of their loss, but I also carry their spirit, which gives me the strength to keep going.

My lovely students before war 🥺

My lovely home 💔💔‼️

Here’s what life in Gaza looks like for my family right now:

🏠 Safety: The uncertainty of tomorrow weighs heavily on us.

😢 Loss: The absence of my students and my friends is really hurts.

💔 Dreams on Hold: The future feels so far away when survival takes all our strength.

Note to mention the other very expensive essential goods. I hope you will stand by me to get food

The crossings boarders are closed again these days and war return in Gaza.  The crossing through which food enters has been closed for more than 30 days. We have nothing to eat, and even if we do, the prices are exorbitant. Some of the prices listed are:

1 kg of meat = $100 now there is no meat

1 chicken = 70$ there is no chicken

1 kg of fish = 100$ now it costs 200$

1 bag of flour = $200 now it costs 600$

1 kg of cooking gas = $150 now it costs 1000$

1 kg of sugar = $50

1 kg of eggplant = $20

1 kg of onions = $50

1 kg of tomatoes = $20

How You Can Help Us Cross the Finish Line

Even the smallest act of kindness can make a difference:

. $5 might not seem like much, but it could mean a meal, clean water, or a tiny bit of hope for my family.

. Can’t donate? Reblog this post to help us reach someone who can. Every share matters more than you know.

To help me and my family you can donate here or at least you can share this post to people who can support us in gaz

You can support my family here

Here

Or directly here

[zweigscherrypie]

I Could Be a Good Mother

or: What the process to Lily was

an: thank you to all beta readers for the first paragraph. not proof read. comments always appreciated. love you all.

warnings for mentions of pregnancy loss

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When she was young, the plan was to name her daughter something exciting. Something reminiscent of herself. She contemplated Natasha, of course, the name her parents had originally planned on placing on her. Identifying herself as Natasha, after living so long under her actual name, felt wrong now, but she wouldn’t mind giving a piece of what could’ve been to her future daughter. She always wondered what made Tashi come about, a heat of the moment decision on her mother’s part. When she asked, tugging at the hem of her mother’s shirt as she read a novel too dense for a girl of Tashi’s age, the response was plain. Because she just knew. She gazed down at a small body, smaller than even now, a head of soft, curling hair, and eyes as warm as melted chocolate, and knew her daughter’s name. She placed it upon her with a kiss to her forehead, and there she was. Tashi Duncan. Her mother smiled down at the girl, so big and so small all at once, and said she’d know, too, when the time came. She’d know, just like she had. Like mother , like daughter. And when daughter became mother all her own, the chain would continue to grow. 

When she was just a bit older, smiling with missing front teeth, not whole but feeling complete, she wanted to name her daughter Billie. Billie who she read yellowed biographies on her knees in the library, leaning against the shelves. Billie who ran the court like it was hers to own, and as far as Tashi was concerned, she did. Billie, who her parents reluctantly let her admire, but told her that even if she was a great player, one of the greatest, she wasn’t necessarily someone to be admired. Tashi didn’t quite understand it at the time, being young enough to understand when subtext was present, but not old enough to decipher the code behind a restless hand toying with a cross necklace. Nevertheless, as long as Tashi was passionate about tennis, she’d be passionate about Billie Jean King. She always thought it funny, the queen of tennis with ‘king’ for a last name. Maybe it was intentional irony on the universe’s part, something to rub men’s noses in. Or maybe she was both a king and a queen in her own right. Tashi wanted that. She wanted a court named in her honor, because for all the world knew, tennis had been reinvented under her capable hands. She wanted the world to watch as the courts molded beneath her feet like clay, precise, aggressive, and see the potential for what the sport could be. Her daughter, with this name, might gain that power through it. Be a king and a queen all the same. 

