tacobacoyeet

[tacobacoyeet]

bacon, egg, and cheese | patrick zweig x reader

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

You really shouldn't have gone to that party.

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

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

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

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

Then you pressed Patrick’s name.

He picked up on the second ring.

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

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

A soft pause.

“Where are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Patrick.

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

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

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

Patrick was already there.

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

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

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

You blinked. “You did?”

“I’m a man of many talents.”

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

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

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

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

You hesitated. “Kind of feel like dying.”

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

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

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

He shut the door before you could answer.

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

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

“You look pale.”

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

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

“What?” you mumbled, mouth full.

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

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

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

You swallowed a little too hard.

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

You nodded.

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

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

You hesitated, fingers brushing his as you took it.

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

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

You raised a brow. “Yours or mine?”

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

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

You didn’t answer.

You just looked at him.

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

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

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

His thumb brushed just beneath your lip.

You froze.

So did he.

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

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

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

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

His breath caught. Just barely.

“I’m not a kid,” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer.

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

Still, silence.

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

His grip was warm, strong, sure.

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

“I know,” he said.

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

His hand tightened around yours.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

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

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

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured.

You didn’t move.

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

Your heart was in your throat.

Instead, you whispered, “I can't.”

That was all it took.

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

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

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

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

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

He kissed you again. Longer this time. Deeper.

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

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

And then his hands were back on you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You moaned, hips jerking into his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m shocked it hasn’t exploded yet.”

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

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

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

“Absolutely,” he groaned.

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

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

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

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

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

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

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

You collapsed into each other, lungs on fire.

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

Worth it.

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

And the car finally went quiet again.

Everything buzzing. Everything perfect.

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

"Your dad’s gonna murder me."

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

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

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

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

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

"We were getting breakfast," you finished.

He smirked. "Damn good breakfast."

-----

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

[tacobacoyeet]

every time i see roger pinball pics my brain shuts off and i become some sort of horny monster

he’s so fucking hot here it makes me kind of dizzy like is this a symptom of psychological weakness or is this truly peak male performance

[tacobacoyeet]

YAY YAY YAY

welcome to... BLASTZACHILLES' 100 FOLLOWER CELEBRATION .ᐟ ★

one hundred and one people enjoy listening to me yap and take month long breaks between fics enough to follow me......... i love you all!!! whether we talk daily or you're just a lurker, this is a thank you to each and every one of you for following me and hanging around. it means more than you all could imagine.

to thank you all for this milestone, i've prepared a little game to play!! i want to thank my lovely @tacobacoyeet for the format of this post and some of the ideas, now let's play! everything will be under the tag #blastz's big 100 .ᐟ

following the guidelines of my rules, send in an ask (can be anon!) with an emoji prompt and the following (the examples are just examples and either things i've already done or plan to do! please don't resubmit them!)...

[📜] - give me a song, a prompt from this list, and a character or two (specify character x character or character x reader) and i'll write a small blurb! — e.g. prompt 67 with artrick character x character to one of your girls

[🎛️] - give me a song and a character/celebrity (max three) and i'll make a short edit! (if there's a specific part of the song you want, give me the timestamps!) — e.g. roger pinball to play that funky music

[🖼️] - give me a scenario and a character/fandom (or two) and i'll make a moodboard! — e.g. atp x bottoms

[🗣️] - ask or say anything to your heart's desire!

tags! @artstennisracket @grimsonandclover @artaussi @gibsongirrl @newrochellechallenger2019 @diyasgarden @asheepinfrance @voidsuites

[tacobacoyeet]

well yes!

anyways 70s!patrick picking you up off the side of the road in his cadillac. it was so hot outside and you looked like you were struggling to carry this huge suitcase all by yourself. and that’s totally the only reason he stopped in front of you. to help. not just because you had on the tiniest shorts he’s ever seen.

“hey.” he called out to you from the open passenger seat window.

“hi.”

you gave him the sweetest smile, and he almost felt bad for the dirty thoughts he was having about you.

“need a ride?” you contemplated the offer for a moment before ultimately giving in. “hm… sure!” patrick parked his car a few stops ahead then got out to grab your bag.

“i’m patrick by the way.” he said. you nodded introducing yourself. “so where are we headed.” he asked you, sliding back into the car. “la.” you answered. kicking off your shoes and throwing you feet up on his dashboard, before sinking into the passenger seat. “i’m gonna be a movie star.” you giggled. patrick hummed, his eyes closing in on the smooth skin of your thighs that had a slight sheen of sweat on them. “the new american dream.”

he let you take control of the radio switching from station to station singing to every single song.

“i just wanna say thank you for picking me up. been walking for forever.” you dropped your hand on his shoulder, playfully tugging at his ears. patrick flinched at the sudden action before chuckling. “you uh- look a long ways away from home. how’d you get so far out here.” you sighed. “well, i hitched from nevada with this trucker who ended up creeping me out, so at our last stop i jumped out with my bag and have been walking since. my legs are so sore.” you pouted.

patrick dropped one of his big hands on your thigh, and squeezed. moving his hand up and down massaging your leg.

you “subtly” clenched your thighs together whenever his hand got a little to high, and patrick had to hold back his smirk leaving his hand to just rest at the top of your inner thigh. “you know, i have a friend who’s a photographer for… magazines. i could totally get him to take you headshots, and introduce you to people.” patrick turned to look at you, catching how your face lit up.” “really?!”

patrick nodded and you huffed a laugh, jumping in your seat a little. “that’s amazing, oh my god. how could i ever repay you?”

“we’ll think of something.”

-

that something being you riding him outside his condo in palm springs.

