#i thought maybe out of all of them patrick was the only one who was always himself even as he failed

[serafilms]

FIRST DATE, KINDA NERVOUS

part 2 of the golden quartet

art donaldson x reader, slight tashi duncan x reader, slight patrick zweig x reader

summary: the story of your first kiss with art donaldson in a hotel room, and your first date in a diner. cute, fluffy, healthy, a tiny bit suggestive but not really. group polyamory dynamics hinted at. (play: so high school by taylor swift). wc: 3.5k

“What do you think?”

You shrugged. “They’re cute, they seem nice, and your backhand is like, a million times stronger than theirs, so I reckon you could take them in a fight.”

“What, you wouldn’t help?”

“Please. I’m too weak for that,” you said, shaking your wrist limply in Tashi’s face.

She rolled her eyes at you and pushed it out of the way. “Whatever, fine. We’re going.”

She ran her fingers through her hair. After showering, the straight hair from the party had disappeared, giving way to her natural waves. You always thought she looked prettier this way. Softer, somehow.

“Yay,” you said simply. “But just remember that my parents placed my safety and care in your hands, so if we get, like, murdered or something—”

“Oh, shut up,” Tashi groaned, a laugh bubbling out of her mouth, “you were just endorsing them.”

“Yeah, well. I’m indecisive.”

The smile that slowly spread across Tashi’s face told you all you needed to know. Ten seconds later you had grabbed and shrugged on your jacket and the two of you were climbing your way out of her bedroom window.

Now, you’re sitting on the floor of a hotel room, Tashi on your left and Art on your right, Patrick laying comfortably across from you, propped up by his elbows.

The beer in your hand is pretty shitty, which is a fact you find odd considering you can only assume it was either stolen from one of their parents, or paid for using a bribe, and in both of those cases, wouldn’t the beer be better?

But maybe that’s not what you should be focusing on right now, you think, as Patrick leans forwards to take it from your hand. His fingers brush yours as the can crosses over. For the last hour or so, the four of you have gone through eleven cans of beer, each consumed one at a time, being passed around like a bong.

Your eyes linger on the way Patrick’s mouth engulfs the opening of the can, right where yours had just been, and the way he passes it right to Tashi, who does the same as she takes a sip. The flush of heat in your face and belly are hard to ignore, and you’re not too sure how much of it can be attributed to the alcohol.

There’s a stutter in your chest as Art nudges you with his elbow. “So what are you planning on majoring in?”

His cheeks and ears also look flushed, but you think that might just be a consequence of the story Patrick told earlier. It was a sweet story; you assured the boy next to you of that when he’d buried his face in his hands, but he still seemed a little perturbed.

It was a sweet story though, you muse. Tashi said that they seemed like brothers, but you thought they seemed like they were an old married couple.

You’re brought back out of your thoughts as Tashi hands you the beer. “Oh, um. I’m not too set on anything yet, but I think maybe journalism.”

Patrick lets out a whistle. “What, not physiotherapy or sports medicine?”

You shrug, and before you can stop yourself, you say, “Just because I was a tennis player doesn’t mean it’s my whole personality.”

Immediately, you wince. Wrong place, wrong time. You steal a quick glance at Tashi, but she seems unaffected. Right. It’s Tashi. The last thing she feels is insecure. She simply looks at you.

But for good measure, you add, “I mean, I can still do sports news, or something.”

Against the better judgement of your burning stomach and your sluggish thoughts, you take another swig and then pass the can to Art.

“Journalism suits you,” he comments quietly as he takes it. You give him a small smile. He takes a small sip of the beer, and you can’t help but watch the way his Adam’s apple shifts when he swallows.

“I need some ice,” announces Tashi. She rises from her position on the floor.

Patrick wastes no time in scrambling up too. “I’ll come with!”

Tashi gives you a look like she’s exasperated, but you know better from the way she waits for Patrick to grab his key and open the door for her. She doesn’t look back as she walks out, but Patrick calls out a teasing, “See you guys later,” before the door closes fully.

When you turn your head towards Art, you see that he’s looking right at you.

“You sure do that a lot,” you mumble.

He smiles in a way that seems endeared and a little confused. “What?”

“Stare.”

“Sorry, I just—”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s nice. I- I, uh.” Your thoughts are racing, everywhere and nowhere all at once, as you struggle to find the words. The way Art looks at you sends a buzz of something in your abdomen, and your mind becomes all the more scrambled. “I need to stand up.”

You stand quickly, maybe too quickly, and immediately stumble.

“Whoa, you okay?” Art’s quick to jump to his feet. His hands find their place on either side of your waist to steady you. Now you really can’t focus.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself say, “I think I should sit down instead.”

You’re very aware of the fact that his hand stays on your waist as you bumble over to the edge of the bed and take a seat.

There’s a pang of disappointment when his hand leaves your waist, and another when he stands unsurely in front of you. You pat the spot next to you.

“Sit. Please.”

He complies. Perched on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap, he’s much closer than when you were sitting on the floor together. You fiddle with your hands and steal glances at him every now and then.

“I wanted to ask you,” Art breaks the silence, “do you ever miss it?”

You don’t need to ask what he means by ‘it.’

There’s a moment where you gaze off, eyes wandering towards the door, before they return to the boy next to you and you shake your head.

“I don’t, not really.” You bite the inside of your cheek in thought. “It was fun for a while, and I liked being good at something, but I think I just fell out of love with it after a while. Like my whole life became just tennis, and thinking about a future in tennis. If I’m being honest, the injury was like a miracle to me.”

Art looks thoughtful at that. “What’s so wrong with a life of tennis?”

“Well. I mean, nothing, I guess. It just took a lot more time and effort than I would’ve liked. And there’s all the things I had to give up for it.”

He looks at you like he’s waiting for you to continue, so you do. “Cheeseburgers, sleeping in. Love.”

The bed dips closer to you as he shuffles a little closer. It prompts you to look back up at him.

The curls on his forehead hang low, just over his eyes. His hand rests just next to your thigh, and he rests his weight on it to lean just a bit closer. “You don’t think you can be in love and play tennis at the same time?”

Art’s presence has a magnetic effect on you. There’s a gravitational pull that has you angling your body towards him and moving ever so slightly closer to him.

“I don’t know. Do you?”

His eyes dart down to your lips. It’s an action that doesn’t go unnoticed by you, and you feel the corners of your mouth twitch upwards as you do the same. You can almost feel the warmth of his exhale as your faces draw closer and closer.

“Can I?” Art whispers.

“Please,” you respond.

His hand comes off the bed to rest on your cheek, and then he’s kissing you. It’s soft, gentle, but there’s an urgency in the way his tongue teases the entrance of your lips, and the way he moves even closer towards you, almost as if he’s chasing you.

Your hands find themselves at the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. His other hand moves to rest on your waist. Then your thigh. You let out a hum as your stomach does a little leap. Then, he pulls away for a fraction of a second to take you in, before his lips are on yours again. It’s electric, when he tilts his head slightly to the other side, when the hand on your cheek slides down to your jaw to bring you closer, when you hear a low groan in the base of his throat as his hand slides to the inner part of your thigh.

Then you hear the key at the door, and you both jump apart.

Tashi has a cup of ice water in her hand when she surveys the scene in front of her.

Your bodies are still angled suspiciously towards each other and your hands both rest awkwardly in your laps. Little is left to the imagination. You can still feel the butterflies in your stomach and the racing of your heart when Patrick raises his eyebrows at the two of you, a grin on his face.

“So,” he begins, “what have you guys been up to?”

Art and you speak at the same time. “Oh, you know, nothing much.” “Just chilling.”

Tashi’s face is thoughtful, as she looks at you and her lips quirk up in a smile. She nods her head to the door behind her. “Well, it’s late. We should go.”

Your eyes dart back and forth between the three people in the room. Slowly, you stand, giving Art an awkward kind of smile as you brush past him.

“Wait,” Patrick exclaims, “can I get your phone number?”

She shrugs back at him, holding the door open. “Play some real tennis tomorrow, and then I’ll give you my number.”

“So like, if I win?”

“You don’t have to win to play well.”

You’re not sure where this leaves you and Art in the mix, but Tashi is looking at you expectantly from the doorway, and you fear you don’t have the time to decide now. With an apologetic look and a wave, you mutter, “See you guys,” and then you’re out the door.

In the end, Patrick does win. He gives a flourishing bow as Tashi shrugs and applauds him. She turns to whisper something in your ear, but the words make no contact with your thoughts. As Art looks dejectedly at his racket, then at his best friend across the court, you stand abruptly. Tashi looks at you, bewildered.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Wait, I was—”

Whatever her next words are, they die in her throat as she sighs and watches you thread your way through the stands and go down the stairs to the side of the court.

“Hey!” you call out. Art’s head perks up and his eyes search for the source of the sound until they land on you. He jogs to meet you.

“Hi.”

“Um,” you say, feeling suddenly like your foot has been shoved into your mouth, “you did really well.”

Art looks at you deadpan, but a smile starts to show in his eyes. “I lost.”

“Still, you were really good.” Your eyes glue themselves to the floor as you start to regret coming over so hastily without planning what to say.

“Well, thanks. Really. It means a lot coming from you.” Looking back up, you see him scratching the back of his head nervously. It’s an odd look, considering he’s also drenched in sweat, and his glistening skin makes him look even more nervous than he is. “Look, uh. I know we didn’t make a deal or anything, but do you think I could get your number?”

Maybe this wasn’t such a mistake. “Yeah, I think I could make that happen.”

SIX WEEKS LATER.

God, you’re stressed right now. The hem of your top has fallen victim to your incessant fiddling as you tug at it, scrunch it up, release it and repeat.

“You’re acting like it’s your first date ever,” Tashi says, rolling her eyes. There’s a smile playing at her lips that tells you she isn’t trying to be as mean as she sounds.

“He’s cute, okay? I’m nervous.”

Tashi comes up behind you and you meet her eyes in the mirror. A shiver runs down your spine as she tugs at the collar of your jacket, knuckles brushing your neck in the process.

“You should take this off.”

“What? Why?” You stare at her reflection. “I know it’s still summer, but it’s nighttime, so­ like…” Her deadpan expression has you trailing off. “What?”

“You can wear his jacket instead.”

There’s a hollow silence as your mouth forms an ‘o’. Your fingers move to tug at the sleeves of the jacket, gaze averted from hers for a moment.

“You think he’ll offer?”

Another eye roll. “The guy’s like, obsessed with you. Of course he’ll offer. Doesn’t hurt to throw in a little shiver either.”

“What if he’s not wearing a jacket?”

“Oh, he’s wearing a jacket.” She waves her cell phone in your face. “Patrick texted me an update.”

You grin and shrug off the jacket as you turn to face her. “Who knew Tashi Duncan was such a sucker for clichés?”

“I’m just trying to make sure your date goes well,” Tashi scoffs as she snatches the jacket from your hands. “You’re the one who swoons every time you watch a romcom.”

She’s right about that one.

Tashi smacks her lips as she hangs your jacket back up in your closet. “I still don’t get why you’re so nervous. I thought we broke all the ice at the hotel.”

“Well, I can still be nervous. Just because you and Patrick had sex two weeks ago doesn’t mean I have to be as confident.”

She sighs because you’re right. Tonight is your first date. With Art. Not your first date ever. But you sure do feel nervous enough to pretend it is.

You and Art have been texting nonstop for the last six weeks, but between the odd part time jobs you’ve picked up over the summer and his tennis training, you haven’t had any time to hang out, unless your best friends who managed to squeeze in their first date, first time and first sleepover together all in one go. But Tashi and Patrick are much more go getter than you.

Tashi didn’t give you shit for your lack of fervour in pursuing whatever relationship you and Art had, but you still felt a little perturbed when she called you the day after her night with Patrick, and told you that he’d asked about you guys.

(“Does he not talk to Art about it?” you asked.

“He said Art’s happy, but he wanted to know how things were going on your end. Since you guys have only been texting.”)

So now you feel pressured. Like somehow your relationship is linked to Patrick and Tashi. Like they’re waiting for you guys to catch up.

But you don’t say any of that. Because you want things to go at your own pace, you keep quiet. Because you don’t want to speak it into existence, even if Tashi will roll her eyes and call you ridiculous for it because she knows your life is yours and hers is hers, despite the way she keeps trying to push you in certain directions.

When the doorbell inevitably rings, you and Tashi exchange looks. She gives you a nod. It’s more firm than comforting, like she’s sending you off to play at Wimbledon and she knows you’re going to win.

Your parents aren’t home for the next few days, which is why you strategically planned your date for tonight, because God forbid they use their last few weeks with you living under their roof to embarrass you in front of a guy. You almost expect Tashi to answer the door for you as if she’s your mother, but instead, she shoves your bag in your chest, says, “I’m using your shampoo and eating all your snacks,” and pushes you out of the bedroom door, then closes it.

One last check in the nearest reflective surface, and you’re ready.

Art is dressed casually, like you, in jeans and a polo. Tashi was right in saying that he would wear a jacket. In the light of your front porch, he looks especially gentle, the warm light threading through his hair like a halo.

The smile that lights up his face when you open the door has the potential to end your whole bloodline, you swear. The way your heart rate picks up feels like some kind of fight or flight response, but you’re willing to ignore it all for him.

“Hey,” he says. His voice has a comforting cadence, you think. It’s been six weeks since you’ve last heard it, since you were always too scared to call him. But it’s a sound like coming home.

“Hi,” you speak softly.

There’s a bouquet in his hands, which he holds out to you, one hand tucked in his jeans. “I brought these for you.”

You take them gingerly, trying to fight the grin that threatens to split your face in half. He’s so cute. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

You put them on the table just inside. Tashi will eventually make her way downstairs and put them in some water for you. Closing the door, you turn back to Art, who holds his hand out to you. It’s such a strangely innocent gesture that you almost catch yourself giggling like a schoolgirl.

“Shall we?”

You take it, grinning like a madman. “We shall.”

“I never got to hear what you want to major in.” The fry in your hand is currently being waved around as though you’re conducting an orchestra.

“Oh. I don’t know,” Art averts his eyes to his plate. “I haven’t thought about it much.”

“I won’t judge,” you prompt gently.

He looks contemplative, and wets his bottom lip with his tongue briefly before looking up at you. “Okay.”

“Okay…” You gesture your fry towards him.

“You promise you won’t judge?” He asks, bobbing his head questioningly at you

You lean towards the table with your hand over your heart. “I swear it.”

“Physics. Or engineering.”

Sitting back in your seat, you survey him.

“That suits you,” you say genuinely. After you’ve said the words, you’re reminded all too well of the night in the hotel room again, and your cheeks warm.

“Thanks,” Art says, gazing at you. “Patrick says that too, before he calls me a loser.”

“I’m guessing you’re more studious than he is.”

“You’d be right.”

Another sip of your milkshake. “I think it’s cool. Maybe we’ll even have some classes together.”

Art smiles his eye-crinkling smile across the table. “Yeah, maybe we will.”

You don’t even need to pretend to shiver. The second you’ve stepped out of the restaurant, Art’s jacket is slipped onto your shoulders. It’s warm, and smells faintly like sandalwood mixed with laundry detergent. You resist the urge to inhale the collar. Instead you smile shyly, and take his hand. There’s a knot forming in your chest at the thought of the night being over, but when the two of you reach his car, Art doesn’t take out his keys. He turns and leans against the side of his car, hand still entwined with your own.

“I had a lot of fun tonight,” he says simply.

Your lips quirk up in amusement. “So did I.”

He hums. Your hands are swung from side to side as he looks down at them. You can’t help the laugh that escapes you as you step closer.

“What are you thinking about?” you whisper. You know what he’s thinking about.

He looks down at you, and does a one shoulder shrug. “I’m thinking about how much I want to kiss you.”

Your heart stops and gets jumpstarted again in the span of about six milliseconds. God. You knew it was coming, but you still couldn’t prepare yourself.

“Not asking anymore, are we?” You grin, chest thumping like crazy.

“Oh, come on.” With a tug on your hand, you’re pulled flush against him, chest to chest.

Art leans in to your ear, and whispers as if divulging a well-kept secret. “May I please kiss you?”

The tickle of his breath over your jaw sends a zap of electricity through every single nerve in your body. Your breath hitches. “You may.”

You’re not sure you’ll ever get sick of Art Donaldson’s smile. The curve of his mouth as he leans in, brushing his nose to yours before your lips meet.

Your computer pings.

Patrick Zweig sent you a friend request.

You raise an eyebrow and hit ‘accept.’

A minute later, there’s another notification.

Patrick Zweig wrote on your wall. “Congratulations on a successful first date with @Art Donaldson! 😘”.