At her confirmation, a knee-length skirt bursting around her like a blooming flower, beaming with pride, she decided her daughter’s name would be Joan. Joan after her chosen saint, Joan of Arc. It felt appropriate for her. Fitting to choose a name of someone so dauntless, so unmistakably determined to stick by her beliefs. Even at twelve, everyone knew that Tashi was not a girl, but a force of nature. She functioned more like the wind did than a person, graceful and elegant in its lightest forms, biting and unforgiving at its harshest. She wanted to be a dichotomy. The less people understood, the more she could work against another person without their realizing, on the court and off it, if need be. She found herself imagining, just for a moment, that the beaming faces of proud aunts, uncles, cousins, even strangers, were watching her burn at the stake, just as her namesake of sorts had, and she liked to think that it was a rite of passage to undergo something so painful. It was what made Joan of Arc the saint she now is, was it not? Perhaps to become something, the present you, the good in you, had to die. Maybe that’s what makes a person matter. So, she hoped to change. She hoped to leave old her behind. And when she stepped down to greet family, kiss cheeks and shake hands, and people asked her who her role model is, she felt her hands fidget with the golden cross settled on her sternum when she said Billie Jean King. Her grandmother, warm and soft with old age, took her by the hand that day and thanked her. Thanked her for becoming a woman of God, as she was intended to do. For being a great future wife and mother. She didn’t like the lack of ‘tennis player’ in that list, but it would have to do. After all, it’s what she was made for. 

After Patrick, after her knee, she thinks she knows what Joan of Arc felt like when she looked down from heaven. She had to die to become something. What she had become, she wasn’t sure of. A coach, yes, and Art’s coach no less, but what else? She hoped that by falling from grace, she would land on some other variation of it. A fall from one pillowy, cushioned world to another. She tried, really, not to hate him for it. His successes that should have been hers, and they were in a way. She’d liked that after all, his malleability. He was becoming her. He was pressed and folded into serving with the power of her muscles and winning with the ease of a body which knew nothing but victory. They were her victories if he was her. But, when all is said and done, and she sits in bed while he sleeps, she knows he loves him more than she resents him. She loves that he stayed, despite no longer being the Tashi he’d met at that Adidas party. She loves that he holds her up, even when she lies and says she needs no support. She loves that in all his softness, he could love something so cold as her. She felt no fear when he proposed, because she wanted it to happen, and that meant he’d want it, too. And she wanted that daughter she’d dreamed of as a girl. She wanted her Joan to have an intellect like her own and a tenderness like her father. She wanted flowing brown hair and eyes that crinkle at their corners when they lift with a smile. She wanted a daughter, so Art would want one, too. 

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When they discussed it the first time, her ring felt heavier. She knew he wanted a family, that much was clear. He was more obvious than she’d been, all lingering eyes on small children and brushes of hands against tiny clothing. He never addressed it outwardly, not directly the way she does, but he showed his desire in his own way. He nearly cried when she asked him, and if she hadn't been smart enough to specify that she meant after the wedding, he would’ve begged her to start right away. He needed to be a father the same way she needed to be a mother. He needed to see himself create something worthwhile, he needed to know that he’d leave something beautiful behind when there was nothing left for his body to give. Tashi needed something, someone, to stare at her with the wonder that she felt from the stands as a teen. She wanted to know her life hadn’t amounted to a ‘should’ve been’, an unhappy accident, an act of God. She needed something tangible to place her love on, and just her love on. No living vicariously. No resentment. He wiped his eyes and kissed her like he had never been more in love with her than in that moment, and things felt simple. No arguments, no questioning, not a lick of concern for the future. She was going to get her daughter, her Joan, and she was going to be the most wonderful thing the world would ever know.

Her ring, the larger, newer one of the two, weighed heavy on her hand as she rolled her fingers in little waves against the marble sink. Two minutes. Two minutes that she hardly breathed for. They’d been trying and trying for months. Months of intimacy as a means to an end, rather than based on desire. Months and months and nothing seemed to stick. She felt sick each time she felt the telltale nauseating warmth of blood between her legs, the sharp ache of a cramp, like a mace swung at her insides. She felt sick when she knew she wasn’t doing the one thing she was put here for. Each time she spoke about it to her mother, she’d just sigh through the speaker of the phone, say that everything happens for a reason. That God gives his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers, and it’d only make her victory that much more deserved. She felt no desire to be strong anymore. She hoped to be weak so that things became easier. But two minutes was up, and when she flipped the small plastic figure over in its place, two red lines down its center, she practically kissed the ground she collapsed to. Art found her there, attentive even from the other room, with her shoulders heaving and her back arched in on itself, as if shielding herself from the world. When he sees the positive test, he folds himself into the same position. He might just cry harder.

