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imperishablereverie · 7 days ago

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deep breaths

out

la sombra | patrick zweig x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, divorced!reader, retired!patrick, alcohol, crying, cursing, everyone say thank you to @artdcnaldson for sending the picture that inspired this whole fic

The island was the last dot on the map. A speck of green surrounded by turquoise, barely big enough to house the string of low bungalows and the stubborn curve of jungle that clung to the cliffs. It didn’t boast resorts or spas or curated experiences. It wasn’t tagged on Instagram. That’s what you liked about it.

You arrived with a round-trip ticket, a weathered suitcase with only enough clothing for a week, and a silence that pressed against your ribs like a bruise. The divorce had been finalized two weeks ago. Twelve years of love—if you could even call it that by the end—reduced to paperwork and the sour memory of his voice echoing through empty rooms. He’d said things. You had too. But his words stuck longer.

"You always need so much."

"You're exhausting to love."

"Maybe you're just better alone."

Maybe you were. You hadn’t decided yet. But the city was too loud, too filled with people who looked at you with pity or, worse, relief. So you booked the first place that didn’t have a concierge or Wi-Fi. The island had no formal name. Locals called it La Sombra—the shadow. Something about the cliffs.

When the ferry pulled away and left you standing on the dock, you realized it was quiet in a way you hadn’t felt in years. The kind of quiet that made your heartbeat feel too loud.

You walked up the dirt path toward your bungalow with the sun already warming your shoulders, the humidity curling your hair at the edges. The woman who ran the rentals handed you a key on a string and said, simply, "You’ll get used to the birds."

Inside, the bungalow smelled like lemon oil and salt. The bed was wide and draped with mosquito netting. The floor creaked when you walked barefoot across it, and dust danced in the streaks of sunlight coming through the slatted blinds. You moved slowly, deliberately, letting the hush settle around you.

You unpacked your suitcase in silence, folded your clothes into neat piles, lined up your books along the bedside table like talismans. A small framed photo—your mother, before she got sick—went beside the lamp. A bottle of lavender oil from your last birthday. The things that still made you feel like yourself.

It was hotter than you expected. The kind of sticky, thick heat that pressed into your skin and clung to the back of your neck. You stripped off your travel clothes and pulled on a linen tank top, bare feet padding across the wood as you tried to force the windows open. Most of them cooperated, swinging outward with a creak. But the bedroom window—the one that faced the sea—was jammed.

You tried once, twice. Pressed your palms against the frame and gave it all your weight. Nothing. The latch refused to budge. Swearing under your breath, you grabbed your key and stepped outside, circling the bungalow to try from the other side.

The light out here was harsher, all white glare and golden sand. You shaded your eyes with one hand, squinting up at the wooden shutter. It sat half-cocked, paint peeling at the corners. You reached up, fingers brushing the edge—

“Don’t force it. You’ll crack the frame.”

The voice was low, smooth and sun-drowsed, like it hadn’t been used much lately. You turned sharply.

He stood just off the path, leaning lazily against the split rail fence that framed the neighboring bungalow’s edge. Shirtless. A threadbare white towel wrapped around his hips, clinging low. His skin was bronzed, freckled. Salt crusted the tips of his hair. There was a half-buttoned linen shirt slipping off his left shoulder, like it had given up. His eyes—dark, tired, and steady—were fixed on you.

He nodded once toward the window. "It sticks when the heat rolls in. Swells the wood. Gotta pop it from the side, not the middle."

You blinked at him. Sweat prickled the back of your knees.

“I—thank you. I just got here. Didn’t realize it was so stubborn.”

“Most things here are.”

He pushed off the fence and moved closer, stepping barefoot across the grass, slow and unhurried like he belonged to the island as much as the sea did. He didn’t ask permission, just reached up and tapped the frame twice with the flat of his palm, then lifted the window open with ease.

The silence stretched.

You were still staring.

He looked like someone you'd seen before—on a screen, maybe. A memory knocking faintly. But the heat muddled everything, and all you could think to say was, “Thanks.”

His mouth curved. Not a smile. Not yet. But something close. "Welcome to La Sombra."

Then he turned and walked away, back toward his bungalow, towel shifting at his hips, shoulders golden in the sunlight. He didn’t look back.

You stood there a moment longer, hand still on the window frame, heart suddenly loud again in your chest.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t do anything inappropriate. But something about him still left your skin feeling too tight. There was a gravity to the way he moved—something sun-warmed and heavy, like heat mirage off asphalt. You stared after him until he disappeared behind the corner of his bungalow, and only then remembered to breathe.

Your hand slid off the frame.

Inside, the air felt different. Still hot. Still thick. But changed.

You sat on the edge of the bed, pressed your fingers into your temples. Maybe it was the sun. Maybe it was the exhaustion. But your body buzzed in a way it hadn’t in a long time. Not since before the silence. Not since before you stopped feeling like someone who could still be wanted.

You pulled your hair back and tried to shake it off.

He was just a man. Just a stranger. You were here to be alone. To heal. To not need anyone.

Still, your eyes drifted back to the window he’d fixed.

The breeze moved through it now.

Soft. Salted. Like something had opened in you too.

---

That evening, the heat still hadn’t broken.

You slipped into a sundress and sandals, hair twisted off your neck, skin still tacky from the shower. The island’s one bar—if you could call it that—was a lean-to with string lights, driftwood stools, and a cooler full of beer that looked older than your divorce papers. You didn’t go expecting anything. You just wanted to be somewhere that wasn't silent.

And then you saw him.

Patrick. At the far end of the bar, laughing low with the bartender and an older man who looked like he’d been born with salt in his blood. Patrick's curls were damp again, clinging to his temples. This time he wore real clothes—if a thin, half-buttoned shirt and board shorts could be considered that. But even then, he looked like something carved out of the sun.

You hovered by the edge of the counter. Ordered something with rum and lime and too much ice. Watched him out of the corner of your eye while pretending not to.

It was the way he moved—loose, unbothered. Like he had nothing to prove and no one left to impress. When he glanced your way, it wasn’t shy. It wasn’t flirtatious either. Just curious.

A beat passed. Then he lifted his glass slightly in greeting.

You raised yours back.

And when he crossed the space between you, leaned one forearm against the bar and said, "So. You stuck with the window, huh?"

You laughed. It surprised you.

"Thought about throwing a rock through it instead."

"Would’ve been a hell of a first impression."

You smiled into your glass. "You mean that wasn’t?"

He smirked. "Jury’s still out."

Then came the drinks. More than a few. You both acknowledged it—openly, lazily, with grins that bordered on goofy. "We’re definitely drunk, right?" you asked, somewhere between your third and fourth round.

Patrick raised his glass like a toast. "Spectacularly."

You giggled into your straw. "Just checking."

"No false pretenses here," he said. "I am deeply sunburnt, pleasantly buzzed, and absolutely not responsible for anything stupid I say in the next hour."

"Good," you said, tapping your glass to his. "Me neither."

The bartender slid another drink your way with a look that said pace yourself, but neither of you listened.

"So," you said, words slurring just a little at the edges. "Patrick. What’s your deal? You live here?"

He exhaled a laugh. "'Deal' is generous. I’ve been here about five years. Came for a week. Never left."

You raised a brow. "That’s... commitment."

"Or cowardice. Depends who you ask."

You tilted your head. "Why’d you stay?"

He hesitated. His gaze flicked toward the surf, the moonlight turning the water silver. Then he downed the rest of his drink in one go and set the glass down a little harder than necessary.

"Tried the whole being-somebody thing," he said. "Didn’t work out."

You waited.

He didn’t look at you as he said, "Played tennis. Professionally. Burned out fast. Lost more matches than I won. Spent more time in hotel rooms than actual homes. Woke up one day and realized I didn’t like who I was around anyone anymore. So I left."

You blinked slowly. The name Patrick Zweig landed differently now. It clicked in a faraway, wine-soft part of your brain.

"That’s why you looked familiar."

"Yeah," he said. "Don’t tell anyone."

You grinned. "There’s no one to tell."

He smiled back, lopsided and tired and stupidly charming. "Then I guess I’m safe with you."

"For now." You started with another round of rum and lime, then switched to something local the bartender recommended with a wink and a warning. The kind of drink that tasted like fire and citrus and made your limbs feel like silk.

He asked what brought you here, and you surprised yourself by answering. You kept it vague at first—"needed space"—but he didn’t press. He just nodded like he knew what that meant. Like he’d needed it once too.

“What about you?” you asked, fingers tracing the condensation on your glass.

Patrick shrugged. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

It should’ve been evasive. It wasn’t. It felt true in a way that made your throat tighten. You both lapsed into silence for a moment, watching a moth bat its wings against the warm light over the bar.

“So what’s the story with this place?” you asked. “Why does everyone talk about it like it’s some secret?”

He smiled—really smiled, finally—and looked out at the dark horizon. “Because it is. It doesn’t want to be found. Just lets you in if you need it bad enough.”

You looked at him. “And you needed it bad enough?”

He looked back. “Didn’t know it until I got here.”

Another drink. Laughter a little louder now. You told him about the worst date you’d ever been on. He told you about the first time he tried surfing and cracked a board in half. You teased each other over music taste. He guessed—correctly—that you cried during The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. You accused him of pretending not to like romantic comedies.

“I don’t pretend,” he said, hand over his heart, drunk and mock-serious. “I just have a brand to protect.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased. “And what brand is that?”