[222col]

Can you please write a fanfic about shy nerd Stanford student Art being in love with reader who studies in the same college and her repeatedly rejecting him but Art pining for her and doing everything to change her mind and he only has eyes for her even though there are many girls who have crush on him and trying to seduce him and get him to like them back. And one day his best friend Patrick decides to set him on a blind date without Art knowing because he knows he would refuse so when Patrick tells him to meet a girl he thinks that they would meet for studies or something and when Art goes to that "blind date" he notices that y/n was on a date in the same place on and she realizes that she has feelings for Art because she gets jealous when she sees him with the girl but she can see that he's feeling very uncomfortable around that other girl. You can add smut and them ending up together I'M BEGGING YOU TO WRITE SOMETHING LIKE THIS 🧎‍♀️

oh my god yes yes (i changed the blind date idea a little hope thats okay!!!) i may have gone a little overboard on the length i was excited okay | 18+!!!

"c'mon, please, just say yes this time," he's pleading with you. holding your favourite flowers in his hand. part of you feels bad, rejecting him again and again. he is cute, just a little too cute for you. "art, i've told you, you're not my type." your arms are folded, he sighs and leans his head against your door frame. "will you at least accept the flowers?" his words are like whimpers. you smile sweetly at him, extending your arm. that smile is all he needs, handing you over the bouquet. you find an empty cup in your dorm room, filling it with water and placing the flowers inside. he watches your every move from the doorway. "goodbye, art" you mumble, grabbing your phone from your back pocket and laying on your bed. you don't watch him leave, he studies you for a few moments before closing your door and heading back to his own room.

"hey, art," girls flutter their lashes at him on his walk home, he always just smiles awkwardly and moves along, breaking the heart of another girl, because they just aren't you. he arrives to his dorm, collapsing on the bed. his cock twitches, he didn't even realise he was hard until that moment. must have been when your hand grazed his taking the flowers, or the sight of your hard nipples against your stanford t-shirt. his hand is already in his trousers, thinking about you bursting through his door, apologising for all the times you rejected him, kissing his whole body telling him how stupid you were for not letting him take you out. his door swings open, he comes there and then, stuck in his fantasy. "oh jesus christ art, did she say no again?"

art quickly covers himself and his mess as his cheeks blush red, patrick sits on the edge of the bed. "don't laugh," art begs, burying his head in his pillow. he can hear patrick smiling in his words, "i'm not, but christ, man, you need some pussy." patrick watches him shake his head in his pillow. "dude, i watch girls throw themselves at you nearly every day, and yet you're the only guy on campus not getting laid." art sits up, still covering himself with his blanket. "i don't want those girls, i want-" patrick just slaps his arm. "yes, i know you want her. but she doesn't want you. hey, i wonder if she's just gay or asexual or something, maybe i should try and fuck her and we'll find out." patrick says, deep in thought about this idea. art's eyes darken, "don't you fucking dare, patrick." patrick just rolls his eyes at his friend. "hey, calm down romeo, we can share." art is up now, pushing patrick out of his room, locking it behind him. "i was only joking, art, don't be so sensitive."

weeks go by, art still rushes to meet you after class, carrying your bag or books back to your room. leaving you notes and your favourite snacks outside your door late at night, bringing you a coffee some mornings. every time he sees you he asks the same question, "will you say yes, let me take you out?" it's met with a sigh by you every time, sometimes squeezing his arm or kissing his cheek to soften the blow. these acts of kindness only make art fall more and more for you. art sits in his room, studying tennis plays and doodling love notes on a thursday night. his phone lights up, a text from patrick.

meet me @ our favourite bar tomorrow night? 7pm?

art replies 'sure' and continues doodling. tomorrow comes, art does up the buttons to his pink shirt and zips up the fly of his jeans. he fluffs his hair on his way out, leaving to go meet his friend at the bar down the road. walking through the entrance into the dimly lit bar, art scans the room for patrick, only to see a blonde waving him over. he furrows his brow, slowly walking in her direction. "hey! patrick told me you'd meet me here at 7, i was a little early so i just got us both a drink, hope that's okay?" art has literally no idea what she's talking about. "what is happening right now?" he asks, his tone blunter than expected. "your friend, patrick, told me to meet you here, for our date?" art slowly sits in the chair opposite the blonde. " i was like, so surprised when he told me you wanted to go on a date because obviously i see you on campus and at tennis but like, i didn't think you'd wanna date me-" she's rambling, art cuts her off. "what's your name?" he can barely cover the boredom in his voice. "oh, um, it's lindsay. would you not already know that if you asked patrick to set us up?" she's confused, sipping her drink, red lipstick sticking to the straw.

he's thinking of an answer, debating just leaving. there's no point him being here, on this stupid date that patrick has orchestrated. he questions whether just running for the door would make him a terrible person, but as he checks the exit, he sees you. sat on a table by the window, leaning over, talking to a man he's never seen before. is this why you always said no, because you had a boyfriend? no, you would have just said that. well, now he definitely can't leave. he watches intently as your cleavage bulges over the top of your dress, laughing as you bring your drink to your mouth. you're five tables away, but you're sat facing him. "uh, art?" the blonde questions, bringing art back to the situation at hand. "sorry, uh, lucy. yeah, i guess i must have forgot talking to patrick about it all, i've been so busy with tennis."

you look so beautiful, all art can think about is ripping your little white dress off your body and fucking you over the table, right in front of the stupid guy you're on a date with. "it's lindsay," the blonde whispers, sipping her drink again. "yeah that's what i said," art's eyes revert back to the girl in front of him. he leans back, allowing more physical distance between him and lindsay, lucy, whatever her name is. your eyes scan the room, landing on art. your mouth opens slightly, he's on a date? why did part of you feel jealous, sad even, that after months of trying to win your attention, he's given up. he's moved on. you bring your focus back to your own date, trying to shake off the emotions running through your body. your eyes keep darting back to art, letting your date take over the conversation. he looks uncomfortable, leaning back on his chair, fiddling with the hem of his button up. you think how beautiful he looks in this light. you smile slightly, as his eyes meet yours. he smirks, catching you staring at him.

he watches you excuse yourself to the bathroom, your hand lightly grazing his back as you walk behind him. his breath hitches, immediately cutting the blonde girl off to go to the bathroom. you're washing your hands when art rushes into the room. "art, what are you doing, this is the ladies r-" you can't finish your sentence, his lips are on yours. you push him off you, as he just smirks down at you. fuck, that's what you wanted. no more nice little art, following you around like a lost puppy. but a tall, hot art, forcing his lips on yours, not caring about anything else but kissing your mouth. you grab him by the hair and pull his lips back onto yours, feeling him chuckle against your lips, his hands rush around your body. he pushes his tongue into your mouth, moaning as he does, his hand grabbing your body and lifting you up onto the sink. he slots himself between your legs, lips never leaving yours. you taste like perfection, everything he'd been dreaming about.

you remove your lips from his, leaning up to whisper in his ear. "take me home," you kiss and bite at his earlobe. "no, i'm gonna fuck you right here," you lean back and look up to him, the blue of his eyes overshadowed by the size of his pupils. "what if someone walks in?" you question, your lip between your teeth. "do i look like i fucking care?" you've never been so turned on in your life, neither has he. he's trying so hard not to jizz his jeans. slipping his hands under your dress, lifting you up slightly to remove your underwear. he tucks the lacy pair into his pocket, "i'm keeping these," he growls into your ear, your head leans back, hitting the mirror behind you. he positions your body at the edge of the sink, wrapping his arm around you to keep you in place. his other pushes his jeans and boxers down to his ankles, his cock hitting his stomach, finally free from the constricting fabric. you gasp at his size, he just smirks and runs his fingers through your folds. "you're fucking soaked," you blush, "don't get embarrassed, i've dreamt of making you this wet."

all you can do is grab his head and kiss him. he lines his member up with your hole, teasing your entrance. "how badly do you want it?" he pushes the tip in, "fuck- so badly, art, please," he keeps teasing you, so very slowly sliding more of his cock inside you. "you're so tight princess," he can't keep his eyes off your face, savouring every expression you make, every quiet noise that escapes your lips. he pushes himself all the way in, holding himself there. you feel even better than he ever imagined, it's the most perfect thing he's ever felt around his cock. "please, art, please fuck me," you're begging him, he's revelling in it. he's been begging for your attention for months, and now here he is, inside you, you begging him to fuck you. you buck your hips, in need of any kind of movement. "fucking hell, art, please, i'm desperate for you, i need you,"

his hands grab your ass from underneath you, pounding into you harder than you've ever been fucked before. the bathroom fills with the sound of skin slapping skin as you bury your moans into his face, arms tight around his neck. he pulls your head back by your hair, desperate to see your face as he fucks you. he moves his hand over your mouth, as much as he wants to hear every ungodly noise you make, he wants to finish inside you before getting caught. he lifts you up again, spinning around and pushing your body against the wall, your legs wrapping around his waist as he keeps pumping into you. one hand around your waist, the other on the wall keeping him steady. only making you even wetter, his strong form holding you up with just one arm. he bites down on your shoulder to stop the groans escaping him. "you're fucking mine," he whispers into the nape of your neck. you simply nod your head, not good enough, he thinks. "tell me, tell me you're mine," his words leave his lips in between thrusts.

"i'm yours, fuck, i'm all yours art," your breath is shaky as you answer, legs tightening around his waist. "that's my girl," he peppers your face in kisses, his hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead. "christ, shit, i'm so close," he mutters against your lips. "come inside me art, fuck, i'm on the pill, please baby," it's like you can see his thoughts, read his brain. he moans against your lips as thrusts once more, pushing his body up even closer against yours, your orgasm comes at the same time as arts. both mumbling profanities against each others lips. he pulls out of you, gently setting you back on the ground, still holding you, keeping you steady. you can feel his load drip from your pussy onto your thighs. he kisses your forehead repeatedly, "my god, you're so beautiful."

you shyly smile at him, leaning up to kiss his lips. the two of you return to reality, art helping clean you up, pulling up his boxers and jeans. "am i really not getting my panties back?" you ask him, giggling. "nope. these are my souvenir princess." your knees go weak again, readjusting your hair and clothes in the mirror. "christ, why did i wait so long for that?" you laugh, looking to art through the mirror. he plants a kiss on your cheek. "i knew you'd come around eventually, sweetheart." the two of you double check your appearance in the mirror, "back to mine?" art asks, still nervous for your response. you simply slip your hand into his and nod. the two of you leave the bathroom, heading towards the exit of the bar. you notice art's date has already left, yours still sat at the table waiting. "what the fuck?" is all he can muster, seeing you and art holding hands leaving the bar, laughing, art leads you back to his dorm.

"can you just wait here a sec?" he asks sweetly, pulling his keys out of his pocket. "my room's a mess." you nod, leaning on the wall next to art's door. he scrambles through the door, almost running to his desk to discard the ridiculous amount of love notes dedicated to you. he trips on his way, landing on the floor to see patrick sat on his bed. "what the fuck did you do? i set you up on a date out of the kindness of my heart, and what do you do? leave through the bathroom, you little shit! she's been blowing up my phone complaining about you." patrick hits art lightly on the head. still on the floor, art smirks. "well, i didn't actually leave through the bathroom," patrick interrupts him, "fine, so you stayed in the bathroom so long that she left, same thing!" art stands up now, "i had a very good reason to stay in the bathroom so long." patrick leans back on the bed, looking up to his smirking friend. "enlighten me," you enter art's room, having heard the whole conversation. "i think that good reason he's talking about might be me." you stand before the boys, holding your hands behind your back, faking innocence. "holy shit, you finally fucked her?" patrick jumps up, hugging his friend. "and in the bathroom, while on a date with someone else, i'm so proud."

[0-therw-0-rldly]

I’ll preface this by saying I’m not really a shipper. I just enjoy canon couples on TV Series/films.

Terms I’d like B*ddies to remove from their vocabulary because they don’t know how to use them correctly:

Media literacy: For a group that uses this term a lot you sure do misinterpret everything in this show.

Queerbaiting: Going to expand on this one. A show that’s already been pre established for having queer characters simply cannot queerbait.

Ship baiting: While sometimes you can argue that they could be doing that, that’s only if you look at the show in a very biased manner. You might think this is the case but the general audience doesn’t think the way you do.

Ship war: This isn’t a one tree hill situation where there was Team Brooke Vs. Team Peyton where the middle guy (Lucas Scott) had canonically been with both women. This is people not understanding fanon vs. canon and not being able to just watch the show. It’s like playing quarterback on Madden and thinking you could be better than Patrick Mahomes.

Plot device: everything’s a plot device. Move tf on.

Predator: You sound like crazy MAGA supporters calling everything regarding the LGBTQIA+ community as predatory. Sit down.

Co-parenting: I know this is a big one and discourse was brought up during the hiatus. Oliver and Ryan have loosely mentioned this years ago but it was never to be taken this seriously. Do y’all even know what co-parenting is or are you that big of a donut? Buck is someone who loves his best friend deeply and by extension, his kid too. Him taking care of him frequently does not make him a co-parent. Maybe he is a parental or uncle figure, but he isn’t a co-parent. Also, I swear y’all need to learn how a will works. He is a GODPARENT, not a GUARDIAN. Stfu.

Hag: This especially applies to women, but to say that someone 25-30+ is a hag for still being in fandoms or enjoying tv shows/films is inherently misogynistic. Men are never held to this much criticism for enjoying fictional media, but women aren’t allowed to?

Queer Coding: people of the same sex “looking at each other”, hugging, or having intimate moments all together doesn’t make them queer coded. It could mean that they just love each other that deeply platonically. While representation is amazing and just because you interpret a character as queer coded (just like my ship baiting comment) doesn’t mean others interpret it that way as well. In addition, network TV has stipulations, and also actors are allowed to decline storylines. Ryan has mentioned his character is heterosexual an abundance of times which means (at least for now) that he isn’t willing to go for this storyline.

Dead naming: Y’all construing the fact that Buck wants people like coworkers and some of his former love interests, to saying Evan is his dead name is inherently transphobic because do you even understand what a dead name is? Evan Buckley is shown as being fine with being called Evan by both Tommy and his sister. I’m pretty sure some of his love interests have called him Evan as well.

Fetishizing: You guys saw two hot guys who “looked at each other” and for 6 seasons have wanted nothing but to see those two make out with each other. Those of us who enjoy Tevan saw Buck giddy at the thought of Tommy and have wanted domestic fluff for them since.

Anything to do with racism, homophobia, and misogyny: I’ve seen the way you guys have conveniently weaponized Henren and by extension Aisha/Tracie when you didn’t get the Ryan/Oliver interview, don’t try to act like you’re morally superior. Not to mention wanting a canonically gay man to die in a show and not even holding those who use your ship name to write CSA fics accountable because you’re petty and want to throw hissy fits. Anyone looking at your comments as an outsider would think you’re homophobes and yes queer people can be homophobic.

I do hope you can expand your vocabulary. 🤍

[charcubed]

I saw Challengers earlier today and I decided to start a running doc of some of my feral thoughts in an effort to not forget what's currently marinating in my brain after my first watch

I want this movie to get a long theatrical release/run because it deserves it, but that's unfortunate because I also NEED to have it accessible to me in my home ASAP so I can pull on all its threads and take screencaps. Alas.

EXTENSIVE SPOILERS BELOW

might add to this later as I remember things, idk

-The parallel of Art spitting his gum in Tashi’s hand and in Patrick’s hand… My jaw dropped soooo early on. Anyway they obviously both act as Art’s “coach” at different times in his life in different ways. (The jerking off teaching?? Scream???) Art craves their guidance and approval as a form of love (which is also directly responsible for his confidence issues) and initially likes to follow their leads in every situation

-The parallel of Tashi making out with both Art and Patrick up against cars… delicious

-Patrick’s car is his “bed” and it’s where he and Tashi fuck. Nice

-Wait now I’m sad because… lowkey Patrick is homeless because Art and Tashi are his home…………….