“fuck, babe your body was made to be on film.” your t-shirt was lost somewhere in the car, and patrick had his rough hands groping at your exposed breast. your thighs were starting to ache again from moving up and down on his cock.

“you’re so big, can’t -fuck- can’t do it.” your movement flattered down into slow grinds. “uh uh.” patrick held you up by your waist, and started moving you again. “movie stars don’t quit do they? i’m already helping you out so much just be a good girl ride me. ok.”

he wasn’t exactly wrong. he was helping you out. giving you a ride, letting you stay with him, getting his friends to do your head shots.

“ok.”

you planted your hands on his clothed shoulder holding on tight as you started bouncing again. your whimpery moans sounded as sweet as the smile you gave him earlier looked.

“atta girl.” patrick locked his arms around your waist, and dropped his head in the crook of your neck. he bucked his hips up in fast thrust. “patrick!”

his hand found place on the back of your neck forcing you to keep eye contact with him. “god, your pussy feels amazing. so glad i picked you up.” you nodded along with his words. “would’ve been so lost without me, get picked by some creepy old man.” he says as if he isn’t one them.

“thankyouthankyouthankyousomuch” you mumbled.

“and you’re so fucking sweet.” he pushed back against the steering, the both of you jumping when the horn went off. laughs mixed in with your moans.

patrick let his hand travel down body his finger finding your clit, and he rubbed figure eights on you feeling your walls clench tighter around him. “gonna cum baby?” you nodded your head fast. your bodies moving in the same fast pace, from the outside anyone walking by would be able to tell what’s going on.

“oh god -fuck!- cumming!” you moans filled up the space along with the slapping of skin, and some you gushing all over patrick’s cock with light scream. “shit!” patrick’s rhythm got sloppy and he completely stilled inside of you, fill you up with thick ropes of cum.

the two of sat there in each other’s catching your breaths, your mixed orgasms dripping down onto patrick’s leather seats.

“the industry’s gonna love you.” you smiled at his comment threading your fingers through his hair not knowing you two were thinking about very different industries.

[tacobacoyeet]

[tacobacoyeet]

atp x brainPOP!

[tacobacoyeet]

feet pics? i’ll send you five bucks!!!

scared of feet... but really need the money...

[tacobacoyeet]

[tacobacoyeet]

this is like fresh meat and i am a dog

other side of patrick choking?

warnings: 18+ smut, riding, choking

Patrick loves choking. Patrick loves to be choked.

He's freaky as hell! Doesn't matter what position you're in. If your arm is within reach, he will be guiding your hand around his throat. You can physically feel the way he grunts with effort, that little vibration and his Adam's apple bobbing under your loose grip. Can't even cum properly unless you squeeze properly. If he can still breathe, you aren't doing it right.

The first time it happens you're riding him, head tipped back as you grind down onto his cock. But it's Patrick so it doesn't take long until his hands find your hips in an attempt to guide your movement, bucking his hips up to meet you each time you rock down. But sometimes you just want to set the pace without him trying to take over.

"Patrick, stop it."

"C'mon, baby, just lemme—"

"No."

And then your hand is around his throat and he doesn't even remember why he's insisting in the first place. His eyes are wide, shocked by the gesture, and you repeat yourself and squeeze harder. "I said no. Do you understand me?

He almost climaxes then and there. He manages a jerky nod of his head in affirmation, hands sliding back down to rest on your thighs. And then every time you're riding him after that, he's the one putting your hand there. Begs you to do it and tells you he's been craving it all week. He applies pressure over the top with his own to make your grip is firm enough to cause discomfort, eyes rolled back and moaning as you sink down onto him. He's practically drooling every time your fingers tighten in sync with the way your cunt clenches around his cock.

And the entire time he's whining pathetically, "harder. Harder."

Ironic. It's normally you crying that out.

[tacobacoyeet]

im going to bust

i beg for more Dilf! art 🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾

ask and you SHALL receive. and i’m just missing him extra these days sighhh and ive been super inactive sorry

nsfw (18+), dubcon, he still has erectile dysfunction but he’s medicated now

i just feel like once he starts taking ED meds, he becomes insatiable. like he’s a teenager again. fucking you every chance he gets. you just got back from pilates? he’s eating you out. you’ve barely made it through the front door and he’s pulling down your leggings right there. you protest because your sweaty but he insists, mumbling into your pussy, “don’t care, you always taste good.” jerking himself off at the same time.

you want to treat him by baking cookies? he’s fucking you right there on the kitchen counter, spreading you open and sliding right in. you whine about the cookies getting cold but he grunts in between thrusts about “needing to work up his appetite” and “burning calories” in preparation for eating the cookies you’ve made. also makes a corny joke afterwards about only wanting your cookie.

even in the middle of night. when he can’t sleep he’s rocking his aching cock against your ass, begging you to let him in. even if your too tired, you’ll reach back to hold yourself open for him. letting him use you to get off.

don’t even get started on movie nights. at this point you guys have never even finished a movie. halfway through he’s pulling you into his lap and sliding his sweatpants down, pulling your pajama shorts to the side, letting you sink down on him. he has one arm around your waist with a tight grip so he can hold you steady as he fucks up into you.

but everytime he always wants you cum first, begging and pleading, “please baby, are you close? does it feel good? fuck I’m so close. need you to cum first baby. wanna make you feel good.” he doesn’t always last. sometimes coming before you, “’m sorry baby fuck i’m coming, i’m sorry, i’m sorry.” but he’ll always makeup for it by making you cum on his tongue.

taglist: @newrochellechallenger2019 @tacobacoyeet @hanneh69 @marimacaroni @antxnxlla @urmomsucksfrogs @k4mlg @guadagninolover @ctrl.mari

[tacobacoyeet]

thank you so much for the tag, lea!

tagging: @blastzachilles @cha11engers

saw this "which jellycat are you" quiz and had to do it, it's just too cute <333

npt 🏷️: @foodiegoogie @msmk11 @godricgryffinsnore @notyaslol @g0lden-sky @g1rld1ary @moonpascal @lupinsweater @laufeysvalentine @lydiasfalling + anyone who wants to join!