“Lonely island hermit who knows how to fix windows.”

You snorted into your drink. “Sexy.”

“I try.”

The conversation turned softer then. The kind of softness that comes with alcohol and salt air and the slow settling of trust. You told him about how your ex used to interrupt you mid-sentence. How you forgot what your own voice sounded like when it wasn’t measured or polite. He didn’t offer advice. He just listened, head tilted slightly, fingers absently turning his empty glass.

Eventually, your knees brushed. Then your hands. Then his thigh pressed lightly against yours and neither of you moved.

He looked at you like he was trying not to ask anything.

And you looked back like you already knew the answer.

The kiss was quiet. Almost shy. Rum-sweet. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything but still makes a promise.

And when he said, “Let’s get out of here,” you didn’t hesitate.

The walk back to your bungalow was clumsy and giggly and full of soft, stumbling touches—his hand on your lower back, your fingers brushing his wrist. At the door, he stopped.

"You sure?"

You didn’t say anything.

You just pulled him inside.

The door closed behind you with a quiet click, and then his mouth was back on yours, urgent and open, laughing between kisses. You stumbled into each other, giggling as your shoulders hit the wall. Then his hands were on your hips—your waist—your back—anywhere he could touch. One of you tripped on the woven rug near the entryway and suddenly you were both collapsing sideways onto the couch, tangled in limbs and laughter.

"Shit—are you okay?" he asked, breathless against your neck, laughter still shaking his chest.

"Totally," you said, pulling him down to you, lips finding his again.

Your hands found the hem of his shirt. It was damp with sweat and ocean and clung to his skin like it didn’t want to be removed. But you made quick work of it anyway, yanking it up over his head, tossing it somewhere you didn’t look. His fingers tugged at the straps of your dress in return, clumsy in their coordination but relentless in their goal.

You kissed and fumbled your way across the room, pausing only to shed another layer—your dress halfway down your body, his shorts undone, the two of you drunk and glowing and practically naked before you reached the bedroom door.

Once inside, he backed you toward the bed, mouths still fused, fingers trailing everywhere. When you sat, he knelt in front of you, hands pushing your thighs apart gently, reverently.

“Let me taste you,” he murmured.

You shivered. Nodded.

He tugged your underwear down slowly, eyes never leaving yours. And then his mouth was there—hot and insistent. His tongue dragged through you, slow and heavy, and you moaned before you could stop yourself. His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer, anchoring you as he kissed and sucked and circled until your spine arched and your fingers dug into the sheets.

Then came his fingers.

He slipped one inside, then another, curling expertly, rhythm syncing with his mouth until your breath hitched hard.

You gasped. "Wait—"

He stopped instantly, pulling back, breathing heavy. "Too much?"

You shook your head, grabbing his wrist. “No, just—just wait. Condom. I want you inside me.”

His eyes darkened. “Yeah. Okay.”

He stood, kissed you hard, then reached for his wallet. The wrapper tore, fast and familiar, and then he was kneeling on the bed, rolling it on, his chest rising and falling like he couldn’t quite keep up.

You reached for him as he settled between your legs, body warm and heavy and ready.

And when he pushed in, you both exhaled—like you’d been holding your breath since the moment you met.

Your head tipped back, a shaky laugh slipping out as you clutched at his shoulders. "Holy shit."

He was shaking with the effort to stay still, forehead pressed to your collarbone. "Yeah," he muttered. "Yeah, that’s... fuck."

He rocked into you slowly at first, both of you finding your rhythm in fits and starts, laughing through the awkward friction of drunken limbs and too much heat. The fan spun uselessly overhead, and every surface of your skin felt damp, your bodies sliding together with a kind of slick, delirious friction.

You grabbed at his back, your nails raking lightly down his spine as he found the angle that made you gasp. His mouth dropped open, then found yours again—sloppy, panting, desperate. He kissed like he didn’t know where else to put all that want.

The headboard thunked softly against the wall. The sheets twisted beneath you. One of his hands cupped your jaw, the other anchored you by the hip, keeping you close as his thrusts got rougher, deeper. Still laughing, still panting, still soaked in the scent of alcohol and salt and too many unspoken things far too soon.

"You feel so fucking good," he whispered, teeth grazing your throat.

You were trembling, clinging to him, words slurring with breath. "You’re gonna make me—" another laugh, "—fuck, yes—don’t stop."

He didn’t. Not until you were crying out, back arched, toes curling against the tangled sheets. And even then, he didn’t stop until he followed, hips stuttering, gasping your name into the damp skin of your shoulder.

He collapsed beside you, one arm draped across your belly, the two of you laughing again, softer now. Slower. The room spun a little. The air was thick. Your whole body felt like it had melted into the mattress.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

You turned your head toward him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved for a while.

There was no posturing. No awkwardness. Just skin and sweat and laughter, echoing faintly under the low hum of the ceiling fan.

Outside, the waves kept rolling. Inside, the two of you finally quieted.

You weren’t sure when you drifted off, only that his hand was still resting on your hip, warm and lax, and your cheek was pillowed against his shoulder. The fan above spun in lazy circles, stirring air that barely cooled your skin. The salt dried sticky on your chest. Your legs were tangled together beneath the sheet.

When the morning came, it didn’t arrive gently.

Sunlight poured in through the open windows in a blinding blaze, casting gold over the floorboards and onto the rumpled bed. It was hot—hotter than yesterday somehow—humid in a way that made the sheets cling to your back and your mouth feel dry. Your body ached in all the ways that reminded you of the night before: the way he moved, the way you laughed, the way it felt to be touched like you mattered.

You rolled over with a soft groan, eyes squinting against the light, reaching instinctively for the warm weight beside you—

But it wasn’t there.

The space was empty. Just tangled sheets and the faint scent of salt and sweat. You blinked. Sat up slowly. Heart clenching.

Gone?

The giddiness of the night before dropped, hollow and fast. Maybe he hadn’t meant to stay. Maybe it had only been a story for the bar. Maybe you were a chapter he didn’t even finish.

You wrapped a sheet around yourself and padded barefoot into the main room, stomach tight.

But then—

On the small kitchen table sat a bowl of fresh mango, pineapple, and guava, their colors bright and glistening. A few wildflowers—hastily arranged, some wilted at the edges—sat in a cracked mason jar beside it. And there, folded neatly between the two, was a slip of paper in smudged, crooked handwriting:

hangover cure. also: last night was... really something. you know where to find me. if you want to. but i really want you to. — P

You stared.

Then you smiled. Slow. Warm. Relieved in a way that loosened something tight in your chest.

Still, the guilt crept up too. You were freshly divorced. This was supposed to be a solo escape. You were only here for a week.

But for now, for today, he wanted to see you again. And that felt like enough.

You made coffee. Ate a little fruit. Sat on the steps outside the bungalow with your legs tucked under you, watching a lizard blink slowly on the porch rail. The island moved around you at its own rhythm—kids yelling somewhere near the shore, the buzz of a boat engine far out in the bay, wind whispering through banana leaves.

He wasn’t in sight.

You didn’t expect him to be. And yet, every time you glanced up, your eyes instinctively sought the path that led to his side of the beach.

By noon, you had showered. Worn a different dress. Tried to read one of the books you’d brought but barely made it through a page.

The guilt sat with you like a second shadow. You shouldn’t have let it happen. Shouldn’t have wanted it to happen. Shouldn’t be this affected by someone you barely knew.

But then you'd remember the way he touched you like he knew exactly how to ask permission with his hands. The way he made you laugh into his mouth. The note. The fruit. The wildflowers.

By late afternoon, you walked into the village just to move your legs. You bought more sunscreen. A cold bottle of water. Sat on a bench and listened to old men argue over chess in a language you barely understood.

You didn’t see him.

But when you returned to your bungalow just before sunset, there was a second note tucked under another bundle of flowers on your porch. One line. Written hastily, like he wasn’t sure he should leave it.

low tide. sundown. bonfire by the rocks. if you come, bring that smile.

Your heart thudded.

You set the note down, fingers trembling slightly.

You were going to go.

---

The sun dipped low, spilling honey across the sand and turning the water to fire. You stood at the edge of the bungalow, bare feet brushing the steps, watching the sky shift through every warm color you could name. In your chest, your heartbeat kept an uneven rhythm.

You told yourself not to overthink it. Just a fire. Just a night. Just a man.

But nothing about Patrick had felt like just anything.

By the time you made your way down the narrow path toward the rocky outcrop, the light had thinned to deep lavender. The breeze had cooled, carrying salt and smoke and something sweeter beneath it—something floral and faintly burnt.

The bonfire glowed ahead of you like a beacon. Flames licking at driftwood, snapping softly. And there he was.

Patrick.

He was crouched low, feeding another branch into the fire. His curls were messy, but somehow sat in a way that was nothing short of perfect. A linen shirt rolled to the elbows. His skin caught the light, all bronze and gold and flicker.

He looked up before you could say anything.

And smiled.

Not smirking. Not teasing.

Just smiled. Soft. Quiet. Lit from the inside.

"Hey," he said, rising to his feet. He dusted his hands on his shorts and stepped closer, stopping just a few feet away. "Wasn’t sure you’d come."

You shrugged, trying for casual, but your voice caught. "Wasn’t sure I should."

He nodded. Didn’t push. Just gestured to the fire. “You hungry?”

