senseofnewness

[senseofnewness]

Say hello to killer!patrick zweig…

nsfw. stalking. murder (implied). sexual content. ♡

“Run as you might, my love will never, ever stop.”

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… saw you for the first time sitting on the far end of the bleachers with your friends, knees up to your chest, hood drawn halfway down your face, not even looking at the match. It hurts his ego that you are not interested in his match like your friends are. You were scrolling on your phone, alone, almost too still. Not bored- elsewhere. You barely reacted to the cheers. He looked over once. Then again. Then again. He looked at you every time he scored or missed. You weren’t watching, but he couldn’t stop watching you.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… saw you again by accident- face defeated, eyes rimmed red, standing in front of the vending machine in that same oversized hoodie. You looked like you’d been crying for hours. You look like a puppy, he thinks. He didn’t introduce himself despite spending his whole night stalking your Instagram. Just said, “You were at the match earlier, right?” like he hadn’t already stared too long from across the court. Like he didn’t want to brush your hair away from your face. You didn’t recognize him before turning your head to the side. That made him smile. He offered you a seat in the lobby. You sat. You gave him your Instagram without thinking. He’d already found it after his match and managed his way into your life and stuck with it.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… lets himself in with a key you forgot you gave him, sets his bag down like he never left. He visits your place every time he has the time from touring. He moves around your place like he’s lived there for years. Shoes off at the door, fridge already open, checking what you’re low on, or if you are taking care of yourself. You look up from the couch and he just grins, like this is normal. Like he’s always coming home to you, but you always come to him and hug his waist before telling him you miss him. He doesn’t announce himself. Doesn’t ask for permission. Just slides back into your life like he never left. You don’t even notice how quiet the lock clicks anymore.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… cooks breakfast shirtless and barefoot, flipping eggs while humming whatever song was playing in your last story. The sunlight hits his shoulders like it’s in love with him. He doesn’t ask what you want, he just makes it. You like initiative, he remembers of course. Knows how you like your eggs, what type of coffee, and which mug to use. When you wake up and walk sleepily, he kisses your temple without turning from the stove. “Sit down, baby. I got it.” You do. Because he always does.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… keeps your apartment cleaner than you do. He’s not saying you are not neat, but he helps make it better when he’s around. He doesn’t say anything- just picks things up, folds them, puts them back exactly how you like. He never complains. Never calls you messy. Just moves like he’s helping himself. Wipes down your counters with his sleeves pushed up. Refills your bottles. Replaces your razors, your toothpaste, your favorite snack- without asking. New stock since the two of you always go to the grocery and market when he’s around. You blink and your life is already tidied.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… holds you longer the night before he leaves- fingers splayed across your stomach, nose tucked into your shoulder. He always gets clingy. Always touching your skin. He doesn’t say he’s scared. He doesn’t say he’s sad. He just breathes, steady and slow, like he’s syncing with your heart rate. You feel his hand press tighter every time you shift. Like he’s trying to memorize your shape. He prefers staying here now rather than being in the court. Like he’s worried the bed will forget how to hold your warmth. You whisper assuring words like “you’ll be back soon,” and he nods against your skin like that’s enough.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… checks your Spotify activity like a pulse before you get together. But he still does it… just toned down now because he has already memorized your moods by now. What songs mean you’re upset, what albums mean you’re spiraling, what playlists mean you’re in someone else’s bed. He doesn’t like those ones. Thankfully he’s the only one now in the picture. He never says anything. Just watches. Learns. Screenshots when something feels off. Texts “you okay?” like he didn’t already know the answer to his question.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… scrolls through your friends’ posts just to see how you laugh when you’re not looking at him. He knows now who the ones are always beside you. The ones who are quiet in the corner. He zooms in. Examines your posture, your proximity, and your smile. Notes whose hand is on your lower back. He’s not jealous- just observant. You think he doesn’t care about social media. But he checks more often than you do. And he saves the ones where your smile looks the most real.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… unlocks your laptop when you’re in the shower- just to peek. He might always do that since he had access to your place. But he doesn’t stay long. He knows it’s risky. Just enough to see your open Notes, your tabs, your folders of photos. The things you keep private but not password-protected. He tells himself it’s not invasive. Just a safety check. Just assurance. Just love. He logs out and wipes the fingerprints off the spacebar like he was never there.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… jerks off to your selfies with the brightness up, whispering “mine” into his hand like you’d forgive him if you knew. (It was one of his ways to help himself to the feeling when he's still not your someone.) He finishes too fast. Always does. You’re not even naked- just just enough skin to your chest, your thighs, just you. It doesn’t matter. He wants you the most when you’re soft. When you look like you don’t know what you do to him. And sometimes, he thanks you and says he loves you under his breath when he’s done.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… fucks you on the third date (after months of getting to know each other) like he’s waited his whole life for it. He’s quiet about it. Focused. Almost careful. Like your body is something sacred he’s finally been allowed to touch. Like it’s a rare antique families can’t let go. “Mine now, yeah?” he asks, hips pressed deep, voice low and steady. You say yes because it feels good. He hears it like a vow while his lips are peppering your neck with soft licks and kisses.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… eats you out like a ritual- on your back, legs over his shoulders, face buried, moaning against your cunt like he’s being saved. He takes his time. He's an eater, anyway. He gets pleasure from your reactions and the sounds you are making. So he his tongue slowly. Makes you beg without even meaning to. He grips your thighs like they’re anchoring him to earth. You forget your name halfway through. He doesn’t. He just tightens his hands on your flesh. He murmurs it against you like worship.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… fingers you while you try to read, whispering “just one more, baby. I’ll let you finish after.” He says it sweetly. Like a promise. He even pouted while his hand was already pressing on you. He says promises that made you agree. But his hand stays between your legs for an hour. You never make it past the page. You stop pretending after a while. Let your head fall back with your book covers on your face and let him win.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… wakes you up with his cock already inside you. He doesn’t say good morning. Just “needed you.” His thrusts are slow, sleepy, desperate. He is more clingy when he manages to convince you to come with him when you have a break. His hand grips your waist like he’s afraid you’ll fade. You moan into the pillow and he kisses your spine. Says “sorry,” but keeps going anyway. You let him because he feels good, because he will cook after, and shower you with sweetness that always gets you, and because you are not always together.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… never asks for details. He doesn’t press. Doesn’t pry. He just listens. Just watches your face when you talk about him- your ex, your old friend, whoever’s bothering you now. He studies the reaction. Make a note. Their name, yeah that. He doesn’t need to know why they hurt you. Or what kind of trauma they put you through? But he just knows they won’t get to do it again. Not when he's here.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… handles things like its research. He’s not messy. Not impulsive. Takes time to get it right. Just patient. Quiet. Careful. If something has to be fixed, it gets fixed. If someone needs to disappear, it will disappear. Efficiently. Eventually. You sleep better after- he always makes sure of it.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… texts “you okay?” at the exact moment the problem disappears. Like he knew. Like people already know that the problem vanished. Like he planned the timing for your comfort. You text back “Yeah, weirdly.” He smiles. Goes back to stirring the sauce. Wipes his hands on a towel. Hums to himself while the pasta boils and prepares for dinner he will bring later.

Killer!Patrick Zweig who… would do it again. Would do worse. Anything for you. Anything to make you safe. He doesn’t need a reason anymore. All it takes is a look on your face he doesn’t like. A voice raised too sharp. A name mentioned one too many times. You’d never know. You’d just be able to breathe easily.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[senseofnewness]

this patrick specifically could take me back to the locker rooms and have his way with me

[senseofnewness]

no one and i say no one!!!

no one will stop me from thinking Patrick likes getting his dick sucked while he’s still half-dressed in his tennis gear. i’m talking sweat still clinging to his throat, wristbands shoved up past his forearms, and that smug little head tilt when he watches you drop to your knees in the locker room.

he doesn’t even need to say anything—just smirks and leans back against the bench like this is your job now. his thighs tense every time your tongue flicks under the head, and he won’t stop muttering shit like “yeah, just like that” or “fuck, you’re good at this, huh?”

and no one—no one—will convince me Patrick doesn’t like it messy. spit, drool, tears, mascara smudged under your eyes like a war trophy. he’ll guide your head with one hand in your hair, lazy and possessive, not forcing but leading, because he likes the slow burn of you choking just a little, regaining rhythm, then looking up at him all glossy-eyed like you need his approval.

and god help you if you try to pull off too soon. he’ll just raise a brow and say, “not done yet, sweetheart,” in that dry, arrogant tone that somehow makes your knees weaker than they already are.

[senseofnewness]

BLUE COLLAR PATRICK ZWEIG X BIMBO READER

SUMMARY: When her pink convertible sputters into a no-nonsense auto shop, she’s expecting a fix — not a mechanic with grease on his hands and a cicky smirk always on his face. Patrick Zweig is rough, quiet, and the kind of trouble her friends warn her about. She’s high heels and shiny clear lip gloss.

content warning: mild swearing, smoking, gendered stereotypes, implied sexual tension, suggestive language

She was driving her baby-pink convertible to the nail salon when the engine started choking like it had just smoked a pack of cigarettes.

She barely managed to pull into the nearest open garage, the sign above the entrance reading:

"Zweig Auto Repair" — No Bullshit, Just Engines.

Inside: low rock music, the smell of rubber and coffee, and a guy half-covered in grease with a rag hanging out the back pocket of his oil-stained work jeans. He was leaned over a small metal table in the corner of the garage, doing God knew what on his phone.

That was Patrick.

He didn’t look up at first, but she wasn’t exactly subtle either — a denim mini skirt, pink crop top, perfume that smelled like strawberries, and a little purse with more charms than anyone could count, jingling with every step she took.

She cleared her throat to catch his attention, suddenly feeling a little out of place after taking a quick look around the place

Finally, he glanced over his shoulder, eyes scanning her once — head to toe — then flicking back to the car after doing a double take.

“You lose a drag race, or just drive it like you hate it?” he asked dryly, his gravelly voice echoing through the garage, blending with the rock music in the background.

She blinked. “Excuse me?” she asked, clearly taken aback by his tone.

He smirked, wiping his hands on a towel. “The car’s crying sugar” he said with a condescending tone

She was torn between being offended and impressed. “That’s so rude. You don’t even know her.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Her?” he said, confused but amused.

“She’s called Baby. She’s special.”

“…Right,” he said after a moment of hesitation, not sure if she was joking or actually serious.

The tension was instant. He was rough hands and dark sarcasm; she was pink lip gloss and no patience for anyone’s attitude.

But the way he looked at her wasn’t dismissive — it was curious, like he was trying to figure her out.

He leaned into the open hood, muttering something about spark plugs and engine abuse, while she leaned against the wall, casually snapping her gum, arms crossed — watching him. Maybe a little too much.

Finally, without turning around, he called out:

“You gonna stand there looking pretty, or tell me what you did to it?”

She smiled slowly. “Maybe I look pretty and know exactly what I did.”

He straightened up, eyes meeting hers with that cocky little half-laugh he gave when someone surprised him.

It was the first time he really saw her.

There was a beat of silence. He stepped a little closer.

“You talk a lot” he said.

“So do you” she replied looking up at him

He didn’t say anything — but a grin flickered on his lips.

Patrick turned back to the engine, the air between them still humming with whatever had just passed.

She didn’t move from where she stood, arms crossed and one heeled foot pointed slightly outward, like she was posing without trying to. Her eyes stayed on him — on the way his forearms flexed as he leaned into the hood, sleeves rolled halfway up. His hands moved like he knew exactly what he was doing, even if he didn’t care whether anyone noticed.

Of course, she noticed.

“Okay, be honest,” she said, loud enough to cut through the hum of music and tools. “Is it, like, dead-dead?”

He didn’t turn around. “Depends. You treat it like a car, or like a purse on wheels?”

She scoffed, offended. “That’s sexist, you know?”

He smirked. “That’s an engine full of coconut-scented disaster.”

She rolled her eyes but chuckled, despite herself. “It was cute. And the bottle was pink.”

He finally looked at her, eyes steady. “That engine doesn’t care about cute, sweetheart.”

She shifted her weight to one hip, unfazed. “Whatever,” she said, then paused at the moment of silence that followed.

“Office is open,” he said eventually, voice low. “If you wanna wait while I check the damage.”

She hesitated — then nodded, but stayed where she was.

“Let me guess. No air conditioning, no Wi-Fi, and an old, stained, dirty couch that smells like gasoline?” she asked with a slight tone of disgust.

He shrugged. “Sounds like you’ve been here before, sugar”

“I haven’t,” she said. “You just seem like the type.”

That pulled a real smile from him — small and slightly crooked, a little cocky too

“Yeah?” he said. “What type’s that?”

She took a step closer, lips parted just enough to hold his attention. “Rough, controlling, and has issues with girls who wear platform heels.”

He looked her over slowly, from her pink crop top to the sparkle of the tiny gems on her nails.

“Maybe I just like when people know what they want.”

“Maybe I do.”

He held her gaze a second longer, then — with no warning — turned back to the car.

Heat rose to her cheeks. Whatever game this was, he wasn’t playing it safe.

“Fifteen minutes,” he called over his shoulder, already elbow-deep in the hood again. “Then I’ll tell you if she’s worth saving.”

His voice rang out, muffled under the metal.

She watched him work for another beat before finally walking toward the office, hips swaying and eyes still lingering.

And though he didn’t look up, she was sure of it:

He was watching.

Thank you for reading ♡

(ask box in my profile :>)

[senseofnewness]

Every-time you stumble upon a blog which says MDNI or 18+ it as much for the sanity of the person posting, as it is for protecting users younger than that. Which well-adjusted adult wouldn’t feel disgusted talking about sex to a child? Do you think those feelings of disgust and guilt disappears because we are online?