-The storm = Patrick and Tashi having sex = the reason why Art’s half of the giant poster/ad on the side of the building falls down so only Tashi’s side is left up. Iconic, loooove a good visual metaphor, especially shown nonlinearly

-The parallel of the forehead kisses??? Art and Patrick on the court at the start when they won the doubles, and Art and Tashi in the sad almost-sex scene towards the end??? I will throw up

-Disclaimer and reminder I’ve only seen this movie once and might reform any of these thoughts later BUT…

One of Art’s main things is, as he tells Patrick towards the start, not wanting to be “left out.” He loves and he wants both Patrick and Tashi (but he doesn’t fully want to acknowledge the extent of his want for Patrick for years, and that repression is part of his problems…). He gets “lit up” about the thought of them together not because he’s jealous of one of them but because he’s jealous of BOTH of them; he wants to know it all, he wants to be in the room, he wants to be with them both, he despairs at the thought of losing either of them (but, at the start, especially at the thought of losing or being of lesser importance to Patrick. Obviously he’s a fucking idiot as evidenced by how Patrick goes to see him FIRST at Stanford. Ugh). We see all of this at the start when Art wants to know if Tashi and Patrick fucked. We see this in Atlanta when he witnesses Tashi cheating on him with Patrick but doesn’t directly confront either of them about it; he only skates the edge of confronting it with Patrick in the sauna while also lashing out at him. Patrick tells Art at Stanford “it’s nice to see you so lit up about something, even if it’s my girlfriend” during the homoerotic churros scene because Patrick’s clocked all of this about Art, too. He clocks it further in Atlanta when he shows up to Art’s practice with Tashi and his mere presence makes Art hit the ball harder. It obviously all comes full circle; the cocktail of emotions that Patrick and Tashi being together gives Art coalesces again for him on the court in the Challengers match: Tashi’s threatened to leave him if he loses… and she’s maybe got one foot out the door with Patrick of all people, who Art already “lost” in the past as the love he’s been mourning for 13 years. But what’s important is that THIS time, unlike Atlanta, Art learns about Tashi cheating on him with Patrick not by accident but rather because Patrick actually tells him. Patrick understands the significance of how this will get Art lit up again and make him play the way he needs to for all of their sakes, and it’s fucked up, but… what this means is Patrick doesn’t leave Art out. He TELLS Art – and he tells him in a way only they understand while they’re on the court together again. Of course Art goes through several stages of emotions in response to that fucked up information… but ultimately that moment of honesty and realization between the boys is what Art needed and puts where all 3 of them stand into sharp relief, shedding a light on who they’ve all always been and what their individual needs are.

Art’s always wanted to play tennis, but that desire is framed around his relationships. Tennis is only something he truly enjoys or that fully makes him happy when he’s experiencing it through his connections to other people: he wants to impress, earn the approval of, or celebrate with those he loves who are watching (like his grandmother or Tashi) – which is partially why he wants Tashi to be his coach in the first place. And of course, tennis all began as something Art found joy in because he was always doing it with Patrick. It’s clear Patrick feels the same. At the start, neither of them cared much about winning for the sake of winning unless it was doubles because they competed as a team and that was “really fun” for them. With the singles competition, they kind of cared less about the wins at the start; Art assumed Patrick would win and didn’t care back then, and then Patrick was willing to let Art win so he could impress his family, and they were both fine with all of those sentiments. Tennis was first and foremost something they did with and for each other. As Patrick later tells Art in the sauna, “I miss playing with you” – and, of course, at that point he’s definitely not only talking about tennis. But in that final match, after so many years, Patrick and Art finally understand each other completely again. It’s like they’re in love (because they are and always have been), they go somewhere really beautiful together… etc. They finally reconnect on the court and feel that thrill as they become synchronized again, which is what tennis was always about for them.

And Tashi, who’s irrevocably connected to them both and whose primary love is and always has been the sport itself, gets what SHE’S always wanted: to “watch some good fucking tennis.” It’s why she pitted the boys against each other vying for her number at the start. Though she needs/wants both boys in different ways on an individual level, she doesn’t particularly need or want anyone to ~be in love with her~; she wants the men who are in love with her to entertain her and challenge her and give her a show. So that’s what she tries to accomplish again in the end by telling Art she’d leave him if he lost the Challengers match… but the missing piece in her making that threat – the element that would get Art truly fired up – was that she’d potentially leave Art for Patrick. That final piece of info, when Art finds out about the cheating, is what reconnects them in all of the above ways. Because it’s about all 3 of them and their triangular codependency. They’ve all been broken for 13 years because they all need each other and tennis to be fully functional. Split any of it apart and they just don’t work.

-Literally this is a film where from the moment of the injury they’re all constantly mourning. They all lose their greatest loves that day… Tashi essentially loses tennis, Art loses Patrick, and Patrick loses the two of them. Everything after that is just them being affected by how they’re all mired in various grief and feeling incomplete… until that synchronization at the match when they finally become whole again. Going from that bed scene that was breaking my heart to the final match was HEALING. Things are still fucked up and in progress, but they’re fucked up in a way they all understand, which gives them a path forward. This movie has a fiercely happy ending in that regard… and what I’m saying is that… after the match, once they communicate further, and much later down the line… Art and Patrick should go back to playing doubles and Tashi should coach them as as doubles team. God they’d eventually all be so happy I wanna CRY just thinking about them doing that. It would take them awhile to get there — because yeah, Tashi is living vicariously through Art’s career as an individual player and maybe if Art retired she’d then want to live through PATRICK’S career for awhile — but I think if they worked out their relationship then their tennis could come to reflect the needs of that relationship too, and doubles can still be “good fucking tennis” in its own satisfying right, y’know? I think they could get there and it would be a beautiful collective restart.

-I gotta say, I can't imagine Tashi pregnant. Wild to me. Sorry to their daughter. Oooo also... I think Patrick would be great with kids... when he gets to meet Lily and become "Uncle Patrick" they're gonna hit it off so fast. Help me

-*holds up Tashi watching them kiss after she orchestrated it* *holds up the Challengers match* It’s the same picture. Except the kisses were kisses whereas the match was actual sex. The moaning and grunting… I’m insane. Also Tashi’s “COME ON!!!!” is arguably the sole orgasm/climax we witness in the whole movie perhaps? Though you could argue the hug is too. In this essay I will, etc.

-Art begging for Tashi’s love/validation saying “Tell me it doesn’t matter if I win tomorrow” vs Art telling Patrick in the sauna “this is a game about winning the points that matter” / Patrick saying “I don’t matter?” AAAA oh my fucking Goddddddd I’m gonna die

-Thank you Luca Guadignino for your dedication to having Art and Patrick hold phallic drinks and food in each others’ presence. Specific shout out to Patrick at the beach party holding the beer bottle on his crotch

-Patrick = comfortable with who he is and secure in his bisexuality; honest and open Art = repressing his queerness and his overall desires Tashi = hiding who she is aka her dissatisfactions with life and the lengths she’ll go to because tennis is her true greatest love and always has been

COMPRESS, REPRESS... REPRESS, COMPRESS... AND THEN JUST SURRENDER, ONE TWO THREEEEE

-I need to rewatch to catch the dialogue because it was difficult for me to hear it over the music, but I think in the 3am Atlanta scene Tashi tells Patrick that Art’s grandmother had a stroke. IF that’s what she said (and if there’s no reason to believe it’s a lie Art told; like I said, I need to rewatch)… my immediate impression was that it’s a nod to Patrick being the voice of accuracy and prediction in this movie. Towards the beginning he tells Art (jokingly) that he hopes Art’s grandmother dies of a stroke, and that’s seemingly what literally comes to pass. He repeatedly clocks both Tashi and Art’s behaviors, describing them brashly to their faces (and to us as the audience), and he was right about his predictions. He’s the one who’s not repressed or unaware of who he is out of the 3 of them: when Tashi first asks if there’s something between him and Art, he looks away because he knows the answer is yes; he’s openly bi on dating apps; he tells Tashi he won’t be her lapdog unlike Art which we see later ends up becoming literal; he clocks how Tashi is hiding some of her true motivations when she seeks him out in the storm; and even from afar he predicts Art’s mindset about wanting to retire. For the most part, what Patrick does / says either seems to be or becomes truth. Hmmm, wait, as I’m typing this… something to look out for: the “I TOLD YA” shirt. Working theory: Tashi briefly wears it, she’s the voice of accuracy; then it blatantly switches over to Patrick and he wears it throughout the film and [waves to all of the above]

-Head in my hands thinking of how the word “love” is used in these tennis matches. Also something I need to make detailed note of when I rewatch

-Patrick grabbing Art’s thigh when they first watched Tashi play… oh my GOD

-Patrick pulling Art’s stool close and Art just smoothly sitting on it with no reaction… the way they kept looking at each others' lips... oh my G O D

-I just remembered Tashi referred to the boys being known as as “fire and ice.” What the fuck even.

-Tashi going to Patrick asking him to lose the match for Art… she’s literally like, "do this because I love tennis and if I lose Art then I lose the way I live tennis through him. Do this because if he loses this match he'll lose himself." And she's really like, "Do this because I know you’re in love with both of us." And Patrick is like, "A) fuck you because you know I’ll say yes precisely because I'm in love with both of you so how dare you ask this of me, and B) you’re kidding yourself if you think you don’t miss the challenge I give YOU simply by being myself because I don’t take your shit." Something something they're peers, you know

-Tbh for 13 years when Patrick gets his rare opportunities he’s @ both Art and Tashi like “you want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.” And the thing is that he’s RIGHT. He’s right! Art in particular doesn't want to admit it because he's trying to convince himself he outgrew being bisexual / outgrew Patrick but it's obviously bullshit

-Realizing some of the sounds in the soundtrack intentionally emulate the sounds of tennis balls and rackets???? MADNESS

[secretjeon]

Could you write something for SebastianxF!reader? Maybe later in their 7th year with Sebastian being jealous of all the boys interested in you. Him figuring out his feelings for you and maybe some kissing at the end 😳

ONLY YOU; SEBASTIAN SALLOW

pairing: sebastian sallow x f!reader

warnings: teeny tiny bit of angst if you squint, some arguing, jealousy, very quick slight suggestiveness, reader is seriously so desired by everyone its not even funny, fluff!!! not proofread!

word count: 1k+

a/n: first time writing for sebastian but it was so much fun im so excited!! for anyone who might want to request I write fluff, angst and smut so there's not really any limits. i don’t know how to write dialogue as a british person in the 1800s, so take it easy on me, but i hope u like it!! 🤍

comments/reblogs/likes are appreciateddd

He didn't know why he was so upset at the sight before him. You were currently sitting in your Defence Against the Dark Arts class, waiting for the professor to begin.

It wasn't just you at your table. There were also two boys, whose names you can't remember. They were both bragging about different things to you, one about Quidditch, the other about his amazing skills in Herbology.

It was a painful sight to watch, seeing as Sebastian was sat at the table just behind you. From where he was, he could very obviously tell they were trying to flirt with you. It bothered him deeply, why would these guys ever think they had a chance with you?

Smart, beautiful, perfect you. Things he all believed. Of course, he didn't think anything of it. Why wouldn't he acknowledge how beautiful you were? That was just simple human nature. But that didn't stop him from wondering why he was so bothered by the guys flirting with you.

He hated the thought of them doing anything with you. Talking with you, kissing you, touching you. The thought made his blood boil.

This wasn't the first time this had happened. Sebastian can recall the many times your chats were interrupted by another guy trying to take you on a date. Of course, you said no each time, but it wasn't any less annoying to him. He'd learned to refrain from rolling his eyes at this point, but still silently cursed the lads in his head.

"Alright, everyone! Take a seat." Professor Hecat spoke, allowing the two boys at your table to sit at their respective seats.

"Today, we are going to be doing something a little different. I want you to each partner up with someone, and then I will be explaining the rest." You immediately got up, about to go towards Sebastian when another boy got in your way, Liam, if you can remember correctly.

"Hey, Y/N, wanna partner up?" Sebastian couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes this time. You paused for a moment, trying to find a way to politely reject the boy.

"Erm, sorry... Liam, right? I'm afraid I've already partnered up with Sebastian." The brunette boy lit up at your words, suddenly feeling confident and looking at Liam with a smug face.

The other boy nodded with a tight lip smile, before leaving, defeated. You sat down next to Sebastian, who now had a bright smile on his face. "What are you all smiley about?" You teased.

"Nothing, let's listen for Professor Hecat's instructions, yeah?" Both you and him brushed it off, spending the rest of the class chatting up a storm and doing the assignment.

___

A few days have passed, and it just so happened to be Valentine's Day. You and Sebastian had gone to The Three Broomsticks to drink a butter beer together, as your own 'Galentine's Day', though you weren't sure if you could call it that because Sebastian wasn't a girl, but you were both single so the concept was the same.

You were sipping on your drink, enjoying each other's company when you see a guy who you recognize from your Charms class, someone whose tried to ask you out before, approach you.

"Y/N? It's Patrick, from Charms? I was wondering if maybe you'd wanna get a drink with me." This visibly angered Sebastian, his grip on his glass tightening, knuckles turning white. Before you could speak, Sebastian decided to tell Patrick a few words of his own.

"Don't you see that she's busy with me right now? And I don't know if it's clicked in that noggin of yours, but have you ever considered that maybe she's just not into you?" His voice was slightly raising at this point, but you couldn't help but find it attractive.

Patrick's eyes widened a little before backing up, muttering an apology and walking away. You turned to face Sebastian. "Why did you do that? You didn't even let me get a word in."

"Oh, please, Y/N, didn't you see how he was looking at you? It's like you were a chocolate frog and he was ready to eat you! Trust me, he's not the right guy for you." You quirked an eyebrow at his statement.

"Then who is?" You watched as he hesitated for a moment, before taking a sigh as if to prepare himself, and looked you in the eyes.

"I am," You stared at him in shock, not knowing what to say at the sudden confession.

"Y/N, I'm not sure why I didn't come to this realization sooner, but I've fallen for you. Deeply. I mean, we've gone through everything together, and you're just so perfect. You're truly one of the most amazing people I've ever known, and I've never felt this way about anyone be-"

You cut him off by leaning forward and capturing his lips with your own, catching him off guard. He's thrown off at first, but quickly matches your rhythm with his own, your lips fitting together like puzzle pieces, sparks flying everywhere in the room.

The kiss is everything and more. With his mouth still on yours, he grabs your chair, pulling you in closer, before moving his hands to you, one on your face, holding your cheek, the other holding your hand.

You both break apart, breathless with stupid smiles on your faces. "I've been waiting forever for you to say that." You grab his hand with both of yours.

If it was possible, his smile got even wider at your words. "You have?" You nodded, figuring it was time to confess.

"You've given me absolute butterflies since the moment I met you, Sebastian. I had all but hoped that you felt the same way. Why do you think I've always rejected the guys that flirted with me?

It's because it's you. It's only been you." You lean in for another kiss before Sebastian suggests a real date, perfectly fitting the day. The two of you leave The Three Broomsticks, feeling happier than ever before.

[senseofnewness]

https://www.tumblr.com/senseofnewness/759188575996837888/double-fault

do you think… it’s okay if not… you could write a little blurb on when she finally let patrick fuck her ass? hehe

original fic here (this can be read on its own but it's just smut)

double fault - bonus [nsfw]

With your IUD out, your body had begun to surge with hormones again, and it felt like they were taking over. You could sense that you were ovulating, and instead of seeking your husband’s company, all you could think about was feeling Patrick deep inside you. It was an intense need, almost animalistic, way more urgent than you usually craved him, and it frustrated you, especially after his smug comments about your life choices. Sure, he had apologized, but you had not forgiven him. You had every intention of giving him the cold shoulder for the next week or so, but instead, you found yourself at his doorstep, knocking with an insistence that embarrassed you.

After a minute of waiting, impatience got the better of you. You knew he was home, his car was parked in the driveway. He was probably just deeply asleep. It was still only 11 am, after all. For Patrick, that was a perfectly normal hour to be still in bed. You fumbled under the rug for the spare key, something you had done countless times before, and let yourself in. The thought crossed your mind that he might have some company, too busy fucking another to answer the door. Your heartbeat quickened at the idea of it, and with each step into the quiet house, you braced yourself for what you might find. 

Once inside, you felt a wave of relief, no grunts or moans echoed from the bedroom, just the soft sound of Patrick's quiet snoring. You slipped off your shoes, moving on your tiptoes toward the bedroom. There he was, sprawled naked across the bed, his perfect back facing you, muscles relaxed in sleep. A smile tugged at your lips at the sight of him so vulnerable, so at peace. And at the fact that he was flashing his crack at you, this time unintentionally, for a change.

Quietly, you stripped off your clothes, letting them fall to the floor in a messy pile before you slid underneath the sheets. Wanting to feel him closer, you wrapped one arm around his broad back, sneaking the other under his head and draping it around his neck. You nestled your head against his shoulder, inhaling his familiar scent. He didn’t stir at your touch, just mumbled something incoherent. “Patrick…” You whispered into his ear, your breath warm against his skin. Your hands roamed across his chest, fingers brushing over his pecs, giving them a teasing squeeze. A wide grin spread across his face, his eyes remaining closed, sleep still lingering on him. “This is your neighbor.” You teased, leaning in closer, your lips brushing his ear. “The grandma?” He murmured, his voice thick with drowsiness. “Yes.” You whispered again, nibbling on his earlobe, your tongue tracing the outline of his ear. “Mmh, always knew you were kinky.” He replied, a lazy smile on his face and his mouth slightly open in bliss.