You noticed then—two skewers stuck into the sand, each holding something charred and a little misshapen. Mango slices. Maybe fish. He scratched the back of his neck. “Island cooking. Not exactly gourmet.”

You laughed. “Looks perfect.”

You sat together in the sand, not quite touching. The fire between you, crackling and dancing. His knee brushed yours when he shifted. Your elbow nearly grazed his when you reached for your drink. You didn’t say much at first. Just listened to the surf and watched the moon rise slow and round behind the trees.

Eventually, he spoke. “I thought about waking you up this morning. Saying something. But…”

“But?”

He looked over at you, firelight flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t want to risk ruining it."

You swallowed. “I thought you left."

“I almost did,” he admitted. “Old habit. But then I made it to the porch and didn’t want to be the guy who fucks and disappears. So. Fruit and flowers. Figured it was worth the risk.”

Your smile curved slowly. “It was.”

He turned more fully toward you then. Close. Closer. Close enough to see the sweat still clinging to his neck, the gold in his lashes, the way his mouth parted when he looked at yours.

And when he kissed you again, it was different.

Slower. Calmer. Still hot, still deep, still curling heat low in your belly—but steadier now. Like he wasn’t rushing this time. Like you weren’t either.

You kissed for a while—long, melting, slow. Lips brushing, tongues tangling softly. His hand slid to your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. He kissed you like he wanted to learn you by heart. And you let him, sighing into his mouth, anchoring yourself to his bare shoulder.

But something caught in your throat. A breath you couldn’t quite finish. The weight of the week—the weight of your year—rising like a tide in your chest.

You broke the kiss gently, but with urgency. Your hand pressing flat to his chest, pushing back just enough to part.

He blinked at you, surprised but not upset. “Too much?”

You shook your head, stepping away, arms folded over your middle like you were trying to hold something inside. “No. That’s the thing. It’s not.”

The fire crackled behind you, shadows shifting across the sand. Your voice faltered in your throat. “I just got divorced. Two weeks ago. Not even enough time to change my name back or clear my head. And now here you are.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just listened.

“I came here to disappear,” you continued, voice cracking. “Not to feel again. Not like this. And it’s terrifying how easily you made me want to.”

You looked down, your arms tightening. “I’m leaving next week. I don’t want to pretend this is more than it is. I don’t want to pretend I could be enough for someone again, let alone someone like you.”

He stepped forward carefully, until he was close enough that you could feel the warmth of his chest. “You know what’s funny?” he said softly.

“What?”

“I said those same words when I got here. ‘Just for a week.’ I meant it. But the island had other plans.” He smiled, but there was no humor in it—just something deeply lived-in. “I wasn’t trying to be found either.”

You looked up at him then, and the sadness in your chest stretched wide.

“I’m not asking you to stay,” he said gently. “I’m not even asking you to want me. I just…” His hand ran through his hair. “I’d like to be whatever this is. For as long as we have.”

“But what if I want more?” you whispered. “What if I get used to this? To you?”

He stepped closer still, until your foreheads nearly touched.

“Then we’ll deal with it,” he said. “I won’t make you feel foolish for feeling something. I won’t disappear on you. Let’s just let this week be what it is. No pretending. No rules. Just... real.”

The quiet between you was thick. Not tense—full.

You breathed. In. Out. A little steadier now.

And then, softly, you nodded.

He reached for you again, this time slower, his fingers brushing yours as though he didn’t want to startle you. When you leaned into him, the kiss that followed wasn’t eager—it was aching. Gentle. Deep.

But even as you kissed him again, your chest hurt in a way it hadn’t before.

Because now you knew it wouldn’t be enough.

---

The next few days moved strangely. Time loosened around you, less like something passing and more like something folding in. Each morning you woke tangled in sun-drenched sheets and the warm imprint of his body beside yours. Sometimes he was still there, pressed close, one leg thrown over yours like he couldn’t help it. Sometimes he was already up, leaving behind fresh fruit and flowers on the porch—always with a note, always with a promise.

You fell into a rhythm. Morning swims in the crystalline shallows. Long walks through the thick green of the jungle where he knew every bend, every birdcall. Lazy lunches that turned into sticky afternoon naps. Your bodies learned each other’s shapes as easily as they learned the creak of the bungalow floorboards, the scrape of coconut husk chairs on wood.

Evenings came soft and golden. He cooked for you—badly, but with intention. You’d sit on the porch drinking rum from chipped mugs, the salt on your skin clinging sweet. You talked. About books. About silence. About how tennis ruined him and how being wanted had never felt quite like this before.

You laughed a lot. Sometimes until you cried.

But the ache never left. It curled around the edges of your heart like smoke. Because every time you let yourself lean in—into his mouth, his hands, his voice—you felt the clock ticking.

Only a few days left. Then a few less.

You tried not to say it aloud, but it lived between you anyway. In the way his eyes lingered when you thought he wasn’t looking. In the way your hands tightened when he pulled you close. In the way you both hesitated before sleep each night, as if afraid the next breath might be goodbye.

You were falling.

And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like crashing.

It felt like mourning something beautiful before it was even gone.

---

The day before you were supposed to leave was almost unnervingly normal.

You made coffee. Ate fruit on the porch. Swam until your fingertips pruned and your legs ached in that good, useful way. He met you after lunch, pressed a kiss to your shoulder like he had been doing it for his entire life, and made some joke about you burning in places only he could see.

You let it all happen. You let it feel ordinary. It was easier that way.

You didn’t talk about tomorrow. He didn’t ask. You didn’t offer.

That evening, the sky was painted in molten amber, the kind that made everything feel holy. You were sitting on a blanket on the beach, passing a bottle of rum between you, when Patrick turned his head toward the horizon, eyes gleaming.

“Wanna go skinny dipping?”

You blinked at him.

He grinned. “One last first. Come on. Water’s warm. No one’s around. It’s basically a crime not to.”

You laughed, something breathless in your throat. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” he waggled his brows, already standing, already peeling his shirt off.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was thudding. He looked golden in the fading light, the curve of his spine catching shadows as he waded into the surf.

“Don’t leave me out here alone,” he called, voice half-laugh, half-dare.

So you stripped, giggling, stumbling a little over the hem of your dress, your skin already tingling with anticipation. The air was warm, the sea warmer. It cradled you as you stepped in, arms crossing instinctively before you gave up and just dove under.

When you surfaced, he was there. Close. Salt clung to his lashes. His smile had softened.

You tread water in silence for a beat. The stars above you multiplied with every passing second. The moon spilled a path across the surface. It should have felt free. Liberating. Like a movie.

But something pressed at your chest.

He must’ve felt it, too. Because he swam closer, letting his hand brush your waist under the water.

“Hey,” he said, quiet now. “Still with me?”

You nodded, but it was trembling.

“I don’t want to leave,” you whispered.

His breath hitched. That close, you felt it more than heard it.

“I don’t want you to,” he said.

You turned your face up to the stars, blinking hard. “I’m scared if I stay, I’ll build a whole life around something that can’t last. That I’ll forget why I came here in the first place. That I’ll forget who I am without all this.”

Patrick’s hand came to rest gently over your heart, fingers spread like he could hold it still.

“You didn’t forget,” he said. “You found something. That’s different.”

You met his eyes. Salt and moonlight and ache.

“I don’t want to break your heart,” you murmured.

He gave you a sad smile. “You already have. But I think you were always supposed to.”

You floated there, water licking at your shoulders, his hand on your chest, your breath shared in the dark.

When you stumbled back to the bungalow, clothes barely thrown back on, your hand stayed in his the whole time—tight, silent, like letting go might break the spell.

Inside, it was dark and humid and quiet, but none of it mattered. The door clicked shut. You turned. And then you were on him—kissing him like you had all the time in the world and none at all. His hands found your waist, your jaw, the back of your neck. You walked him backward into the bedroom, mouths locked, breath heavy, wet clothes clinging to your skin.

He pulled your soaked dress over your head. You tugged at the waistband of his shorts. You were still damp from the ocean, skin salt-sticky and warm. He cupped your face like you might vanish.

You kissed again, slower this time. His lips dragged over yours with something deeper than lust—like longing, like mourning, like gratitude for the fact that you were still here. You whimpered into his mouth as his hands slid down your sides, gripping your thighs, lifting you up.

He laid you down on the bed like you were breakable, but then his mouth was on you, not soft anymore—needy, greedy, wet. He kissed down your neck, your chest, your stomach. When he reached the soft inside of your thigh, he looked up at you, breath hot, hands anchoring you in place.

And then he was there.

His tongue parted you and you gasped, back arching, hands flying to his hair. He moaned against you, eating like he was starving. Broad strokes at first, then tighter, faster. You were already so close—your body strung tight, heart already aching. But you held on. Fought the wave. Not yet. Not yet.

“Patrick,” you gasped, one hand fisting in the sheet. “Please.”

He pulled off with a breathless sound, lips slick. “Please what?”

“Come here,” you whispered. “I need you.”

He crawled up, kissing you deep, and you could taste yourself on his tongue. Your hand slid down, wrapping around him, stroking him slowly.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned.

You smiled sadly. “Then we'll die together.”