I’m not going to preach about why it’s dangerous for minors to be in these spaces. Kids shouldn’t be engaging with adults who explicitly talk about sex because it will change how they view the act. And in all fairness, if you’re a minor who remains in mdni places, I know nothing I could say would change your mind.

Now that being said, being MDNI is my boundary. You may think it’s okay to stay here because you feel like you have the maturity to do so, but I do not feel comfortable with it. It feels as much of an intrusion to me as taking my diary and reading it through, because I post here with the trust and assumption that everyone is an adult. Any blog who is MDNI is posting with that trust, which you’re then taking and abusing. The autonomy of posting is taken away without us ever realizing, and in these few moments where the truth comes through, it leaves us feeling awful. We are the ones stuck with that guilt and hurt.

At the end of the day, I don’t care if you think you’re mature enough to be here. I’m sorry, I really don’t, but I care to know I am able to express my terms safely and on my terms. The presence of minors ruin that alone.

[senseofnewness]

i have a confession to make : i stopped having sex

[senseofnewness]

hi do you guys ever think about. ever uhhh think about coming back home to art after a girls’ trip… ever think about that?????

him waiting at home all miserable and nervous that someone will steal you away from him, clambering to the door the second he hears the key turning in the front door’s lock. he’s quick to grab your bags and throw them somewhere, all too eager to get his hands on you. tan lines? he wants to kiss them. boardwalk henna? he’s always wanted to see you with ‘tattoos’. all he wants is to have you to himself after being forced to practically give you away for a week.

more importantly, he needs to release all those pent up hormones — jerking off to the bikini pics you’d send did not do the trick.

you’re up on the kitchen counter before you can even take your shoes off, his eager tongue down your throat. the whining is almost annoying, but he can’t help it. you taste different, you feel warmer, more tense. is it all in his mind, or was he replaced? the thought makes him nauseous, all his weight dropping to his knees, his shaky fingers working to unbutton your shorts. “you missed me… you missed me, yeah? c’mon say it.” he whines, his big, pretty eyes boring up into yours. he doesn’t wait for an answer before his mouth is buried in your cunt, nose nudging your clit as he laps at you desperately. it’s like he’s trying to mark his territory, stake his claim as if he lost what he knows is all his.

anyways! i think he likes the feeling of not knowing if you cheated or not. #cuck

[senseofnewness]

sorry I accidentally thought about you when I touched myself it will happen again

[senseofnewness]

guys i'm getting my surgery next week so i will be off work for a couple of months

do you know what that means? free time to write about that little sub motherfucker art drooling on reader's tits 😔

[senseofnewness]

Push to Shove

virgin! art donaldson x stanford! reader- based on req here!

summary: tired of the imbalance of lust over love and general lack of real feelings in modern relationships, your best friend quite literally launches you into a meet-cute mess that turns into something unexpectedly real. he’s sweet, kind, quite obviously likes you, but there’s a catch. he’s a virgin.

warnings: lots of kissing, a good amount of fluff/relationship, meet-cute, rambunctious and loud best friend, smut! oral sex, mutual receiving but mostly reader, learning experience. heavy petting. grinding against the bed. inexperienced, nervous, virgin art ;) notes app fic, unedited.!

you’d always been the kind of girl who swore out of highschool, she would date and find someone and just settle and be done. love, real love. it was a comfort, it helped you focus on your grades and school, pushing you toward a scholarship at stanford. love was a good thought, something to look forward to.

you worked your ass off those four years and you got along by having crushes, maybe a date once or twice, but nothing good. mostly odd kisses with guys here and there, out in inconvenient places, the way teenaged boys make you do. it was never good, it was never right, never fun, and you never wanted them to touch you. in fact, if they tried, your reflexes often ended up whacking them in the head.

you grew out of that by grade twelve, thankfully, but no boy had ever even gotten close to touching you that way. you continued to throw yourself into your schoolwork. you tried not to think about how all guys wanted to do was touch you, praying that college men were different.

you got that scholarship, but decided to let it pend while you worked and interned for two years. those years were formative, making you into a woman no longer afraid of intimacy, still- nothing was ever good. guys out of high school weren’t any better at kissing or trying not to touch. nothing was ever satisfying. the only climaxes you’d experience were at your own hand or the bathtub faucet. it was admittedly, a little sad, but you were a charlotte, turning yourself into a hopeless romantic.

you’d journal before bed, then think heavily on the idea of someone loving you enough to touch you with the intent of making you feel good. you’d had sex (all the way) with two men, each only once- and still, you had no idea what to do other than lay still and wait for it to be over. there was shitty foreplay, asking for more from you, then jabbing you with two fingers way too high. not once had you felt any pleasure from it, though every blog said good sex is possible, enjoyable, even. that your boyfriends should be in tune with you.

in the end, you’d ended up sore on one lip, irritated and disheveled. almost like it was bruised from how little they paid attention to how you felt. you prayed there was hope, that there was more. broke up with both of them a few weeks after, worried there was a pattern.

“have you tried touching yourself during?” your friend bella asked, a little too loud for the campus book store.

you’d just finally gotten to the right place in life, finally enrolled in stanford. your best friend bella had done the same thing as you, so of course, she was there with you as your roommate.

you giggled, “a little quieter, bells?”

“sorry,” she giggled in response. “but like- it’s supposed to be good, but you said it just feels like… poking?”

“it’s so bad! i feel like it’s just a pole and the rooms always so cold or too hot and it’s just awkward. if i try to get off by his hand or mouth it’s just in the wrong place all the time. every time.”

“i can treat you right, babygirl,” bella teased, poking you in the ribs. “my god, $150 for a textbook with 200 pages?”

“bellaaaa,” you groaned. “can we do a spell or manifestation later so I can cleanse myself of this horrible… feeling and maybe have someone good, who likes me and wants me that way…”

bella smiled, “you’re one of the most gorgeous people i know, you’re bound to find someone, somewhere. all meet-cute.”her eyes flit around you both as you walk the aisles. “you deserve it, I know that, you know that, it’ll find you if it’s meant for you.”

“i don’t want to wait around, though.” You sighed. “I want to be loved, not just lusted after, so that when there is lust, I can love it.”

“write that down.”

“stoppp,” you laughed, exasperated. “I don’t want to wait, i need a push from the universe or something. a clear sign of which way to go forward. modern dating is so… evil. people sleep with everyone, there’s no commitment, people end up so temporary, i hate it.”

she groaned, “don’t even get me started on it again, you remember how long i went on last time.”

you nodded. “but i need a push.”

her eyes peered around the corner before you turned. her hands extended from her body and with a genuine, real push, she sent you off in one direction. it wasn’t hard or violent, just enough to make you lose your balance. you felt the impact of yourself against someone else and scrambled to collect yourself. “i’m so sorry-“

there was a chuckle. it was a guy. you looked up. he was cute. this was bad. “no, i’m sorry- was that my fault?” he asked, eyes meeting yours. his eyebrows knit together just slightly, concerned. you looked around, a little confused, but your eyes landed on what appeared to be a gym bag on the floor. he thought you’d tripped.

you laughed, completely embarrassed, “no, not at all. i actually just- my friend shoved me.”

“oh,” he nodded, a grin spreading up his face. it was gorgeous. he had perfect teeth, perfect features. perfect golden blonde curls. “was there a reason- or- does she just like to-“ he gestures vaguely.

“i think she likes to,” you nodded, pressing your lips together. “but no, i think she thought you were cute.”

“so she pushed… you?”

“she thought you were cute for me. she thought that i would find you cute.”

“okay,” he nodded, pressing his tongue to his cheek. it wasn’t cocky- with his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, it came off almost nervous. he was gorgeous, there was no way he could be nervous, not… talking to you. but he straightened it out, and then it was cocky. “do… you?”

you were almost taken aback by the ask. “do i what?” you stumbled.

“find me cute,” he finished. he seemed half-nervous.

you felt your ears start to warm, “i do.” you admit, smiling, but nervous. “it was nice to meet you.” you dismissed yourself, nodding and starting back.

“can i have your facebook?” he prompted, just before you turned the corner. you stopped, slowed, and looked back at him. “you do have facebook, right?”

“can i have yours?”

“do you want mine?” he smiled, rocking back and forth, hands in his pockets. it was so unusual to see someone so smug, yet shy. it was kind of endearing. and he was asking for your facebook.

“i do, yeah,” you walked back up to him, standing in front of him. you pulled out your notebook from your tote bag and gave him a pen. he chuckled to himself, leaning against the shelving to write it down. “thank you.”

“anytime.” he grinned. he had gorgeous dimples.

you looked at the paper, “see you around, donaldson64.”

“okay-“ he grinned wider, looking away. “art donaldson. i’m… art.”

you fought a smile, “like arthur?” you asked.

“to my mom, maybe.” he scrunched his nose.

“okay, arthur.” his ears were pink, you wondered if they’d been that way the whole time or if it was fresh. he rubbed the back of his neck again, grinning sheepishly. “i’m y/n.”

“nice to meet you,” and he was sweet.

“sorry about the whole shoving thing,” you repeated, tucking your notebook back in your bag. he handed you back your pen. “bye, arthur.” you smiled at him just once more, head tilted just slightly, trying to read him as you passed him, exiting the opposite end of the aisle that you’d come from.

you weren’t even five feet from him when bella near-tackled you, pulling you away, laughing so loud you were sure he heard. at least it proved to him that the shoving thing was real. she loved you, it was all in good fun, you’d do the same to her on a regular day. she gave you the grace of getting a good amount away from him before grabbing your hands. “that was amazing.” she giggled.

and you actualized the whole thing. “kinda was.” you smiled. “he’s nice.”

“i’ve never seen you talk to any guy like that before,” she praised. “his face, my god, he was so into you.”

“you could see?”

“would you have minded your business?”

“true,” you giggled in return. “we need to get back to the dorm.”

“so soon?”

“need to add him on facebook.”

the two of you only stopped for coffee on the way back. bella went on about his eyes, how he looked at you- she was the worlds nosiest best friend, but you loved her anyway. you went home and went through his facebook. and oh my god.

“why the fuck is his best friend so hot?” bella gawked. “i want to sit on his nose, y/n, can you get us a double date? i will literally pay for your half of our italy vacation if you can get me a date-“

“-bells, bells-“ you laughed, “stop, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. i haven’t even pressed add friend.”

“do it?”

you shook your head, “look at this picture of him and his mom. a birthday post and every word is sweet and kind and not even in the way where you wonder if he’s too close with her. and she’s so beautiful-“

“y/n, he’s perfect, press the button. message him.”

“one thing at a time,”

“sorry, i just really need his friend.” you both laughed. you scrolled down to the bottom of his facebook where there were some cheesy little posts with cheesy captions. pictures with his friends, his backyard, his childhood dog that passed away. he seemed genuine. “just say hi. he liked you, it won’t change a thing to start the conversation.”

she was right. so you did, you added him. and about twenty minutes later, your computer pinged that he had made you his facebook friend in return. and he messaged you first.

art: hey! got home and saw u added me, how are you?

you giggled out loud, jumping into the chair, bella getting up to stand behind you.

you typed back:

you: hi arthur :)

you: i’m goood, how are you?

he replied quickly,

art: i’m good :)

art: buy anything @ the book store?

bella leaned her head back and howled, “he’s yours, my god! wants to talk books. he’s yours! go get him.”

“how do we know it’s not performative?”

you: unfortunately not :( you??

art: textbook :( nothing fun

art: but it was nice to meet u

bella giggled like a creature. “mmmm.”

“shut up.”

you: nice to meet you too :)

“ask him out? jump on him? climb him?”

“bella!” you giggled, “- okay, what do i say?”

“let me,” she said, taking over the keyboard. she was basically an extension of you. no harm done, you watched her type it out.

art: do u have a boyfriend?

bella gasped, stopping, then aggressively backspacing, then typing,

you: no, you?

you giggled, “i was just about about to type that out!”

“i know,” she cackled, moving away from the keyboard. “it says he’s seen it.” you covered your eyes, then peeked again, your heart picking up just a little. god, he was cute, he was into you and you could actually read it, instead of having to dig or look for clues.

“so, the push…” she said, eyes knowing. “i chose well.”

“think so.”

art: that was good, lol

art: no boyfriend.

you: girlfriend

art: no. you?

you smiled. actually smiled. at the screen. and you couldn’t contain any of your excitement- your fingers flew,

you: are you free later?

no response. you and bella were holding your breath. she didn’t even have anything funny to say, caught in the same suspense as you.

art: i am :) what did you have in mind?

bella whooped, jumping around behind you. “my god! he’s perfect.”

“bella, we don’t know that much-“

“he’s perfect.”

your heart beat just a tiny bit faster, your chest pressing with anticipation. oh, but you had to think of a place-

and after carefully brainstorming five minutes, you asked him if he wanted to meet down by the pizza place near the old-fashioned theatre. he doubled down and asked if you wanted to go there. and it was a date.

“it’s so fast-“ you covered your mouth, looking at art’s last,

art: see you at eight !

bella just opened your dresser drawers, “it’s meet-cute. and bonus, we don’t have to spend tonight manifesting. i think we’re out of the pink candles either way.”

“we need a red candle anyway,” you chuckled, flopping back on your bed. “he’s so sweet, seeming, but he’s so… hot. guys like that are hit or miss.”

“you’re being so negative, what happened to your upbeat giggling?” she said, looking through the top drawer. “this is fun. all of it. i shoved you into him, don’t take it so seriously.”

“he seems so nice.”

she shrugged, “just ask all the important questions.”

“like?”