Playing with his ears was a guaranteed way to get Patrick’s attention. You let your fingers trail down his stomach, teasingly following the line of hair leading to his crotch. “For a second, I thought you were that girl.” He murmured, guiding your hand lower, his touch encouraging you to explore down his happy trail. “What girl?” You asked, deliberately skimming his pubic bone with your fingertips. “The clingy one who’s always coming back for more…” He added with a smirk. You frowned at his words. Clingy? Was that how he saw you? You weren’t clingy. Right? “Sounds awful.” You sighed, pulling your hand away from his lower abdomen. Patrick seized your hand, gripping it firmly. “No, I actually love it. She makes me so hard.” He confessed. You nestled your face into his neck, smiling. He loved it. He didn’t like it. He loved it. Or at least, he said he did. Maybe it was all sweet talk because he was hard and horny, maybe he did mean it. After all, he had not gotten rid of you yet. You peppered his neck with warm kisses but kept your hand withdrawn. He whimpered at the loss. Before he could protest further, you spat into your hand and wrapped it around his length, starting to stroke him. A deep moan escaped him as you worked him over. “Damn, grandma.” He groaned. You laughed softly, continuing your ministrations as you used your free hand to pull his face closer to yours. You pressed your lips against his, pulling him into a deep, urgent kiss. Morning breath and all, you didn’t care. You craved the feel of his mouth, the warmth of his tongue, and the softness of his lips. The thought that your kiss was the first thing he tasted upon waking, even before he had a chance to brush his teeth, turned you on. It was crazy how things that once repulsed you : sweat, the taste of cigarettes, morning breath, hairs, and even cum, now drove you wild when it came to Patrick.

You traced your fingertips along his jawline, lightly scratching the coarse hairs of his beard, while your other hand worked overtime on his cock. Patrick's hand slid down to grab his sack, fondling it in sync with your strokes. His mouth drifted from your lips, latching onto your chin as he sucked on it, leaving a trail of warm drool that marked you as his own. His tongue trailed down to your neck as you tried to sneak a glance over his shoulder at his cock. With Patrick, saliva was always part of the equation, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You tightened your grip around his hard length, tugging at it eagerly. Fisting Patrick’s cock was usually a way to coax a quick orgasm out of him when time was short, but now you knew it was likely the only thing he would allow, with penetration off the table. So you took your sweet time, gripping and sliding with deliberate care. His fingers dug into his balls, almost squishing them. That was usually a sign that he was close. Relief washed over you because your wrist was beginning to grow tired from the motion.

He finally came with a low grunt that made you grin as he glazed your hand, his stomach, and the sheets with his cum. You leaned in to place a soft kiss against his lips before gently releasing your grip on his cock. Raising your hand to your mouth, you licked it clean of his semen, savoring the tangy taste. Once he caught his breath, he turned around, flipping you onto your back. “Oh, so it was you all along.” He murmured, a mischievous smirk spreading across his face as he crawled on top of you, pinning your hands above your head. “You know that old cunt made a noise complaint.” He said, sitting on your stomach. “The grandma?” You asked, licking the remnants of cum from your lower lip, your heart racing with thrill. He nodded, trailing his hands down your arms, making you giggle when he lightly brushed against your armpits. His hands squeezed your breasts tightly before he leaned down, lifting himself off of you, trailing his tongue from the middle of your ribcage to the spot just below your belly button. He spread your knees apart, kissing his way to your core, where he paused, spreading your folds apart to reveal your clit and entrance. You used to feel shy under his gaze, but now you only felt sexy, empowered by the way he looked at you like a starving man. He buried his face between your legs, sloppily devouring you with a hunger that sent shivers down your spine. “Patrick…” You gasped, instinctively trying to close your thighs around his head, the sensation overwhelming. In the back of your mind, a small fear lingered that he might remember you were off birth control and suddenly pull away without a warning, but for now, all you could do was lose yourself in the pleasure he was giving you.

Getting eaten out by Patrick was always a messy affair of sucking and slurping. He didn’t just lick you carefully, he simply made out with your cunt. He would suck on your clit until it was swollen and red, the skin nearly bursting, while his tongue dove deep inside you, lapping up your juices with eager, sloppy strokes. His face would be drenched with your juices, and his eyes never left yours, watching every moan and gasp that escaped your lips. Seeing your face as you came on his tongue was his favorite part. Then, he started tentatively flicking his tongue over your other hole. You instinctively tried to squeeze your cheeks in resistance, but he simply spread them wider, determined to get a closer taste. The tip of his tongue tickled your insides, and you whimpered. “I want you…” You tried to distract him from venturing any further. “Are you going to let me put it in then?” He asked, raising his head to meet your eyes. So, he was still fixated on the idea of fucking your ass? “Patrick…” You sighed, closing your legs in front of him, trying to put an end to his idea. “I can make you feel really good.” He murmured, gently prying your legs open again. “I didn’t clean myself.” You tried to argue, searching for any excuse to deter him. “I just had my tongue on your asshole. Believe me, I really don’t care.” He replied, his lips curling into an amused smirk. “Please?” He pleaded, his expression turning into a sad pout, as if he was about to give you those irresistible puppy eyes. “Patrick…” You repeated, trying to hold your ground, but he wasn’t giving up. “Please? I’ll eat your pussy two times a day in exchange. No, make it three!” He bargained, as if it was some chore for him when, in reality, he usually did it without you even having to ask. “Please?” He finally begged, his voice softer, more desperate this time. “Fine.” You sighed, finally giving in and leaned back on the bed, covering your face with a pillow. Truth be told, you didn’t want him to see the grin spreading across your face. You had finally gotten him to beg for it, just like you wanted.

You peeked from under the pillow as he moved over you, grabbing the lube from his bedside drawer. The anticipation in his eyes made your heart race as he poured the slippery liquid onto his fingers, spreading it carefully over your hole. "You ready?" He asked, his voice a mix of eagerness and concern. You nodded, though your nerves were on edge. "I'm just using my fingers for now." He assured you, dropping the bottle aside. He slowly slid his index finger inside you, pushing gently until it was buried to the knuckle. You were used to feeling his fingers brush against that spot, but this was different, it wasn’t just a joint, it was his entire finger, and instead of pleasure, it mostly felt like you needed to push him out. “Fuck… I don’t think it’s going to fit. You’re going to swallow me whole.” He muttered, biting his lower lip as he watched his finger thrust in and out of you. Instinctively, you clenched around him, hoping your tightness might make him reconsider and shift his focus back to your cunt. But instead of scaring him, it only seemed to fuel his desire. “Babe… You’re going to break it.” He whimpered, glancing up at you with a playful pout. He withdrew his finger briefly before placing both his index and middle fingers at your entrance, pushing them in slowly. The stretch was more intense, discomfort setting in as you felt yourself being opened wider than ever before. Just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, he spread his fingers apart like a pair of scissors, stretching you even further.

Two fingers weren’t even close to how big Patrick was. Sure, it was a small victory that they fit, but there was still a long way to go. “Pat…” You whined, closing your eyes as the discomfort began to edge toward pain. “I know, baby… You’re doing so good.” He murmured, his voice soothing as he tried to encourage you. You grabbed the pillow again, biting down on it as he curled his fingers inside you, flicking them gently. The sensation was too much. “I don’t like it!” You blurted out, your body instinctively trying to push his fingers out. He immediately withdrew his fingers, giving you a moment to recover. You uncovered your face at the sudden loss of contact, a mix of relief and frustration washing over you. “I promise it will feel good.” He assured you. He sounded sincere but anything felt somewhat good to Patrick, even intense pain. “Easy for you to say, you’re a guy! It’s supposed to feel good!” You whined, throwing the pillow at him in a moment of exasperation. He laughed, easily dodging the pillow as it landed on the floor. “Trust me” He said softly, planting tender kisses along the inside of your thighs. “I would never hurt you.” You couldn’t help but melt a little at his words. You knew he cared about you, he just had his own unique ways of showing it. “Alright.” You whispered, your eyes still shut, bracing yourself for what was next. Without hesitation, his two fingers were back inside you, gently but firmly working to spread you a bit wider. The stretch was still uncomfortable, but his reassuring touch made it more bearable.

After a minute of fingering, Patrick decided that adding a third finger might be okay. But it wasn’t. The burn was barely tolerable, making you whimper in pain. He immediately began trailing soft kisses from your pubic bone up to your throat, trying to distract you from the discomfort. “Pat…” You moaned, your voice tinged with desperation. You wanted to scream at him to just go ahead and slide in, to get it over with and endure the pain all at once rather than this slow, agonizing stretch. “I think I’m ready.” You said, though you knew it was a lie. Although the slow torture of his fingers had you second-guessing whether you could handle him, you wanted this to end as quickly as possible. Patrick’s eyes held a mixture of curiosity and concern as he spread his fingers wider one last time before pulling them out. “Turn around then.” He instructed, his voice firm yet gentle. You frowned, hesitation evident. “Can’t we do it like this?” You asked, gesturing to the bed where you were still lying on your back. “I want to watch what you’re doing.” You admitted, almost mumbling the confession. You didn’t want him to think you were suddenly enjoying the idea of it. “You don’t trust me?” He asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “I do.” You reassured him, meeting his gaze. “I just want to see why you think it’s so hot.” You whispered, your voice barely audible. Without a word, Patrick lifted your legs to rest on his shoulders. He grabbed his cock, generously coating it with lube, and rubbed the tip against your ass. “Can you see like this?” He asked, making sure you get to enjoy the show as well. You looked down at your crotch. While you still didn’t get a full view of your asshole, you could see his cock pressed against your entrance. You nodded, and he began to push his tip inside you. The intrusion was almost too much to bear, and you wanted to scream, but Patrick covered your mouth with his own, kissing you softly as he eased himself in.

You quickly grabbed his face, pulling him closer, feeling your eyes well up with tears from the stretch, despite Patrick’s soothing kisses. The sensation of fullness grew as he slowly pushed deeper, eventually reaching the depths of your guts. He paused once fully inside, allowing you to adjust to the feeling. Patrick pulled away just enough to glance at where your bodies joined, the sight causing his cock to throb inside you. “Fuck… I can’t believe it…” He moaned, his voice thick with awe. He sealed his lips over yours in a desperate attempt to muffle the scream that threatened to escape as he began to thrust into you. He thrust into your ass in a way that was completely different from how he did with your vagina. Rather than the long strokes and the pulling in and out, his thrusts were quick and short, never fully withdrawing. You gasped as his lower abdomen repeatedly bumped against your clit, the sensation being the only truly enjoyable part of it. “H-how does it… feel?” You managed to ask, though your breaths came in shallow gasps due to the awkward position. “So fucking tight.” He groaned, burying his face in your neck as he quickened his pace. Passion had overtaken him, with your comfort now coming second. The pain had dulled into something different, an odd sensation, as if something significant was happening, but not quite in the right place.

“Am I doing alright?” You asked, watching him as he thrust into you. You bit your lower lip, struggling to focus on the sensation. You wanted to be active and make him feel good, but you found it hard to move under his weight. “You’re perfect, baby…” His words gave you butterflies. You knew he was praising your ability to take him, but you chose to overlook it. The fact that he saw you as perfect was more than enough to make the fucking way more stimulating. “Does it feel good for you too?” He asked, sweat glistening on his forehead. You nodded, eager to make him happy. In truth, you liked knowing that he was enjoying himself, and that alone filled you with a sense of satisfaction. The penetration itself was tolerable, neither overwhelming nor entirely pleasurable, but it was enjoyable enough. For a moment, you thought that if you concentrated on Patrick hard enough, you might have been able to orgasm. So you studied him intently, observing his closed eyes and mouth hung open in bliss. From his long eyelashes, to the freckles scattered across his face and especially those on his lips, to his ears, which always drove you wild. Just when you thought this might be only a pleasurable experience for Patrick, he slid his fingers between you and began rubbing your clit. “Don’t bullshit me.” He said softly. You were glad you couldn’t hide anything from Patrick, he knew you better than anyone.

The sounds of his heavy sack slapping against your ass echoed in the room, mingling with your heavy breathing and Patrick’s moans. The old neighbor next door would probably have something to complain about again in the days to come. Patrick's fingers worked inside you while his thumb deliciously circled your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through your lower tummy, making you smile with satisfaction. Now, you could fully enjoy yourself. You leaned your head back as he covered your neck with kisses, his teeth grazing your skin. “Patrick…” You moaned, clenching tightly around him. You placed your hand on top of his, guiding him to stroke you faster and apply more pressure against your clit. You could feel his cock driving into you with the tips of your fingers, as you were practically fucking his hand like it was your own. It didn’t take long before you were on the edge. You were always able to make yourself come within minutes. “C-c-coming…” You mumbled, tightening your grip on his hand and squeezing him hard as you moaned out his name. “Fuck, baby…” He gasped, his thighs contracting as his release grew closer. Just a few more thrusts, and he was there. “Me too…” He muttered just before he released his thick seed into you with a grunt, his body shuddering in the aftermath.

After a moment of stillness, he withdrew from you, carefully lowering your legs from his shoulders before collapsing on top of you, utterly breathless. You instinctively wrapped your trembling legs and arms around him, holding him as tightly as you could, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. Nestling your head into the crook of his neck, you focused on calming your heart, which felt as if it might burst from your chest. That was it. You had crossed every boundary with Patrick. You were completely his and no one had ever owned you like this.

Maybe anal sex wasn’t so bad after all.

[girliism]

the girls (me) yearn for more priest in training!art 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

(i hope the girls (you) like this)

patrick was quick to blab to art about the things you said in your confessional.

“dude, she wants you bad.” patrick throws his arm around art’s shoulder as they walk side by side talking in hushed whispers. art shakes his head. “i already took your advice and talk to her. she was terrified of me she’s even moved seats.” patrick stops him in his tracks looking him in the eye. “if you could have heard the things she confessed you’d be all over that. just talk to her again.”

so art did. he tried to talk to you again so many times, but the second you saw him you’d flee. until he caught you in the library.

“can i sit?” you looked up hearing a voice when you saw art. gasping you quickly start gathering your things. “wait, please don’t run away.” art placed his hand on your shoulder stopping you. you wanted to run away again, but you thought back to your confessional. if you kept running from him the move he would chase after you so sat back down.

the two of you sat next to each. you focused on your work and art focused on how he could smell your body wash and the way your breast stretched against the fabric of your white button up with every breath.

art cleared his throat. “i apologize for the things i said to you that day.” he wasn’t really sorry, but when dealing with a sweet girl like you he had to pretend to be a gentleman not the perverse man who’s been staring at your tits imagining cumming on them.

you looked at him. his eyes were soft like he truly ment it. “really?” art grabbed your hand. “really. i have no idea what came over me that day.” art let his head hang. “he must be testing me, and i failed by giving in to such a lustful way of thinking. maybe i should give up my training.” was art going through the same things you were? maybe the two of you could help each other.

you pouted no wanting art to give up. you looked around the library, there wasn’t really anyone there just three other people, but you still leaned in close to him whispering. “i think we can help each other.” art looked up in your kind eyes so desperate to help.

art told you to meet him behind the school so you did. he was leaned up against the wall smoking when you walked up to him.

“art?” art’s head snapped up to see you standing far off very clearly nervous. he stomped out his cigarette walking towards you. “you actually came?” you nodded your head. “and your sure this is gonna work? these thoughts they’ll leave me after only one session.” “oh yes, i’ve already started to sleep better at night.” and it’s true, you have, every night after your roommates have fallen asleep you sneak your fingers down into you pants and rub at your tiny bundle of nerves whispering a certain blondes name into your pillow before drifting into a peaceful sleep. “the phoenix can not raise if there is no ashes right?” you smile repeating what patrick had told you. art has to hold in his laughter hearing the stupid metaphor patrick constantly used.

art’s hands twitched at his side as he watched your trembling fingers work open the button of your shirt like he asked you too. “fuck.” art said under his breath when he catches sight of your boobs covered by your white bralette and the gold cross that hung in between them.

art has seen a lot a porn but none of that compared to seeing your nipples harden up from the cold air in real time.

“do you want me close my eyes?” art immediately shakes his head fumbling with his belt and zipper. “no -fuck- no i want you to watch me need you to watch me.” art pulls out his half hard cock. you’re gasping at the sight of it. the only time you’ve seen a penis was on the pages of your anatomy book and thought they were quite ugly. buts art’s was different, it was blushing red and slightly wet at the tip.

you had to bite your lip to hold back the needy sounds that threatened to come through as you watched art spit on his hand and jerk himself off.

art’s moans and curses along with the squelching sounds can be heard. art wants to roll his eyes back but he keeps his view on your pebbled nipples and how you try to discreetly squeeze your thighs together. “holy shit, you’re probably so wet right now watching me.” he grunts other hand coming down to squeeze to his balls. “wish i was fucking your pussy instead of my hand.” you blushed at his words. maybe saying it out loud helps him not think it anymore. he stops moving for a second to tease at his slit, spreading his precum around his cock head before stroking himself up and down faster moaning louder.

you eyes never moved from watching him pleasure himself. it was so different than want you did, and your hands balled at your side to stop yourself from reaching out and grabbing him. it looked heavy and big you wonder how the weight would feel in your hands.