[tacobacoyeet]

well, yes!

— Girls .ᐟ

CHARACTERS: BASSIST FUTCH!PAT x FEM!READER WORD COUNT: 2.3k CW: SMUT 18+, afab reader. fingering, oral (f!receiving), somewhat inexperienced reader, mentions of alcohol/cannabis, author has an unpacked hand kink and really likes bassists????, author who has never been to a party and gotten drunk tries writing about a party and getting drunk

a/n: happy late challengersversary!!!! baby’s first smut <3 . even if im posting last (need to even out the angst and smut). kind of happy with how this turned out.  link to main post!

— You don’t know why you’re here right now. 

You have tons of homework you should be doing, and finals season is just around the corner. But your friends swore you were in dire need of going out, and that was that. They got you ready and (literally) dragged you off to this party. 

This party that your friends said would be fun. Sure, fun. Fun’s the reek of alcohol and weed, couples making out, and intoxicated people passed out, everywhere. They clearly don’t know you. 

Empty solo cup in hand, you make your way through the crowd to the backyard for some fresh air, sitting on the edge of the patio and basking in the cool breeze that comes with the late hours of the day. 

Until you see a crowd of people walking back inside the house. Oh yeah, your friends had told you about this. There was going to be ‘live entertainment.’ Which usually meant some shitty college boy band that was just trying to get into people’s pants. No thanks.

But for some reason, you find yourself walking back inside anyway, pushing through the crowd to get a few rows in front of the makeshift stage. Then the band walks out, and you look over the members. 

When you see them, you short circuit. 

You tune out every other noise but the sound of rushing blood in your ears as your heart starts to pound, hands going clammy with sweat. Thank god the lights are dimmed, is your only thought as you feel the blood rushing to your rapidly warming cheeks. 

You miss the band’s name, and their little introduction leading up to their first song. But you don’t really care, your eyes don’t leave whoever that is up there, playing the bass. 

The hottest person you’ve ever seen. 

Dark curls, broad shoulders, and a face that looks like it was carved by Michelango himself. They’re in a tight white tank that leaves little to the imagination, and black cargos with a statement belt. You’re mesmerized, and you feel yourself staring in a way that many would deem disrespectful. 

When you manage to tear your eyes away from their face, as the band introduces their next song, you decide to look them over. 

Big mistake. 

The first thing you settle on is their casual stance, almost like nothing can bother them. Then follows their legs–they definitely work out–and then comes their shoulders.

Those are great. Both of them. 

But it’s their hands that really get to you. Their fingers plucking the strings like it’s nothing. Like it’s second nature to them. It gets you thinking about what else they– 

That thought immediately goes south, and you feel the need to squeeze your legs shut, just a little more. 

Using what feels like superhuman strength to rip your eyes off their hands, you look back up to their face, only to be met with their eyes already locked onto you. A slow smirk crawls onto their face, and you feel like you’re going into cardiac arrest, like you’re not really alive and instead in some sort of dream sequence. 

The world falls away as your eyes bore into theirs, like you two are the only people who exist. You hold their gaze for what feels like forever before they tear theirs away again to play the next song, and while the moment feels broken, it doesn’t exactly feel over.

Especially when their set has finally finished, and while the band you still don’t know the name of packs up, you turn on your heel to rush to the bathroom. You need a moment after that. 

But you don’t get twenty steps in before someone catches your arm, stopping you in your tracks. Turning around, you find yourself meeting the gaze of them. The bassist. From the band. The one you were ogling so hard, it probably looked like you had googly eyes. 

“Pat.” 

“Huh?” you stammer out. 

“The name. It’s Pat.” 

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, of course.” you say, introducing yourself. “You were great up there. You–you all were. I really liked your band, uh–” 

“Phil’s Tire Town?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. That.” 

“Yeah,” a small breath escaping Pat’s lips as they chuckle softly. It’s confident, like they know they’re hot and run with it. “Saw you staring at me the whole set. You here with anyone?” 

“Was with my friends, but they’re… elsewhere. Around.” You look around the room to see if your friends are anywhere, but they’re not. They’ll check in later, that’s how this usually goes.

“No… partner?” 

“Oh!” you laugh. “You mean that way. Oh, no.”

Pat laughs back, and you feel like your heart has skipped at least five beats. “You sound so sure of that.”

“Well, yeah, I am.”

They let out a little ‘hm’ at your words, nodding with interest before looking down at your solo sup, still empty. “You, uh, you drinking anything?”

You catch Pat’s gaze, and look down at your solo cup, trying to play it off like it hasn’t been empty the whole night. “Oh, yeah. Just finished the cup. Was about to head over to the bar to get myself another cup.”

“Definitely.”

“Yeah, definitely.” you laugh awkwardly. 

Then Pat walks past you, and your smile falls, your gut dropping as you prepare yourself for the worst.

But then they turn around to look back at you. 

“You coming?”

And you’re following behind them faster than ever. 

After you get to the kitchen and start drinking with Pat, the night goes by like something of a blur. You spend upwards of an hour laughing as you slowly progress further and further into an intoxicated state, and eventually, sometime around two, decide it’s time to get up and leave.