“how many inches,” she stuck out her tongue, teasing. you just shoved your head further into your pillow. “okay, sorry for being freaky, i know. but you know- what he likes, dislikes, ask him about family and maybe see how he talks about his mom. see if he has sisters. oh- and ask about his friend.”

you rolled your eyes, “you and his friend.”

“can’t hurt. but those questions and-“ she tossed you a pair of lacy black underwear, “- see if you still like him after that. goodnight kiss, more than that…”

“i don’t know about casual sex,” you sighed.

“that’s totally okay, but just keep in mind how disappointed you were committing to those other gross ‘poles’.” she said. “this way, if he turns out to be bad, you won’t have to worry about it down the road in terms of the mess.”

you thought it over. were you really at this point? you were a romantic, you wanted the good, soft things that came with romance, and wanted it decently dirty. enough for you. were you really looking to stoop this low? over sex? it was conflicting, wanting both. it kind of seemed impossible in this day and age. “if it goes that way then… yeah.” you nod, slowly. “then it depends on what kind of guy he is.”

“yeah,” she agreed. “if that’s what you’re okay with.”

“do you have an extra razor?”

“i just bought apple cinnamon aftershave.”

“i love you.”

several hours later, a forty minute shower included, hair dry and sitting in a way you were kind of proud of, you were outside the pizza place. you didn’t wear anything too crazy, kept it comfortable with a sweater and skirt, but that pretty underwear underneath for options. your heart was beating hard, the excitement settling in your fingertips.

it was 7:57 when he showed up, hands in his pockets, grin on his face. somehow you let it slip your mind just how gorgeous he was. it kind of hit you like a shock that he was here to see you. he stepped over to you, “hi. how are you?”

“i’m good,” you smiled. “how are you?”

“hungry,” he said, scrunching his nose a little. “so, are we eating here or did you want to walk around?”

and you and art got your pizza slices and walked around the campus streets, just talking. you pretended you hadn’t seen every photo on his facebook and he told you about tennis, what he’s in school for, his scholarship, his friends- but only after you asked him. everything else was being asked about you. he asked about your classes, how you like them, then asked about your hobbies. you told him them all and he had something to say about each one, making connections to his mom or something he heard or read in book or show about said hobby.

he was good at the back and forth stuff, so good, that you talked right through the first half of your movie before you realized.

“ooh, we are late to our movie,” you said, giggling, covering your smile. he grinned, dimples on display, then lowered his head, laughing. “we can try? see if they’ll let us in?”

“sure,” he agreed, looking back up at you. he breathed out, eyes settling on yours. and for a second you thought maybe he’d kiss you. and that’s when you realized that you actually, really wanted him to. but like he was nervous, his grin got a little crooked and his eyelashes fluttered, unable to hold your gaze. “you coming?”

you blinked away the tension and hopped into a step, following. the theatre let you in late, the theatre was pretty much empty anyway. art didn’t seem much like the type to talk during movies, but he kept coming up with ideas as to what the context of certain things were with half the movie unknown and you couldn’t help but giggle.

“do you think he looks like jeff buckley?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at the screen.

“yes and no,” you replied. “it’s so weird to see him not being dan humphrey.”

“gossip girl,” he chuckled, his face falling into his palm, then wagging his pointer finger as he spoke downwards, “i was trying to figure out where i knew him from.”

you couldn’t help but laugh out loud, “you know gossip girl?”

he didn’t look at you, just rubbed his eye, “yeah,” he grinned sheepishly. “my mom and aunt love it, it’s all they talk about when she’s over.”

“wow,” you grinned, sort of overwhelmed by how perfect he was. there had to be some sort of catch, some sort of flaw. you just knew it had to be hidden somewhere in the obvious. “so are you like a serena guy or a blair guy?”

he shook his head, “blair, but only blair when she’s with dan. her best version so far.”

“you’re kidding,” you gasped, having the sudden urge to reach for his hand. instead you grabbed the arm rest. he grinned like it was all embarrassing. “i said that to bella-“ he knew who bella was now, “- and she acted like i was crazy. i love them as a couple.”

“yeah?”

your breath caught, “yeah.”

when the movie ended and the people cleared, it was late. almost midnight. the streets were dry, the air warm, but the breeze cool. it blew your hair around your face as you walked out the theatre doors. he held them for you. the rectangular bulbed sign buzzed above you, a dim, low yellow after the students living across the street complained about the brightness. it was nice. soft.

and his hands were in his pockets, and you were talking about ‘last goodbye’, versus ‘grace’, turning just around the edge of the theatre, right under that sign. you leaned against the wall. “they’re equal to me, different reasons.” you said. he matched you, leaning opposite. “last goodbye for bittersweet, grace for sad and… loud about it.”

“that’s exactly it, yeah,” he chuckled, looking up at you. and you couldn’t take it anymore. you looked back, meeting his eyes, and smiling. he ran a hand over his face, smiling down at his feet. “i-“ he started, then looked back up. “you’re really pretty.”

your heart jumped, “what, you just noticed now?”

“no,” he replied quickly, his smile growing more shy by the second.

“i’m kidding. thank you. so are you.” you said, stepping just a little closer. his back pressed against the wall, leaving you at his side, he then turned back like it was a bad move. you giggled, “are you okay?”

he chuckled, “noooo,” he admit, rocking back and forth on his heels a little. “i’m… short-circuiting a bit-“ he cleared his throat, sincere, “i really like you.”

your heart pounded and you could hear your blood in your ears, but you stepped closer, just by a little more. he didn’t step back. didn’t move anywhere else. you couldn’t hide how wide your smile was in return. “really?”

“i want to see you again- will i see you again?”

“i’d like tha-“

“can-“ you weren’t even finished with the sentence when he spoke over you for the first time the entire evening. he was an amazing listener- he was also very open, you knew the answer to every important question. you couldn’t finish what you were saying- “sorry- you were talking-“

“no it’s fine, what were you-“

“can i kiss you?”

you didn’t even say yes, you kissed him. arms around his neck, pulling him in, kissing him. and he kissed you back. no falter, no learning, no trying to match your pace, he just kissed you. and it was perfect.

he was good. it would be alarming if he wasn’t so pretty- you assumed he’d had his fair share of practice, but none of it mattered, he was kissing you back. two hands on your waist, sliding down to your hips, pulling you close.

his kiss wasn’t urgent or hot, it was somehow just easy, pleasant, and subtly addictive that sent you both spinning against the wall in that alleyway beside the cinema. the sensory was unlike anything you’d ever felt in any first kiss. it wasn’t too cold, too warm, he didn’t smell bad, didn’t taste bad either, it wasn’t too open or painfully private. it was kind of just… the best.

the push and pull of it was perfect, pressing against, swaying for moments off the wall, and then gently, slowly, mutually, you pulled away. and he grinned, wide, chuckling low.

you tucked your hair behind your ears, “i really like you too.”

“wow.” he breathed. “can i-“ he cupped your face and kissed you again. you felt the warmth of it spread over you again, like a bath drawn, bubbly. and you couldn’t help it, kissing him back, that the laughter escaped between your lips and his. but you kissed him. and he kissed you, and then he laughed.

“i’m sorry-“

“no, don’t be sorry,” you breathed, giggling still. “i’ve never been kissed like that ever in my life-“

“yeah?” his face lit up a little. he was a little too aware of his own tells. “no?”

“no,” you echoed. “i’m free thursday night? but now, if you wanted to come back to my dorm, my roommate is out-“ a test. maybe not.

he rubbed his eye again and chuckled a little, “i’m not-um - i don’t expect anything from you… like that.” and he chose his fate.

you were tinged by embarrassment, but he was so kind about it, it made it easy to swallow. “and that’s okay.” you nodded with a gentle smile. “will i see you thursday?”

“can i kiss you again?”

“thursday?”

“no, now,” he replied. and you nodded, so he stepped again, grabbed you gently by your jaw, and kissed you, just a few more times. a few more completely wonderful, floating-on-air, dizzying kisses.

and then he walked you back to your dorm, one hand in his pocket and the other bumping yours until you let it intertwine. only for three minutes, talking the whole way.

“goodnight, arthur.” you said, cheekily.

like he was awestruck, “goodnight.” and you only kissed him on the cheek then.

bella was told about the entire thing while she and you shared sliced up salami and goat cheese. she listened, wide-eyed, then howled, then gasped, then shrieked and got up and jumped and then shook you, and then stood on a stepping stool for you to re-enact how he kissed you the second time, because she just HAD to understand. you couldn’t stop thinking about him. you made sure to thank bella for the shove before you both drifted off.

you thought about it the whole next day, along with the thought about his fatal flaw. there had to be something. maybe it was that he’s actually really bad, like a serial killer or something and that’s why he’s so perfect, likes all the things you like and is such a good kisser… it’s insane. the places your mind goes to try and wrap your head around the fact maybe there’s someone right for you. it’s almost too good to be true.

you and bella wrote a list. it’s pretty bad. but soon enough, he’s at your door and you’re smiling like there isn’t a chalkboard with his name on it behind you. “hi.”

“hey.”

he was wearing a blue-green shirt, sleeves rolled up the elbow, and jeans. “do you want… to come down to the court with me?” he held up two rackets and a small bouquet of purple flowers.

you bite your lip, shaking your head. he’s so sweet. too sweet. “i am the worst you will probably ever see.”

“my pitch is that we get food first. your choice, i pay.”

“where did you come from?” you giggled. and then you spend the hours of 3pm to 12pm talking, laughing, going out to eat. it was nice, and you’d yet to kiss once this time. you didn’t want to admit you were thinking about it. wanting him to. you hoped he could read your mind.

it was midnight when you actually made it to the court. the lights were on overhead, illuminating the court, but leaving everything surrounding plunged in darkness and far off lights. it started easy, hitting the ball back and forth. but you were so bad he had to move you onto his side of the net to practice the basics.

“okay, i feel like this is your dealbreaker and i’m failing miserably,” you sighed, laughing. “do you like a girl who can play tennis?”

“yes, but the one i currently… like… isn’t the best i’ve ever seen. not the worst, either.”

“so, I’m not going pro?” you asked, stepping closer to him. you looked at him the way you did, always before he looked away, nervous and amused.

“not yet,” he nodded, tossing his racket down. “with practice, maybe?”

“oh, i need lessons,” you tsked, putting your racket down and leaning against the net pole. “you’re really good.”

“it’s like eighteen years of playing that’s gotten me where i am. not your fault. and you’re better than your first swing, so that’s… progress?” he smiled his lively, crooked grin. you looked over his face, features lit only by the big lights overhead. the overwhelming urge to kiss him came over you again. it was a little confusing, maybe, that you’d been hanging out for about nine hours and he hadn’t so much as tried to kiss you, but the other night it was so much… more. you wondered if maybe this was his flaw.

“i really want to kiss you,” he admitted, like he read your mind. one of his arms was folded over his chest, his other elbow resting against it, he was fidgeting with his lower lip. you couldn’t help that your face softened in a slight surprise and maybe gave away just how eager you’d been to kiss him. “can i kiss you?”

“in exchange for another tennis lesson, maybe?”

“sounds fair,” he nodded, stepping closer. his ears were pink, flushed the same as his upper cheeks. he was nervous still. gently, his hands found your waist, and then he closed the space between you. you giggled into it, quickly silenced by the way he pressed his lips to yours. it was sweet- no tongue, no anything. and he pushed just slightly against you, pulling you close, and with the net behind you, you both did a good little flip, right onto the other side.

you shrieked and giggled as you both toppled right over it. he lay on his back, winded, and you were tangled mostly in the little net by your shoe. you pulled it free and collapsed the rest of the way. he just started laughing, hand on his chest, laughing up into the midnight air.

and so did you, laying next to him, rolling over just a little, propping yourself up on your elbow. he grinned, turned his head to you just a little, and you kissed him. his hand immediately met the back of your head, cradling and gentle, but the kiss wasn’t anything like that at all. you really liked him, really, to the point where kissing him seemed like the only action your brain would let you do.

this kiss was different- more. maybe because you kissed him, hard- but he adapted to it like it was nothing, one hand in your hair, the other pulling you closer, the way it did every time he kissed you. his pace matched yours, and both hands came down to your hips when you crawled over him right there on the court.

his hands travelled your back, waist, then lower, over your ass. they didn’t stay there long, like he wanted you to know what was appreciated, but he didn’t grab or hold. you straddled his waist, he welcomed it, but cautiously, almost.

his hands pushed you gently against him, then he inhaled sharply, and the kiss stopped. “are you okay? did you land weird?”

“no, sorry-“ he said, huffing. “no, i want to kiss you, but i- um-“ he was pinker in the cheeks, his ears red. you moved off of him out of respect, lightly, keeping your smile on your face. you weren’t upset. “i’m so sorry- i don’t ever-“

“it’s really okay,” you nodded. he was shy in moments, witty in others, smart and well-rounded in others. “is it the court?”

he shook his head, “no- i actually- sorry. i don’t date casually, i don’t do things like this, casually, i don’t want to do too much.”

you nodded, understanding him all too well, but the protecting yourself from committing to bad sex part was throwing itself out the window. “we can just kiss, i’m okay with not doing anything if you don’t want to.”

“not even that i don’t want to,” he chuckled, then covered his face out of embarrassment. “i want to date you. i want to go out with you. not saying now, but- you’re really- i really like you and i mean it when i say that.”