And then you were sliding down, taking him in your mouth with no hesitation. Your lips wrapped around him slowly, deliberately, savoring the taste and weight of him. His cock pulsed against your tongue, hot and thick, and you flattened your tongue along the underside, drawing a moan from deep in his chest. One of his hands slid into your hair, not to guide but just to anchor himself, fingers curling loosely as if even that was too much. You bobbed your head in a steady rhythm, hollowing your cheeks and watching his reactions—how his thighs tensed, how his breath stuttered, how his abs clenched each time your tongue flicked over the sensitive tip. You let spit drip down your chin, let your jaw ache, let the moment drag—messy, loving, desperate. Like if you kissed him here long enough, maybe he wouldn’t leave your body ever again. He bucked beneath you, head tipping back, a broken sound falling from his lips. You sucked him slow at first, then deeper, wetter, letting the edge come close before backing off again.

When he pulled you off with trembling hands, he flipped you gently onto your back. A condom appeared like magic from the nightstand, and then he was pushing inside you, inch by inch, stretching you until your breath hitched.

You both groaned—one part pain, two parts relief.

He fucked you like he didn’t know how to say goodbye. Each thrust was deliberate—deep, slow, lingering—like he was carving the memory of your body into his. His chest was pressed to yours, sweat slicking you together, every inch of him taut with restraint. His hands gripped your thighs, your hips, your face, moving between reverence and need. He whispered into your neck, voice cracked and soft, confessions unraveling like thread—"you're everything," "I’ll never forget this," "please don’t forget me."

You cried. Quietly. Without warning. And he kissed the tears from your cheeks, whispering your name over and over.

Your bodies moved together like prayer—sacred and desperate. You clung to him, your nails digging into his back as he rocked into you, slow and deep, forehead resting against yours. Your breaths synced, your moans layered, and with each roll of his hips, the pain of parting simmered beneath the pleasure. You kissed between gasps, hands wandering frantically over each other’s skin like you could memorize every detail in a single night. His body trembled against yours, and when your release came, it was with a sob that pulled from somewhere ancient inside you, the feeling tearing through you like a heartbreak you had felt before, but never so viscerally. And when he followed, he buried his face in your neck and said nothing.

You stayed like that.

Breathless. Tangled. Drenched in heat and sweat and silence.

The last night. The last time.

And it would never, ever be enough.

---

You woke to the scent of him first—salt, sweat, and something warm beneath the morning sun. His arm was heavy over your waist, one leg thrown over yours, chest pressed to your back, steady in sleep. The room was glowing with golden light, the heat already beginning to settle thick in the air.

For a moment, you stayed still. Let your eyes trace the tangled sheets, the trail of clothes on the floor, the soft rise and fall of his breath behind you.

He hadn’t left.

You blinked, and something stung at the corners of your eyes. Not because you were sad. Not yet. But because something about the quiet—about being held like this—felt so good, it ached.

You shifted slightly, and he stirred, breath puffing against your shoulder.

“Hey,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“Hi,” you whispered, not daring to move too far. “You stayed.”

His arm tightened slightly around your waist. “Wasn’t going to miss the last morning.”

You let out a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “God, Patrick…”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

He kissed your shoulder, your neck, your jaw. Slow, lingering touches like he was still memorizing the shape of you. When you rolled over to face him, his eyes were open, soft and serious.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just brushed your fingers through the mess of his curls, watched the way his lashes fluttered.

“I don’t want to either,” you finally said. “But I have to.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Why?”

“Because… that’s not real life out there. This is a vacation. A dream. I have to go back and figure out who I am again. Who I want to be.”

Patrick nodded slowly. “Then let me be part of that. Let me be real, too.”

You swallowed hard, blinking at the ceiling, the light brushing gold across your cheek.

“You’d leave the island?”

He was quiet for a long moment.

“I came here to disappear,” he said finally. “And for a while, I needed that. I didn’t want to be seen. Didn’t want to fail in front of anyone else. But you…”

He turned onto his side, propping his head in his hand as he looked down at you, his expression so open it hurt.

“You make me want to try again. Not tennis. Not the tour. Just… people. Life. You make me want to be known again.”

Your lips parted, but you didn’t know what to say. So you reached for his wrist, holding it gently, grounding yourself in the shape of him.

“What if this only works here?” you whispered. “What if the island was the only place it made sense?”

Patrick smiled, soft and sad. “Then we tried. And I’d still be glad we did. I don’t want to wonder what could’ve happened if I’d asked.”

The ache in your chest spread like warmth. Fear and hope tangled tight.

“We go slow,” you said.

He nodded. “As slow as you want.”

You hesitated a second longer, then leaned up to kiss him. Not with fire. Not with hunger.

But with something stronger.

---

The plane was quiet.

Not silent—not with the hum of the engines or the occasional clink of a coffee cart—but quiet in that way only morning flights can be. Soft light filtered through the oval windows, casting everything in a pale gold.

You were in the window seat. Patrick beside you, his leg pressed to yours, his hand resting palm-up on the armrest.

You laced your fingers through his.

Outside, the island was already disappearing beneath the clouds. Just a blur of green and shoreline swallowed by distance. You watched it until you couldn’t see it anymore.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Eventually, Patrick leaned in, voice low. “Do you think they’ll miss us?”

You smiled, eyes still on the fading horizon. “The fruit stand lady might. You tipped too much.”

He grinned, squeezing your hand. “You think she knew?”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “That I was running away? Or that you’d been hiding for years?”

His smile faded just slightly. “Both.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked down at your joined hands.

It hit you then, all at once. You weren’t going back to your old life. Not really. You were starting something entirely new. And so was he.

Two shadows, left behind on a porch in La Sombra.

Two people, chasing light.

“Let’s figure it out,” you whispered.

Patrick nodded. “Yeah.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. He kissed your hair. The clouds shifted, and below, the ocean stretched out forever.

And somewhere beyond it, a beginning.

-----

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

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#󠀠 ೀ┆tal’s recs ˚. ᵎᵎ #i actually can't speak #ava me and you my bed now right now right now asap now #this is so good #so beautifully worded #perfect in every way #i need him #i need this #i need ava #i love #and love #and love and love and love and love

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imperishablereverie · 7 days ago

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congrats on 500 you are so absolutely amazing!!! Requesting a r on nsfw with Connor Murphy x reader pretty please mweuh

thank you much anon!!!!! i appreciate it so so much :) this will be my first connor murphy piece so I had to lock into the audiobook to gain more character insight. also I did age him up to 18 (I never realized he was only 17) so just imagine this takes place senior year after his birthday. I hope you enjoy!

nsfw alphabet: r for rough

pairing: connor murphy x fem!reader

cw: nsfw(18+)

Connor Murphy was not what you expected in bed. Well he was never really what you expected at all. Connor was very…indifferent. Uncaring, nonchalant, and a million other ways to say “I don’t give a fuck.” There was the occasional angry outburst whenever his parent misunderstood him or when teachers would make off handed comments. But overall he was just numb. Someone who would go day to day just going through the emotions. Nothing much to him. At least that’s what most people thought anyway.

But he was different with you. It took a long time to get close enough to him where he felt comfortable letting you in. Always rebuilding up those walls you had torn down. Until one day he stopped. That was the day you guys started dating.

Intimacy was never an issue. You guys had even hooked up a few times before you started dating. Those times were fast. Always a rush to the end. You’d be slammed up against a wall while he thrusts into you. Groaning quietly in your ear until it got too pleasurable and he start letting himself be swept away with pleasure, “Fuck, feels so good.” Then it’d get a little rougher. Hands gripping your hips as he speeds up, getting closer to the end.

After you guys start dating he starts to take his time more. Taking his time to stretch you out on his fingers, using his tongue intermittently. You’d pull on his hair, causing him to moan into your heat. When it came time to push inside you, he’d go slower. Savoring the feeling, watching as your pussy pulls him in. Whispering, “Shit baby,” like he was amazed. He also became more vocal. Allowing himself to fully express his good you were making him feel. Grunting turned to moaning turned to whimpering and whining, “Fuhhhhh ah ah, mmmm i’m so close. You feel so good ah.”

Of course there were still times when quickies would be fast and rough, but for the most part you both were more into savoring those moments.

taglist: @tacobacoyeet @newrochellechallenger2019 @antxnxlla @ctrl-mari @cha11engers @jesuistrestriste @imperishablereverie @destinedtobegigi @ghostgirl-22 @artaussi @nozhdyved @asteroid-yuri @sweetheartfaist @jordiemeow @hangels @andyrambles

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#󠀠 ೀ┆tal’s recs ˚. ᵎᵎ #connor murphy…#come my way……

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imperishablereverie · 7 days ago

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K-POP INSPIRED BOTS .ᐟ

⟶ listen to the linked song for a better experience

art donaldson fake love by bts ♡ “for you, i could pretend like i was happy when i was sad, for you, i could pretend like i was strong when i was hurt.”

cate dunlap oh my god by idle ♡ ⚢ “oh my God, she took me to the sky, oh my God, she showed me all the stars”

dean winchester psycho by red velvet ♡ “you got me feeling like a psycho, psycho, people keep telling us, keep telling, as we fight like it's our last, but then we stick together like glue”

emily prentiss baby you are by exo ♡ “baby, you are the one person I've been looking for, the one person, you are, yeah, you are, thinking of you all day, I think I'm going crazy”

lip gallagher don't wanna cry by seventeen ♡ “i'm okay (I'm not okay), i don't want to see you (I really want to see you) i have to say, say, these lies that don't even come from my heart”

maren yearly home by bts ♡ “the place where you are, that place is probably my home, with you i'mma feel rich, that place is no other than my home”

marie moreau if you do by got7 ♡ “if you do it's good, if i do it's done, how can you always say that I'm wrong? you always want to win, tears are your ultimate weapon”

richie jerimovich let's not fall in love by bigbang ♡ “let's not fall in love, we don't know each other very well yet, honestly, i'm a little afraid, i'm sorry. let's not make promises, we don't know what tomorrow holds, but i really mean it when i say i like you”

spencer reid just one day by bts ♡ “if you are and i are together, let's go time, 24 hours, if i could only be with you, i'd kiss you starting from the morning, can't forget to grab some brunch, i'd hold your hand and soak up the sun”

tashi duncan press your number by taemin ♡ “press your number again, answer me, even if you left now, it’s only for a moment, that’s how I feel, let me listen again, whisper in my ear once again”

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @222col, @ryvkkr, @soulxinxthexsky, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist, @lacelottie

#󠀠 ೀ┆tal’s recs ˚. ᵎᵎ #a little bit of this a little bit of that #i love your brain mika #i’m gonna use these sm

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imperishablereverie · 7 days ago

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─── SMOOTHIES ♡

♡ pairing: dilf!art x reader

♡ summary: art has… some trouble in the bedroom, and to help him out, you slip something in his morning smoothie.