“I should, uh, I should head out.” you giggle, the alcohol starting to get to you.

“You sure? The party’s just starting.” Pat chuckles. 

“Yeah, positive…” 

“Let me walk you home then.” They say, with a tone that indicates they’re in it for something else.

“No… you don’t hav’to–” 

Pat grabs your arm, and you quickly shut up. “Please, I insist.”

“Okay.”

The walk back to your dorm is slow but enjoyable, you and Pat basking in the early morning breeze, giddy with intoxication. 

When you stop outside your door, Pat’s still with you, and the air feels charged. There was tension at the party, but not to this degree. You swear you could cut through this with a butter knife. 

“Well, I guess this is goodnight.” they say.

“Yeah. I guess this is. Goodnight, Pat.” 

“Goodnight.”

Neither of you move though. 

Instead, you’re both staring into each other as though trying to decipher who each other is just from a glance. Like you’re trying to crawl inside them and find out who they are, what makes them tick, and what gets them going. At least that’s what you’re doing. You can only hope they’re doing the same.

Heart pounding and hands clammy, you inspect Pat, their eyes, their face all over, and you sense your thoughts starting to wander and–

That’s why they call it liquid courage. 

Your lips crash against theirs, your kiss hungry and desperate, like their breath is the only oxygen you need. 

It happens in a matter of seconds. 

You pull them into your dorm, the kiss barely breaking, clothes being torn off and forgotten on the floor, as it registers in your head what you’re about to do.

“I’m–I’m not–” 

Pat helps you to your knees, sitting on the edge of your bed and spreading their legs. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.” 

You nod, leaning in to rest your head on their thigh, kissing at it, getting soft gasps out of them that leave a grin on your face.

Pat’s hand finds its way into your hair, bringing your mouth closer to where they’re expecting you, and you look up at them, eyes wide in a way that shoots south. 

When your tongue darts out to give a small lick at their cunt, you grin against their folds when they let out a soft moan.

“Fuck yeah, baby. You feel that? That’s all for you.” 

As you lick again, a long stripe along their cunt, they push your head further in between their legs, your eyes still looking up at them. 

“Oh god, yeah. Yeah, that’s good.” They moan, head falling back as you keep going. 

You’re not really sure if you’re actually doing that good, but if they’re making those noises, you can only hope you’re doing something right. 

Burying your face deeper in their cunt, you circle their clit with your tongue, sucking softly before moving a little lower to delve your face into their folds once more, pushing your tongue inside Pat as their moans become louder and more frequent. 

“Oh, yeah—Fuck, I’m gonna—Fuck! I’m so close—Just a little more. Just—Oh!” Pat cries, their legs shaking around your head, grip in your hair tightening as they reach their climax, coming all over your face as you try to lap it up, prolonging their orgasm. 

When they’re done, they’re breathing heavy, head falling forward as their hand falls out of your hair, and you press a few kisses to their inner thighs. 

After a few moments, they perk up again, and smile down at you. 

“Okay. Your turn.” Pat huffs out, clearly spent from finishing, as they help you up and lead you over to your bed, lying you down. 

“Okay.” You gasp, grinning, face still glistening with their orgasm.

“Let me take care of you.” they whisper, leaning in and pressing their lips to yours again, before peppering them along your jaw, to your neck, to your collarbone, and then your chest. The intensity of it all makes you gasp, your mind fuzzy as though you’re in some sort of haze. You’re half aware of Pat’s hands rubbing your thighs as you watch their tongue circle your quickly hardening nipple, before they close their lips around it and begin to suck softly. The action elicits small mewls from you, your back arching and pushing your chest further into their mouth, making the feeling all the more intense. 

You feel like you’re in a dream, but come back with a protesting gasp as Pat lifts their head up and removes their mouth from your chest. 

“Hey!–” 

“Easy, babe.” they chuckle, a satisifed smirk on their face, their green eyes on you as they squeeze your thigh slightly. “Saw you staring at my hands while I was playing. You like ‘em?” 

Your face somehow manages to feel even hotter than it already does, but you give a small nod regardless. “Yeah. Who wouldn’t?”

They make a face as though to contemplate that answer, bobbing their head side to side. “Eh, good point. You wanna learn what else they’re good for?” 

It’s such a stupid line, but that paired with the cocky smirk on Pat’s face absolutely destroys any sort of self-preservation you have, and you’re quick to give in. “Yes. God, yes, please. I’ve been thinking about it since I first saw you.” 

“I know.” Pat’s voice is low, quiet, as they drag their fingers up along your inner thigh, reaching your cunt and running a finger along your folds, getting a few whimpers from you. “Yeah, that’s it, baby. Just like that. Such pretty noises, just for me. So wet, just for me.” 

It’s not a question, but you feel the need to answer it anyway. “Yeah–yeah. Wet, just for you.” 

Pat’s smirk widens at that, and they begin to ease a finger inside you. “That good? Yeah?” 

If the way you moan and your back arches is any indicator, it’s very good. So good Pat eases in another, sliding the two fingers in deeper as you grab at their shoulders. “Easy, baby. That’s it. Yeah, that’s good.”

And then Pat starts to curl their fingers inside you, repeating the motion, and you think you just might black out. You’ve never felt anything like this, and it’s like Pat’s been doing this to you forever, as if know every little thing that makes you moan and gasp and whine like never before. 

And when you start squirming, hips rolling erratically against their hand, signaling you’re close, Pat pushes their fingers knuckle deep to work you to your brink.