Imagine her shock when the screen was flipped her way and she saw three little shapes. Not one, but three. Three little girls. They had to be. The nurse had crinkled her nose when she said so, said it was still far too early to tell, but she knew. Tashi knew that there was never any other option for her. Three. The perfect number. Her own holy trinity to praise. Truly, they would be what she devoted herself to. She had won her battle, even though she’d never asked to fight it. She searched for Art’s hand to take in her own, and when her eyes met his they were fearful, yes, but delighted all the same. It was perfect. The ideal number. Her Joan, her Billie, her Natasha. He looked at that blurry image, all black and white fuzz and imagination-filled gaps, with the reverence of dog to owner, student to teacher. If they thought about it hard enough, they could feel their place in the world shifting. They could see each object come into itself, particle by particle. Each edge seemed a bit softer now. She felt a prayer on the tip of her tongue and silenced it with a sob. There was no time for piety. She felt the battle was won, and the war wasn’t even over.

Tashi was an analytical woman. Everything through a scrutinizing lens. Each detail perceived, judged, shuffled away to be dealt with. And as she analyzed the look on the doctor’s face when he came in, she knew. She knew and wanted to hear none of it. There was nothing to be done. No medication, no procedure. Her relief would come when they’d finally stop suffering. She didn’t tell Art, couldn’t tell Art. She didn’t tell him on the car ride home, tears stagnant in her waterline, lips pursed and trembling, but never breaking. She didn’t tell him when he saw the expression on her face. She didn’t have to. She needed space. Air. Sleep. A hug. A better body. A kinder God. She needed to be stronger. She needed to be weaker. When out of his line of vision, surrounded by the bed that could only have been where the lives still within her were born, she squeezed her eyes shut and hit. She hit, hit, hit and hoped it developed sentience just so it could feel the pain of each impact. But she wouldn’t lay there. She crumpled like an old flower, browning and dry, and for the first time in her life, there were no prayers to be said. She unclasped the thin gold chain from around her neck, holding its limp form in her palms. She cupped it beneath her lips, whispered ‘please, please, please’ until all that came out was air. But she felt no different. She felt no change. She threw it across the room, landing with a small, metallic tink. She hoped she’d been wrong all her life. There was no God. No God would let her suffer so much and be rewarded with so little. No kind, loving God would treat her this way after spending so much time praising him. No God would not let her serve the purpose she was put her for. Be fruitful and multiply. Why not her? They slept quietly that night, backs against each other. She slipped out from beneath the covers to scoop the chain up in her palms and tuck it into the drawer of her nightstand. Just in case, she didn’t want to anger him either.

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When those two lines did appear again, her thumbnail dragging up and down the length of them, she didn’t quite feel joy. Because it was never supposed to be her. Of course, she was happy, somewhere, beneath that clouded, murky water of grief. For her babies. For herself. For what ifs and should haves. But, she would take it. She would hold her girl proudly in her arms upon arrival, she would watch herself change, grow, widen, and not be horrified by such a thing, and she would hate this little girl as much as she loved her. She wouldn’t recycle a name. She couldn’t make this child identify as another. And she knew, as her mother had, that when she arrived, she’d just know who she was. For now, though, she made her way to her nightstand, slipped open the drawer, and connected the clasp of the chain behind her neck again.

[zweigscherrypie]

some people don’t seem to understand just how real tashi is—how human she is. she could be the girl from your hometown who made it out, or the classmate you once pulled an all-nighter with for a group project. she isn’t just headlines, whispers, or the fragmented memories people project onto her.

yes, she loves tennis, but she isn’t just tennis. and art—he’s a gateway to that world, but love isn’t a passive thing. love takes work. tashi pours herself into him, into them, in a way that anyone who’s ever truly loved should recognize. and yet, somehow, that effort gets twisted into the idea that she’s just using him for the sport? that she’s only in it for what he can give her? i don’t know—maybe it’s easier for people to reduce her to something simple rather than accept that she’s complicated, that she’s layered, that she’s alive.

and really, if pat and art can be messy, selfish, driven, weak, strong—if they can be everything at once—why can’t tashi? think about it. that knee-jerk reaction to hate her, to strip her down to the worst possible version of herself, what does that say? would she still be this reviled if she had been written differently? or is it 2025 and you just can’t stand to see a woman of color give and be loved in mainstream media?