♡ warnings / tags: smut, MDNI! piv, slipping viagra in his smoothie.

♡ author's note: i love the concept of ed art so <3 also yes i made a viagra divider just for this… 😭

ART DONALDSON MASTERLIST ♡ 5K MASTERLIST

sometimes, art had... trouble when it came to the bedroom. but you never blamed him, all too aware of how stressful the life of an athlete could be. during the times he couldn't perform, his head would end up between your thighs until your whole body was trembling.

but it had been four weeks since he'd last gotten hard, and all you wanted was to have him inside of you. sure, you had one of those homemade dildos in the shape of art's cock, and he'd use it on you, but you missed having him inside of you. not a silicone toy. art.

and you could tell that art was feeling self-conscious; he'd never gone that long without managing to get an erection. you'd heard him through the door while he was in the bathroom the other night, quietly talking to himself, beating himself up over it

no woman would want their man to feel bad about themselves, right?

that was what you told yourself as you poured the blue powder you'd just crushed up into the green smoothie you made art every morning. you could see the look of disappointment that fell on his face every time he failed to get hard, each 'i'm sorry…' he said practically making you cry… and it's not like you could ask him to take them, some men were fragile about these things.

you just wanted to help art regain his confidence. there was nothing wrong with that. right? it's not your fault that you didn't remember he had an important meeting that day…

he ended up having to cancel. because by the time you're on your fourth orgasm, art still has you pinned to the bed, still as hard as a rod, your poor pussy already starting to get sore while he continues to fuck into you.

"i... have... no idea... what's going... on..." art groans between each thrust, your bedroom filled with the lewd squelching noise of art's cock thrusting in and out of you, hitting that that sweet spot inside of you each time, "'m so sorry..." he mumbles, your hands twisted up in his blonde hair, tugging on the strands, your brain too fuzzy with pleasure, with stimulation to be able to even comfort him; to offer him those honey-sweet words that came so easy whenver he had difficulty getting hard.

all you could butter out was "so... good..." even as art kept fucking into you with no mercy, basically sliding into you from all the arousal leaking out of you.

but two, grueling, filled up hours later, art was finally soft, collapsing right next to you on the bed, covered in sweat and other fluids; and although you were sure your pussy was going to be sore for a week... you couldn't help but think of the next time you could slip something into his smoothie.

"you know…" art mumbled breathlessly, "my smoothie tasted a bit different this morning…"

you bit down on your lower lip, turning to look at him, both of you covered in sweat, "i might've added in a secret ingredient." you shrugged, making art laugh, bringing his hand to your cheek, tucking a sweaty strand of hair behind your ear.

"it didn't taste half bad."

taglist: @inbred-eater @h8aaz, @purpleplumpudding, @cinnamoncunt, @nonietosay, @ariieeesworld, @in-my-feels-probably, @harringtonsbowgirl, @lacelottie

click here to join the taglist! 💙

#󠀠 ೀ┆tal’s recs ˚. ᵎᵎ #HELL YEAHHHHHH #ED ART ON TOP #OF ME

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imperishablereverie · 8 days ago

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Soft in Your Newborn Skin

an: happy father's day!

tag list: @artstennisracket @glassmermaids @tacobacoyeet @newrochellechallenger2019

The static started first, just a thin little thing, until all at once a shrill, high-pitched wail was ricocheting off the cream-colored walls and into Art’s once blissfully empty ears. He blinks his eyes open once, twice, watches Tashi shuffle a bit in place, but not wake. He wouldn’t let her get up for this anyway. She’s up and on her feet enough as is. He can change a diaper as easily as he can serve a ball, has learned to stir formula in one hand and bounce a cooing Lily on his hip in another, and, in his quieter moments, knows the perfect angle to read a book from while Lily’s miniature frame, always wrapped up in something soft and pale pink, sleeps atop his chest. Tashi calls it ridiculous. He calls it the bare minimum. She smiles like it’s the sweetest thing he could be.

He drags himself to her room, feet sliding against the ground, already sock-clad with the expectation of needing to wake himself at any given moment. He treads lightly, carefully, pushing the door open like he’s trying not to poke a sleeping bear. It’s some ungodly hour where there are no cars to be seen on the streets, and cicadas are happy to whisper their songs into the mist. Pre-sunrise, post-sundown, inky black. The family across the road, with the perfectly trimmed hedges, the older couple, has all their lights off and their curtains drawn. Peaceful. And Lily is screaming her fucking head off.

He picks her up carefully, bounces her like he’s so dutifully learned to, from day one at the hospital. He’d never been so scared in all his life as when they placed her fragile self on his bare chest, slightly bloody, slightly gray, back damp from sweat and some kind of bodily fluid he doesn’t know the name for, and he was expected to hold her. He didn’t move a muscle for a few aching, blissful hours. Not even his eyes, trained on her deep, dark brown ones. Everything about her was Tashi, from the little ringlets atop her hot cocoa skin, to the way she grabbed at his chest like she had the right to it. He was, as Tashi so lovingly put it, her bitch. And she couldn’t even hold her own head up yet.

“Hey, hey, hey… shh… Mommy’s trying to sleep, Lilybug.”

Like she cares. Or understands. He drapes her over his shoulder, rocks, sways, begs a little bit. His eyes are sporting deep, purple bags from this routine having been on a constant loop. Tashi usually gets to it, feeds her, collapses into the mattress like a falling tree, all heady and rough, and wakes up the next day like it wasn’t draining. The only give away is the occasional nap sunk in during Lily’s mid-day sleep. Tashi hates naps. Says it’s like sleeping for pussies.

She isn’t letting up. He takes her to the kitchen, blinds himself in the light of the fridge, stirs a bottle together with the efficiency of a bartender, and damn near cries himself when she won’t take it. Not hungry. He dips his nose a little lower. Diaper’s fine. Hm. Weird. If she’s had a nightmare, she hasn’t got the means to tell him, and he’d give anything to speed up the clock enough to get her talking. He also can’t stomach the thought of her not being this small forever. Quite the dilemma.

So, he trudges back up all those horrible stairs, slinks down the hall, and for a second, one blissful second, she quiets. He tries, slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, to place her back on the plush mattress of her crib and

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”

Back to square one.

“Come on, Lily… It’s okay, bub, I’m right here.”

He stays there, shirtless, cold, socked and tired, for what feels like hours. It was probably only minutes. But she calms, slowly, quietly, like parting clouds after a storm, peeling back from the sun. He smiles a bit, sighs through his nose with something like relief, strokes over her face with his finger. She turns her head into, snagging the top knuckle into the pocket of her chubby cheek. He feels it catch between two layers of toothless gums. He wants to gag. He lets her do as she pleases.

He watches her with tired, heavy, utterly adoring eyes, and eventually, after so kindly relieving his finger of being coated in spit, she looks back. There’s something familiar in them, soft and warm and watery like a puppy, not necessarily from tears, but from floating through life like it’s all balmy and glistening under white-hot sun.

“Hey… you’ve got a little bit of my eyes, Lils. You know that?”

She yawns. Smacks her lips. Lets those eyes droop closed. She’s comfortable, cheek pressed to bare chest, body heat passing between them like a promise of something. Safety, maybe. Understanding. Affection. So, he lays on the floor, spine straight and soon to ache, and lays her above his heart, which quickens a bit, then slows to a flowing thump, thump, thump. He wonders if she can hear it in her sleep. If it’s become footsteps, or the grind of a coffee machine, the scrape of a fork against plate, somewhere off in Lily’s little dreams. Maybe they’re rather big. All that’s small about her is, well, her.

He’s not sure when he dozed off, nor is he sure when the sun rose. Or when Tashi did. All he knows is his back hurts like a bitch, and there’s a new lock screen on Tashi’s phone where it lays face up on the kitchen counter. Him, stiff as a board on the pink, ladybug covered carpet of Lily’s nursery, and Lily, drooling, tiny, pink, and holding him like she means it.

He asks Tashi to send it to him first thing.