“Fuck, Pat! I’m gonna–gonna–”

“Yeah, that’s it. Come for me, baby.” 

“O-ok–Yeah–Oh! Fuck!” you moan sharply, finally being brought to your brink as you release all over their hand, releasing a stream of liquid as you squirt. Your legs shake, and Pat keeps working you through your whole orgasm. 

“That’s it, baby. Yeah, just like that. Beautiful.” 

Your chest is heaving with exertion, a wave of exhaustion coming over you after enduring such a brutal orgasm. 

“God, that was…” 

“I know.” Pat grins. 

You grin up at them, and with a final kiss, you say your goodnights, Pat’s warm body wrapped around you from behind as you fall asleep, spent and satisfied.

The next morning, when you wake up in your dorm, your hangover leaving you with a killer headache and your clothes still strewn across the floor, you feel it before you look to your side. The spot where they were sleeping, now empty and cold, the clothes they threw on the floor now gone. And when you reach for your phone, you feel a sticky note on top of it, taking it off to read it. You scoff to yourself, looking at their number on the note, on top of a ‘call me ;)’ written underneath.   

Maybe your friends were right. These parties are fun.

tag list: @artstennisracket @glassmermaids @jordiemeow @cha11engers @kaalxpsia @apatheticrater @tacobacoyeet @tigerlilywl @newrochellechallenger2019 @compress1repress @artspats @artaussi

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UGHHH YES! YES YES!!

— Photograph .ᐟ

CHARACTERS: STANFORD BUTCH!ART x FEM!READER WORD COUNT: 1.6k CW: SMUT 18+, afab reader, oral (f!receiving), mentions of death

a/n: happy late challengersversary!! enjoy my loser butch baby <3  link to main post!

— She’s never missed anyone like she’s missed you. 

Art still keeps the locket you gave him with your picture in it, and hasn’t been able to get rid of the photos he took of you. Those are still hanging up on his bulletin board, like he’s expecting you to walk in the door any moment now. Expectations that are more like prayers. 

She’s lost without you, her only memories of you those captured forever on a polaroid or embedded into an SD card. 

The breakup was messy. Screaming, crying, all of it. Art hasn’t moved on. She hopes you haven’t either. She thinks you haven’t, if the info she gets from your mutual friends in photography class is enough to say anything. Art doesn’t know for sure, though. You blocked him on everything, and while it stung, he gets it. 

At least she tells herself that when she’s still, months later, sobbing herself to sleep. 

Art’s always replaying all the memories in his head. From the first day you met in that god awful math gen ed, to the day she finally worked up the courage to ask you out on that picnic, to the day you both made it official, while she was showing you how she develops her film in the dark room. 

Those same memories are currently replaying as Art takes her nightly walk through campus, enjoying the breeze that comes with dusk. Those same memories that make her think you’re just a hallucination, that you’re not real, until she walks right into you, sending you flying forward. 

“Fuck! I’m so sorry!” she exclaims, quickly reaching out a hand to help you. 

“No, no, you’re okay—” You begin with a chuckle, but it quickly silences itself as you grab the offender’s arm, looking up at them, a blank expression writing itself onto your face. “Art.”

You let him help you up, but are quick to retract your hand from his arm. Especially when you feel blood start to rush to your cheeks. And your hands go sweaty. And your mind go fuzzy. 

“Uh… hi?” she manages to get out awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck. 

“Hey. You still go on these walks?” 

Shit. You started these nightly walks with her. One day, when you two were cuddled up in her twin bed together, you mentioned wanting to see the stars. She suggested going out for a walk, and when you said something about light pollution and being unable to see the stars here at Stanford, you both just laughed. God. He misses that laugh. 

“Oh—uh, yeah. You too?” 

“Yeah.” 

You nod back, the air tense and awkward, filled with both too little unsaid and too much said. The words she wants to blurt out, that she still loves you, that she never stopped, that she still wants you. But the words she spoke to you during the breakup are those she’ll never be able to take back. No matter how much she wishes she could. 

“Well. Nice seeing you, Art.” you break the silence with your goodbye, and turn around, beginning to walk off. 

Which sends Art into a frenzy, running after you to catch up, before she grabs your wrist. 

“Wait!” 

“Art, seriously. What do you want?” You fight the urge to let your face soften the way you so badly want it to, but if you gave an inch, you know she’d take a mile. 

But she’s always had an exceptional eye. 

“I want to show you some things. I have some more photos I’m developing of you, and want you to come pick up the locket and old photos of us.” 

“Art—”

“Please?” 

You never could let her lose. “Fine.” 

The walk back to her place is silent, save for the sounds of the night, the air still awkward. The crickets sound like they’re mocking you, the cars driving past inviting enough for you to get into should you wish to leave, and the sounds of other people roaming campus comforting to have as background conversation. 

Art lets you into the unfamiliar townhouse, and you both slide off your shoes before she leads you into her basement.

“Since when did you set up your own dark room?” 

“Since we broke up and I found my own place.” He chuckles, but it’s strained, like the words hurt to say. 

She wasn’t lying when she said she still had developed photos to give you, as she turns the red light on and walks over to where they’re hanging. unclipping the dry photos and handing them to you. Art thinks they’re his best work. You’re inclined to agree. 

Her shots of you always had the most emotion. Like you could feel the love you both shared in that one little screenshot of life. 

“Art, these are…” 

“You think?”

“I know.” 

Art smiles, trying to fight the giddy feeling creeping up on her. Your compliments always mean the most. 

“Art, I—” 

She cuts you off, face soft as she stares at you. 

“Do you remember our first kiss?” 

“Art, please.” 

“Under the lamppost?” 