“good, me too,” you smiled, leaning forward. his lips parted like you were going to kiss him, eyes darting between your lips and eyes. soft. like they were intimidating, but not in any sense that ever made him look weak. “i really like you too.”

he kissed you again and pulled you back over him, but his hands still didn’t grab or touch or anything too rough. you just made out until your phone buzzed with a call from bella, who was reasonably worried about why you weren’t home yet at 1:30am.

his lips were just a little puffy, you noticed, when he kissed you goodnight at your door. you pressed your fingertips to your lips before spinning inside, to bella who had of course, waited to hear every detail. the debrief took until 3:30am, before you both crashed.

you saw him again almost every day that week. you learned more about him, about his life, even came to watch him practice. he was good, really good when you weren’t his horrible opponent. and then afterward, he would climb the benches and come sit with you while he cooled down. -and he would joke about kissing you, but wouldn’t until he properly showered. you went back to the theatre and saw something else, went out twice for chinese, and every night would end up with that same perfect kissing. nothing more. nothing less. hands roaming your skin, never grabbing or even staying anywhere that mattered very long. you liked that he didn’t immediately want sex like the other ‘boyfriends’, it made it known that he liked your company, above all else.

but you’d technically made it official four days ago, three weeks into seeing each other and still, nothing changed. not that you expected it to, but so far he hadn’t so much as squeezed your chest. you’d asked if he was religious over dinner one day, and he said no, so maybe it was just a personal thing. part of you wondered if maybe this was his flaw?

“he’s gay.” bella said, patting her thighs. “come on, his mom and aunt watch gossip girl? we should have seen through that.”

“he’s not gay,” you huffed, trying not to laugh. “i just don’t know if it’s me! i want a good balance of both and the other guys were all sex, no fun, and i thought he was going to be a balance-“

“yeah- i mean look at him,”

“exactly. he’s so gorgeous, i just- i can’t ask about it yet. it’s confusing. i’m confusing myself with all of it.”

“okay. well he likes you. and he likes kissing you and he’s a good kisser.” she started. you nodded. “but won’t touch you harder than a hand on your skin.”

“you make it sound like i’m feigning,” you said, knees to your chest. “i’m not! but you know.”

“you want to be touched more when you’re kissed. want to feel desired, that’s not a bad thing. he can be a good kisser and still not be giving you what you like, it’s a matter of preference,” she assured you. “not even that you’re feigning, you just want. that’s not a crime.”

you nodded again, smiling a little. it made sense. you felt bad if this was art’s case, because he was genuinely so sweet, you didn’t want any of your desire to taint or pressure or ruin what you had. finding him had been unexpected and such an amazing whirlwind. “okay.”

your computer pinged, you looked over, then slid off the bed to go see. it was art.

art: can’t get u out of my head today

art: skipping practice, are you free?

you: all yours, where?

art: my dorm, brian is out :)

you: be over in 10!!!

art: see you soon :)))(

art: :)))))))))***

“how many times have you been over there?” bella asked, over your shoulder.

“twice,” you replied.

bella teased, “gonna make out? on the floor? or? wherever?”

“maybe. oh- hey-“ you got up and changed out of your pajama shirt, “his friend is coming into town in a week for his tournament game.”

her eyes went wide, “you’re fucking kidding.” she grabbed the bed. “is he single? what do we know? y/n!”

you laughed, going behind the divider to change. “single. and… i got him to accidentally show his friend your picture and he thinks you’re hot.” your hair was still wet from the shower you’d just finished.

bella gasped out loud, “you’re evil! my god! but- secured? you’re a genius, i love you.”

“not secured but he’s interested, so a leg up?”

“i could literally make out with you for art right now, boob-grabbing and everything, i love you!”

“shut up!” you laughed.

art opened the door like he was surprised to see you, but it was always followed by his smile. you held up a bag of chips. “i don’t even know if you like these, but bella got them thrown at her today at some chip-sponsored event.”

“a lot happens to her, hm?”

“she welcomes it,” you nod. he steps aside to let you in like it’s nothing, like you belong. “are you a fan of salt and vinegar?”

“i am,” he nodded, shutting the door behind him. you put the chips down on his desk, then sat on his bed.

“i missed you yesterday.”

“you do that a lot?” he asked, climbing onto his bed with you, kissing you just once before laying down.

“yeah, actually. should i see a doctor?”

“mmm, how’s it feeling now?”

“better,” you giggled. he turned your jaw, hand gentle tilting your chin up, and kissed you softly. you hated that your stomach flipped and burned with some sort of passion. “even better.” you said, mumbling into the next kiss. he cupped your jaw, climbing over you to kiss you. you’d barely gotten in the door.

he kissed you, slow and soft and wide and gentle, like each kiss was to ease your mouth open, then kiss it, repeat. and then his hand trailed from your jaw to your neck, then over your chest, down to your waist. the same as always. wonderful, perfect, your body flushing at his touch, still. you wondered if maybe you should bring the topic up, the one you and bella were discussing, maybe just to scope things out.

you maybe thought in gaps between kisses you could mutter something small, a question, but he kissed you and you kept forgetting. and his fingertips dug into your hips and you forgot almost entirely, because he was grabbing. you sighed a little heavier than you meant to and in return, he kissed you harder, deeper.

your hands came up to tangle in his curls as his hands trailed down your waist. you pulled away, just slightly, and met his eyes. he looked back, his smile showing through his eyes. he sighed deeply, chest rising and falling. you wanted him so…. badly.

you kissed him once more. small, sweet. and he kissed you harder than that. it was like he heard your prayers, his hand then finding the end of your sweater and dipping under. like you were the most fragile thing, his hand sprawled the bare of your lower back. it only lasted a second before he kissed you harder, holding you closer, tighter.

gently, his knee parted yours, sliding between them, then between your thighs. this was different. new. you let it happen, not sure if he was even aware of it- testing, trying to understand what he needs. and so you slid a hand over his waist, toward the waist of his jeans, testing…

a sharp inhale came on his part, enough for you to notice. you felt guilty, almost, for a moment. caught. “i’m sorry, too much?” it was unexpected from him.

“no, no, i’m sorry,” he replied, kissing you between words. “i should probably-“ he sat up a little, lips pleasantly puffy from the kissing. he kissed you once more. “okay.”

“i’m listening.” you told him. “did i do something?”

he looked at his hands, then at you, seemingly embarrassed. he took a deep inhale, didn’t delay it at all, and looked at you. “i’m a virgin.”

you didn’t mean to giggle, but he meant it and you knew that. “oh. oh.”

“yeah.” he nodded. “i just never… i mean… i don’t know how to explain it, it just never happened.”

“so you don’t- you haven’t-“

“i’ve been… touched before.” he admit. “just not ever… fully. and it’s probably worse i’ve never… touched…”

you felt your cheeks pink slightly. the catch.

granted, it wasn’t the worst catch in the world. it was just A catch. all of this perfect relationship chemistry was masking the fact that he, somehow… was a virgin. and apparently, had never touched a woman. “i keep wanting you, but i have to be so honest, i have no idea what i’m doing. you’re so- i really like you, i don’t want you to think i’m bad at this.”

your heart squeezed at his words, but he smiled at you the whole sentence, bashfully. it probably took a lot to admit that. you blinked a few times, surprised, but also learning. “thank you for being honest with me.” you grinned. “we just got together, though, so there’s no need to rush.”

“okay, well, there’s some need,” he said, half-joking. half not. “i don’t know, i know it all in theory but i’ve never actually… and when i say need, it’s not even about me, it’s more about… you.” he let his palm come up and hide half his face, his nose scrunching like a cringe. it was actually one of the hottest things he could say.

“i mean, you’ve been my boyfriend a few days, i think that’s fair,” you leaned forward a little. his hand met your waist and prompted you forward, so you went all the way to perch on his lap. your arms wrapped around his neck. “i think about it, if that’s fair?”

“i’ve been-“ he swallowed, looking up at you, throat dry. “yeah, me too.”

he seemed to melt under you already. his hands slid under your sweater, over your torso, “is this okay?”

“it’s all okay,” you nodded. “but- if you want to learn, maybe we can. we can try. you can try. if you’re comfortable.”

his eyes widened, “yeah, are you comfortable with it?”

“mhm,” you grinned, kissing him softly. he kissed back the same. you could feel how hard he was under you as you slowly pushed down against him. you wondered if he was sensitive like a virgin too, then blinked the thought away.

another question crossed your mind, then found its answer as art sighed, audibly, into your mouth. he did sound like a virgin. “we don’t have to go all the way.” you tell him. “not today. you just tell me what you want to try and we can. no judgement.”

“head,” he replied, a little anxious. “you, not me.”

“why not you?” you smiled. “it’s not all about me. it actually might-“ you shimmied down his lap, then down further until you were sitting on his knees. “-help you not be so nervous about messing it up. but you won’t. can’t.”

he looked down at you like you were about to kill him, but in a way where it kept soft, sweet in his gaze. “have you been with- um- a lot of guys? or?”

you shook your head, “only twice. none of the before stuff was really done both ways, so it’d be new for me too. you could figure out what you like and what i like.” you reasoned. you really liked him. this catch was one you could form into something else. plus, you’d be lying if you said the idea of being his first wasn’t hot. he looked at you like you were going to ruin him.

“i just want to do what you want me to,” he admit. he kept trapping himself in sentences more suggestive than he means them. he knows it. “if that makes sense. i think it turns me on more- if i think about the… giving part.” he struggled as you undid the top button on his jeans. “i…”

“this is okay?”

“yes,” he breathed before you finished asking. he squirmed a little, grabbing the headboard behind him once, before trying to settle comfortably above you, propped up by the pillows. already. wow. “you don’t have to, i didn’t-“

“i want to,”

“okay.” he looked at you, accepting. and he raised his hips when you finished pulling down his zipper in a way that was so pathetic you kind of wished bella was there to see it. you’d have to show her later. he helped you push them down. his boxers were the loose kind, the flannel type, but immediately tented without the jeans to keep it down.

“jesus,” he sighed, covering his eyes when it genuinely sprung up. you giggled, but took a second to see just how tall it stood. he was a virgin… you would be the first girl to ever feel all of that- he was pretty average, but on the long side, compared to what you’d seen before. “i’m sorry.”

“no, it’s kind of impressive,” you giggled, your handily gently wrapping around it. he braced again, eyes closing, pillow next to him crinkled in his closed fist. “you’ll tell me if you don’t like something? don’t want something?”

“mhm,” he nodded. “this is-“

he was sensitive. you were barely touching him. you reached up a little, fingers rimming his boxers. you wanted him. wanted to hear that noise he made before.

you slowly pulled and he allowed, raising his hips again, and it was on display for you now, bare and kind of perfect, aesthetically. flesh, light, and pink around the tip. he was so so pretty. you couldn’t help but kiss the tip, just gently. to test the waters.

you felt his muscles contract, felt his eyes on you. he looked fearful, but the way a deer entranced by headlights does. he nodded, just slightly, maybe even subconsciously, so you gently kissed again, your hand curling around the base. you could feel him shift, grasp, and a small sound left his lips, a whimper or maybe something closer to a whistle between his teeth, accidental. slowly, you parted your lips and allowed the slick tip of his dick to glaze over your tongue as you wrapped your mouth around him.

you heard him exhale hard, gasp, and moan quietly all in sequence. “fuck- fuck-“ he whispered, hips bucking just slightly. “i’m sorry-“

you giggled, hummed, and he moaned again, a little louder. it was so pretty. you commit the sound to memory, rising and sinking and humming. you weren’t the best at this, so it was nice to know he was enjoying it. “you’re so- good at this- i-“

you didn’t stop, head bobbing gently. he was smooth, slippery, perfect. he leaked out the head, streaking your tongue as you went. “i can’t- you need to stop-“ he choked out. “i’m sorry, i can’t-“

it was an easy ask, you popped off of him, wiping your lower lip with your thumb. he looked at you, awestruck, like you were a goddess, his chest rising and falling heavily. “are you okay?”

“i didn’t want to come in your mouth-“ he admit. “not for the first time.” you couldn’t help but grin. sweetheart. “can i- can i try you? i’d like to. i’d like you to teach me. i don’t want to be the first-“

“you need to relax,” you smiled, kissing him. he melted. your hand reached back down to work him. he moaned into your mouth, not expecting your hand to return. “focus on me.”

he kissed your mouth, messily. your jaw, your neck, your ear. “you’re so beautiful.” he mumbled. “i’m close- you have to stop.”

you stopped. he was breathing hard. he covered his face, then pulled his boxers back over his throbbing dick, leaking wildly and still wet from your mouth. he shut his eyes, then breathed out through his nose. “my god, i’ve never-“ he grinned, you couldn’t help but grin with him. “i seem really pathetic, hm?”

“i kind of like it,” you shrugged. “feels like you like me.”

“i do like you,” he chuckled, nose pink and blushed. “i almost- god, i can’t even speak, i’m sorry. you’re good at all of-“ he broke, his blush taking over the tops of his cheeks again. “will you let me try? today? i want you to show me, i don’t know how else to ask.” his desperation slipped through. it occurred to you that all of his lack of touch might have just been restraint, while he worked up the courage and relationship enough to tell you about the whole virgin thing.

it was clear now, that all of it, his pent up attraction, was spilling out. leaking through his boxers, actually. you had never seen or even heard of someone being this physically attracted to another person and it was exhilarating to have it happen in front of your eyes. “you really want to?”

he nodded slowly, surely. “if it’s not too fast… or forward. but i rented gremlins from the dvd store, say the word and we can put that on, it’s already in the… thing.” he gestured vaguely. so flustered. “i’m sorry, you drive me crazy, and i am so hard.”

you giggled and kissed him without any lust in the mix. just a kiss to level him out. “you’re driving me crazy, what do you mean?” you laughed. it seemed to ground him a little. “you’re so pretty and im the first, so i’m a little nervous.”

his eyes softened, “no, there’s no reason to be. i’m hard thinking about it.”

you swallowed, kissing him again. “what if it’s not what you expect?”