“so close.” art whined. his couldn’t really stop himself from reaching cupping in one of your tits and squeezing. your mouth instantly fell open and a moan came out. art came on the spot from hearing that sound alone. “s-shit.” hot ropes of cum shot out of him landing on the ground and little on your skirt. your eyes widen and the pooling wetness in your panties starts spilling down your thigh.

you were gone before art could fully come down. he lifted his head to see your figure rounding the corner.

you made your way to the bathroom locking yourself in the last stall replying in your head what had just happened while you got yourself off. lingering in the back of you mind how much pray you’ll have to do for forgiveness.

[idesofrevolution]

Father

Dad had been acting strange for quite some time. Honestly, it wasn't that noticeable in the beginning, which I suppose made it difficult to pinpoint when things started to change. I only started to notice maybe seven months or so ago after he turned down the daily Budweiser. Patrick O'Shaughnessy turning down his biggest vice? I knew something was off right then and there as he sat there, smiling at me from his armchair with the game on in the background: red flag number two, my stepfather had NEVER been a sports guy. Binging Fox News while fingering pudding cups, sure; but actually knowing what was happening in a football game?

I'd originally thought he'd perhaps found a side girl to cheat on my mom with. It was far from outside of his character to do something like that, if he'd ever be able to get his nasty ass out of the recliner for ten fucking minutes... He'd gotten too comfortable in his laziness. When my mom married him a year ago, he was already a piece of shit lardass who refused to do a single thing around the house, refused to work a normal job (he was waiting for a management position apparently), and above all refused to acknowledge me whatsoever. He was rude, crass, could never even so much as break a smile at me. And there, in that moment as his eyes made contact with mine and his lips curled into a smile, I knew something was wrong.

"What, no beer burps for me today?" I scowled at him, raising my eyebrow in a malicious curiosity.

"Nahh little man, I'm trying to cut down." Little man? He'd never gotten my name right let alone given me a nickname... We did not have that kind of relationship, at least one that would have an affectionate nickname for one another. "Say, I'm hittin' the gym in a couple minutes. Whaddya say you come along?"

"You're... you're going to the gym? Really?" I sat there slackjawed. Something was indeed off. What it was, I couldn't exactly tell. Nothing outside of his UberEats order would ever get Patrick out of the chair. He laughed at me, gripping his sizeable paunch beneath his stained tee shirt.

"You bet, bud. High time I set an example for my boy. How's he gonna respect a couch potato loser? You should come along. Nothin' like a father and son spending time together, especially in the gym. Get the boys lookin', right?" He stood up from his chair, grabbing his keys off the kitchen countertop as he headed toward his car. I, on the other hand, stood there with tunnel vision. Patrick was not the most supportive parent when it came to... well, anything. But the biggest bone of contention was me coming out to them last year. It was the biggest hullabaloo, Oscar worthy. Thrown glasses, flipped chairs, disownment, threats of eviction... the only thing that kept me in the house was my mother putting her foot down. It wasn't a big deal for her, but for him... I was the biggest embarrassment on the planet. What would Tucker Carlson think?

Yet as I stood there, staring at the cigarette-stained wall, my brain couldn't process what I'd just heard. 'Get the boys lookin' he said... As if he were trying to play wing man for me... What the fuck was happening? My heart fluttered the moment his words sank in, that was pride. It was something neither my father nor my stepdad ever had the courtesy of giving me. My walls were up, and I was beyond skeptical, so for my own peace of mind I had decided then and there to investigate.

From that day on, the moment I came home from school, I was spying. While most of my friends were trying to enjoy their senior year, going to parties or getting ready for college, I was at home peering behind corners at my stepfather. Over the first few months I watched with complete disbelief at the changes. Every single day, I'd come home, and he'd be on his way out to the gym. The normal scowl he'd gift me upon my entry was replaced with jovial smiles and hair ruffling as he schlepped his gym bag over his shoulder out the door. He'd be gone for two or three hours at least, and come home just before dinner dripping in buckets of sweat. I'd begun to avoid driving his car, as the stink of his sweat had completely inundated the fabric of the seats. He'd toss his bag on the floor by my book bag (gross), and plop down at the dinner table where he would ask genuinely about my day or sweetly flirt with my mom while winking at me. I still wasn't convinced. He kept asking me nearly every day if I'd come to the gym with him, if we could go shoot hoops at the park across the street, or if I'd play FIFA with him. Each time I'd shoot him down, he'd have a momentary break in that happy facade of his, as if it were hurting him I wasn't spending time with him.

Within five months or so, he was nearly unrecognizable. I guess protein shakes & a low carb diet really works on a guy: he'd lost nearly 70 pounds and gained about 20 in muscle alone. He'd struck up friendships with my school's wrestling coach and a couple of the neighbors, and we were finding ourselves invited to barbecues and block parties for the first time. I had to endure little hallway chats with Coach Weston about joining the wrestling team, as he was in talks with the school district about bringing my stepdad on as assistant coach. It was bizarre to me for many reasons, but one stood out above all: Patrick was never a wrestler. Not in college, not in high school, my mom even confirmed it one night at dinner. He'd brush it off as if it were something fun he were doing with 'Dane', which in and of itself was weird to hear the coach's first name used at all at home.

Sleep was getting difficult. My mind ran at a thousand miles an hour, but now he and mom had begun to fuck like rabbits. Loud, hard sex almost every other night with their bed slamming against my bedroom wall for hours. Mom of course was radiant at that point. The years of one piece of shit husband being a complete and total asshole, replaced by another piece of shit husband treating her like garbage melted away in the course of a couple of months of Patrick being a strangely brilliant partner. He'd started to cook us meals, he'd started to do the yardwork, he'd even fixed things around the house that had been broken for years. Sure, the sex seemed to help, but as she would say: "He's lessened my load so much, Jonas. I wish you'd give him a chance."

Sure, he was treating my mom well and that was a good enough reason for me to like him. Was it enough to trust him? No. I'd still turn down every single request to spend time alone with him. No gym. No basketball court. No gaming. Though, in one single concession for my mom's sake, I begrudgingly agreed to let him drive me to school in the morning. That one decision is what truly changed my life forever. I went to bed that night, putting on my earbuds to drown out their disgusting sex in the next room, less than eager for the fifteen minute drive the next day.

Thus, on that warm April day, my morning began as normal. Shower, dress, drink my morning smoothie, grab my bag, and walk out the door. It wasn't long before I was greeted by his chipper, dim witted voice shattering my peaceful morning.

"Ayy little man!" I sighed, turning toward the garage, where there he stood: shirtless and dripping sweat from his chiseled body. As a gay guy, I have to admit, it was hard not to stare. He had become quite a sight to behold. The other moms in the neighborhood certainly would sit and stare at him on his morning runs, even a couple of the dads as well, and now I sat there oogling the ripped, gleaming body he'd built.

"Hey, Patrick. Do you need to shower? I have to get going, but I can catch the bus if there's not enough time?" In my head, I was praying to God that he'd just hop in the shower he never seemed to take and I could go on my merry way. Though, no such luck.

"Nah, man! It's all good. I promised you I'd take you to school, so hop in the car!" I sighed, turning to his 1998 Mustang with a shiver cascading down my spine.

"Sure, Patrick." I dragged my feet headed toward his car. Opening the door, the humid, musky air within poured out of the car, punching me in the face with his scent. Imagine a noxious waft of butter, blue cheese, saltwater, and feet just drowning you. That was the stink that swamped his car, and him for that matter. I took one final breath of fresh air before I sat in the car and closed the door. He wasn't far behind, not even bothering to put a shirt on as he hopped in beside me.

"Alright! Let's get goin' bud!" He turned the key and the car roared to life. I sighed, thankful it was only fifteen minutes. As we pulled out of the driveway and onto the street, I turned on the radio, hoping to dissuade him from making some puerile small talk. We sat there in silence for a moment, before hitting the main road. "You know what, bud?" He turned to me, looking me up and down before rolling up the windows and turning off the radio. "Ahhh fuck it. We're playing hooky today."

"Wait, what?" I had no time to protest, before he turned onto the main road, but in the opposite direction from the school. "Patrick, I'm not playing hooky. I have to go to school." He laughed, ruffling my hair yet again.

"You gotta stop callin' me Patrick, Jonas. I don't have to be dad if you don't want, but Patrick is so... not me. Just call me Pat."

"Okay, PAT. I'm going to school." He turned to me, and his smile faded, letting out a solid sigh that would put mine to shame. He pulled over onto the shoulder, and put the car in park.

"Listen. I know you don't like me. I know you don't trust me, and I get it. I made a lot of changes to him very quickly, and it's hard to keep up." Him? Why did he say it like that? "I'd been watching you just suffer endlessly for years, man. All the time. I just wanted you to have a good role model for once. A man you could lean on, and not some shitty lard who talks bad to ya."

"What the fuck are you on about?" My patience had worn too thin for my calm veneer to bear. He turned the key, and the engine quickly died.

"C'mon bro. You know something's different about him, right? I know you've been watchin' me like a hawk. Think I haven't noticed you watchin' me from around the hall corner? You think I don't know you're creepin' while I beat one out huffin' my strap? I know, dude. I've always known. C'mon, man." Pat threw his hands in the air in frustration, the first time since his attitude adjustment that I'd seen anything like it. But, this was different. It wasn't rage, it was exasperation.

"Okay, Pat. So you saw me watching you. Can you please tell me what the fuck is going on now?" He slowly rested his sweaty head against the headrest, and sighed. Then, a chuckle. Then another, until he was full on laughing. "What!?"

"Ahhh, man. I never thought I'd see the day you'd man up and come to. Yeah, Jonas. I can tell you what the fuck is going on." I sat back, confounded- even more so than before. "My name was Matt Wilde. Way back in the day, I used to wrestle for Palm Heights High. Was pretty damn good at it too, but one day I got pinned just a little too hard and poof."

"Matt Laurent? What the fuck are you talking about, Pat? Are you high?" His dumb laugh threw him back in the seat.

"Nah, I finished that joint earlier, man. Stone sober now. But, safe to say for the past 50 years I've been just hoppin' body to body. Started with a couple of my teammates just so I could finish out the years, wrestle a bit more. Got bored, hung around the gym, in and out of some lug heads. Did a stint in some Libertines, that was fun as fuck. But man, I saw you sulkin' around the school for the past three years and thought, damn that kid looks sad. So, I may have eavesdropped a bit, maybe caught a bit about your dead beat, piece of shit dad; then right after he ditches, Mom lands this fuckin' winner." He slapped his chest, little droplets of his sweat landing on my bewildered face. "Oh shit, my bad." I sat there, slackjawed, completely disoriented as he dumbly wiped his sweat off my nose and cheek.

"You... you're dead?" He snapped his fingers, winking and smirking at me.

"Bingo, bud. Right on the money. I was like, I'm in a very unique situation here to fuckin' do something this. So, I slipped into this dumbass and just stuck around. Did the work. Tried, emphasis on TRIED, to be like the Dad I had and that you deserve, ya know? Haven't made it fuckin' easy, but... ahhh. That's parenthood, am I right?" I scoffed, he must have taken some damn good drugs. I was convinced. There was no way!

"Okay, then. MATT. So, if you're some dead jock bro possessing Pat, where the fuck is he?" He pondered for a moment in silence, shrugging his shoulders.

"I think he's gone, bro. I haven't stayed in a dude this long, I used to hear him bitchin' and moanin' all the time, but he went silent a couple of weeks ago." Fuck, I wish that were true. I had to admit, even if only in my mind, this Matt-Patrick was lightyears better than Patrick Patrick. Sure, he was dumb, he was every stereotype dudebro in the book, he smelled like he bathed in sweat baths... But, for the first time in my life, he wanted to be around me. He wanted to spend time with me. He made an effort. He... liked me. The mental gymnastics needed to make sense of the situation was growing too monumental to comprehend, but in that moment as he sat there with his dumb fucking grin on his face as if I was going to just completely buy it, I started to hope it was true.

"So, what now, Matt? Are you just gonna keep fucking my mom and prentending to be my Dad for the rest of your life? Or are you gonna hop out and ditch us?" He raised his eyebrow in genuine confusion.

"I mean, yeah that was the plan. One, your mom is fuckin' hot and she's better than any girl I've ever been with. Two, I kinda like our little family. Three, I ain't ditchin' ya, bro. You had enough of that shit for one lifetime. Besides, I gotta get you to chill the fuck out one way or another, so I was hoping we could give it a shot. Like I've been beggin' man." 'Matt' put his hands together as if praying, pleading to me. I suppose it wouldn't be the worst thing. It's better than coming home every day to spy on him, and it's way better than being the sad wallflower all the fucking time. Besides, those dumb fucking puppy dog eyes...

"You know what? Sure, Matt. What did you have in mind?" I could barely finish my sentence before he'd twisted the key and slammed on the gas. The man drove like a bat out of hell through town, hooting and hollering in victory as if he'd won a match.

"Hell fuckin' yeah, man! Dude we're gonna be so tight, it's gonna be awesome. You're gonna be so fuckin' sexy, the dudes are gonna be on their knees by the time we're done! Slobberin' on that dick like SLURPEDY SLURP! WOO!" So fuckin' dumb. Dumb as a box of rocks. But I couldn't help but crack a smile as he swerved left and right, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Let's get you sweatin' man. We can get you pumpin' iron, playin' ball... I'm burning everything you got in your closet, bro. Nobody wants polos and button ups, man. Gettin' you some J's, some good jocks. Oh, how do you feel about chains?"

"Matt, dude. I'm not like you. That's all well and good for you, but I can't pull that shit off..." He slammed on the brakes and a cavalcade of horns from behind us rang out like a brass band. Matt whipped his gaze to me in shock.

"Don't say that, bro! You could be a bona fide stud! Look at you, man!" A couple of hard slaps against my bony chest and a harsh wheeze later, perhaps it sank in a bit. "Aight, well we have some work to do. I mean, if you're up for it." He smirked at me, lifting up those massive arms and flexing. His veins bulged from his massive bicep, the wet hairs in his ripe pits wafted that pungent scent I'd regrettably started to secretly love... Yeah, maybe I did want it.

"I don't know how, man. If I were like you, I bet I could." As if a cartoon lightbulb flickered to life above his head, I saw the spark of inspiration hit him like a sack of bricks. That stupid smirk grew into a wide, toothy grin.

"Aight, bro. Haven't tried this before, but I'll give it a go." He clapped his hands together, rubbing them gently. "I saw Jimmy Morales do this once when he needed a spotter. Gotta ask, though. You trust me, right?" I sat there and wondered if I did. I'd pretended up until this point that I believed every word that had come out of his mouth. This insane, psychotic story. It was nuts. It was crazy. But that little voice in the back of my head, deep down in the dark recesses of my brain decided to finally speak up.

"Yeah, Matt. I trust you."

"ALRIGHT! Fuck yeah, man. Oh shit, this is gonna be great! Okay, so don't freak out, just trust me and let it happen, okay? It doesn't hurt, the dudes usually bust a nut after it's all over." I heard a squelching rumble from in his stomach: wet, guttural, as if he were getting ready to vomit. Which became more and more likely as I saw a lump start to make it's way up his throat.

"Matt..." His body began to shudder and quake, his veins bulging and head thrashing from side to side. Then, from between his lips, a glowing blue vapor began to slip out. It was tiny at first, a little tail whipping about, before more and more of it started to bellow out of his mouth. Slick, bulbous, translucent. I had mere seconds of watching it slither out before it darted right into my own slack jaw. It squirmed as it wriggled from his body into mine, slurping deep into my bulging stomach. The feeling of fullness overtook me, watching more and more of the rubbery thing enter me, squeezing into every available inch within me, and he was right: it felt good. It felt like an eternity, but in reality it was just moments. The last of suctioned into me, and the world went black.

---

I woke the next morning in my bed. Shooting straight upright in a puddle of sweat. I rubbed my hands on my face, running my fingers through my drenched hair. What a fuckin' dream. I groaned as doubled over in pain. I felt like I was hit by a train. Everything hurt, a soreness unlike anything I'd ever experienced before radiated from every fiber of my being. Then, a soft caress of the nostril. Salty, buttery, funky... I raised my arm, finding the culprit immediately.

"Fuck!" I spat out, before taking a deep breath, another hit. "Fuuuuck..." Another inhale, a familiar stink, a comforting stink. What started as gentle whiffs quickly turned into full on huffing. I buried my nose in my pit, letting the wet jungle lather my face in my own sweat.

"Morning, bro. Good shit, ain't it?" The words echoed in my head, a soft, rippling little voice from within my brain. I should have been alarmed, terrified, even. But no, the words felt like gospel to me. "We really went to town yesterday, man. I had you liftin' like an Olympian. Take it easy. Here, I'll be right there, I got just the thing for it!" My hands started to drift southward, beneath the waistband of the teal sweats I didn't own... Were they... Pats? The door to my room burst open mid-huff, and in walked the hulking tower himself with a tray in hand.

"Goooood Morning, Kiddo! I made ya a protein shake, good recovery breakfast after a workout sesh like we had! Oh, your Mom made eggs!" He walked over to the side of my bed, kicking the Jordans I'd borrowed from him to the side. Wait, when did I do that? "Eat up, champ. Those 'ceps aren't gonna feed themselves!" Slamming the tray down onto my thighs, I let out a groan of pain.