“Art.”

“It was so dark everywhere else, like, four am. And we had just left Pat’s house.” 

“Art!” Your voice is a little louder now, and it snaps him out of his thoughts. 

“Sorry. It was just… it was beautiful. Don’t you think?” 

You know he’s won at this point, sighing as your face softens. “Yeah. Yeah, it was.” 

His smile grows when he sees your face. She knows she’s won too. 

“I miss you so much.”

The words immediately wipe the smile off your face. 

“Art…” 

“Please.” 

Your face softens a touch more, gaze shifting down to the photos in your hands. Shutting your eyes, you take a deep breath, and then look back up at Art. 

“Okay.” 

And it’s all she needs before the photos are dropped to the floor and she’s wrapped her arms around you, as though you could disappear at any moment, her lips crashing against yours with the desperation of someone who’s lost themselves in months of being alone. Your hands rest on her cheeks, and you kiss her back with that same passion and fervor. 

“Art—” you gasp, and it’s all she needs before she’s walking you backwards into the stairwell, setting you down on the staircase and kneeling a few steps below, her hands reaching for your hips. 

“Is this okay?” she blurts out, voice low with desperation and desire. 

“Yes, god, yes.” you huff, watching as Art makes quick work of the clothes on your lower half. 

“Missed you so much. Missed you so fucking much. I love you, god, I love you.” She repeats like a mantra, sitting up as she remembers to kiss at your neck, leave a few hickeys, gently brush against your collarbone. 

Her movements are slow and reverent, like you’re something to be worshipped, to be bowed to. In her eyes, you might as well be. 

Art slowly kisses down your abdomen over your shirt, until she reaches your inner thigh. Then she kneels once more, and kisses upwards to your cunt, knowing exactly what to do when she hears your moan. 

Shut up and work. 

So that’s exactly what she does. 

His tongue works up through your folds, before circling around your clit and adding just the slightest amount of pressure against it. When you cry out, the sound of your head falling back and softly brushing against the staircase, she knows she’s still got it. 

And when one of your hands grab onto her hair for some semblance of support, she moans into your cunt, grinning against it as she looks up to see your currently wrecked state. 

Her tongue dives inside you, and she thinks that she could die right here, and this would be heaven. She doesn’t need anything else than to be able to see you fall apart for her. And when your legs shake, ankles locking behind her neck and knees hooking over her shoulders, she only indulges in more, like this is her first meal in years. 

You let out a loud moan, and your legs begin shaking even more violently. “Art, Oh! I’m coming, I’m coming!—” 

He moans into your pussy, lapping up your release and easing you through your orgasm like letting anything drop anywhere would be a crime punishable by death. 

Once it’s all over, you collapse against the staircase, smiling as you see Art lean her cheeks against your thigh, peppering kisses all over. 

“I love you. I love you so much.” she whispers, pleading in her voice. 

“I love you too, Art.” you reply with a smile, unable to lie anymore. “I do.” 

She helps you up from the staircase, taking your discarded clothes with her, and leads you to her bathroom to clean you up. Once you’re all clean, you both make your way to her room, where you fall into bed with her, wrapped around her like a koala, and you’re quick to fall asleep. 

You wake up well-rested and disoriented the next morning, unsure of where you are until you feel the warm body beside you, smiling when you see Art’s face, the sun shining through the window leaving an angelic glow on her face. 

Yeah. You’re definitely getting back together after this. 

tag list: @artstennisracket @glassmermaids @jordiemeow @cha11engers @kaalxpsia @apatheticrater @tacobacoyeet @tigerlilywl @newrochellechallenger2019 @compress1repress @artspats @artaussi 

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omg :( tashi :(

— Sun Bleached Flies .ᐟ

CHARACTERS: PASTOR’S DAUGHTER!TASHI x FEM!READER WORD COUNT: 2.4k CW: religious guilt, LOTS of internalized homophobia, general angst 

a/n: okay this isn’t 100% accurate to christianity and such… i tried though… i tried so hard… please don’t hate me… i hope you enjoy! <3 (and i'm apologizing now) link to main post!

— Tashi shouldn’t be feeling this. 

She knows she shouldn’t. She’s the Pastor’s daughter. This is wrong. Blasphemous. Sacrilegious. 

The way she feels when she looks at you sitting beside her in the front pew, when she sees you standing with your family at Sunday service, and she feels the need to grasp onto the cross hanging around her neck, like a lifeline in stormy waters, to remind herself that what she feels for you isn’t right. 

You’ve always been a little different than the rest of your family and the church, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Not outwardly different, no, you dress and maintain yourself the same, but there’s just something about your behaviour that stands out in an inexplicable way. 

Tashi watches you from her spot next to her father, you laughing with your family, looking around the church when the conversation is about something dull and uninteresting. When your eyes lock on hers, and your face lights up with a small wave, she realizes she’s been caught staring, and her short circuits. She can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, the way her whole body goes warm, and her hand grabs her necklace with such a force it almost tugs it clean off her neck. 

Only after you chuckle at her reaction does she give a small wave back, her smile forced and tight-lipped as she looks away, and stares at one of the various icons of Jesus surrounding the church, begging him to plead with his father for forgiveness. 

When she looks back to where you were standing, you’re already gone.

She lays awake that night, head angled back into her pillow so she can stare at the cross hanging high on the wall above her headboard, her mind racing with the thoughts about you that she wishes she could block out. 

The way you look when you’re sitting on the pew, or kneeling during service when she sneaks glances beside her while her head is bowed and resting on her hands, or walking up to the front for communion. The way your skin looks so soft, and your eyes sparkle, and your body moves. The way you’d look–

No. 