“i don’t care, i just want to make you-“ he got ahead of himself. it was sweet, how he caught his own words in the making, and how they make him shy. “feel. good.”

“i want that too,” you nod, smirking. you kiss him once to be sweet, twice to reassure him, and a third time, your hands cupping his jaw again. he kisses you back like he’s been starved. he moans untouched, into it. you smile as you move, him pushing up onto his knees to kiss you, tilting your head back as he then turned and pushed you back against the bed.

“what can i do?” he whispered.

your hands tangled in his hair, gently directing his head toward your neck before pulling your sweater up over your head. the black, lacy lingerie you kept in your top drawer was always on when you saw art. waiting for this, maybe. he caught a glimpse and you watched him try to hide his grin in his hands.

“i think you should start- kissing me here.” you gestured to your chest. his eyes glanced down, though he willed them up at your face. “art, i’m yours.” you watched his eyes follow your breath in and out. “i’m not judging you.”

“i’m not judging you,” he breathed. “i-“ you kissed him. he kissed you back, tongue slipping over your lower lip. his hands travelled your body, your waist, hips, stomach, chest. his hand smoothed over the gentle black lace, slower than anything, as if trying understand how this was real and now his to touch. his hand gently pressed against the plush of it, squeezing softly. and then again, a little more firm, and then he kissed you harder.

you sighed, letting his mouth trail your neck, your collarbone. he was a good kisser, you knew that, you could imagine it. his hand cupped your left tit as he kissed down in between. his thumb gently swiped the top, sensation making it through the fabric. it was like fire lit between your legs, hot and vibrant. dizzying. it was unlike anything you’d ever felt in this way before. hot and wanted and he’d barely done a thing.

“is this okay?” he asked, mouth still against your skin. you looked down at him kissing and nipping his way over your chest. his fingers dipped under the fabric and pulled moved it down just a little. you hummed out a yes that he understood. and his lips moved over your nipple, hard and pointed against his breath. he kissed it like he’d kiss you. your chest pushed against his mouth and he welcomed it, kissing and nipping and sucking.

“you’re good at-“ you giggled, “that. this.”

“really?” he lifted his head. you kissed his nose. you nodded, he went back to it, switching tits, tucking the other one away nicely. you swore he’d have stayed there if you didn’t gently urge him.

“lower?” and he’d been waiting for the cue, kissing your chest again, the in-between, and then the place just under the wire of the bra. soft lips, lower, over your stomach. eager, the lower part, near your waistband.

“is this okay?” he asked again.

“yes.”

“i’m nervous,” he admit, resting his forehead against your stomach. you sighed heavily, running a hand through his curls. “if i’m really bad? shouldn’t i start with my hand?”

you cupped his face, “i am so… i promise you, i wont judge you. i’ve never been… nobody has ever done this for me, so we figure it out together.”

“okay,” he nodded. and he pulled gently at your shorts. “you tell me what you like?”

“i promise.”

your shorts made it off, and it took him a second to recalibrate after seeing you in the lacy black underwear. you giggled, tugging his curls just a little. your skin was aflame, burning, aching. you weren’t sure if he could see just how soaked you were through the black material, but you were more than aware.

he sighed, lowering himself properly. he planted a kiss to the inside of your thigh, to let you know where he was, and it made your skin crawl with goosebumps. it wasn’t too cold, not too warm, the air was thick with trust and an almost overwhelming mutual need. slowly, his fingers hooked the sides of your underwear and slowly slid them down your thighs. you lifted your legs to let him slide them down and off. your hands came up to hide, maybe just momentarily.

he was blushing again, rubbing his eye for a moment to hide it. you’d never wanted anything to happen so badly. “you tell me what to do and i’ll do it.” he said. “i want to make you feel good, i want to see if i can get you to-“ he stopped himself, chuckling nervously.

“please,” you sighed. welcoming, slightly nervous and desperate, closer to how he was feeling. the lights had been lowered, he could only really see your silhouette, edged gently with a pink-ish sort of light. your hands in his hair gently pulled him in. he let your legs part, gently going forward until he came to kiss right where it mattered.

it was soft. gentle pressure, momentary, warm. you shivered, hips gently pressing up against his mouth. he moaned, fully, and like desperate, his arms hooked your thighs, holding you in place. it made your head spin. you liked his hands, often stared at them, you never imagined this sort of action.

“you can-“ you breathed, “use your tongue or your lips, try to stay as close to the centre as-“

his tongue, hot, powerful, pressed heavy against you. a push, then a press, flat, and upward. his tongue barely brushed the clit at the top. you squirmed slightly. “oh my god, art-“

“is it okay?” he raised his head slightly.

you let out a breath, “yes, wow- i didn’t know it would feel like this, it’s warm…”

“oh, yeah?” his head went back, his grip tightened again. his tongue pressed again, lower, higher, higher, not high enough.

“mm- when you do that, can you move a little higher?”

“i’m sorry,” he muffled.

your fingers tightened, “no don’t be sor-“ he did exactly what you asked, perfectly, and it sent a jolt of pleasure through your nerves and body. “that’s- you have it.”

“that’s good?” he did it again. and then he moaned when you did. his tongue learned the pattern, where exactly your clit was. and then he was trying something new. it was a kiss at first, then a gentle suck. your muscles coiled. he was good, very good, too good. even alone, that kind of pleasure didn’t come until at least ten minutes in. he seemed to understand and learn quickly. “this is so-“

“don’t stop,” you breathed. it fuelled him, he groaned, warm, into you. you moaned, tugging him closer, pressing into you. his tongue discovered that pushing into you, where you were wettest, let him feel just how your muscles move around him. he rolled his hips gently against the bed. “don’t- s-stop.”

“fuck, you taste so good,” he said. “this is better than-“ his grip on your thighs tugged you closer against his face. he was about as close as a person could be, mouth moving messily, yet calculated, tongue dragging, flicking, wrapping. you were going to come. could you say that? did he want that? he moaned again.

“art- oh my god, oh my god-“

he couldn’t control how hard his hips pressed against the bed, grinding, trying to relieve something. you sighed, your head falling back, hands still tight in his curls. he pushed your legs up further, mouth everywhere, nose nudging and sometimes dipping. you covered your mouth, your eyes rolling back. how was he this good? it was intoxicating. your body was winding and he was addicted to coaxing out every symptom.

he was honed in on the taste of you. how your muscles contracted. the gentle gush that he kept having to lap up, how it slowly increased as he worked with his mouth. there wasn’t anything in the world that had ever compared to this. he wouldn’t stop, he didn’t want to. “still good?” he hummed.

“art, i’m so close, im so, so close, please keep going,” you pleaded, chest rising and falling fast and hard. he didn’t stop, he strengthened this tongue out, pushing, sucking, licking. “is it okay?”

“fuck- mhm- yes,” he nodded, swirling his tongue around your clit. your fingertips burned with the sensation. pending, climbing. it threatened to crash down on you, wipe you out. “please.” it came out broken, too focused on you to speak properly. he couldn’t believe this was real- he was grateful, counting his blessings as you contracted around his tongue again. only his mouth, god, it was only his mouth.

just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, it broke. all of it. you felt yourself flood at the release, felt how art rushed to lick up as much as he could, somehow in tune to how sensitive you were becoming as the feeling rushed through your veins. it was crashing, wild.

“oh my god, i-“ you sighed into a moan, final. “you’re amazing.”

he laughed, coming up from you, reaching for a nearby towel to wipe his face on. “yeah?” he didn’t even try to hide his blissed out delight. he handed you the towel. he didn’t even use his hands or any other tool. and he seemed proud. your chest rose and fell hard, your legs gently shook. how did he? you were in a form of shock, maybe, at just how good it all felt, as how easily he undid you.

“that was so good,” you told him. you cleaned up, then huffed again, disbelieving. talent? he was talented. no other word. he laid down beside you, pull the sheets over your lower half for your comfort, letting you collect yourself. “did you like it?”

“fuck, don’t even talk about it,” art groaned , eyes shut. somehow, he stayed bashful. attracted. “i can’t- it was so much more than i imagined- it was good?”

“so good,” you sighed, letting him move over you, kiss you. “mm- i’ve never had anyone make me come.”

“not even when you-“

“no.”

“wow. firsts, then.” he said, kissing your cheek, then ear. “and you’re my girlfriend now, hm?”

“seems so,” you smiled, kissing him on the corner of his mouth. he chased it, kissing you properly, then your nose, cheek, other cheek, jaw, neck, collarbone, lips again.

“does that mean i can try again?”

“now?” you paused.

“i’d like to try using my hand,” he whispered, hand finding your hip, squeezing the flesh of your upper thigh gently. “if you let me.” he kissed your shoulder.

“please,” you sighed, giggling. you kissed him in a way that was nearly an attack. he laughed loudly, cradling you into the kiss. “if you’re suspiciously good at this too, we might have to re-evaluate.” you teased.

“what if i am?”

“i’m praying you’re average or bad.”

“that makes me feel so much better,” he sighed, holding you, grabbing you, keeping you close, but still somehow being gentle in every way that mattered.

“just kiss me, arthur,” you giggled.

it all evened out. he liked you, wanted you in more ways than just the one or the other. satisfied the craving for intimacy in the way you needed it fulfilled. it wasn’t unwanted, not gross, you weren’t waiting for him to stop touching your left lip- you had your head tipped back and felt all of it. you mentally thanked bella, and made a mental list of everything you had to tell her when you saw her.

art was mediocre with his hands, and halfway through gave up and dove right back where he knew he had the talent. your hands curled back into his hair, your thighs shook, and best of all, he was still learning. he came, grinding against the mattress, at the same time your orgasm crashed down on you. shaking and perfectly timed, you got cleaned up and just as you were falling asleep- he wrapped his arms around you, kissed the crook of your neck, and whispered. “i wonder if bella knows i’m indebted.”

“for the book store shove?”

he chuckled, low. “you read minds now?”

“i’ll read it again.”

“go ahead.”

“gremlins.”

“you freak me out.” he joked. “- and ordering pizza.” you passed him his phone off of the windowsill, grinning.

to be continued…

requests open <3

taglist:

@y08h @theynothem @animalcrossingshameless @vinecstasy @reallycreativeusername @romnticist @lalalandofive @colorful-teaparty @senseofnewness @swetearss @ladystardust-thinks

[senseofnewness]

Just Between Friends

art donaldson x reader x patrick zweig

summary: the three of you, best friends, are up at a cottage for a bit. as the edibles you took kick in, playful conversation turns into playful banter, turns into a common ground realization. one that sets the tone for the rest of the night.

warnings: smut, obviously! lots of kissing. threesome. art x reader, patrick x reader, art x patrick. thigh riding. handjob, oral m!receiving. slight dom x dom x sub! attitude and tone. patrick fucks art. multiple orgasms. creampie. some fluff. implied romantic tension between reader and Art.

It was a warm Friday night, the breeze the perfect contrast to the mid- summer air. It was like any other Friday, where you usually ended up doing everything and nothing with your two best friends, Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig.

This particular Friday was calmer than most. The three of you lay on Patrick’s bed in the cottage you’d spent so many summers before, his uncle away on a fishing trip allowing you three to use it for a weekend. You’d each popped a badly-made, oily weed gummy. Supposed to be strong. You lay with your face to the ceiling, your head resting on Art’s stomach while your legs draped over Patrick’s thighs. Unconventional, but comfortable.

The light was warm-toned and dim, the atmosphere was quiet. There was something in the air, in the silence that Patrick now broke. “Who were your first kisses?” He asked. Silence. You smiled.

“Y/N,” Art answered, after a second, turning his head to gesture.

“Really?” Patrick said, moving a little bit toward you both so that your thighs now lay over his hips, readjusted.

You smiled to yourself, “Yeah. Grade seven, before he went off to MRTA.” The memory was sweet, but mostly an inside joke with Art. You were friends that way. “He was whining over all his friends having their first kisses so I… kissed him.”

“I didn’t whine,” Art replied sheepishly, relaying it back to himself, “But y’know, it wasn’t awkward the way it was supposed to be, it was kind of good.” He chuckled.

“That’s because I had experience in that field already.” You smiled wider, a playful confidence to your voice, turning your head back toward Patrick. “My first kiss was Johnny Brown at the beginning of grade eight. Art was at the end of grade eight.”

Patrick held his hands out flat to the air, “You’re saying Art here, THE Art Donaldson wasn’t kissed until the end of grade eight? He wasn’t getting babes his whole life?” Patrick was using the word ‘babe’ ironically (now), after a conversation you three had yesterday about things to call women.

You laughed and you heard Art let out a breath of mock-hurt, air passing through his lips, blowing the curls that rested on his forehead. You fought the full-set grin that threatened to spread up your face. “He was not getting babes his whole life. Are you calling me a babe?”

“Sure,” Art shrugged from where he was. You blew your hair out of your face. “What about you, Pat? Your first kiss?”

Patrick looked upward, “Do we get a first kiss for guys and girls, or is it just one?”

“Mmm- it’s whoever came first out of everyone,” you replied. “Ooh my girl first kiss, stop, that’s Alice Maybank.” You gasped, laughing.

Art, remembering the girl, laughed too. “Hellspawn.”

“So bad. Probably because she was a closeted twelve year old,” you theorized. “Does it count as a first kiss if it’s another gender?”

“Hell yeah,” Patrick replied as if it was common sense. Probably should’ve been. “I think there should be one for both, but a technical first.”

Art nodded in agreement slowly, eyes trained on the wood-panelled wall, lips pressed together in thought.

“Art’s realizing I was his first.” Patrick noted.