"Pat? Dude, I had the weirdest dream." Dude? I never say dude. I cupped my hand, slick with sweat and pre over my mouth, aghast at the words coming out of my mouth. Pat smiled, grabbing the shake and handing it to me. "Drink up, my dude. For real, you're gonna be in a world of hurt otherwise." The voice boomed in my head, HIS voice. But his lips hadn't moved an inch. "Pat..." I ripped the sheets off of me, sure enough, I was sporting his nasty sweatpants & drenched socks. Cupping my manhood was most definitely his grimy jockstrap. "Hey, if we were gonna have the best workout, I had to be comfortable, bro! I knew you'd get it, though." I looked at him, a tight lipped smile, as if he were proving to me he weren't talking to me. "Feels good, right! I told ya! Just think, bro. With a half of me in there, you're gonna be unstoppable." I smiled. A genuine fuckin' smile, for the first time in as long as I could remember. I watched as my hand gripped the shake, bringing it to my lips of it's own accord. Downing the vanilla shake, our eyes met, and I understood completely. Matt winked at me, ruffling my hair, and sauntered back out of the door.

I leaned back in my bed, throwing my arm behind my head. The musk drifting from my pits and feet, identical to my dad's. Smirking, I let my fingers drift down to my growing meat in its slimy pouch, knowing fully well that I was in damn fine hands.

---

So that brings us to today, I guess! One year to the day. One full year since I finally let Dad in. 'Pat' sure did join the wrestling team as assistant coach, bringing his son in tow, eager to finish my senior year with at least a title. Thanks to him, I made varsity after the first fuckin' tryout. Can't say it was all me, all the time, but after a while it was. Honestly, it all started to blend together. Me at the wheel, him at the wheel, soon it sort of blurred and it was just me. That last semester was the best of my whole fucking life. Parties, bodybuilding, skating with the boys, fuckin' the boys... Shit, it was the time of my fuckin' life.

And after every day at school, or at least after every post-practice locker room blow job, I couldn't wait to get home and smash some Call of Duty with the old man. Mom would always come in, making comments on how we seemed as if I'd become a mini-Pat. Finishing eachother's sentences, drinking the same beer, wearing the same kind of clothes... she'd always put our sneaks outside the garage door, "they even stank the same." Little did she know just how much of the same person we really were.

I've decided to stick around the house for a year or so before maybe headed to college. I don't know, family is here, friends are here, Coach Weston should be retiring in a year or two... so there should be an opening for a new assistant coach on the wrestling team. Besides, I may have landed quite the catch in the boyfriend department, and I really want him to meet my dad, I have a feeling they'll get along just fine.

[tinytennisskirt]

From Pain to Promise

Summary: based on a dialogue request- Art has been in love with you since he met you at twelve. He's been pining for six years, so it kills him when you get a boyfriend over the summer. He's your friend, he's supposed to be happy for you. Instead, he's just hurt. And jealous. Too blinded by it to see the way your boyfriend is really treating you. After a climactic event outside of a party, you're freed from it all. And Art is right there, waiting, the way he's always been.

MAJOR WARNINGS: violence, abusive relationships, mentions of unwanted sex/attempts at unwanted sex. a fight. mentions of injuries, nothing too graphic, just bruises.

Warnings: pining, yearning, angst, jealousy, mentions of drinking, a kiss. badly edited.

Kat Zimmerman had nothing on you, that was for sure. Only a few nights after his little learning experience with Patrick, you came into the boy’s lives and their worlds were forever changed. Art’s more so. It was that one fateful day when you were picking out a tennis racket, the new girl at MRTA, and those two little boys knew they had to befriend you before Jake Dalton did. Both little boys, stumbling over each other, made their way over to the rackets and said hi, overlapping pre-pubescent voices telling you their names. And you smiled, hair braided, cheeks pink and rosy, exchanging their names for yours. 

And you were friends. That’s how it was. You were friends. You, Patrick, and Art. But more so you and Art because Patrick didn’t know how he felt about being friends with girls. Especially when you were such a girl. Patrick didn’t have a painful little boy crush on you the way Art did. You told Art his hair would be perfect for pigtails and he’d let you do what you wanted, clips and bows and all, just so you’d touch him. He bragged to Patrick later that night. Patrick just laughed at him. “She put bows in your hair, dude. That doesn’t count as touching.” He was humbled. 

Patrick did feel a little different when fourteen rolled around and you had boobs, but Art was the same, if not deeper in it for you. You remained their friend. You were always around, playing with Art’s hair on the bleachers or studying with them, making sure they actually paid attention. You went to all of Art’s games and maybe, for a few split seconds, he thought maybe you liked him back. But it’s a tale as old as time. He couldn’t ever be sure, so why would he tell you and potentially ruin everything? If he told you and it wasn’t reciprocated, he could say goodbye to all the casual touching and the things you granted him somewhat platonically. 

Patrick was one of the only people who knew how bad Art had it because even after their first little incident, Patrick had once or twice heard or walked in on Art masturbating and it was a little obvious who he was thinking about. It was fine, it was nothing new. 

One thing was so very clear and that this was all just pining. Pining after you, pulling strings to be closer to you, to hang out with you. Cancelling plans, switching partners, everything. He’d go insane when your hand brushed his, he was there for you every time you needed him. And by twelfth grade, he could say he loved you. It’d been six years of pining, he knew it to be true. So when you called him over the summer to say you had a boyfriend, it just about killed him. 

“He’s really nice and he’s a tennis enjoyer, but not a player. It’s refreshing to find someone who doesn’t know every single term and I get to be the smart one for once,” you gushed to him. He was your best friend after all. You’d been friends, best friends, for six years. Art was glad you managed six years without any real crushes for more than a day and he could handle those because they weren’t real, but this was very real. Or you said so. “God, I can’t believe it, he just asked for my number two weeks ago and now we’ve been together a week. It’s so surreal.” 

“That’s great, I’m happy for you,” Art said through clenched teeth. Six years of wanting you and this guy asked for your number and had you as his girlfriend in under a week. He wondered if you’d kissed him. He remembered when you had your first kiss just after his. Just about killed him though he’d just kissed Amy White two days before and bragged about it. He hoped it would make you jealous, but you had your own beau. This was worse than that. You were going to Stanford with him in a month or two, he thought if there was any time to make that change and tell you, it would be when he saw you next. And there wouldn’t be any college dating scandals and maybe he could live happily and find some girl to forget you with, though he knew he couldn’t.

“So it’s serious?” 

“Very. I’m excited.” Just about took him out. 

He didn’t eat for maybe two days. Would have been longer if Patrick didn’t come over and force-feed him nachos. Art told him the whole situation and Patrick, who had, of course, been rooting for you and Art since finding out Art liked you, was pretty pissed off about it. The two went back and forth just emphasizing ‘six years’. Six years of what? Six years of you hugging him and playing with his hair, going to movies with him, helping him study, spending time with him alone for you to just go and find some guy on a whim? And start dating him? You were all Art had wanted and it was then that he confessed that he was probably in love with you to Patrick. Patrick wasn’t surprised, then went and stole some beers from a friend, saying they needed to drink about it. 

You still called as you usually did and Art never got to really feel himself heal when every phone call was an update and a fresh wound. The poor boy was yours and you weren’t his. There was nothing he could say to change that, he was a good friend. And he wanted you to be happy, so he kept his mouth shut. You talked about dates and how good of a kisser he was though you wished he used less tongue sometimes and every word was a papercut that added up to a bigger hurt. He had never wanted anyone the same way he wanted you and he was so sure he couldn’t. He buried his face in his pillow and got so frustrated it drove him to tears. His stomach hurt constantly and he felt like his heart was being pulled down to his stomach. 

He was a little scared of how he’d act when you talked to him in person. He just finished settling into campus, his dorm room. You’d done the same with the agreement to meet him for coffee at the campus diner. You were still you, he noted, still painfully beautiful. And you were two months into dating this guy Greg. He sounded like a dick. You said he liked country music and he wasn’t going to post-secondary, he was older and going to a trade school. An asshole. Art did his best to change the topic. 

“Mmm, so they have campus events all the time, they’re showing E.T. this Friday if you want to go.” You said. “We should.” 

“We should talk them into playing Mac and Me after. A real movie.” 

“Shut up, oh my god.” You laughed. Your laugh was one of his favourite things. He found it just a little painful to be here with you, knowing you couldn’t be the way you used to be now that you had a boyfriend. “Do you want to come with me to E.T. or not though, I’m terrified of new people.” 

“No, yeah, I’ll go,” he nodded. 

Your boyfriend visited on Thursday, so he didn’t see you then. Usually, you called him regardless of being on the same campus, but you didn’t. And then when you said you’d meet Art on Friday, you didn’t show up until the movie was half over. Art sat there, watching the movie on a stupid lawn chair with stupid Reece's Pieces and you came and joined him, apologetic. Said you were with Greg and Art could only imagine what that meant. It was too dark for him to notice how red your wrist was. 

It was Art’s first step to breaking. The movie finished and he walked you back to your dorm. “Just saying, if you have plans with your boyfriend, don’t make plans with me. I’m not that kind of guy,” he reasoned, heading up the stairs with you. He tried not to sound bitter. He was only half-bitter anyway, he was mostly genuine. 

You sighed, rubbing your left eye just a little. “I know, I’m sorry.” 

“Does he know about me?” You were quiet. Too quiet. “Y/N?” 

You bite your lip, “He knows we’re friends. He doesn’t know the full extent and he doesn’t need to! There’s nothing to worry about, but I just don’t want to worry him. He knows you’re my friend, he doesn’t know… everything.” 

Art pressed his hand to his forehead, “I’m a secret, that’s crazy, that’s… fine, I guess. I don’t want to ruin anything for you.” 

“You couldn’t.” You told him. “He’s secure. He’s good. And I’m sorry again for being late, I’ll make it up to you with coffee tomorrow if you’ll let me.” 

Art nodded in response. How could he not forgive you? How could you stand here and be so beautiful and so apologetic and have him not forgive you? So he swallowed all his words for the thousandth time. “Coffee sounds good. Bring doughnuts. Campus library?” 

“Campus library…”

“3 pm?” 

“Perfect. See you then.” You kept your sleeve over your wrist which was still pinkened. “I really am sorry, Art.”

He smiled just a little, forced, “It’s okay. I promise. But I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Y/N.” 

You said goodnight back and slipped into your dorm room again. Greg had gone out to the local bar, he didn’t come back until 2am when he said he’d be back at 12. Came back drunk and wanting to kiss you quite badly, smelling awfully of whiskey and weed. 

Art wanted to forgive you for it all, but he felt like he couldn’t. Maybe he was bitter. He was bitter that you found someone and he didn’t, he was bitter that you had someone who wasn’t him. He’d yet to meet Greg, but he wondered if you smiled at him with your eyes... or when something funny was said if you'd lean into his shoulder while laughing. He wondered if you were the same, or if it felt the same when you were alone with him- like you could say anything and be unjudged. And that any darkness could be made a joke and made better just by talking for hours. He wondered if Greg had any of that the way he had. But Greg probably had that and more and Art would have to deal with that. He felt his heart physically slow its beating as it slowly, but surely, was beginning to crack. 

You met Art the next day and of course, he noticed the hickey on your neck. It made his stomach do flips and tie itself in knots and he wanted to get up and leave, but you had the doughnuts and coffee. And he was supposed to be happy for you. He had to remind himself of that. He looked at you, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear and laughed and engaged with what he had said and you were still the most gorgeous girl on the planet. Nothing could or ever would change that. He was still head over heels and he couldn’t help it. He would call himself pathetic, he would degrade himself for still wanting you, but after six years, he couldn’t get away from it. 

Greg was over quite a bit. You never called when he was around. You said you’d come hang out when Patrick was in town but you were late again, said you tripped down the stairs and the boys thought it was some excuse for sex with Greg, but you had the injuries to prove it, so neither of them could really be mad. “It hurts like a bitch,” you huffed, sitting down with them. “But it’s fine. We should drink tonight.” 

“Your dorm room or mine?” Art replied, a smile on his face. He was happy about an excuse to drink, he was happy you weren’t late because of Greg, and he was happy you were here. 

Your eyes widened and you answered much too quickly. “Yours.” 

The three of you headed back to Art’s dorm. You lay on his bed, checking your phone every minute or so. It looked like you were getting an abundance of messages, but you were never texting back. Your phone rang twice before you silenced it. The boys chalked it up to Greg and the obsessions of an early relationship, but it wasn’t that early. At one point you tossed your phone off the end of his bed and on top of Art’s laundry. “Please, please, please, pass the vodka,” you enthused. Art and Patrick chuckled, watching you take a pretty large swig. 

“Might want to slow down,” Patrick said, looking at Art, then back at you. You were out of the three of you, the person who hardly ever drank. And here you were chugging it like water. “Don’t want to return you to your boyfriend off your ass.” 

“It’s fine,” you replied. “He’s fine, it’s all fine.” 

“Yeah, I see that,” Patrick replied, taking the vodka back from you. Art grabbed it out of his hand and took a swig equal to yours, trying to drown out the way he was feeling. You were in his bed, talking about your boyfriend. It was fucked. And it felt awful. He looked at you, clouded by alcohol and god, he wished he kissed you in high school. He wished he told you how he felt. If he had, maybe you wouldn’t be so far out of reach. It took him all his strength not to tell you that while drunk. Instead he just laid on the bed next to you, laughing with you about some stupid shit Patrick said. 

“This is why you’re not in college, Pat,” you laughed, out of breath. You had turned on your side, your hand was resting on Art’s upper arm. Patrick just groaned, laughing as he turned his head down to the floor. Art was too aware of your hand on his arm. The way it moved up and down almost the way a person would soothe another, but it was you. And this never meant anything, so why should Art let himself believe it did now? 

“You’re so smart, tell us how good you are with context clues, go-” Patrick teased. But your eyes met the clock on Art’s desk. Your eyes widened a little. You’d lost track of time. 

“Oh my god,” you said, a little bit of panic in your voice. “It’s almost midnight, fuck, I have to go.” You jolted upright and literally climbed over Art to get off his bed. “I’m so sorry, guys, I’ll see you tomorrow, please text me.” You grabbed your phone and your bag and in seconds you were gone. 

Art just shut his eyes and sighed. “I feel that,” Patrick nodded. “What the fuck was that?” 

“Greg beckons,” Art replied bitingly. “Can’t be late to see Greg!” 

“Fucking Greg,” Patrick grunted. “You want the vodka back?” 

“Yes please,” Art groaned, covering his face with his pillow. 

You returned a little tipsy to Greg, who was tipsier. You used to think he was really great. He was funny and nice and he helped you drown out your feelings for Art. It felt like a step forward, progressive, real. Like a real relationship. One you knew you needed so maybe liking Art with no proof he liked you back would be easier. It was for a moment, but bliss is temporary. 

“You’re back, doll,” Greg said, greeting you on messed up bedsheets, not even bothering to meet you halfway. “I’ve had a night. C’mere, I missed you.” You’re afraid to say you’re tired and you just want to sleep. You slink into bed with him. He smells like whiskey again. It’s stronger, more potent, and he needs a shower. The second you’re in bed with him, he’s on top of you. “So why don’t you tell me why you didn’t answer my fucking texts, huh? Or when I called you four fucking times. You know how embarrassing to call your girl and she doesn’t pick up, huh? Had to do that four fucking times in front of my friends, were you trying to embarrass me?” His hand is tight on your arm, leaving bruises, the other hand is on your hair as he keeps himself propped up. It’s pulling and you feel the headache starting. 

“N-no, I’m sorry,” you manage. “Greg, you’re hurting me, you’re pulling my hair.” 

“Thought you liked that?” He smirked. Not once had you ever liked having your hair pulled. Not once had you ever said that to him in any context. 

“You’re hurting me!” You repeated. His hand eased out of your hair but his grip on your arm turned into a grip on your shoulder, just as hard. It hurt. You could feel it bruised already. “Greg, off, please.” 

He made a noise sort of like a whine, his breath horrible. “But I missed you, thought we could have some fun when you came back.” He kissed you. He kissed you. He kissed you. You didn’t want to kiss him, you wanted air, you didn’t want his hand down your waistband. “Don’t fight, pretty, come on. I know you want this.” 

No, you didn’t. You didn’t let it get so far without a fight. You were left to sleep alone as he stormed out. You tended to the injuries from earlier, the ‘stairs’ incident, plus the new injuries you’d have to make stories for because you’d be hanging out with Art and Patrick again. But the bruise that was already forming on your cheekbone looked bad enough that you texted Art saying you couldn’t make it tomorrow and you cried into your knees. 