[zweigscherrypie]

Mama, You Been on My Mind

an: sorry if this is weird or doesn't make sense lol i just wanted to get this out cause i came up with it yesterday. comments and critiques always welcome, appreciated, and encouraged <3

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As far as Patrick knew, the only places in the world that still had landline phones were hotels and school buildings. Even where they were present, they seemed disconnected, null and void from their spots on countertops and next to light switches, watching as they were replaced by newer models. It must suck to be the blueprint. Still, he’s cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear, plastic scrunched uncomfortably into his skin as he rolls and unrolls the cord from around his finger. The girl next to him, a nice enough blond he’d met at a bar a few hours back, was still asleep, soft puffs of air exiting her slightly parted lips. When she moves, he pulls the blanket back over her shoulder where it’d fallen. Just dial the number.

He’s never been so scared to look at a bunch of numbers in all his life. Not in grade school, receiving endless failing grades his parents had the money to erase the importance of. Not on the court, when he saw the points steadily increasing on the wrong side of the scoreboard. Not when he checked his account balance after booking this room for the night and finding zeroes. This was worse. This was something he’d avoided at all costs. He scratches his chin, slightly scratchy with stubble, and sighs. No unnecessary spending at all times he remembers to be prudent. And Patrick was stupid enough to be prudent at his last convenience store run. But she had never liked facial hair. Maybe he could use it as a pull.

The phone was old enough that the buttons were something soft, rubbery, glowing orange beneath that cloudy clear coating. They beeped with each press. He didn’t know why he remembered the number, considering the amount of time which had passed. Maybe there was no point in remembering at all. Of course, it’s late, sometime in the dark of evening, and his childhood home really couldn’t be more than a couple hours north. But who says she’d keep her number the same? Time passes, and with it people grow, they change, they get tired of waiting for other people to. Patrick never really did change. He never grew. His mother had never liked that part of him, but he can’t name one thing she did, either. Maybe she was just secretive.

He chose to believe it was contained. Tough love, maybe. When he was little, she would put the occasional bandage on a skinned knee, allow his small hand to snake its way into her larger one, softened with time, when they walked across busy streets and through crowded ballroom floors. Soon enough, though, he was just there. He isn’t sure what it was, really. A certain inch too tall? An age too old? One too many baby teeth gone? Perhaps, it was just that he developed a personality that wasn’t formal enough. Wasn’t the heir to a family throne. And she stopped. 

He was lucky to have taken after her in two things: appearances and stubbornness. With each step he took towards her, arms outstretched for a hug she at one time would have gladly accepted, she took one back. Eventually, she had gone so far he couldn’t even see her on the horizon anymore. She had started running.

But he needs money. Money he knows his parents have in spades. Money that they used to spend on extra cars to never drive and clothes to hang in walk-in closets, permanently left in their plastic dress bags. Money spent on his rackets, coaches, boarding school tuition. Money once given to him as long as it created space. The phone is ringing. It’s hollow sounding. He feels like his call is running into some universe humans weren’t made for. The girl next to him flings her arm to the side, grazing his hip with her fingers before landing against the mattress. 

“Hello?”

She sounds older. Tired. So different from the woman who used to sing him lullabies and speak in monotone. And, of course, it is late and he probably woke her, but it’s her. He stares at himself in the window. They must both look the same. Same deep green eyes and shallow-skinned exhaustion.

“Hey, Mom, it’s, um… it’s been a bit, yeah. Was wonderin’ if you could-”

He hears a clutter. The line goes dead.

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He tugs at the collar of his shirt, but the tie might be what’s bothering him. But his whole body is bothering him. He’s sore, as he always is, but particularly now. He always works just that bit harder when he’s distracting himself. It’d been a stroke. Fast and unpredictable and, of course, so Nana. She’d been asleep, at least, when her body decided to stop working for her. He wonders how it’d feel. Tashi is talking to some distant cousin of his, one he only ever on Thanksgivings as a kid, skirt dragging at her ankles. The crowd has cleared, cousin to rejoin his wife and kids, all looking too cheery despite the funeral attire. He needs them to stop smiling.