#󠀠 ೀ┆tal’s recs ˚. ᵎᵎ #GIRL DAD ART #IM CRYING #THIS IS EVERYTHING #TALIA I LOVE YOU

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imperishablereverie · 8 days ago

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hihi i hope you’re doing well!! tis me.. mommy issues!art anon.. >:3

mommy issues!art who is just so needy. he can’t help but melt into your touch after a long day, he’s completely pliable in your hands. he just wants mommy to hold him!! it’s not his fault that being cuddled by you leads to him eagerly shoving his tongue down your throat!! he just missed you!!

then he’s breaking away to beg, “please- mommy, can i?” while he paws at the neckline of your top. his desperate, wet eyes are too much, how could you ever say no? not that you’d ever pass up a nursing handjob, anyway…

(p.s. may i claim 🍼 anon… seemed fitting lol)

mommy issues!art anon hii:3 love to see you in my inbox again; this is so yummy.. also 🍼 is yours!

cw (18+) : sub!art, mommy kink, messy nursing hj, desperation/neediness

art immediately pushes your top up and over your breasts as soon as you give him permission, his blue eyes glazing over with unfiltered arousal. his cheeks are flushed the prettiest pink you’ve ever seen, and then you notice that his bottom lip is wobbling like he’s about to cry. it wouldn’t be the first time that tears were shed down his cheeks when faced with your nurturing dominance. you feel both sets of his fingers squeeze at your chest—thumbs rubbing circles over your pebbling nipples, whimpering when you stroke your fingers through his blonde curls. he’s stuck in a trance of some kind, it seems.

“go on, i said you could.”

those simple words of encouragement are all that he needs to be snapped out of his stupor and surge forward to take one of your tits into his warm, open mouth. he slathers your bud in his sweet spit, moaning with pinched-up brows and suckling like he’s expecting something to come out. it’s hard not to stick a hand down into your panties at the feeling of him working his tongue so greedily over your flesh.. and his whimpers aren’t helping. your touch tightens in his strands and pulls a high-pitched keen from his chest. he unlatches and looks up to you, pouting, afraid you’re about to cut him off.

“are you going to be a good boy for me, art?”

he shudders, his legs tensing.

“yes, mommy. whatever you want..”

“you want help?” your fingers tease the waistband of his sweats before dipping down into them and his boxer briefs, playing with the base of his swollen length. his eyes roll back the instant you make contact with him there, and you laugh breathily in response. he’s always this easy with you. you drag your nail against the pulsing vein that you feel bulging from the underside.

“ye—yeah, help—help me, please,” he mewls, lifting his hips to press further into your palm, “be good, ‘m gonna be so good, i need it..”

your hand moves and wraps around his cock without further pleading from the blonde curled against you. he’s already filthily covered in his own juices, so it’s easy to stroke him without feeling like you’re hurting him. he gives confirmation of that in the form of a instantaneous, shattered cry and an arching back. he clutches your tit harder before burying his face back into the other one, trying to muffle his pathetic sounds as you jerk him off in time with the hollowing of his cheeks around your bud. he laps at you for another minute before his pelvis starts to stutter and roll up into your fist. it’s normal for him to try to take what he needs, even if you’re already giving it to him exactly the way he likes it. you smirk.

“you wanna do it yourself?”

he sobs around your flesh, shaking his head and letting his eyes flutter open to look up to you. “nmph—mmm-mn—“

“okay, then calm down and let me finish you off. have some faith in me,” you tease.

art’s mouth parts into a slackened ‘O’ around your sensitive skin when you twist your wrist and begin working his aching tip, the wet sounds emanating from your motions only heightening his pleasure. his toes start to curl, his legs clamp shut, his breathing picks up rapidly. he nearly squeals at the sensation of your thumb playing with his glossy slit. he hates (loves) it when you do that.

“mmm-my—mmm-my—! mmmngh!”

it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what lewd nickname he’s murmuring around the mouthful of your plush breast. you bite your lower lip, letting out a stream of breathy moans to accompany his sounds, and stroke him faster. his eyes fly open wide before squeezing shut so tight that wrinkles appear at the outer corners. you reach your free hand down and stroke his cheek, his brow, the bridge of his nose. such a pretty little toy.

“are you close?”

he nods.

“are you gonna come?”

he suckles harder, wails louder against you.

“you can come for me, baby. give me a big load.. show me how much you’ve been wanting this..”

three more flicks of your closed hand around his throbbing appendage and he’s gone—his lips detaching from you with a sharp, trembling gasp, a string of spit connecting to your body; his head falls into your lap as he bucks into your touch and feels several viscous streams of fluid spray from him and into his clothing, as well as between your moving fingers. it sticks between your digits like glue. he wails like he’s being taken apart by you, praying that you’ll put him back together afterwards. you watch his abdomen flex with each orgasmic contraction, each one followed by a puny whine of ecstasy.

you don’t stop pumping him until he begins to wheeze and jolt. it’d be unfair to expect him to vocalize his overstimulation, given how wrecked he is. your ministrations slow and then rest in a pause at the base. he catches his breath as best he can and winces when you accidentally force an aftershock from his spent dick. tugging your touch from his soiled bottoms, you look down to your hand that has become creamy with his frothed-up release.

“such a mess, artie,” you croon, showing it to him as he pants and gazes up to you with an unfocused stare, “did that feel good?”

a single nod is all that he can manage. his lips part a few moments later, trying to muster up the energy to tell you exactly what he wants to say.

thank you. i love you. i needed that. i needed you. please hold me.

but none of it comes.

he leans in and kisses your breast, giving one more languid lick over your nipple in hopes that it’ll get his point of gratitude across. once he’s got his bearings back, he’ll give you everything he has.

now, though, he just needs a moment in your arms.

“mommy,” he whispers. he swallows thickly after and tries to blink away the wetness stinging his vision. it'd be embarrassing if he was with anyone but you.

you caress his jaw, give him a soft smile.

that’s all you really need to hear.

tags : @voidsuites @asheepinfrance @fawnnpaws @artstennisracket @andyrambles @imperishablereverie @ghostgirl-22 @lexiiscorect @cha11engers @patricksbf @newrochellechallenger2019 @pittsick @blastzachilles @oncefaist @tacobacoyeet

#󠀠 ೀ┆tal’s recs ˚. ᵎᵎ #GODDDDDDDDD #SAGE #IM KISSING YOU #SO SLOPPILY #FUCK #I NEED HIM #UNABASHED

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imperishablereverie · 8 days ago

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father's day with... dad bod!patrick

warnings: SMUT 18+, one use of daddy in a semi-sexual way but not really, he's just a cutie i love him so much, i want to have his babies

-----

The kids start begging the night before.

They’ve already made the card— a folded piece of printer paper covered in gluey macaroni and aggressive glitter, signed in various attempts at spelling "Love you Daddy." You’ve already picked up the gifts: a new grill spatula with a cheeky "Kiss the Chef" engraving, a framed photo of him passed out on the couch with both kids napping on top of him, and the socks. God, the socks— bright blue with "#1 DILF" stitched in obnoxious lettering. A joke, of course, but also not.

You were going to keep things simple. Give him the gifts over coffee, maybe let him sleep in. But then the kids start tugging at your hoodie, pleading like they’re about to be banished from the kingdom.

"Can we pleeeeease make him breakfast in bed?"

You raise a brow. "You mean you’re going to let me make breakfast while you lick batter and argue about who gets to carry the tray?"

"No! We're gonna make it."

That's a disaster waiting to happen. But your kids have Patrick's face and you can never resist. So you sigh, smile, and say, "Fine. But you’re waking up early, and we’re not telling him."

They squeal. They pinky promise. One of them tries to hide the card in the oven.

---

The next morning is a beautiful mess.

Pancake mix in hair. Syrup on pajamas. Someone spills orange juice and declares it a "kitchen emergency." They manage to burn only one piece of bacon. The kids decorate the tray with wildflowers from the yard and tuck the card underneath a napkin like it’s a secret treasure.

When you all tiptoe into the bedroom— tray wobbling, giggles barely contained— Patrick is already half-awake, blinking against the sunlight, hair matted to one side and shirtless beneath the covers.

"Happy Father’s Day!" they shout, and he flinches like he’s been tackled. Which, to be fair, he has been. They scramble onto the bed, and one plops a pancake directly on his chest.

"We made it all by ourselves!" they beam.

Patrick looks at you over their heads. Your face says, Don’t lie to them. His says, I’d eat raw eggs if it meant they stayed this happy.

He eats every bite. Kisses sticky cheeks. Reads the card out loud with his voice thick and fond. Later, he pulls you into the hallway and murmurs, "I don’t need anything else. This? This is everything."

And even though you’re covered in flour and your coffee’s cold, you believe him.

You always do.

---

The rest of the day is exactly what it should be: slow, easy, wrapped in love.

Patrick wears the handmade pasta necklace one of the kids gave him like it’s a medal of honor. They insist he keep it on all day— even when he’s manning the grill, even when he’s wrestling them into sunscreen, even when he falls asleep in the hammock with one kid draped across his chest and the other tracing hearts on his arm with a juice box straw.

You keep it simple, like he likes it. No fancy plans, no crowd. Just the four of you and a backyard that smells like smoke and honeysuckle.

The gifts come out after lunch. He gets a laugh out of the spatula. Nearly tears up at the framed photo. Gives you that soft, reverent look— the one that says he still can’t believe this is his life. That he gets to have this. That he gets to have you.