Bad Tashi. 

God loves her, but not enough to save her. Not if she keeps thinking like this. 

So she shuts her eyes, rolling onto her side and curling into herself, almost in fetal position, as though she can find some way to be reborn, reborn without these thoughts fueled by Satan, reborn as a normal girl. Reborn as a normal girl who does as she’s supposed to, as a normal girl who likes boys.

When she does fall asleep, it’s restless, plagued by the thoughts of her abnormality, of her wants, her desires. 

But the sun rises and sets, days passing. Each night just as restless and guilt-filled as the next. 

She thinks that if she doesn’t acknowledge it, if she doesn’t speak it, if she just keeps pushing it down, it won’t be true. It can’t be. 

So Tashi tries to keep her thoughts in check, staying with her father as though he is God Himself, able to grant her forgiveness for Him. She reminds herself of her faith, praying first thing in the morning and just before bed, hand always wrapped around that cross pendant as she toys with it on the chain, begging its holiness to seep into her. 

But the cycle begins again when she gets to church next Sunday, sitting in her pew in the front row as usual while Father Duncan is elsewhere in the church, preparing for service. 

As she hears people begin to trickle in, Tashi looks behind her, and there you are. 

She looks up to the crucifix behind the altar, and has half a mind to kneel and start praying. 

But you take your seat beside her, as usual, as Tashi works on composing herself. 

“Hi, Tashi.” You smile as Tashi looks up at you, and her heart squeezes. 

“Hi.” she croaks. 

“Would you wanna hang out sometime this week? I have a few tickets to see that new movie that just came out.” 

Tashi can’t think straight. You want to hang out with her? Is she dreaming? No, not a dream, a nightmare. Maybe if she hits her head against the pew she’ll remember that this is all fake and not real and wake up from this nightmare, and all will be okay. She won’t have to hide from her father or the Father. 

“Tashi?” You snap her out of her thoughts, and she’s never been so embarrassed. She can hear her blood rushing in her ears, her hands clammy and body hot. 

“Uh, yeah—I, um. I might not be able to go to the movie, but we can, um, we can definitely hang out.” 

You nod as service starts, and whisper to her. 

“We can talk after service.” 

She nods in return, swallowing hard as you both stand for the procession. 

The service starts, and it feels like torture. Every time you kneel for prayer, she glances over at you, her mind wandering, imagining, going places it shouldn’t. When communion starts, Tashi almost doesn’t go up. She feels too guilty, like her father will be able see through her, into her secrets and the deepest, darkest parts of her mind.

Service finally finishes and Tashi looks over at you again. 

“Are you free tomorrow?” she manages to get out. 

“Yeah.” You beam. 

“How about a walk and a picnic?” 

“Sounds perfect. Ten? The old trails behind the church?”

“Eleven?”

“Eleven it is. See you there, Tashi.” 

“See you.” She smiles back, waving as her father calls her over. 

You wave back, and she feels both like she’s flying, weightless and giddy, and like she’s being dragged down to the depths of hell. Like if even indulging in this ‘friendly’ outing will make her the biggest sinner her father has ever met. 

She watches you leave again, just like every week before, but this time with a small smile on her face. When she leaves with her own family, she immediately starts planning the picnic, baking and cooking and packing. Tashi doesn’t know why, but she feels the need to make everything perfect. Just for you. Tomorrow is going to be a big day. 

She even thinks about telling you her sins. 

That night, she sleeps a little easier. Still restless, but she’s hopeful there’s a chance you’ll be able to knock some sense into her. 

Until she starts having nightmares of you again. You, kissing her, with those soft, soft lips, the ones she’s stared at countless times. You, with your hands on her, that delicate touch you save for only the most fragile things used on her, like she’s something beautiful that could shatter. Her, on her knees in front of you, worshiping you like you’re taking His place. Like you’re actually her God. Like you’re actually her Jesus. Or the roles reversed, with you on your knees in front of her, staring up at her like she’s your God. 

And sleep becomes restless once more. 

When she wakes up, curled in on herself once more, Tashi’s cheeks are crusty with dried up tears. She doesn’t know when she started crying during the nightmares, but she quickly becomes conscious of the fact she broke one of the Ten Commandments in her nightmares, and they quickly start back up again as she slides off her bed and kneels against the side of it in prayer. 

Today she’ll tell you. She’ll tell you, and you’ll tell her how wrong it is. Shame her into normality. Shame her into conforming. 

Tashi gets ready for the day, mentally too. She’ll need to be strong to have the conversation. 

She meets you by the old trails behind the church, picnic basket in hand. 

“Hi, Tashi!” Your voice is excited, like you’ve been waiting all night for this, and she can’t help but smile in return. 

“Hi.” 

“Morning was good?” 

She can’t exactly tell you about her nightmares, about the fact she went against the rules so clearly set in place for a good Christian, so she lies. “Yeah. great.” 

The walk to the clearing is peaceful. You and Tashi speak about your lives, your plans, what you’re here for, your faith. She almost brings up what she wants to tell you on the way there, but decides against it. It’ll be better if you’re both sitting down. 

When you reach the clearing, you help Tashi set up the picnic, salivating at the food she prepared. 

“These look incredible, Tashi…” 

“Yeah?” Her heart swells, she’s always loved compliments from you. 

“Yeah.” 

You two sit, eating and laughing, falling into easy conversation. If there’s silence, it’s comfortable, as you look around the clearing at the surrounding flora and fauna, Tashi just staring at your face, trying to figure out when to ruin what you two have got going on. 

She decides to do it when you’re both about to pack up, standing up, picnic basket in her hands.  