At least her headstone is pretty. Clean, pale grey and unmarked by weather or age. No moss to erase her name. No dirt to cloud her memory. He looks left an inch or so. His mother’s can’t say the same. 

He doesn’t remember her all too well anymore. It’s not that she passed when he was very young, or that they’d never met at all, but that she never carved much time out of her day to bond with him. His memories of her consisted of pantsuits and bluetooth earpieces, constantly standing up from family dinners because ‘Sorry, I have to take this’, leaving he and Nana to enjoy themselves. She’d never done anything wrong, but there was a certain tiredness that came with her inaction. It became draining to know she just cared enough to apologize, but never to find a way to improve. So Nana was the safe space. Nana was who he laughed with. Nana was the one he’d seek out for hugs and kisses and comfort. Nana was sharp as a tack but soft as could be when needed. Always looking life in the eyes. So he sits on his knees before her.

He tells them about his day, the one they hadn’t gotten to be a part of. He fills his mom in on years of life. He graduated. He’s gone pro. He and Patrick haven’t spoken in years. He has a girlfriend he wants to make his wife. She won’t respond, neither will Nana, and he, of course, knows this. He hasn’t lost his mind entirely. 

He feels Tashi’s hand on his overheated shoulder before he sees her sitting next to him. She’s familiar with Nana’s little place in the world, considering the previous hours had been dedicated to making it known, but she hadn’t met mom. What an awful ‘meet the parents’ experience. He’d laugh about it if it seemed like the appropriate time and place. It doesn’t. 

“Is it bad that I wish she was awake?”

She turns to him, chin on her shoulder, light breeze pushing her hair into her cheek. No disgust, no shock, no fear. Judgement not in the sense of picking him apart, but trying to find something. Scrutinizing in its purest form.

“Why would you want that?”

“She would hate that she went down without a fight. She’d feel like a quitter for just letting herself die. I wish she’d felt that pain and known to start beating back for all she’s worth.”

She hums in acknowledgement, moves like she’s nodding, but doesn’t quite make it there, and curls her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her calves.

“So you wish she’d died hurting?”

“Just wish she’d died knowing she was going to. It feels like the most alive way to go.”

He hates that she died like his mom did. Sitting down and taking it. IVs and sedation and bones too weak to make impact. Mom was passive. Nana never had been. Mom was dead before she died, a ghost. Nana was stern, caring when she had to be. Nana told stories of men dropping like flies in her presence when she was younger and laughed at their dismay. Nana settled down with someone who would give her nothing but the best. Nana had left him her ring. Nana had liked Tashi. Maybe she saw herself in her. He was going to use it.

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Her mother, who she still called ‘mommy’ in private despite having been born with the mentality of a 30 year old, was thrilled when she got the news. Far more thrilled than she herself had been. She wasn’t upset, necessarily. Not in the traditional sense. Scared, sure, of what this would mean. But Art was overjoyed, carefully pecking her lips, then bending down to kiss her just above the belly button. She’d scoffed, rolled her eyes, told him to stand up. She thought it was sweet. 

Her mother though, or ‘mommy’ reluctantly, had burst into their home without warning, kissing her fingers and making the sign of the cross. The little sign that Tashi wore around her neck without question to this day, even though she’d stopped practicing anything outside of Christmas years ago. If anyone asked, it was just a T for her name. She stopped believing in anything when she became a fallen angel of sorts. No loving God would have let this happen to her. And a loving God most certainly wouldn’t mock her like this. She feels stupid now. Letting her mommy hold her while she cries like she was eighteen, seventeen, ten, seven, three again. 