Makeup didn’t do a very good job, especially when every time something healed, there was something new. You did see Art a few days later when Greg had gone ‘fishing’ with a friend. The bruise on your cheek had faded, but not enough. Makeup hardly fixed it either. “Ball to the face,” you sighed, pressing your lips into a straight line when Art noticed it. He grimaced. “I mean at least my partner has upped her miles per hour but it’s…”

“Ouch,” 

“Yeah,” you chuckled, walking next to him. “So I was thinking maybe we could hang out Tuesday night.” 

He looked at you, “You have something in mind?” As if he could say no. 

“Yes, actually. It’s like an improv show thing, it’ll probably be awful. We can get candy and make fun of them behind their backs.” You smiled just a little. 

He grinned, bowing his head just a little, “Sounds perfect.” 

“Thought so,” you laughed, nudging him a little so he walked off the sidewalk and onto the grass. He tried to nudge you back, but you dodged him and he nearly tripped down the hill you were walking next to. You laughed, but it only laughed so long as his expression turned into the determination to get you back for it. He chased you down the hill until it became a rolling matter, both of you falling into the lush grass and rolling down the last bit of it. He rolled into you, turning it into a chaotic tumble that slowed to a halt with him on top of you. Art breathed out hard, eyes meeting yours, his breath smelling like the mint gum he was chewing. You smiled first with your eyes and then the grin spread up your face. “Ouch,” you mumbled, almost a whisper. His eyes lingered on yours, his face hovering just above you. 

His eyes flickered from your eyes to your lips and his brain told him to move, but he didn’t want to. But he had to. You were taken. It would be wrong. But you didn’t move either. You were both breathing hard, smiling at your compromising position until Art did move. Though maybe you didn’t want him to. “You’re okay?” 

“I will be,” you replied. He helped you up and once again, your faces were just inches apart. It was dangerous, wanting you. 

Greg threatened obscene things in the face of if you ever were to leave him. He’d tell your secrets, said he’d end his life, said he’d hurt you. You cried. A lot. For hours, later. He was terrifying. You cried so hard your eyes were completely bloodshot the next day. Your girlfriends were concerned, but you played it off as allergies. 

You saw Art another day and it was good to talk to him about everything and nothing. He was a good distraction from the throbbing pain in your ribs from Greg’s reaction to you mentioning a celebrity crush. He had been drunk. Too drunk. And you couldn’t get away fast enough. 

Tuesday rolled around. You kept your hair down to hide the bruise on your temple. It still ached, along with where your hair was pulled once again when you refused to have sex with Greg again. He was sitting bitter on your bed, angry still. You put on your jean shorts and a t-shirt. “Where you going dressed like that?” 

You looked up, “Like what?” 

“Why the fuck do you instantly talk back? What’s your fucking problem. I’m asking you where you think you’re going dressed like a slut?” 

Your eyebrows furrowed, “Just getting dessert with Bea from my tennis program. She’s got this-” 

“Go change.”

You weren’t looking for a fight. You put on jeans and a sweater. It made you five minutes late to meet Art and you hated it. You looked at Art with sadness in your eyes and he recognized it but didn’t know what it was. “Are you okay?” He knew you. 

“Yeah, can we just… go make fun of bad improv?”

“I brought the gummy worms,” he nodded. You leaned slightly against him as you walked down to the outdoor theatre. You were glad to be out for the evening. Glad to be away from Greg and his anger and his hurtful words and the way he treated you. Art was the calm. He was the safety. He didn’t even know it, but he was what kept you going. If you ever got away from Greg, maybe you’d tell Art how you felt. As the feelings for Greg dissipated, your feelings for Art resurfaced. 

“The clown bit was actually so good,” you laughed, walking back up the steps of the campus theatre. ”Reminded me of what Patrick said the first time we got high.” 

His eyes widened and he swallowed the gummy worm he was eating, “Mm- I was thinking the same thing. It was him for sure.” 

“You think I’d be a good clown?” 

“Mmm, no.” He shook his head. “Your feet aren’t big enough.” 

“And yours are?” 

“One, who said anything about me being a clown and two, big feet are supposed to mean something, right?” 

You laughed, “Shut up, so boyish.” 

His hand brushed your upper arm, just slightly, and you were all too aware of it. In fact, you were all-too aware of how close you walked to him. It was always an unconscious thing. A forever type thing, always walking close, always leaning against each other in the cafeteria lines, always near each other- never near enough. He then nudged your arm again, this time on purpose, so you opened your hand so that he could dump a few more gummy worms in it and you just smiled. It had never, not once, been more apparent that finding someone to replace your feelings for Art was a mistake. Not when this boy, blonde curls and crooked grin was putting a pile of gummy worms in your hand. Wordlessly. Seamlessly. He just got you and the feeling to kiss him right there, right then was overwhelming. And wrong. 

It was wrong. You pressed your lips together for a moment before eating a gummy worm. If your boyfriend was around he’d smack them right out of your hand saying you don’t need more sugar. Maybe that’s why he was so bitter, you thought. Lack of sugar. You tried not to think too hard about the urges Art brought with him. He was so lovely, he was such an escape, and he was only your best friend. It was all he could be. You had no idea he was fighting the very same urge, paying extra attention to the fact he didn’t even have to ask you to open your hand, you just knew. But it was wrong. You had a boyfriend. 

You said goodbye to Art at the entrance to your building, rather than your dorm. If Greg heard you talking out there, you’d be in for something for sure. “Thanks for coming out with me tonight-” you started. “I needed it.” 

Art’s hands slunk into his pocket and he tilted his head just a little, “Yeah, about that. You’re doing okay?” 

“Oh, yeah, my mood lately has been down, it’s nothing big. I’m just extra appreciative of anything that brings it back up.” 

His eyes were understanding and a little apologetic. “If you want we can do something tomorrow? See a movie or play Scrabble or something stupid. We can get takeout? Takeout and going through Patrick’s Facebook and making fun of him.”

That made you grin. You scrunched your nose just a little, “That sounds good! Really good. I’ll call you tomorrow and I’ll let you know. I have to check with Greg.” Of course you did. Greg. Fuck. “But I’ll call you, I promise.”

“Okay,” he nodded. His gaze lingered on your lips. He wished they wouldn’t. He wished his mind wasn’t on who you were going back to after he said goodbye. He walked back to his dorm room in this perpetual state of angst and longing. There was no pain like it. Ever. In any part of his life he’d never known a greater emotional turmoil. You weren’t his. And he loved you, he didn’t even like you, he loved you and he knew it and you didn’t and there was nothing he could do. 

He went back to his dorm and got into bed in his jeans and his shoes, not bothering to turn the light off, not bothering to pull the covers over himself. He just hugged his pillow and thought about you and it and everything until he fell asleep. You didn’t have that luxury. 

“You’re late,” Greg said, sitting on your bed. He’d been smoking in your room, you could smell it. Potent and cheap, assaulting your nose. You’d give anything to walk out and not return, but this room was yours. If you left now, he’d have you back in your room with some threat or worse. “Care to tell me why?” 

“I thought I was home early?” You set your bag down on the chair. “You said 11.” 

“I said 10:30,” he replied. 

“Did you?” 

“Did I stutter?” 

“No. Look, I’m tired, can we just go to bed?” 

“Of course we can, doll,” he smirked a little bit evilly. You sighed, running your hand over the back of your neck. He wanted to fuck you. And you wanted to go to bed. “Come over here.” 

“Greg, I’m tired,” 

“Too tired?” 

“Yes. I’m too tired. I’m just going to wash my face and go to bed.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Greg, that’s uncalled for.” You said, standing your ground, just a little. “I’m just tired.” 

He shook his head, “Yeah? You go out for hours and come back and don’t even want to fuck. Sounds an awful lot like you’re getting your fill somewhere else. Hm?” 

You pressed your hand to your temple, “It means I’m tired, god, Greg, I’m not cheating.” And some voice in your head told you that you wished you were. “Please.” You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door, just in case. You washed your face and changed into your pajamas before getting in bed next to his heavy scent. As he wrapped an arm around your waist you thought maybe you could tune him out, but his hand slipped over your chest, coming to rest with your breast in his hand. You couldn’t pretend anything. He was himself. Even if you wished it was someone else, it wasn’t. 

The next morning, he was gone. Where to? You had no idea. You were just glad. You spent the morning with windows open, cleaning your things, wiping down surfaces and sorting laundry, spraying air freshener. And it dawned on you to call Art. Greg wasn’t around. You hadn’t asked him, but you would make some excuse, maybe. 

“Hey!” You greeted him, laying back on your bed, fresh sheets beneath you. “You still want to get takeout and make fun of Patrick’s facebook?” 

Art walked to the side of the tennis court, his partner yelling at him to make it quick. He smiled, sitting on the bleachers. “Yeah, if you’re up for it. My dorm, around seven? Does that work?” His smile grew to a grin. 

“That works,” you replied, smiling too. “Who is yelling at you right now?” 

“My partner for singles today,” he answered with a chuckle. “He’s telling me to get back on the court.” 

“Doesn’t he know you’re super busy making super important plans?” 

He looked at his partner, frustrated in waiting on the court. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“Right?” You rolled onto your stomach. “I’ll let you get back to him, I’ll see you later, Art.” 

“See you later, Y/N,” he said. You wished he didn’t have to go. You had nothing to do, Greg wasn’t around. Patrick was touring for another week before he came back around here. You decided to go out and meet up with some girlfriends for the afternoon. It was nice to be out and unbothered by having a set time to be home. There was no pressure. Greg didn’t call or text, not once, and it was a strange sort of peace. You talked to your friends about tennis and classes and their current crushes and it was fun and it was good. You retired back to your dorm around six thirty, showered, and did a little makeup. You were just about to leave to meet Art when Greg walked in.

It was like the light was sucked out of the room along with all the air. Or the fresh air. He smelled gross. He tasted worse, kissing you disgustingly. “Hey baby, I missed you,” he slurred. He needed to shave. “Where you headed?” 

“Bea’s,” you replied. “She’s having a movie night.” 

“Stay,” he breathed. “Missed you all day. Need to feel you.” He disgusted you. Hands on your chest with the door not even closed yet from his entry. “Come on, doll. Said no yesterday, can’t say no today.” 

“No.”

“Don’t give me that attitude, come on. I’m being nice.” 

“Greg, I have plans, I’m going to be late,” you tried to laugh it off nervously, but his hand was around your wrist in seconds. “Greg, please. Come on.” 

He narrowed his eyes, “You’re staying. Bea can fucking wait. Don’t your little friends know that I’m more important than them? Jesus christ, the company you keep.” 

You avoided his gaze. His hand slipped down to undo his belt. You debated running. He’d catch you, he was fast. You debated an argument. You didn’t want to fuck him, you didn’t want to have sex with him. He was expecting it more than wanting it. Like all you were was some object, some toy, some possession. His eyes were dark with lust and his words laced with alcohol. You were afraid of him. “Greg, I have to go. I’ll be back around eleven.” 

“You’re not fucking going,” Greg made it known. Flat out. He shut the door behind him. 

“I am. I made the plans, I can’t bail.” 

“For me, yes you fucking can.” He said, pushing you back onto the bed. “Come on, Y/N. You’ll like it soon enough.” 

“No. Greg. I’m serious. I have to go.” 

“You know better than to talk back to me,” he warned. As if you were a dog. Or a child. “You don’t fucking listen? You’re not going out. Cut the attitude before you regret it.” 

“Greg.” 

“What did I fucking say?” He yelled, then dropped his voice. It was nasty, his breath, his tone. “I’m gonna fuck you and you’re gonna like it.” 

“No-” his blow came like lightning through your body. A shock. A volt. And then the sting. “Greg, please-” another. And more. And then he left again. You couldn’t move. You didn’t want to, it hurt. Your ribs ached, your head pulsed. Your lip was bleeding. What could you do but cry and cry and cry? You wanted to call Art, you really did, but you knew if you cried on the phone he’d come over here and with Greg on the loose, it wasn’t a good idea. So you curled up into a ball and cried yourself to sleep. 

Art sat in his dorm room waiting all night for you. Until about 2 am, when he gave up calling and texting and went to bed. You called him the next morning and he didn’t pick up. 

You couldn’t reschedule for any day nearby because of your fat lip and new bruises. Greg came back and apologized like usual, dismissing the purple and blue on your face. His doing. His work. When he was in the bathroom, you called Art again, leaving a quiet voicemail. 

“Art, I’m so sorry about my no-show last night. Something came up and I couldn’t make it and I’m so sorry I didn’t call or text. I feel like such an asshole. But next week, for sure. We’ll do whatever you want, my treat. I want to make it up to you, I feel terrible about this. Please call or text me when you get this. I’m sorry.”

Art gazed over his screen. He wasn’t sure how to feel. Loving you was choking him out and these no-shows and being late and canceling, it was just… too much. You were you and you were everything he could ever want, but you had other priorities, it seemed. He could want you all he wanted, wish for you as often as he could, but you didn’t wish the same. That was all he knew, not knowing the whole truth. Not calling him that night was one of the hardest things to do, but it was for safety. 

You couldn’t even see Art if you wanted to for a few days. Not until the bruises faded enough to be covered by clever concealer. You wanted so desperately to go over to his dorm. You wanted to see your friends. Anything to feel better. Anything to get out of this fucking room, but you called in sick to your classes and worked on the material in your room, completely unable to really exist in the outside world. It was just you and Greg in this tiny little room. And he didn’t stop the aggression. You couldn’t escape it. 

You called Art again when he left for an hour or two to go to the bar. You had stifled your crying, feeling so completely alone, needing to hear his voice. Maybe he’d save you for even a moment. He was the light, he made things better. 

He picked up this time. “Hey.” It was singular, a little quiet. 

“Art, hi,” you said. You weren’t sure why you were so overwhelmed with emotion at his simple greeting. “Did you get my messages? I left a voicemail, god, I’m so sorry for the other night.  We made plans and I made a commitment but I got tangled up. I wanted to call, I’m so sorry I didn’t.” You gushed. “I understand if you’re angry. I know I promised you I wouldn’t do what I did, but you have to believe I didn’t mean to. And I’m really sorry.” 

He was quiet for a moment. “I know.” He wasn’t sure what to say. What you did wasn’t okay, but it was you, so he’d always forgive. “I get it.” But he didn’t. “You have a boyfriend, I can’t expect you to be free all the time. It’s fine.” But it wasn’t. 

“Art, really, I-” 

“I forgive you. Just call me next time? Please.” His words were so easy, it hurt you. “I heard your voicemail, if you still want to make it up to me, I’m free Friday night. There’s a party, Patrick wants to go. You should come with us.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut. A party would be hard to lie about. But it was Art and he was asking and you so desperately wanted to see him that you agreed. You agreed. And the conversation mellowed into something normal. Your usual conversation and banter, slight teases, and warm words. And it felt better. You had plans for Friday and that was that. You wouldn’t let anything or anyone stop you this time. 

Getting ready for the party with Greg around sucked. You did your makeup modestly, you couldn’t look too nice or he’d stop you from leaving. The concealer didn't quite cover the bruise, but your lip had healed over pretty nicely. The dim lighting would be your friend for sure. You put on a long skirt over a mid-length one. You couldn’t be too careful, he once called a skirt slightly above the knee slutty. And you wore a dollar store t-shirt over your black tank top. 

“Where are you going?” Greg asked. 

“Sleepover at Bea’s, remember?” You said. You loved lying to him. It was the best you could get away with. “You said I could go.” 

“Yeah. It’s fine. Talk to you later.” He didn’t make you stay or make you kiss him goodbye, which was a relief. You walked over to Art’s dorm with what felt like pep in your step. You didn’t have to be home at any certain time, you were free to roam, to have fun. Greg wouldn’t know. Greg couldn’t know. Patrick let you into Art’s room. He’d been debriefed on the stunt you pulled, but he couldn’t hold it against you. 

“You look like you’re going to church,” he remarked, looking over your outfit.

 Art peered over from where he sat, “Amish?” 

You chuckled, pulling the shirt off over your head. Both boys were a little taken aback as you tossed the shirt to Art’s laundry. “Not quite.” You undid the button on the side of your skirt and took that off as well, revealing the shorter skirt underneath. You were beautiful, Art thought. He always thought it. But that was because you always were. Wanting you was hard and disruptive and wrong, he reminded himself. But you stood there and everything reminded him of just how fucked he was. Head over heels for a taken girl. Both of them were too distracted to pay attention to the covered-up bruise on your outer thighs. They didn’t pay close enough attention to the multitude of bracelets that covered the bruised fingerprints on your wrist. Your face was another story. Another lie. 

Art’s mouth was just a little open, watching you shed the outer layer of clothes. Patrick tossed you a shooter. “So what’s with the coverup?” 

You thought he meant your makeup over the bruise on your face and you held your breath for a half-second. He meant the clothes. “Oh, Greg wouldn’t like me out in a skirt and tank top.” You tried not to cringe at the words. Were they telling?