“Hey, uh—”

“Yeah, Tashi?” 

Tashi’s throat is dry. Her voice is small. Shaky. Unsure. Her eyes gloss over, not quite tearing up yet, but she knows she’s nearing that point. 

You notice immediately. Of course you do. You’re different. You’ve always been so good at reading people. 

“Tashi, oh my god—are you okay?” 

“I, um. Oh, yeah—yeah, of course. I, just—I have to confess something to you.” 

“What is it, Tashi? You can tell me anything.”

Anything but this. At least in Tashi’s head. 

“I—um—oh, god. How, how am I supposed to say this? God, I’m going to Hell—” Tashi’s near hyperventilating by this point, the tears finally welling up. 

“Hey—hey, hey, hey, Tashi, look at me.” you speak softly, grabbing her shoulders gently, as her head shoots up to meet yours. “Breathe with me. In… out… in… out…”

She follows your instructions, breathing with you. Slightly calming down as she stares into your eyes, looking at the way they soften around the edges as you look at her, the way your lips curve into that small smile as her breathing returns to somewhat normal. 

“What’s up?” 

“I—I’m such a bad person. I have these thoughts. These awful, awfully depraved, sinful thoughts. I have these nightmares where God isn’t my God anymore. But someone else. I—I’m going to go to Hell.” Tashi repeats the last part quietly, like she’s trying to prepare herself for it.

She pauses. Takes a deep breath, composing herself as the tears roll down her cheeks. 

“I have, I have these thoughts about, about—”

You’re silent, giving her the chance to speak. To get it off her chest. 

To make it real, to acknowledge it, to stop pushing it down, by speaking it into the world. 

She doesn’t know how she manages to get the next words out, but she spits them in your face like she thinks they’re venom. She wants them to be. 

“I have them about you.” She tacks your name on at the end, trying to make it fatal, for both of you. 

She waits for you to yell at her. For your face to twist into disgust and tell her she’s plagued by Satan, agree that she’s going to Hell. To push her away, and run back to the church to wash your hands with the holiest water, just to get any trace of her off you. 

But none of that happens. 

Your face softens, eyes welling with your own tears, as you pull her into the softest, yet tightest hug ever, like she’s a delicate flower you’re afraid will wilt if you’re too rough with her. 

Tashi doesn’t know what to do. She’s conflicted. She thought you would hate her, why are you being so kind to her? This isn’t right. 

She drops the basket, letting the leftovers, the laughter, the happiness, the joy between you two spill onto the ground, and pushes you away, her face twisted into something nasty. 

“Why don’t you hate me? This is wrong!” 

Your face twists into one of sadness, no, not sadness. Pity? And she hates it. She hates the way it sends a pang through her heart. She hates that you pity her. 

“Tashi, it’s not wrong. Just because you like a girl doesn’t make you a bad person.” 

“No, it does! This is wrong, it’s a sin! And you’re just as bad as me for accepting me.” she spits out. 

“You know what, Tashi, maybe I am. Maybe I’m even worse because I’m just like you and I accept you. Because I like girls too.” 

She freezes at that, the tears flowing down her cheeks. 

“You—you do?” 

“Yeah, Tashi. I do.” 

It suddenly makes sense, and she stares at the ground to process it all. 

Why you’re different from the others. 

Why she’s been drawn to you from the beginning. 

You’re both the same. 

But you’re not. Because Tashi isn’t like you. Not really. 

She grabs the cross around her neck, and looks back up at you. 

“I’m not actually this way. I’m normal. You’re just corrupting me. You’re here from Satan to corrupt me, to bring me to Hell with you. And it won’t work. It won’t. I won’t let it.” 

She can see your face crack, can see you try to hold back tears. 

It shatters her heart. 

So she delivers one final blow. 

“This was a mistake. I’m not going to Hell with you.”

Tears start flowing as you watch her walk away, walk along that trail you took together. You kick the picnic basket, sending it flying somewhere, and sink to the ground, sobbing into your hands. 

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. 

Tashi gets back to the church, sobbing, and locks herself in the confessional to grieve you, and confess to God. Tashi knows it’s nothing unless she talks to her father, but she hopes this is enough anyway. She can never tell Father Duncan what she feels. Never. 

If it’s meant to be, then it will be. 

And Tashi Duncan doesn’t think it is, so it won’t. She’d rather let the guilt eat her from the inside out. For the rest of her life. 

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[tacobacoyeet]

yeah

music

So I’ve talked about music and musicals before, but here are some albums I think they would like…

Art had his sony walkman glued to his side at the academy and at stanford. Chances are he had Mr.Brightside playing on loop more often than not.

These albums went platinum on Tashi’s Ipod nano at Stanford. On bus rides you share earbuds as you both listen to the songs she queues up.

Patrick blasts these in his car. Volume up, windows down. Asshole behavior? Yeah kinda, but you love him anyway.

[tacobacoyeet]

just realized i never actually posted this, i only ever added it to my bio! if you're interested in joining my taglist, here's the form!

[tacobacoyeet]

i love you jo i am so sorry that the masses do not understand that your health is more important than a bot drop

jo’s unofficial baby drop to stop the pitchforks in her inbox !

just picked out a few random ones that i know r not shadowbanned. featuring preacher’s son art bc everyone wants his knee-loving ass

also 3 lesbian atp bots coming later too hopefully :)) posting this from the fetal position on my bathroom floor pls be grateful

art and patrick

➴ unofficial third

art donaldson

➴ altar boy

➴ kids having kids

patrick zweig

➴ boy dad

art tashi patrick

➴ atp

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