She doesn’t want to see herself when she inevitably begins looking the part of an expecting mother. She doesn’t want to see her skin stretch, her hips widen, her back curve under pressure. She doesn’t want to struggle to walk again, or see any marks she never asked to be there appear. She doesn’t want to feel that feeling of falling from grace all over again. She’d found it second hand this time. Vicarious success. Now? She’s dripping tears onto her mother’s shirt. Mommy, what do I do? Mommy, this. Mommy, that. She just holds her, shushes her, rocks her back and forth. A baby again. She sees wrinkled skin. Softer, warmer than her own. Frailer, maybe, too. Her body had changed too, and her mother was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Aged, yes. Naturally, as anyone would. But she’d undergone the same process, of course. And she remembers seeing her mother, easily called Mommy then, complaining about her appearance. Fat, too big, too wide. All because of Tashi and her siblings having been there. But Tashi had never agreed. And she’d be lucky to look like her mother. She dries her eyes, grins. She’s going to be just like her. 

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Lily is sick of hotel rooms. Her mom doesn’t know that because she’s never asked. But she hears her talk about it often, with Dad. With Grandma. She misses her room, the one she’d decorated herself. The one with all her dress up outfits at the ready. The one with her drawings stuck to the walls with tape. Mom is more relaxed there, usually. Dad, too. But Dad only really looked her direction when Mom did. It’s not that he didn’t care, no. Never that. But the guilt of being away made him step back. Process. Don’t force yourself in. So he never stepped in. He stood at the sidelines and grinned like he was proud of her just for being his. 

“Mom, can we watch something together? 

She wants to watch Spiderverse, because she always does. But she knows Mom is sick of it. She’ll watch some other flurry of colorful animated characters. She’ll watch the news. She’ll watch a tennis match for Mom to take notes on. Watch her dad get beat by someone years younger. 

“I’m busy, baby. Maybe in a few? Start something up with Grandma and I’ll come in when I’m ready, ‘kay? Don’t have too much fun without me.”

She won’t. She rarely has much fun without her. But Grandma’s nice, too. Grandma’s always there. A surrogate mother for when she stands up from the rare family dinner they have because ‘Sorry, I have to take this’, when Mom is too busy working at home to remember that her husband isn’t always her employer. ToSometimes he’s just her husband. And her daughter isn’t someone she needs to impress. Grandma’s safe. Grandma’s as tired of playing a mother to a child when all her kids are grown as Lily is of pretending to be fine with it. But they love each other. 

She nods, takes her tablet to the smallest room in the massive space they’d picked out. She’d hung a drawing, Lily and Grandma to one side, Dad and Mom to the other, as a placeholder. Make herself at home. She starts the movie on her own. Grandma is resting, asleep, tired from being forced to be young again. She lets her sleep. She pulls the blanket over her shoulder where it’s fallen off. She pauses it and curls up herself. Mom’s not gonna join. Mom won’t be jealous of any missed fun this way.

[zweigscherrypie]

[zweigscherrypie]

dilf!art x tired!reader for everyone who needs it </3

2,2k words

you’ve been seeing each other for a while now, and your friends say that it’s stupid that the two of you still haven’t moved in together — after all, it’s not weird at all. he seems to like you so much, and you like him too, love him even, because he is the best thing you could ever have, you know that for sure. you live in the most inconvenient part of the town, renting a tiny flat, which is not even that close to your university, and even further away from art’s place — he lives out of town, completely alone in his enormous house, except for days when lily stays with him. he never presses you into staying with him, moving your stuff to his place, or even lingering there for longer than you’re comfortable with, but his eyes always speak for himself — he wants you to stay there with him. he wants his home to become yours too.

life for you is routine, because you’ve built it this way; and while it obeys your rules, working like a finely-tuned machine, you can handle it just fine — i mean, there was nothing impossible, right? the schedule is tough, but you’ve already got used to it, still managing to submit your assignments just in time and getting excellent results, even though your part-time job is taking much more of your time and energy than you thought it would — but it feels nice to be appreciated by your professors, to stay one of the best students, even though it feels like you’re on the verge of losing it because of your job. you don’t have much time for living your quiet and slow life anymore, and it was difficult for you, to the point of a permanent exhaustion, of aching pain all over your body even after a proper rest. but life is never easy, is that what people always say to you? you should adjust to this rhythm, because you think that that’s how adult life works.

and you can handle it just fine, till the moment when this algorithm just stops working.