“Once.” Art rebutted, not truly all into discussing this matter. It wasn’t like it was bad or anything, just… fresh. And in front of you…

“Are you saying it meant nothing?” Patrick pretended to be offended, hitting himself in the chest and going limp. It seemed to break Art out of that protective little shell when you laughed at it.

Art reached over and grabbed Patrick’s arm in return, leaning into the bit. “It was everything to me. Come home, the kids miss you.”

“Oh, Donaldson…” Patrick pretended to swoon. You couldn’t breathe, you were laughing so hard. Your loss of breath worsened when the two continued the bit, both moving in for a kiss, but swerving last second. Soon all three of you were laughing pretty hard. Now that you thought about it, the edibles you three took earlier were probably kicking in. That explained the mad giggling.

Patrick tried to speak through his dying laugh, “My first kiss- was the summer before grade seven. Her name was Amber Wiley and she thought kissing was only tongue.”

“Yeah, I remember you saying that,” Art responded. “Reminds me of-“

“Penny and John.” Patrick finished with a knowing clap. The boys had a longtime joke about the couple most known at their tennis school for the most revolting PDA, you’d frankly heard more than enough. The mutual giggle filled the room again. Your body was starting to feel a bit airy.

You tried to breathe through it, “Oh that’s not fun,” your nose crinkled as you moved to lay between the men, your hand resting on Patrick’s chest for a moment before you sat up, just a little bit suddenly. Both boys sat up just because you did. “What about virginities?” You grinned.

“Oh fuck,” Patrick deadpanned. “Yikes. Y/N, you go first this time.” His smile couldn’t stay at bay, his dimples creeping up on him.

You chuckled, recalling it. “Jeff Lyonne. God, it was terrible, I broke up with him a few weeks after, before he tried it again. It was… mid-freshman year. One of my biggest regrets honestly.”

“That guy was a douche anyways.” Art snorted. “Not like I have a say, though. I lost mine to Sarah Greene.”

“No fucking way, which one?” Patrick actually sat up. “I lost mine to Sarah Greene.”

“I don’t know, blonde, kind of nice,” your eyes flickered between Patrick and Art. “Had this birthmark on her-“

“Left tit? Yeah, that’s her.”

Silence for a second. “You lost your virginities to the same girl and didn’t talk about it?” You asked, stifling a laugh. “Holy fuck.” There was a burning in the pit of your stomach. Odd. New. Familiar?

“When?” Patrick asked.

“Around the same time Y/N did. Mid-freshman year for me. We weren’t dating or anything either.”

“Jesus Christ,” Patrick laughed, putting his hands against his face. “That would be the same time she did me.” The same burning, stronger. Art sat up, so you took the cue to sit up as well. You sat cross-legged, taking in this information. “We fucked the same girl. We lied to Tashi for sure. How did we not talk about it?”

“I shut it out, honestly. I told you about the second girl, though.”

You tried to stop yourself from laughing. “I’ve never known you two to have the same taste aside from during the Tashi situation.” You felt Art’s hand loosely fall on your thigh. Casual. Like it was said before, there was something in the air that night. Art’s hand should not have made you feel the way you were beginning to feel. “That’s so crazy. I mean, the tennis academy is small but not that small. She was visiting?”

“Co-op games,” Patrick nodded. “Same girl same time period. Do you think it could have been the same day?”

“Definitely not, definitely not,” Art replied. “Would be funny if we fucked the same girl on the same day though.”

You looked at Art’s hand for a second, then at Patrick to see that he was looking at the same thing. Art’s hand on your thigh. Art’s fingertips pressed lightly into the pillow of your skin- just a little, and you watched Patrick’s lips part. It was almost in reaction… Your body rose higher.

It fell silent. All you could hear were the crickets outside. And in another beat, the air was hotter than it had been before.

You made eye contact with Art for a moment. Being friends for so long, there were boundaries, ones you knew. But tonight was different in an unspoken way. And he looked at your lips, eyelashes perfect as his eyes settled on your mouth. He looked soft, sweet, easy. You were all sitting so close, it was made easy. Or it was made hard to ignore.

Patrick had his eyes on Art, but he slowly moved his head first, then his gaze onto you, before smirking a little bit knowingly. He glanced back at Art, who was still very focused on you. The closeness. It dawned on them too. The slow hush of the edible was kicking in.

You moved a little closer, unnoticeable to Patrick’s eyes looking at Art, “Hey Pat,” you said, voice quiet. And the moment- the second he turned his head toward you, you grabbed the back of his head and you kissed him.

His lips were a little rough, but not in the way where you’d ever mind it. It took him only a moment to realize what was happening and kiss you back. Oh, he was good. Your hands travelled his neck, coming down to hold his jaw. His hands found your chest, your waist, strong, pulling you close to him.

Your other hand snuck down his chest, finding Art’s hand with ease, his fingertips digging deeper as he watched. Your fingers interlocked, then unlocked, your gentle pull luring him closer as your lips continued to lock with Patrick’s. It slowed naturally, your lower lip released from his teeth as you pulled away. It was only seconds before your lips met Art’s.

His lips were always soft. He was minty, but sweet, and his lips seemed to melt against yours. It was the easiest thing, but you felt it in your fingertips? You’d kissed Art a few times since your first kiss in grade eight- spin the bottle, drunk, truth or dare, bored- however, this kiss was different.

“Fuck,” you heard Patrick whisper from beside you. You smiled into the kiss with Art, mouths in sync, his hands gently cupping your face while your hands knotted in his t-shirt. Patrick was good, Art was better. Funny, you were just kissing all your best friends today.

And your best friends were doing the same.

Art pulled away this time, both boys not wasting a single second. Kissing, touching, pulling hair, clothes. You pushed your hair over your shoulders, watching them. So this is what’s happening now.

Patrick looked to you, your hand still holding a fistful of your own hair upon your head. Art looked a little dazed, kissing two people in the span of 80 seconds. “What are we doing?” He asked, looking between you and Patrick, expression soft. A little doe-eyed.

“Y/N?” Patrick breathed, a smirk at play on his upper lip, tugging, twitching. You could see in his eyes he seemed to know what was about to happen. Art looked at you, almost embarrassed, peeking through his eyelashes.

You let your hair fall as you said your words. “Fucking the same girl. On the same day.”

You watched both Art and Patrick react to your words as if they were physical. Patrick slumped down a little bit, smiling a small smile, and Art looked like if he didn’t hear those words in time, he might’ve ceased to exist, breathing out like he was saved by the bell. Your heart was beating out of your chest, determined. On fire.

Both reactions were positive- and so with force, you kissed Patrick again, harder, hard enough to push him onto his back again, letting yourself fall over him. His hands snaked around your waist and pulled your lower half against him, while your bent knees allowed for you to push against him where he wanted. He was already hard.

You pressed against him again, giggling as he groaned lightly into your mouth. It was satisfying, the sound of his approval, the feel of it underneath you. Hot, heavy, tongues allowing light dips, your head curling to tip his back.

He made a noise like a hum, breaking the kiss to breathe hard. You giggled again, trailing your hand down his chest as Art pulled you toward him. You happily followed his direction, kissing him again. It was soft, easy, yet starved. You rolled onto your side, kissing him as he kissed your mouth, then your jaw, then your neck… Trailing…

His gentle hand cupped your left breast, then softly traced down down your chest, your stomach. Art was a boob guy, this was a known fact. When you’d made out with him before this is exactly how it went except- he’d never taken off your sweater before. He pulled it up over your head and tossed it across the room, you swore your heart accelerated tenfold. The sound of the wool hitting the wall sent chills down your spine.

With a grin, Patrick filled the empty time by tilting Art’s head up, kissing him over your nearly-bare upper body.

You couldn’t believe this was happening, maybe it was the weed. This was kind of fun. But then again, you’d always had sexual tension, so it wasn’t any surprise that it was fun. Anyone who knew the three of you knew it was only a matter of time before one of you fucked the other. It just happened to be now. Together.

Patrick’s fingers found the hem of Art’s shirt and pulled it up, off. God, he was gorgeous, smooth and soft, gentle muscle definition. You tilted your head just slightly, watching as the boys kissed, tongues visible as they tried each other’s mouths. Art was so pretty like this… You could date Art… maybe. Huh. You knew exactly where this was going.

Patrick had Art by the back of his neck, holding him in a kiss that made you bite your lip. You had really hot best friends, there wasn’t any other way to put it. And lucky you, Art pulled away to put his focus back on your chest. He kissed your collarbone, his hand grazing over your chest with gentle fingers. You inhaled sharply, reacting, taking each movement in with your own motion. It was easy to melt into, but you were met with Patrick’s lips, hungry. He kept you busy while Art kissed down onto your breasts, nipping a little to make you hum. This was happening.

It was silent, aside from small breaths and the moving of the comforter beneath you all. You lightly pulled Patrick’s hair and in return, his lips also strayed from your mouth, leaving along with his body, leaving that gap. Unwanted. Unneeded. You grabbed him by his belt before he could go any further and while Art kissed down to your stomach, you began to undo Patrick’s buckle.

Belt open, you undid his zipper with a blind eye as you pulled Art up to your mouth again by his hair. He moaned into your mouth as you pulled him over you, using both your hands to undo the loop of his jeans. Goosebumps spread your body at the sound. It was somewhere between a whine and a soft moan. He sounded so pretty, too pretty. His body pressed against yours, propped up on his arms. You could feel his bicep flexed as your hands travelled his body. The sounds he made when your leg wrapped around him played over and over in your head as Patrick pulled Art back to him. And you let the boys kiss again, both of them discarding their pants, leaving you the most dressed in the room. You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself.

They kissed until Patrick pushed Art onto his back. You didn’t think Art was all that into guys, but it was Patrick, so…

You took the time to take off your shorts, now equal to everyone else in a sense. Your whole body was hot, despite you complaining about the temperature and cold breeze through the open window not even thirty minutes ago. You couldn’t help but giggle softly.

Patrick then made the next move, and firmly cupped Art’s dick through his boxers. Casual, almost, but Art squeaked and fuck, that was enough to set both you and Patrick off. You slid your hand down overtop the material of your underwear, pressing lightly just to tide yourself over as the two of them went into a new, more clothing-less state of being.

Patrick already had Art’s dick in his hand, stroking up and down while he had his other hand on his own doing almost the same. You saw the opportunity. Art on his back, Patrick on his side you leaned over and looked Patrick in the eyes. “I’ve got this part.” You told him. There was fire in the way he looked at you. Pleased, almost, by the collaboration and he took his hand off of his own erection, entrusting you to the activity.

Art couldn’t help the noise he made watching you go down on Patrick. The second you swirled your tongue around, both sounds from Patrick and Art intensified. You liked that chain reaction. All these things you thought you’d never witness… not at the same time. Truthfully you really never thought about sucking Patrick off, he had a supernspecific type that he rarely let himself go out of. You were pleased to fall under that percent of women outside the bracket who he would let touch him this way. It was kind of funny.

Your head bobbed and he groaned loudly while Art moaned. A chain reaction, as every time you did something to Patrick a certain way, he’d react by gripping or jerking Art off tighter, harder. It was really only a matter of time before Art finished, Patrick following suit just a moment or two later. Both of them were breathing hard as you wiped your mouth, slyly sucking your fingers.

“Fuck,” Art groaned, propped up on his forearms, his head tilted downwards, his hair in his face. He was so gorgeous like this. Patrick’s hand rested on your thigh as they both tried to recover. This was mostly your doing, and you loved it.

You felt Patrick’s hand leave your thigh just a moment later ane he leaned over the bed to rustle with a bag of his.

You leaned over to Art, “You okay, pretty?” You asked. He was still regaining his breath.

He nodded slightly, pushing his hair out of his face to look at you with those eyes that looked a mixture of pleading and devilish wanting. He moved against the wall, just for better support. Patrick continued digging through his bag, taking his time- so you swung your leg over Art’s waist.

Your clothed cunt hit pressed against his now-sensitive tip and he took a sharp inhale. Like instinct, his hands found their spot around your waist. He looked up at you, half-confused, half lustful. “We’re going to fuck,” Art concluded, like the sentence was a foot on his chest. “The three of us.”

His hands gently pulled you down against him again. The fabric between made for friction and he tried his best to appear unaffected. You nodded. “Mhm.”

“Can you treat me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re going to fuck me.” He said, swallowing hard, eyes looking away like it’s almost something he’s too shy to say. That shift in both you and Patrick settled into a click. He looked over. “I want you to talk to me like that, and act-“ He doesn’t let himself say much more. You can feel his pulse hammering.

“I can do that.” You nodded again, slowly moving your hips back and forth. His fingertips dug into the flesh of your waist. You want to do that.What he says is cryptic, but his eyes made it clear as day, he wants to be talked to, wants to be given everything you would give to another prospective partner. He wants to have it all done to him. Patrick read the room like it’s a picture book.

“You don’t look so good,” you grinned, moving from grinding on his dick to sitting on his thigh. “What do you think, Pat?” You asked, looking over at Patrick over your shoulder.

“Far gone.” Patrick said, moving over, closer. “All you.”

“I was about to.” You grinned, turning back to Art. And you let it come naturally, “Pretty boy. Already gone?” The rumours about Art being a sex king at school were most definitely untrue. You wrapped your hand around his dick, gently, but firmly.

“Y/N,” Art said, tilting his head up to look at you where you were perched with his leg between yours. “Please.”

“Mmmm, no.” You replied, slowly moving your hand up and down his length. You felt your hair move over, away from your neck, Patrick’s gentle, bare fingers making way, lips meeting your neck and shoulder. Gentle kisses, but the teeth following were what made it so electrifying. It sent shivers down your body.

Your hand moved up and down, faster as you pushed against his thigh with your clothed core. Patrick’s hands travelled down your shoulder, onto your back to the clasp of your bra.