And as the sun starts to set and the kids wind down, sticky-fingered and sleep-drunk from too much watermelon and laughter, you both tuck them in. Kisses on cheeks. "Thank you for today, Daddy," whispered like a secret.

You find him later in the kitchen, backlit by the refrigerator light, eating the last pancake cold and shirtless.

"There’s one more gift," you say.

He turns, grinning. "Is it another photo of me drooling on the couch?"

"No," you murmur, and hand him a tiny wrapped box. "But it’s just for you. Now that the kids are asleep."

He opens it, curious— and then bursts out laughing.

Bright blue socks. Bold white letters: #1 DILF.

He lifts them like they’re sacred. "Oh my God."

"I had to," you say, biting your lip.

"These are incredible." He pauses. "You know I’m never taking these off now, right?"

"That’s fine," you say, stepping closer. Your fingers tug at the waistband of his sleep shorts, low and lazy. "But you might want to take everything else off."

He smirks. "You wanna fuck me in my new dad socks?"

You hum. "Not quite."

He raises a brow.

"I want to take care of you tonight," you say, voice soft. "You give so much to all of us— today, every day. Let me give something back. Let me make you feel how loved you are."

His smile falters just slightly. Goes softer. Deeper. His hands come to your waist like a question.

"Okay," he breathes. "Yeah. Please."

He kisses you like he’s grateful. Like he needs this— not just the sex, but the surrender. The quiet devotion of it. And when you pull him to the bedroom, when he lays back and lets you strip him down to nothing but those ridiculous socks, he doesn’t joke. Doesn’t deflect. Just watches you with wide, wet eyes.

You start slow. Kisses down his chest. Hands smoothing over his stomach like you love it (because you do). You praise every part of him— the arms that carry your babies, the hands that fix broken toys and rub your back at night, the belly that softens against yours when he holds you in the kitchen.

He looks like he might cry.

"You deserve this," you whisper, sinking down to kiss the crease where thigh meets hip. "Every second."

He moans when you take him in your mouth, already so sensitive he’s shaking. You work him slowly, lovingly, watching his stomach tense and relax beneath your touch. And when he finally can’t take anymore, when his fingers curl into the sheets and his voice cracks on your name, you pull back just long enough to climb on top and guide him inside.

He gasps. Chokes on it. His hands flutter up to your hips, barely holding on.

"I got you," you whisper, moving slow. Deliberate. Every roll of your hips meant to say I love you, I love you, I love you.

He breaks apart like he’s never been touched like this before. Like no one’s ever given him anything just to say thank you.

And when he comes— overwhelmed and whispering, tears clinging to his lashes— you kiss his forehead and stay close. Stay connected. Stay his.

And later, when you’re tangled up and breathless, his hand rests over your stomach without thinking. His voice is hoarse.

"This was the best Father’s Day."

"I know," you whisper, kissing the corner of his smile. "You earned it, Daddy."

And just like that, round two starts— socks still on.

-----

tagging:

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

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

#󠀠 ೀ┆tal’s recs ˚. ᵎᵎ #so cute…#so..#so……#so……..

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imperishablereverie · 8 days ago

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father's day with... levii's jeans!art

warnings: SMUT 18+, cursing, wildly self indulgent but everything in this au has been, AAHHAHGGHFAGHSGAHF, yk?

read levii's jeans!

The morning starts slow.

Art wakes up to the sound of birdsong and the distant hum of cicadas, the air already warm and sweet with early summer. The sheets are tangled around his legs, one arm slung over your waist, his nose buried in your neck. He doesn’t move at first— just breathes you in. The quiet of the room, the weight of your body curled against his, the soft rustle of the breeze through the cracked window— it’s peace in a way he never thought he’d know.

You stir slightly and mumble, "Happy Father’s Day."

He smiles into your skin, voice still rough with sleep. "Best thing I’ve heard all year."

The kids aren’t up yet. Miracle of miracles. So you stay there for a few more minutes, wrapped around each other, letting the stillness linger. His hand rubs slow circles along your hip, thumb brushing the hem of your sleep shirt.

"You want coffee?" you whisper.

He groans. "I want ten more minutes."

But ten turns to fifteen, and then you’re both reluctantly rising— you to the kitchen, him to tug on random pants and a soft, worn tee. He grabs the morning paper from the porch while you start the coffee. When he walks back in, the smell of cinnamon rolls is already thick in the air.

The kids wake up not long after, barreling into the kitchen barefoot and grinning, each one clutching a hand-drawn card and shouting, "Happy Father’s Day!" with voices that crack and trip over syllables.

Art drops to his knees and lets them tackle him. He kisses their foreheads, ruffles hair, pulls them in tight. One card has glitter glued into a crooked heart. The other is a drawing of him in his cowboy hat, muscles comically oversized.

You hand him a mug— black coffee with a splash of vanilla, just how he likes it— and watch as he reads each card aloud, his voice thick with that quiet kind of joy that only ever shows up in moments like this.

"You’re the best daddy because you make the pancakes and you fix the barn and you’re strong like a bear," one reads.

He chuckles, eyes wet. "Strong like a bear, huh? I’ll take it."

Breakfast is a team effort. You flip pancakes while the kids set the table, Art sneaking in behind you to kiss your neck between batches. The kitchen is chaos— sticky fingers, flour footprints, syrup drips— but it’s perfect.

Later, after the plates are cleared and the kids are out back with the hose and the dog, Art catches your wrist and pulls you into his lap on the porch swing.

"You did all this?"

You nod. "They helped."

"Still. Thank you."

You press your forehead to his. "You deserve it."

He hums. "Think I’ll take them fishing this afternoon. Give you a little peace."

"What about you? Anything you want?"

He pauses, looks at you with that soft smile. The one that still makes your stomach flip.

"I’ve already got it."

And for a moment, nothing moves but the swing and the warm breeze, and the world feels exactly right.

He takes the kids to the pond after lunch, old rods slung over shoulders, tackle box in hand. You watch them go from the porch, Art walking slow in the heat, your youngest swinging a pail and already talking a mile a minute. He looks back once— catches your eye and tips his hat with a grin before vanishing down the tree-lined path.

You waste no time.

By the time he returns, cheeks sun-warmed and kids bragging over the "biggest fish ever caught" (which is, at best, a slightly plump bluegill), the house smells like heaven.

You’ve set the table on the porch. White linen cloth. Candles in mason jars. His favorite bourbon on ice. A dinner straight from his heart— ribs slathered in his granny's sauce, sweet corn charred just right, deviled eggs the way he likes them, and homemade cornbread fresh from the cast iron.

He looks stunned when he sees it.

"I didn’t see this coming," he says, voice quiet.

"Good," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Go wash up. Dinner’s ready when you are."

He doesn’t stop smiling the entire meal. Not once. He makes a show of tasting everything like he’s a food critic, but you see the way he closes his eyes on the first bite of ribs. The way he leans back in his chair, glass in hand, completely content.

The kids fall asleep on the porch swing before dessert. You carry them in together— him with one kid on each shoulder, you trailing behind with a blanket and quiet laughter.

By the time you return to the porch, the candles have burned low, the fireflies are out, and the bourbon’s still sweating in his glass. He’s sitting back in his chair, eyes closed, boots crossed at the ankles.

You curl into the chair beside his, your head on his shoulder.

He hums, lazy and low. "You know… I never got dessert."

You smile. "There’s still some cobbler in the fridge."

He glances over at you, mouth twitching. "Not what I meant."

You tilt your head. "No?"

"Nah," he says, voice lower now, more deliberate. "Been thinking about you all day. That dress. That smile. Everything you did. Everything you are."

You raise an eyebrow, amused. "So you’re saying I’m dessert."

"Damn right you are. And I’ve been starving."

You barely make it past the bedroom door before he’s got you pressed to the wall, his mouth already on your neck, hands dragging your dress up. When he drops to his knees, it’s fast but focused�� like he’s had this in mind since breakfast.

He pushes your panties down and kisses up your inner thighs like he’s tasting sunlight. Then he’s on you, mouth hot and wet and needy, tongue flicking and curling like he’s making a goddamn meal of you.

And when you gasp and brace against the wall, hips grinding against his face, he just groans— hands gripping your ass, keeping you right there.

"Fuck," you moan, tugging at his hair. "Art— yeah, right there—"

He doesn’t stop. Not even when your legs start shaking. He holds you through every wave, licking and moaning until you're breathless, completely wrecked.

And when you pull him up, panting and flushed, he’s grinning. Mouth slick. Eyes wild.

"That was just the appetizer," he says.

You drag him to the bed, shove him back, climb on top. "Then shut up and let me finish my plate."

He laughs— but the second you sink down on him, it cuts off into a sharp, broken fuck. His hands grip your thighs, then your hips, then your waist— like he doesn’t know where to touch first.

You ride him slow at first, teasing. Then you start bouncing, just to watch his head fall back and his stomach tense. He’s loud. So loud. Cursing. Babbling. Gasping your name like it’s the only thing he knows.

You lean over him, hands pressed to his chest, and whisper, "You love this, huh? Me all over you."

He nods, frantic. "Love it. Love you. Fuck— don’t stop."

You don’t.

You ride him until you’re both on fire. Until the bed is creaking and the air’s thick with heat and sweat and moans that never stop.

And when you come again— clenching around him, body shaking— he lets go with a shout, holding you tight as he spills into you, breath caught in his throat.

After, you collapse on top of him. Both of you sticky and trembling and high on it.