this day, everything went completely wrong since the very beginning — you overslept, simply because you’d forgotten to set your alarm the night before, and the whole process of getting ready and running to the campus brought you immense anxiety; by the time you got to the classroom, you felt a thick lump of nausea in your throat. you were answering questions on autopilot, thoughtlessly writing down words that couldn’t even form adequate sentences, and you could swear that by the end of this class you were on the verge of crying or losing your consciousness, because you felt so stupid and helpless, not being able to try your hardest, to focus and get a grip. you hadn’t had enough time to have a proper breakfast, you had forgotten half of your notes at home… god, you couldn’t even find it in yourself to answer art’s messages — as always, he sent you ‘good morning’, wishing you a nice day, reminding you about your plans for the evening. why was it so hard for you to just answer?

then someone accidentally pushed you with their shoulder in the cafeteria, and you stained your skirt with sprinkles of coffee that fell from your hands right to the floor… you were sure that you heard someone laughing behind your back, while you were frantically pushing through the crowd to make it to the bathroom. first of all, you were frustrated, terribly embarrassed and mad; second of all, you missed art so badly, that you teared up in the bathroom stall, because you still hadn’t answered his messages, and you knew that he would worry about this silence. he always worries, you know it, but he always pretends that he doesn’t, because he doesn’t want to seem overprotective or overly sensitive; right now a concerned expression of his loving eyes is the last thing you want to witness.

now, when your classes are over, and art’s car is finally waiting for you in the parking lot, you want to cry again — because he’s looking at you through the window, giving you the sweetest smile, with his thumb absentmindedly rubbing the leather surface of the steering wheel, because this very hand is waiting for its chance to settle on your thigh, or caress your cheek. art has missed you so much, you know for sure; he’s so excited about having dinner with you tonight, because both of you’ve been so busy recently, that you didn’t have a chance to spend some quality time together. and here you are, without any makeup on, with these ugly coffee stains on your skirt, and the same anxiety and suppressed emotions bubbling underneath every inch of your skin, that were making you sweat through the day. what if you smell bad? what if you snap at art, just because you feel like falling apart in front of him?

“how was your day?” art asks in this soft, soothing tone of his. as you’ve expected, his hand settles on your knee, gently rubbing your skin; you’re afraid that he’ll say something about this damn skirt, but he doesn’t even look down at it.

art smells like his usual cologne — such a faint note of it, because he’s already washed it off in the shower after training his tennis players under the scorching heat of the sun on the tennis court; you want to bury yourself in his chest and inhale the familiar scent of his skin, to nestle your nose in his neck and make him giggle, the way he always does when you’re together — so boyish and sweet, despite the age. god, he doesn’t seem much older than you at all.

but you can’t even speak, biting your lower lip, with that gloomy crease between your eyebrows. art notices almost immediately, and out of the corner of your eye, you can see his smile fading. is he no longer happy with you? what if you’ll upset him with your attitude, ignoring him just because you feel terrible? he just asks you about your day, and the next moment tears starts falling from the corners of your eyes; you can feel it prickling in your nose, and suddenly the morning nausea is back again.

art’s heart sinks into his chest, stopping its steady rhythm and falling down to his stomach, slowly dying from the sight of your reddened nose and cheeks, the faint traces of tears on your beautiful face — god, he only wishes to never see you upset again, to make you the happiest person in the world. he’s noticed everything about your busy schedule, your exhaustion and those dark circles under your tired eyes — this life is slowly pushing you to the limit, and you don’t even want him to help you. because you think that it’s completely fine, that you can handle everything that you’ve weighed down on yourself.

you think that he’ll be upset with you? the truth is, art will never leave you alone with your pain, and much less judge you for it — if anything, art will make your pain his own, too. he’s ready to absorb it, erasing the line between your difficulties and his own, because as far as he’s ready to share his bed with you, he will always share your worries, your anxiety, your bad days and overwhelming feelings.