Art groaned, “Please.” He said again. And you let him go, but that’s not what he wanted. Patrick’s hands that replaced your bra were too much. Squeezing as you ground down on Art’s thigh. You moaned quietly as Art whined at loss of contact.

Patrick leaned over your shoulder again, “I think you should fuck our boy over here. He’s getting kind of desperate.”

“So desperate,” you echoed. The edible was making your head spin. You craved the friction as it slowed. Art looked at you with eyes that wanted you. And it only made sense after this long that you moved over him again. “You want me, Art?”

“So badly,” he replied, gazing up at you like you were a star.

“How long have you wanted me?” You asked, removing your underwear.

“Years.” He replied, a little too quickly. That was much longer than you’d thought. You watched him, eyes unsure of what to look at, overwhelmed. “Fuck, just please-“ And before he could finish speaking, you sank down onto him. He let out a moan that sent chills down your skin.

“Fuck,” said Patrick. You smiled, slowly raising yourself up and down on Art’s dick. Rising, sinking. Oh my god, he felt good. Thick, but not too much, filling you perfectly. Art grabbed the back of your thighs, holding on for what seemed to be dear life. You hummed a moan. “Waiting for this one, hm, Donaldson?”

“Fuck you,” Art said through his teeth, peering over at Patrick who was now stroking himself as he watched. You picked up pace and Art shut his eyes tight.

You shook your head, “What did you say? Sorry I can’t hear you through all the… moaning you’re doing.” You stifled your own sounds just to taunt him, giggling .

“Fuck you too,” Art said, trying to hide his slight smile.

“Other way around,” you said, bouncing harder, faster. Art was pink in the nose and cheeks, flushed and blushing, his hair falling in his face. That smile fell, lips parting.

“Jesus- fuck,” you heard Patrick beside you. Good to know the content wasn’t boring.

“Poor Art,” You said, breathing out through pursed lips to keep control of yourself. “Seems like we’re ganging up against you, hm?” You kissed his partially open mouth. He whined. “So sorry.” You added.

Patrick groaned loudly. You had to finish Art off before Patrick finished himself off. You sped up, bouncing faster. You pushed yourself against Art and he managed to kiss your bare chest. It faltered your bouncing as you bit your lip to stay quieter. You needed to keep going, you pushed yourself entirely onto Art as you bounced, taking him in full every time. He was just slightly oversized for you, making it easy to feel good on him.

He pushed through you every time, fingers grasping at you, breathing hard, moaning and whining and squeezing what he could. His eyes shut tight some moments, gazing over your face. His eyes flickered over your entire body the next, eyes trailing over where you were connecting, watching your hip muscles grind as you went. His hand found the place between your stomach and thigh, slipping between, feeling it open and close as you moved against him. On him.

And you felt him spill into you. No warning, no anything. But that’s what happened when you fucked someone so senseless. “God- you-“ he huffed- “That was-“ You pushed yourself up and down him a few more times before getting off of him entirely. And he grabbed at your waist, but you pressed your finger to his lips.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. Yes. You’re so-“ he breathed, unable to find the words, to catch his breath. His dick was pink, hard, wet, and slowly getting less hard as he came down. “Perfect. That was perfect.”

You planted a kiss on his open mouth, then once more when he was ready. And he gestured toward Patrick, “Think he needs you.” He grinned. You turned, smiling playfully.

“Need some help?” You asked breathlessly, to a breathless Patrick.

“Please,” he said, smug, gesturing to his dick like a seat. Asshole. He kissed you first, before guiding your body down onto him. “Fuck, you are perfect.” He groaned. You grinned, pulling his bottom lip with your teeth.

He was slightly bigger than Art in girth, taking you longer to adjust to than before. You couldn’t take all of it at first, keeping slow, drawn out. Art’s hand gently traced your upper thigh, where the muscle was tensing in order to raise yourself up and down on Patrick. You were aware of his eyes, settled kindly on you both, watching like art.

Patrick’s hand cupped your breast, squeezing gently as you pushed yourself up and down on him. It helped you sink down on him further. You moaned into his mouth and he seemed to like that, repeating that motion every other time you went up and down on him. A few seconds passed before without warning, Patrick pushed himself upward and you back, so that you landed flat on your back on the bed and he was over you.

“You’re sure it’s okay that we don’t have protection?” Patrick asked. He was the most sensible one here, you and Art were already somewhat lost to the craze and heat.

“I’m sure. Art’s already finished in me,” you replied, humming as Patrick slowly pushed back into you. “You can too if you want, I don’t mind.” You joked. He smiled.

You looked over at Art, still against the wall. He was deflated now, but he looked well-over fucked out. Too bad it wasn’t over. “You okay, Art?” Patrick asked, slowly moving in and out of you at the same time.

“Mmm yeah, m’fine,” he replied. “I’m gonna get water, I’m high and my throat is-“

“You’re not staying?” Patrick replied, casual as ever. “Sure you don’t mind us in here?”

“No, no, go ahead. Fuck, I don’t wanna get hard again yet,” Art chuckled quietly as he left Patrick's room for a brief bit. He was genuine. He meant it.

“Might need you back,” Patrick said.

“I’ll come back,” Art said, smiling, spinning, and walking out the door. He was totally gone. You laughed a little, but it turned into a moan as Patrick suddenly started thrusting into you, hard. Your hands found themselves around him, your eyes shut tight. The impact of skin on skin was suddenly very loud.

His nose pressed to yours, "You're the only one who hasn't finished tonight," he said, gruff, low.

You couldn't find the words to agree, you just tried to nod as the pleasure built somewhere inside of you, picking up almost from where Art had left you. An advance.

“I didn’t think I’d ever fuck you.” Patrick continued, breathing shallowly. “I thought you and Art definitely would, but not me.”

“It’s a friend thing,” you said, breathing out hard, then smiling. “Don’t say you don’t find me attractive though.”

“I definitely do, just not romantically.” He replied, moving a little faster, “You’re not ugly, you have nice tits, it’s not- fuck- horrible.”

You rolled your eyes and you almost rolled them back at the same time, “Thanks a-oh my god!” You couldn’t finish your own sentence. Patrick was good. “You aren’t so bad looking either.” You kept joking. The friendly banter as Patrick fucked you was well-needed and made it… fun. It was hot and fun and you never knew you needed that. Your pleasure climbed, you were almost there and Patrick started slowing. And Art came back.

“No, Patrick, don’t stop-“ you said. But he just kept getting slower and you tried to move your hips but the high was gone, unchaseable. You felt it pulse strong, then less, then less. “Fuck, you guys…” you groaned. “Come on.”

“Main event,” Patrick said. Art looked at you for a moment, eyes still lustful and hungry. “Art, come help me out.” Patrick ordered. He pulled Art in by his arm, kissing him roughly, hungrily. You stared at the ceiling, your hand migrating to help yourself but Patrick caught it before you could do anything.

“Hey-” he said, clicking his tongue. He looked back to Art. “You want to come back into this? I don’t think we’re done with you,” he said. And your dominant side slowly returned- suddenly you didn’t care about your orgasm anymore. Who knew playing with your best friends was so fulfilling?

Art shut his eyes and you watched his dick rise back to action, pressing at his boxers. “Fuck, I don’t know if I can-“

“You will,” you told him, getting a little closer. “But tell us no and we’ll stop right here.”

“I- I want to, I want- but I don’t know if I can handle it,” he swallowed hard. You got up onto your knees, understanding Patrick’s plan slowly through the look he gave you. You got closer to Art and his eyelids lowered as you held his face. You kissed him gently, slowly, softly, and leaned him forward until he was over you. He’d already finished twice, you were asking for a third.

You pulled away, “Make me feel good.” You told him. “I haven’t finished once tonight I want you to be the one to make me.”

He looked high and drunk. “I will- fuck- yes…”

“Come inside me again.” You permissed. He guided himself to your entrance and slowly pushed in. “You fill me so nicely, Art.” He slowly thrusted in and out. You moaned softly, fist tight around the curls at the back of his head. You knew things were about to get a lot crazier, like it hung in the air.

Patrick knew what he was doing. “Art,” he said, positioning himself behind Art as he fucked into you softly. Art ‘mmm’ed a response and you could feel Patrick’s smirk as if it was a tangible presence. “Can I fuck you?”

Art stopped for a second. “Me?” He almost sounded embarrassed, as if he hadn’t been jerked off twice by both you and Patrick and fucked by you in front of Patrick in the past hour.

“It’ll take a second to get used to, but it’s nothing new to the world, I promise. I just put a condom on, it’s extra lube.”

“New to me,” Art grumbled, slightly humiliated. You felt his dick pulse and twitch while he thought it over.

You whispered, “You don’t have to. It’s a lot. Whatever makes you feel good, comfortable.”

He looked over your face. You kissed his jaw once, gently. Art inhaled sharply, admitting. “Yes. Yeah. Okay.” He took another deep breath, slower this time. “We can try.”

Patrick clicked his tongue. “Alright then. Let’s see how you handle this.” Bodies mingle above you, Patrick’s hands finding a place on Art’s sides. It was slow, the process for them- And you knew exactly when Patrick was in by the way Art’s muscles tightened. And Art let out a very pained and pleasured moan, head falling against your chest. You grinned.

And it wasn’t Art that thrusted into you, it was Patrick thrusting into Art that started turning you to mush. Art was shaking, pink as ever and some movement was his own, but the rest was Patrick. He was weak. You moaned loudly, gripping Art’s hair with one hand and the bedsheets with the other. It mingled with Art’s, choked out and broken.

“Fuck-“ you sighed, chest heaving.

“It’s okay, Art?”

“I—“ he broke, eyes shut, eyelashes fluttering. “Yes. Yes.” Drool dripped from Art’s mouth onto your chest as he moaned and rocked into you. Not once in his life had he ever felt so good, so whole. “God,” he groaned loudly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck me-“ and he moaned openly, louder than before.

Patrick picked up the pace, panting at the top of the pile you three were practically in. Art kept himself up with one hand and he let the other slink down to rub circles on your clit. You almost screamed. In his state, fucked out and being fucked and actively ruined- he made an effort to make you feel better.

“Oh god,” you sighed. “God…” Your first orgasm, built up three times over was just around the corner. “Fuck!” You pulled Art’s hair hard, you were so close. And Patrick fucked Art harder than ever, adding movement, friction, and both you and Art came undone at the same time. He shot into you, more powerfully this time. Hot, heavy. And you cried out, letting the wave wash over you, take over all your senses.

But Patrick didn’t stop. He didn’t finish yet. So he kept fucking Art, so Art kept fucking you and it was too much for poor Art. His eyelids drooped, his eyes rolled back, and he moaned so loud you knew the neighbours heard. Drool pooled on your tits. Art was entirely gone, you watched as tears fell from his eyes. He was being fucked twice at the same time, his orgasm coming from two different places.

“Harder,” he groaned. Unexpected. You weren’t sure if it was the edible, but you could feel every little thing as pleasure, even his words. Patrick obliged, thrusting harder, stronger. “Fuck!” He groaned. You felt another orgasm kick into existence, building on itself. It would break you.

Art used the power he had to keep you going too. He moaned, you moaned, and you felt Patrick’s thrusts get sloppy. And like clockwork, you finished, then Art, and then Patrick. You felt Art gush again into you again, felt it as it pooled around the spot on the bed where you were.

Patrick hummed, slowly thrusting out the waves. Your whole body felt tingly. Full, even. You smiled, out of breath.

Patrick pulled out of Art and poor Art collapsed onto you, still inside. Patrick rolled onto the bed beside you. “That was fun.” He breathed.

“Mhm,” you agreed, dazed. “How are you feeling, Art?” The poor boy was done for. He lifted his thumb and this thumb only. Patrick grabbed a tissue and wiped off your chest, making sure to touch everywhere he could, on purpose. You looked at him slyly. He shrugged with a wink.

“How was it for you?” Patrick asked you quietly, a chuckle on his breath. “How are you feeling?

“Good, so good.” You grinned. “And I’m feeling full. Really full.” You touched the side of your stomach, as Art covered most of your body. Art pulled out, moving next to you. You felt the gush of the excess pour onto the bed. You winced. “Can we head into town for plan B tomorrow?” You joked, but it was probably needed.

“We’ll grab lunch too,” Patrick laughed, starting to pull the sheets off the bed. Your hand rubbed gently up and down Art’s upper arm, soothingly.

“Yeah.” You sighed. You were content. You looked over at Art, laying silently on his back. You rubbed up and down his arm. “I need help with him,” you followed. Then you nudged Art. “Hey, pretty, I need to get up.”

Art only made an ‘mmm’ sound. Patrick nudged him too. “I’m okay, I’m just- wow.” He sighed, eyes not even opening. “I never-“

“You did so well,” you smiled, kissing him on the forehead. “So good.”

“Took it so well,” Patrick agreed, ruffling Art’s hair. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Donaldson.”

He huffed, “I did.” And it took Patrick a second to piece together the joke. “Have it in me. Shut up.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. “Wow.” You sighed contently and rolled away- “Be right back.” You told them.

You fucked your best friends. That was your one thought as you went to the bathroom and rinsed yourself off and cleaned yourself out. You, high, let the absurdity of the situation sink in. You fucked your best friends, both of them… They fucked each other. You chuckled quietly- who knew that would happen?

When you were done and dressed, Patrick had already fixed himself and Art up. The bed had been remade with clean sheets. Art sat against the wall in just his boxers again and Patrick stayed shirtless, but put his pants back on- and he was fucking with the guitar in the corner.

“So do we speak of this again?” Art asked, looking at you.

“Only when we need to,” Patrick replied. “Keep this just between friends.”