He’s the first to speak, voice barely a whisper.

"Best Father’s Day. Hands down."

You kiss his chest. "You earned it."

He groans, still breathless. "I’m never eating real dessert again."

You laugh. "Liar. I know you wanted that damn cobbler."

He laughs too— deep and warm and full of love. And when he pulls you close and kisses your forehead, you know you’ll never top this day.

But you’ll sure as hell try next year.

-----

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#󠀠 ೀ┆tal’s recs ˚. ᵎᵎ #goddddd #happy father’s day #this is cute #but my tongue is out

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imperishablereverie · 8 days ago

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hi love!! i hope you know i still constantly think about “a helping hand” because oof .. you wrote yearning perfectly, i’m in awe. hope you’re doing okay 🫶

aw tal, thank you so much, that means a lot to me!

i've been thinking about writing a part 2, i'm just gathering my thoughts (if you have any ideas i'm so open.)

i've been doing okay, thank you for asking! i hope all is well with you too <3

#󠀠 ✉︎┆tal’s inbox ˚. ᵎᵎ

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imperishablereverie · 9 days ago

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Goodnights and Goodbyes.

an: for merry @newrochellechallenger2019

tag list: @artstennisracket @tacobacoyeet @glassmermaids and also merry

Nana’s house was made up of pink tiles and yellowed lace, a relic of an era he’d only ever seen in photos, gone slightly beige with time. He would spend most of his time there in her backyard, picking away at the wild strawberries amongst the grass, dropping them onto his tongue like a secret. She noticed everything, said nothing. She passed through life that way, smelling like rose perfume and laundry detergent, like a whisper of a time of drive-in theaters and jukeboxes, like a memory that hasn’t become a past experience, yet.

Some days, when Mama dropped him off to stay the night, she’d let him stay up real late, a whole 30 minutes past his designated bed time, tucked into her side in her too-soft bed, all squishy and marshmallow soft. Her hand, with skin speckled with brown, like a fruit gone overripe, skin lowering around its structured bones, always found its way into the golden curls atop his little head, and he’d pretend not to bow his head into it to feel more.

“You know what I think you are, Artie?”

He’d shake his head just to hear his hair move, have her nails dig into his scalp that little bit more.

“I think you’re a star, Artie. A real star.”

He didn’t quite know what would give her such an impression. All that made up Arthur Donaldson at the age of six was brown, scabbed-up knees from games of tag gone awry and the wide smile of someone who hasn’t learned that happy endings aren’t guaranteed, even if you deserve them tenfold. And still he bared those teeth of his, still scalloped at the tops from newness.

“Thank you, Nana.”

She moved her hand to his cheek, ran her thick, diamond-clad finger over the apple of his cheek. From this close, he could smell the remnants of the sugary slices of pie she’d cut earlier burrowed deep in the crevices of her palms. Or, maybe, that was just her.

“You’re welcome, bub.”

She kissed his forehead for ten whole seconds before pulling away, leaving crinkled up remnants of a shade of pink lipstick only a woman who can be deemed a ‘product of her time’ can wear. He didn’t mind much. He would ask for another if it wouldn’t seem strange. She slept quietly that night. Still. Breathing soft, steady. His fingers wrapped around one of hers. He dreamt of going on a safari, and couldn’t wait to tell Nana about the lions when he woke up. She dreamed about seeing him turn seven.

The first time Nana got sick, he was ten years old. He was never quite told what it was, so much as just knowing of its presence. When he came to visit, arms wrapped around an oversized bouquet of flowers and a few helium balloons tied to his wrist to keep from floating off, the first thing he noticed wasn’t the bruising near her eyes, like spilled ink against fresh paper, or the sterile, stinging scent of bleach. It was just how white the room was. Bare, ivory walls, thin cotton sheets, and the incessant beep… beep… beep… of a machine he couldn’t see.

Mama talked of pain management, doctor’s appointments, a real estate agent coming by to ‘take a look at things’. He couldn’t focus on much but the feeling that this room felt so not Nana. Where was the old ceramic bowl of caramels? The thick, golden-framed family photographs where Mama was still rounded with baby fat? He hated this room. It smelled like a death sentence wrapped in a blanket. It didn’t look lived in. Inevitably, it has been, by a million people he’ll never meet. He didn’t feel his mother brush past him, still and staring in the doorway, murmuring about ‘having to take this’. But he heard Nana, the dull pat of a shaky hand against mattress.

“Come here, bub.”

So he does. Like his legs are the heaviest burden he’s ever carried. Like he can’t get to her side fast enough. He places the bouquet at her nightstand, slips the balloons from his arms, lands at the edge of her bed with care not to touch, poke, prod. All nervous energy and flickering eyes, like a firefly trying to find its way out of a mason jar. The toes of his Converse just barely scrape the tacky linoleum floor, his hands clasped in his lap.

“Oh, none of that. Come on… tell me about tennis.”

He turned to look at her, at her twilight skin and her sunken eyes, at her smile that isn’t curving the way it usually does, like someone is holding a string to tug at the corners. He wants to talk about anything but tennis. He wants to know why she’s got black eyes like a street fighter, and why there’s nothing here to make things comfortable, not even a book to skim.

“Can’t we talk about you?”

She shakes her head, clicks her tongue in that tsk tsk sound that escapes through her teeth, and her eyes plead. Whether she wants them to or not.

“I want to do anything but talk about all this. So tell me about tennis.”

And he does. He tells her about how he’s got scouts looking at him for boarding schools when he gets old enough, how his coach says he’s got real ‘potential’ in him, how in a few years, he might be on his way to being a real star. And she nods. And she smiles. And she lets her eyes shut with a quiet sigh, the way dogs do in their sleep, unburdened and soft. They don’t open up afterwards, but he keeps talking. He thinks it matters. He hopes it does.

“Hey… Nana? Nana, you there?”

“Oh! Oh, Artie, how are you?”

“I’m alright, I’m alright. Just the usual story, I guess. How are you?”

“Usual story? Don’t be so humble. Your mother told me the news, you know. You and Patrick, up in the big leagues.”

“Oh, well, not really. It’s the Juniors, so it’s not-”

“Arthur, you know that all that semantics talk goes right over my head. And still, it’s… it’s a big deal, you know that, right?”

“Yeah, well… we’ve been trainin’ real hard so… my fingers are crossed.”

There’s a pause, a cough, sputtering and wet, harsh against his ear. He pulls the phone away just for the relief.

“Art?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m real proud of you, bub.”

He smiles like he hasn’t for years. Like there’s a wild strawberry curled under his tongue.

“Thanks, Nana."

“Tashi seems like a nice girl.”

She says behind a deck of cards, eyes trained on some numbers, symbols, that Art can only dream of seeing. He’s played five rounds today of some game she hasn’t got a name for, just says the other residents have taught it to her. She’s not lost a single one.

“Think so?”

He places something down, mindless, distracted, four of clubs.

“Mmmhm. Sharp, too. Got a brain on her.”

Her hands are unsteady when the place a plasticy card down, and it slides a little, slightly off angle from the rest of the pile. He straightens it out like it’s his job.

“Yeah, well, she definitely knows more than I do when it comes to… just about everything”

She laughs, almost. It’s mostly a buzz, a puff. Places down a flush, smacks her palms against the chipped, shining wood of the table.

“Women usually do.”

She nods, lifts a brow, slumps against the soft backing of a wheelchair. Self-satisfied, worn. Knowing something.

He got the call at 6:32 p.m. He’d thrown together a bag and pulled out of his driveway by 6:35. And now, here he is, sat in a folding chair and waiting, knee bouncing, hands folded in his lap, for more than just a heavy, dry sounding gasp. There’s a tank of air by his feet that hisses, gasps, sighs. It’s breathing more than she is.

But she’s in there, somewhere, behind the lips that can’t hold in saliva, the words she’s trying to speak that are foaming, bubbling, popping. He can feel it in the way she’s eyeing him, like she knows what he knows. There’s not much to say. There’s a million things to talk about. So he talks about tennis, he talks about Tashi, he talks about Patrick just to fill time, or a void, or the spaces in the air buzzing with something fading out. And he talks till it’s choked, till his throat hurts, till his eyes sting. And he keeps going until it’s silent where she is.

He presses his lips to her forehead for ten whole seconds, wraps his finger around hers, slips the ring from her thin, skeletal finger. Winces at the growing cold.

“I’m so proud of you.”

He doesn’t know if the words leave his lips when his mind asks them to. He’s not sure if it matters. He hopes it does.

#󠀠 ೀ┆tal’s recs ˚. ᵎᵎ #hey so i'm crying #talia you write so beautifully #i'm actually sobbing #seriously what the fuck #haha #okay

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imperishablereverie · 9 days ago

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thwack

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

set break | art donaldson x reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was unbearable. And it was holy.

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

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

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

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

You dropped your racket. “I am listening.”

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

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

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

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

“I never asked you to!”

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

You didn’t run.

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

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

And then you said it.

“I’ve never done this before.”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “I want you to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “Just… nervous.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Too much?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You did.

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

You nodded into his shoulder, thighs trembling.

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

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

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

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

You nodded.

"Words."

“Yes. I’m ready.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your voice cracked. “Don’t stop.”

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

You nodded. “There.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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#󠀠 ೀ┆tal’s recs ˚. ᵎᵎ #i love this #and i love ava #so beautiful #so perfect #as always

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