“bunny, come here,” he whispers into your hair, already pulling you into his arms, shielding your trembling figure from the world, from all these people passing by his car — he kisses your soft hair, your rosy cheeks and lowered eyelids, wiping your tears away with his warm lips. his thumb catches a hot salty drop right in the corner of your eye, brushing it away before it rolls down your reddened skin. “that’s okay, don’t worry… no, don’t apologize, sweetheart. we’ll figure it out, i promise”

he’s rubbing your back with his firm, calloused hand, grounding you, silently promising you safety and comfort you desperately need, the same quietness and slow pace of life you miss so badly. he whispers that he’ll take you home now, that the restaurant can wait, that you can order takeout later. at this moment, you know that his home is your home, and nothing else matters anymore.

once you get there, he runs you a hot bath and ends up kneeling on the tiled floor, running his fingers through your shampooed hair and massaging your scalp with his fingertips — you’ve already calmed down enough to speak to him and tell about your day, detailing every single thing that has happened to you. he mutters his little “you did nothing wrong, sweetheart”, “they’re just a bunch of stupid kids” and “you’re still my genius” in your ear, occasionally smiling at your choice of words; to be honest, you can make him smile without even trying, and when you joke? he’s giggling, of course he is.

afterwards, you put his old shirt from one of those tennis events and his boxers on. he leads you to the large couch in the middle of his light, spacious living room, and you both settle in the mess of pillows and a blanket that he’s brought from the bedroom; you rest your head on his chest, while he’s looking at his phone screen, quietly listing what you can order for dinner — as always, he’s the one who does it, because he knows how difficult it’s for you to decide what kind of food you would like to eat.

“you aren’t listening, are you?” he notices with a slight grin, and his voice requires this attractive hint of hoarseness. he traces wet hair on the top of your head with his lips, lazily drawing invisible patterns, finalising them with a firm kiss — more like an attempt to immerse himself into the scent of your (his) shampoo.

you’re half-listening, with your eyes blissfully closed, but you’re smiling at his question — it seems like food is the least important part of being next to him right now; you put your hands under his shirt, drawing small circles on his toned stomach with your fingertips, and you know that it was calming both of you down.

“i love you, art” you whisper against his chest, sending these words right to his heart — literally and metaphorically.

“i love you too, bunny” he adjusts his position to kiss your cheek — gently and lovingly; it always feels even more intimate than making love, because at these moments he touches your cheeks like priceless gemstones, or the finest silk.

“you know that i can do anything for you, right?” his tone changes, but it’s barely noticeable, because he’s still so soft with you, treading carefully to not scare you away from him. “i know how much you value your studies. just focus on it, and i’ll help you with the rest”

you shift in his arms, only to look up at him, resting your chin on his broad chest — you seem uncertain, as always. art’s already got used to it, because you’ve never liked talking about money — his money, particularly.

“i don’t know, art. it’s embarrassing,” you admit, lowering your voice to a whisper, and you feel his hand on the back of your neck, gently massaging your tight muscles — never able to keep his hands off you. “i don’t have enough money, and i can’t give anything in return. don’t mention love, because it won’t be enough”

“love is always enough, y/n,” he doesn’t give you a chance to belittle yourself, to underestimate the value of your love. you both know that you saved him, that you healed him with your very presence, your shy smiles and and the way your cheeks flushed when his lips first touched yours. “i want you to be here, to do things that you love, to not worry about money”

art knows that money can’t buy happiness, but ever since he met you, he wishes to have a chance to buy this precious piece of pure joy, to have it on the palm of his hand, to give it to you without a second thought — and when he’s ready for such things, does money really matter? do you really have to worry about it, when he only dreams about you putting your clothes in his wardrobe, leaving your makeup products on the sink in the bathroom after getting ready for your morning classes, marking the edge of his favorite mug with your lipstick?

you’re so quiet that it almost feels eerie, as if you’re not with him anymore — but then you finally break this foreign silence.

“we can try,” you whisper, and you both smile at the same time — his boyish grin, again. ”i'll call the landlady tomorrow”

trust me, just by looking at his face, it’s obvious that at this very moment he already starts thinking about rearranging his entire house to make it the perfect place for you — dressing table, secluded corner for your bookshelves, maybe even entire room just for you… well, give him some time to think about it, and he’ll make you the happiest person in the world.

thank you for supporting this idea! i hope that the result isn’t too disappointing :( just needed some emotional support from dilf art calling me a bunny, please don’t judge me for trying 🐇

[zweigscherrypie]

getting a shot at sweet love with art