You and Art chuckled. He looked at you a little differently now. Maybe it was because you couldn’t wash him off of you entirely. “You okay?” You asked him.

“Oh, yeah, I’m good. Very… good. I was just fucked dumb.” He answered, a little blunt, grinning. “By two different people- and one of them was a guy.” And Patrick laughed at that. “-Was good but I’m not doing that again…”

“Pleasure,” Patrick nodded. You leaned against the wall next to Art, and let your head fall on his shoulder comfortably. His hand moved just gently, coming to rest on your thigh. Not grab or anything, just rest. Your heart picked up a little. Hm. “It was good though.” Patrick admit. “Surprisingly. Unsurprisingly.”

“You’re welcome.” You replied, cheekily. “Let’s not do that again though.”

“Agreed.” Art and Patrick responded in unison. Different reasons. Art chuckled heartily.

“You guys are hot though. Just for the record.” Patrick added, pointing between the two of you again. “Especially together.”

You giggled, turning your head to look at Art, who was already looking down at you, a small, sheepish smile on his face. Patrick laughed. Art covered half his face, then looked away. His fingertips lightly pressed, one after the other, into the flesh of your thigh. He squeezed just once, in affirmation.

requests open <3

taglist: @theynothem @colorful-teaparty @vinecstasy @y08h @senseofnewness @swetearss @lalalandofive @ladystardust-thinks @reallycreativeusername @romnticist @animalcrossingshameless

[senseofnewness]

summary: new rochelle is watched over by father patrick: charismatic, trusted, adored by the town's youth. but when you, a troubled young woman, begin confessing desires you can barely name, he finds himself drawn to more than just your need for salvation.

warnings: 18+, masturbation, religious themes/blasphemy, morally dubious priest, specific age gap not specified but implied (patrick early 30s at most), power imbalance mentioned + alludes to patrick seeing himself as god, patrick jerking off while reader is unaware so tagging dubcon, reader confessing sins/praying gets this freak horny

notes: inspired by rewatching fleabag. hot priest. mmm. patrick hot priest. mmm x2. patrick hot fucked up priest. mmm x3. haven't been to church in like 4 years forgive me for anything inaccurate x

—

Patrick Zweig—or Father Patrick, as you know him—has long since noticed the way the young people of New Rochelle come to him. They do not only seek someone to represent their faith but something more elusive. Perhaps it is because he is younger than most priests. Not old and distant, but in his early thirties at most, with an easy smile and a voice that carries warmth and humour. Young enough to understand the pulse of the town's restless youth but old enough to carry the weight of the Lord's unyielding authority.

The people of the town gravitate towards him for the rare sense of understanding he offers. His sermons aren't just words; they feel like conversations, one between a sinner who has repented inviting them to do the same. It’s raw. Real. Sometimes he thinks they have come to trust him a little too much.

That must be what draws you to him. Conversations in town, staying after service to light candles just to catch a glimpse of him tidying away prayer books or emerging from the sacristy absent of his vestments. The real man behind those robes of faith. 

He’s come to enjoy your company. The shy smiles you offer when he lights a candle next to yours, or the way your pupils dilate when your lips part oh-so-willingly to accept communion from his giving hands. Yes, perhaps it’s not the company itself he likes, but rather the way you look at him as if you’re waiting for his absolution. Not God's. His.

And it comes eventually when you bump into him while walking home after a rough day. Bloodshot eyes, nose running and hands trembling when you choke out a "Father, I must confess. May I come by the Church tomorrow?"

He agrees. What kind of priest would he be to turn away a parishioner in need? He knows that's not why, of course. He enjoys the thrill of command in his sacred space. The silent dominance in your submission. It is a heady feeling to hold power not just as a priest, but as a man standing between your past and your hope for redemption.

"Tell me," he says. "What would you like me to do for you tonight?"

Your hands wring together nervously. The sight makes something stir within him. "I want to feel clean. I want to believe I'm not beyond saving."

"Then you must accept your truth and seek the path towards light. Not by denial, but by courage." He nods towards the booth. Your eyes dart over nervously, but you mimic his nod in wordless assent.

Neither of you speak as you settle in on opposite sides, curtain shut until the sacred and forbidden mingle only in the flickering candlelight beneath the red fabric. He can barely make out the blurry shape of your face through the lattice, and for a moment all he hears is his breathing mixing with your own.

It starts tame. Things like I pretended to be sick to get out of going to work or I've been slacking on my nightly prayers because I've been too lazy before bed. He wants to press, because clearly you did not beg to come to confession just for this. There must be something darker weighing on your soul.

But he forces himself to be patient, interjecting only when necessary to assure you that you are holding yourself accountable and therefore will be cleansed in the eyes of God. Until you utter the words:

"And... and sometimes I touch myself. To relieve the ache within me. I know it is wrong, and I want to stop. To repent."

Blood instantly rushes south at those words. His fingers dig in to his palms so hard it almost feels like his nails would rend his flesh. Such admissions are commonplace in the House of the Lord, and yet hearing you speak them does something to Patrick. His mind wanders to places it shouldn't. He conjures images of you writhing in the silence of your room while your hand seeks that sinful high. 

His nails dig into his skin and he has to inhale through his nose to keep his voice from cracking when he asks, "How often does this ache come upon you?"

It is so quiet in the booth that he can hear your shaky exhale. "Almost every night, Father."

His chest rises and falls heavier as he listens to your confession, his fingers trembling under the fabric of his green cassock. He shouldn't ask. This is your place to confess, but the question slips out anyways:

"And you said you... touch yourself?"

You hesitate. You trust him enough to give him everything. The shame, the fear, the secret part of your soul you dare not speak aloud to anyone else. Attraction. Desire. Truth you're terrified to claim. It reaches into places that Patrick has long since buried beneath years of study and prayer.

He's never had the need to wait so desperately for the next sentence to fall from someone's lips. He feels as though he's hanging on to every word, hand gripping his thigh as he waits for you to continue.

"Yes," you breathe, as if you're picturing it now, too.

"Just to relieve the ache, as you say," he clarifies. This is not something new for him. But you. He’s always been so fond of you and the way you looked up at him with those sweet eyes of yours… 

This is wrong. This is holy ground. He is supposed to guide you, not...

Not what? Want you? Use you? Revel in the control of your secrets?

He remembers his vows, the promise he made to serve God, to resist temptation, to be a vessel of mercy and purity. But in the quiet of the chapel, the lines blur. He holds the power here—the power to condemn or to forgive—and that knowledge intoxicates him like a dark prayer one would utter to a deity that was not his own God.

Patrick wonders, then, can he separate the man from the priest? Can he keep his desire buried beneath the robes and rituals? Or is he already lost in the same darkness you're confessing to, tangled in the very sins he is sworn to save you from?

"May I ask where this ache comes from? If only to understand what you are confessing to."

His heart beats faster. It's not just a spiritual power right now. It's deeply personal, because here you are, a young woman trembling with fear and shame, laying your soul bare behind the veil of confession. And to hold the key to your salvation, or your condemnation, is an all-consuming thing. One that leads his hand to slip down, down, down into the tight confines of his cassocks. Fumbling with buttons to push further until he reaches into his boxers and—

"Well, Father, I... I find myself drawn to… men. Ones that I should not be." Oh. Yes, there it is. A gasp that is not completely in disbelief came from the other side of the confessional as his fingers curl around himself. The quiet of the booth is broken only by your voice and the faint rustle of clothing from across the lattice as he listens intently.

Married men, his brain supplies. Or perhaps someone as unobtainable as him. "Attracted in a way I should not be. I don’t want to feel this way. It’s like a weight inside me, like a stain on my soul. I pray for it to go away, but the feelings grow stronger. I’m scared I’m lost."

"You are not lost," he rasps. "Those thoughts you have... they do not define you. You are a child of God." His breathing is heavy, punctuated by a low, almost choked off groan that he prays you do not acknowledge. "The church teaches us about sin, yes, but also about love and forgiveness. What matters is your heart’s honesty."

He hears you breathe out a shaky sigh. "But I feel so dirty. Like I’m breaking God’s law."

Dirty. Breaking. God. His hand tightens around his cock, stroking up-down, up-down, up-down as your words struggle to find clarity in his head. Dirty dirty dirty. Your voice is so soft, so tinged by despair. He cannot decide whether he wants to save you or ruin you further.

"Sometimes, what we fear most is what we must face." His lip catches between his teeth so hard he can taste the tangible rust of blood on his tongue. "And in confession, you find not judgement, but understanding."

"Do you understand me, Father?"

Yes. Oh, you have no idea how much he understands you. Does God hear the conflict in my heart as clearly as your confession? He wonders. I am a priest. I am meant to forgive. But who forgives me when my own sins are tangled in the shadows?

His other hand grips the wooden screen, nails digging fruitlessly into the timber-stained beech. You may not go to Hell for this, but he certainly will. A servant of God indulging in the sin of lust in his very House of Worship. Patrick's hand picks up faster at just the thought.

"You are not alone, my child." He forces the words out. It comes out strangled, a little too sharp, a crack in the steady command you're used to. His head falls forward until his forehead brushes the screen. Patrick holds onto his weakening composure with gritted teeth.

"The Devil whispers in all our ears, but it is up to us to reject his sinful promises."

"And have you? Rejected his sinful promises?"

In that moment, he wonders if this is a test. One he is failing and too far gone to fix. Patrick lets out a hoarse laugh and doesn’t even try to hide the desperation that seeps into it.

"You have no idea." His breath hitches. His mouth is dry. His eyes burn with something that feels like pain. His cock throbs with something that feels like divine pleasure. "The things I would do to—"

He chokes on his own words. No. You are the one confessing, not him. The room feels like it is spinning and his body thrums with a sinful ache he has not felt in years. The Father he is sworn to serve would not have him succumb to this selfish desire, and yet here he is. He closes his eyes, willing himself to focus on the heavy, burning wood beneath his hand, but all he can picture beneath the screen is you. On your knees, eyes wide, waiting for him to do something about this burning hunger.

"This is a house of prayer, my child." His voice is hoarse. Raw. "I urge you to do the same."

His hand is a blur in his trousers and it's harder and harder to keep his voice steady. "You have not yet given me your penance for these sins."

"So I must pray?"

"Yes. On your knees."

He hears you sink down on floor, forehead pressing into the opposite side of the screen as his. He can only imagine what he would be doing—tasting—if not for the wooden barrier. He feels dizzy. Light-headed.

The weight of the penance he imposes feels like a chain, one you're willing to accept. Because in that submission, you find a flicker of hope. Your hands clasp together in your lap.

"Repeat after me. Our Father—" His breath catches on the word father. He hears you say the words on the other side of the lattice.

"—Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name."

Patrick's hand picks up. Squeezing at the base of his thick length, dragging it up to smear himself in the essence of his own dark desire. He wonders if you can hear the slick slide of his hand around his cock with as much clarity as he does.

"Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread—"

Something that sounds like a moan pushes out from behind the screen. You pause.

"Father? Are you alright?"

"Yes." His answer is too fast, too breathy, but he commands nonetheless: "Keep going."

You continue without him. His eyes are screwed shut as he pumps himself, listening to your sweet voice sing to him like an angel. Temptation personified praying to the Lord who will condemn him for the gratification he is bringing himself right now.

And then, eventually:

"Amen."

That does it for him. Sudden and abrupt, the warmth of his sin spills into his hand, coating his fingers and the inside of his boxers. A pleasure so hot that it feels like it comes from the Seven Hells themselves, vision whiting out as a low groan forces its way out of his throat, raw and guttural.

The silence afterwards is stifling. He takes in ragged breaths that sound more like sobs. It leaves you kneeling in your guilt, heart pounding, unsure what to do next. What was that noise? Was Father Patrick crying? Or was it something else? You swallow thickly.

He slowly slides back onto the bench, running an unsteady hand through his dark hair. "Rise, child." He hears the scuffling of you pushing yourself up to your feet. "God has freed you from your sins. Go in peace."

Silence on the other side of the lattice, before you speak tentatively: "Thank you, Father." You do not thank God. You thank him directly. It should not make him feel as satisfied as it does.

Patrick does not move when he hears the curtain draw, or when your footsteps disappear down the nave. It is only after he hears the distant sound of you blessing yourself in the narthex and the door creaks shut behind you that he rises.

He steps out, inspecting the glistening of his hand in the dying sunlight that peeks through the clerestory. He is stained by guilt, and yet he makes no effort to scrub the evidence from his skin.

Because if he wants to feel clean, truly clean, he must be willing to feel dirty first.

—

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[senseofnewness]

guys recommend me a book 😔

anything wild and fucked up

you know my brand

[senseofnewness]

my co-worker telling me "you're not a very tactile person" because i groan every time he touches me

when in fact i get horny at the slightest touch YOU JUST DISGUST ME

[senseofnewness]

@lgbtqcreators​ creator meme (v2): [6/10] lgbtq+ characters — patrick zweig, challengers

[senseofnewness]

carrie & lowell 10y anniversary artrick fic release!!

⟢ this album means a lot to me as a person. these songs have had such a deep impact on my soul and seeing as it’s 10 years old today, i wanted to share it with everyone by incorporating something we all enjoy — artrick. i hope you all enjoy it and maybe give carrie and lowell a listen while you’re at it <3 ⟣

tracklist

⟢ death with dignity

⟢ should have known better

⟢ all of me wants all of you

⟢ drawn to the blood

⟢ eugene

⟢ fourth of july

⟢ the only thing

⟢ carrie & lowell

⟢ john my beloved

⟢ no shade in the shadow of the cross

⟢ blue bucket of gold

[senseofnewness]

just came out of a listening party for carrie & lowell and i'm fully broken 😭