“Why does Greg have a say in that?” Patrick replied, leaning forward in his chair just a little. Art looked away, he had to. His face would say something he didn’t want you to know. Patrick was overstepping, he couldn’t bear that either. 

You unscrewed the cap of the shooter, “He’s not… I don’t know. But I don’t give a fuck, I’m going out anyway,” you said, trying to ignore that line of questioning. “I’m in the skirt and the shirt. Thoughts?” You did a little spin. Art couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were so perfect it hurt. It hurt. 

“Hot.” Patrick nodded. He unscrewed his own shooter, standing and grabbing one to pass to Art. Art pushed past his thoughts and the three of you did a little ‘cheers’, downing the small bottles. You would take hot. Hot was good. Hot was the opposite of how you were feeling. Greg made you feel so gross, it was hard to be anything else. And with staying cooped up in your room, bruised and marinating in the feeling of being ugly- so hot was good. He said what Art was thinking. It was a little less than he thought, but it was a good summary. 

The three of you headed out soon after, drinking on the way. You were leaning on Art as you walked, the three of you laughing at some inside joke. Your laugh was beautiful and rang out in the street. With the soft buzz of alcohol in his head, on his skin, you were an angel. You were always an angel, bathed in streetlight. And your hand was around his bare forearm and boundaries with you were always blurry but this felt odd. He was enjoying it, it was wrong, but he was letting it pass with the excuse of the alcohol. Your hand was so soft on his skin, the perfect temperature, perfect everything. When were you not perfect? 

“Okay so Patrick is set on bringing a girl back- but bringing a girl back where?” You laughed, turning onto one of the little pathways between the rented residencies. 

“I don’t think he’s thought that far ahead,” Art chuckled, nudging Patrick just a little. Patrick raised his hands in surrender, both hands filled with shooters. His pockets were also full. “You were going to say my dorm room, weren’t you?”

“Nasty,” you teased. “Poor Art. He sleeps in that bed, you know.” 

“Uh-huh. You’re one to talk, you’ve always got some form of hickey on your neck, you don’t even try to hide it. Me, nasty? You.” Your hand immediately flew to the side of your neck. “Sit with that one.” 

Art’s heart always fell at the mention of it. Every time, without fail. You moved away from him just slightly at the mention. You would usually have a retort to something like that. But you didn’t. Your hand just stayed on the side of your neck, covering the fingerprint bruises you didn’t know were visible. You pulled your hair over it. “Pass me another shooter, please.” 

Art, sweet, feeling pretty shitty over the way he was viewing you, stayed quiet. Mostly. Until you were just outside the party. Patrick pat him on the shoulder, heading in right away. Art, sweet, stopped you with the extension of his arm. “You’re quiet.” He said. 

“So were you,” you replied. 

“Just wondering if you’re okay?” He said. Posing it as a question. “You’ve seemed upset since we were at mine, I just wanted to know before we go in there and it’s too loud and I get too drunk to ask.” 

“You’ve never been too drunk you ask,” you smiled. You were standing a little bit close to him, your toes inches from touching. “You got soooo drunk at the Miller’s party last year and you still asked me if I was having fun. I wasn’t and we left and you threw up, remember?” 

“I don’t,” he chuckled, eyes soft. But he nodded, “You’re okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m okay. I need more to drink and I want to find Bea and dance. My plans. Your plans?” 

“Drink and save women from Patrick,” he nodded, his grin coming back. 

You, just a little clouded from alcohol, pressed your palm to the side of his face just for a second. “You’re a saint, Art Donaldson.” He felt his skin flush. Your hand slipped away and went down his forearm once again, pulling him into the party. It was natural you let go of him, Art made a beeline for Patrick who was already talking to some girl. She was weird, flirted with Art too once he showed up. 

You needed to lie to Greg more often, you thought, taking a shot from some girl you shared a 3pm class with. Bea’s hands on your hips, dancing together, hands raised over your heads. This was living, this was uncontrolled, unbridled by any abuse, any threat. You could have fun and not feel guilty about it after. Greg had too much trust in a girl he hit. You felt- though you weren’t- free. Just a little bit. 

Art watched you with Bea, watched the way you moved. He was out of it. Just a little. Not too drunk at all. But enough. Numb, watching you. Hard, watching you. He hid a little behind Patrick to hide it, watching your hips sway, watching how close you and your best friend were. He couldn’t have cared less about Bea. Just you. 

He should have told you he liked you in high school. Not saying anything had to be one of the biggest regrets of his entire life. You were perfect for him in every way and you were warm and inviting and you were witty and fun and you knew each other like the backs of your hands and it would have been worth it to tell you. He knew that, looking at you, that it would have been easiest to tell you when he still could. He was bitter about it. A missed chance. Patrick told him he’d regret it and watching you under purple lights, he knew Patrick had been right. It was all bullshit. 

Patrick suddenly grabbed Art’s arm pretty hard, yanking him closer, “That guy over there. That’s Greg, right?” He said, voice low even in the loudness of the party. He gestured over to the guy in the weird sweater and jeans, leaned up against the wall, arm hanging above a short hardly-dressed girl. Faces close. So close. Noses touching kind of close. 

“Oh, fuck,” Art breathed, eyes locked on them, watching Greg’s hand touch just under this girl’s chin. You didn’t know Greg was there, that was apparent. But of course, the dirtbag was. Art’s heart pounded hard in his chest. He looked back at Patrick, whose expression was filled with hatred. As it should be because what the fuck? Regardless of how much he was rooting for Art, always rooting for Art, Greg was still the guy you were with. Your boyfriend. And he was with someone else. 

“I need a reason not to fuck him up right now,” Patrick said. “What the fuck do we do?” 

“I don’t know.” Art answered truthfully. “She doesn’t know he’s here, he doesn’t know she’s here.” 

Patrick shook his head, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, visibly pissed off. At least Patrick could be pissed off, Art’s stomach was just in knots. It was almost nonsensical. No way he would cheat on you. You? You were everything, you were gorgeous in all ways and you had a personality. How could he cheat? He looked back over at Greg in a liplock with this other girl and the anger did rise, but his eyes fell back on you and it eased. This was fucked all around. Every bit of this was fucked up. “We have to tell her, we can’t keep it to ourselves.” 

“I agree but how are we going to say it? We’re in a crowd of people, it’s not exactly fun news.” 

“Fucking asshole. I’m pissed. He’s slobbering all over that girl like a fucking dog. You know, I should…”

Art couldn’t keep listening to Patrick’s rant. He didn’t even want to look back at Greg. But Greg was very obviously invested in his cheating schemes. Art wondered how long he’d been doing it to you. How long had this guy been cheating? Did you not satisfy him? How could you not satisfy him, you sported hickeys so often and you were late to meet up and it was all sickening, but it didn’t add up. This guy was the world's most unsatisfied, apparently. It, he, was disgusting. Art felt his face crinkle up just thinking about it, but he had to now. Your feelings were in the balance here. 

“- in the face. Knock his goatee right off. Art. Art, I’m telling her.” 

“Patrick, give me a fucking second,” Art said, holding a hand up. He looked back at you, Bea pouring a shot in your mouth. You were smiling. Grinning. And you were beautiful and he hated the idea that you’d stop soon. Fuck. Neither of you deserved this. Not you, not Art. “We’ll tell her it’s time to go and then we’ll tell her outside, no bullshit.” 

Patrick nodded, “This is bad.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m so fucking angry.” 

“I know.” Art’s heart was leaping out of his chest. He held his hand out and Patrick dug in his pocket for a stronger shooter. Art drank it all quickly, letting it burn his throat. His heart didn’t slow even a bit. “Fuck.” 

Patrick leaned over to the girl who he’d just been talking to, saying something about having to leave. Art watched her roll her eyes and walk away. It was fair, she’d been standing there for a bit listening to him trash talk your boyfriend. Art rubbed his eyes, trying to sober up just a little, but after that shooter, it was a little bit pointless. Regret seemed to be a theme around here. “He’s gone.” Patrick said. Art let the fuzz from rubbing his eyes melt and sure enough, Greg wasn’t where he was before. Just a little panicked, he set his eyes on you. There he was, towering over you, rage in his eyes. It was clear to Art what was going through your head, he knew you too well, you were cowering. Patrick was still scanning the crowd for Greg, but Art watched as Greg’s fingers locked onto your upper arm and he yanked you so hard that your shoulder went funny for a second. 

Art, a little shocked, watching him drag you out of sight. And he launched into action. He started into the sea of people dancing, drinking, leaving Patrick behind. Patrick was faced the other way, by the time Art was absorbed into the crowd, it was a little late to find even him. Art pushed through people, trying to keep his sight on you, but he lost you in it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mumbled. He’d never seen anyone grab anyone the way Greg just grabbed you. It was violent and harsh and the way it happened, it couldn’t have been good in any way. He pushed through people, accidentally pushing a guy as he passed him, the guy went to push back but Art just darted out of the way. He made his way to the door, you weren’t around it, so you had to have left. 

“Art Donaldson, my man,” one of his tennis buddies greeted him, stepped in front of him and Art just stepped around him, trying to find you. You, where were you? His heart rate was raised higher than he’d ever felt it. Rapid, as if he’d run a mile. He ran out onto the street, looking around, but there wasn’t any sight of you. What he would do when he found you, he had no idea, he just knew he needed to find you. Nobody just grabbed someone like that with good intentions. 

Greg wasn’t a good guy and he knew that, he just thought it was his bias. That maybe he was overreacting, but it didn’t look so much that way now. “Greg, please!” You yelled from his left. Art turned his head to see two figures head into one of the thin alleyways between buildings. He could hear a man speaking back to you, Greg, obviously, but his voice was too much of a growl to understand. Art started jogging toward the sound, cautiously. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, okay, I’m sorry I lied,” you cried out. 

“Little fucking whore. Lie to me to go party with your friends? Dance on some fucking guy, cheat one me? That’s what you wanted?” Art’s heart was about to break his ribs. He ran just a little faster.

“No, fuck, Greg, stop! I was with Bea, I was with Bea!” 

“At a fucking party. If you wanted to be a slut you could have said so. Fucking lying to me, you’re disgusting. Fucking bitch.” 

“Greg!” 

“Don’t even start talking back to me now! You’re a lying, cheating whore who deserves to be treated like one!” 

Art was almost there, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. “Greg, don’t fucking touch me. I’m dead serious, I’ll scream. Get off me, get off me you asshole!” 

The sound of the blow made Art’s entire body go cold. He felt himself drain of colour, he felt his heart stop for just a second. It was a sickening noise. The entirety of him tensed up to a point he felt like a coiled spring, his chest tight, ribs pressing in. He hit you, that was the sound of him hitting you, he hit you. Art made it over and came at Greg with a surprising force, shoving him off of you and onto the ground. He was drunk, it was easy to do. Your hand grabbed Art’s upper arm, but missed as Art’s body followed through with the movement. 

“What the fuck?!” Greg exclaimed. You moved behind Art, backward, away. Tears streamed down your face, you were choking on sobs, cradling the side of your face with one hand and your upper arm with the other. Art stepped back with you. He was so angry he himself couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t look at you, he kept his eyes on Greg, breathing hard. Shoving was tame, shoving him off of you was going to have to be enough, Art wasn’t violent. The shock of all this hadn’t settled, it wouldn’t settle. “Who the fuck are you, tough guy?” Greg advanced on Art who was nimble, but between anti-car poles, stuck. Shoved against the wall, he just avoided having his head hit the wall by putting his hand up. 

“Art!” You yelled. “Greg, stop! GREG!” You screamed, you hoped someone would come. You hoped someone would call the cops. 

“Art fucking Donaldson, huh?” Greg smirked, face close to Art’s. “You been fucking my girlfriend? Hm? This the one, Y/N, really? Just friends my ass, you probably came here with him.” 

“Fuck you,” Art seethed. Greg was bigger than him. 

“Get off of him, Greg, I’m begging you, don’t hurt him!” 

Greg fumed, “Used me to get over him, huh? Big-eared, fuckass, twinkie little pretty boy, here?” 

“Shut up!” You yelled. Your head pounded, your skin stung. “Stop. Now. I’ll call the police, I’ll get someone to call the police, Greg, get off of him!” 

Art shoved Greg backward again, but he just walked right back. “I don’t want to fight you.” Art said, his eyes dark. “Fuck off. Leave her alone, fuck off.” 

“He’s playing prince charming, Y/N. You’ve been fucking him on the side. Yeah, that’s why you never put out, you slut. Getting his pathetic skinny boy dick on the side.” Art kneed Greg in the groin, pushing him off again and stepping over to you. “Oh, you’re fucking dead.” His eyes burned with rage and he came at Art with a pouncing force, grabbing him and bringing him down to the ground. You screamed, watching Greg tackle Art to the pavement. The brawl began, Greg holding Art down, trying to punch him but being blocked. Art wasn’t violent, he was avoiding hurting Greg. For you. For your sake. You had no choice, you had to intervene. What was a few more bruises? You tried to push Greg off, but he kept at it, trying to hurt Art. 

“Hey! Hey, what the fuck!” It was Patrick and he dragged you out of this with too much ease, putting you to the side and going right back to push Greg off of Art and onto his back. A bystander behind Patrick had their phone out, calling 911, thank god. You watched in pure shock, Art get punched in the shoulder rather than the head and in a swift blow, Patrick punched Greg in the jaw. And he went limp. You grabbed Art, you grabbed whatever you could on him, his shirt, his opposite shoulder, on your knees. He looked at you with eyes sadder than you’d ever seen them. You moved closer. 

His hand reached up to your face desperately but also gently, despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins. “You’re okay? You’re okay.” 

“I’m okay,” you nodded a little too much, looking him over just as he looked you over, noting the way your cheekbone was bleeding. He really hit you. “God, are you okay? I’m so sorry, Art, I’m so sorry.” You were crying a steady stream of tears, lip trembling, and you were still so beautiful. 

“Don’t be sorry, don’t be sorry,” he said, trying to wipe your tears a little more desperately than he had just done. “He hit you, he hurt you, how-” 

“I wanted to tell you. I was scared. I was so scared he’d do something awful. I don’t love him, I don’t want him, I want you. I want you, I’ve wanted you.” You blurted, sobbing just a little more. Art messily moved your hair out of your face. “Art, I-”  You were crying so hard, it was hard to breathe. “I couldn’t leave him.” You looked over at Patrick shaking his hand out, at Greg’s unconscious self. Hands gentle, he turned your head away from it. 

Art’s lips were just a little parted, eyes looking over the damage to your face. “How long has he been?” 

“A long time,” you swallowed hard. “Three months in, maybe two- two and a half.” You said, biting your lip trying to stop crying. “I wanted to leave him. I wanted to so badly, but I couldn’t. He’s- he’s why I didn’t show up those times, I wanted to be there, but he’d… he was… I’m sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry, you have nothing to be sorry for, this isn’t your fault,” he said, bracing you with soft hands. “It’s okay. He’s not getting close to you ever again, Patrick is making sure of that.” 

“He was right about the using him part, I was using him to get over you and it was- wrong. It was wrong and he started hurting me and then it was too late to get out.”

In the heat of the moment, your ‘I want you’s had slipped past him. He wanted to make sure you were okay, he wasn’t focused on that. You were blurting things out, he’d missed it. His eyebrows furrowed, he lowered his head just a bit, “Over me? What do you mean?” His judgment also wasn’t the best. But it didn’t matter. You sat up just a little, still clinging onto his clothes, hands shaking. With Greg out, going to be out of the picture the words just spilled from your mouth. Rolling off your tongue in light of what was soon to be true freedom. 

“I’ve wanted you forever, god, it kills me that I never said anything. It’s you, it’s been you, I don’t know why I thought I could ever try and be with anyone to forget that. It’s just, you’ve never…” 

“What? No, no. I’ve liked you since I met you, we were twelve, it was bad and it’s been you. You never said anything either-” the sound of a cop car approaching interrupted. “You liked me?” 

“Yes! So much. Too much, sometimes. God, I’m so stupid.” You were crying still, even more now. “You just… you never said anything, so I never said anything and then I got stuck, but it never stopped. It’s bad, it’s so bad, I probably love you, it’s awful.” The alcohol was still running the conversation. 

“That is awful,” Art chuckled just a little bit. On the pavement with you, cop car approaching, lights flashing. This conversation would be over in a minute. Your eyes met his, sad, angry, mutual thoughts and mutual expressions. 

“It’s bad?” You smiled just a little through your tears. 

He grinned just a little, “I've been in love with you for as long as I've known what being in love feels like”

Art’s thumb wiped your tears with a little less desperation now. His heart and yours were still beating hard. “That’s so bad, that’s six years,” 

“I know.” He said, grinning his wide crooked grin. The conversation had strayed from the real problem, but it was a good distraction. A welcomed one, in fact. Proof that things could and would be better. “It’s okay. Are you going to be okay?” 

“I’m going to be okay,” you nodded. The policemen, two of them walked over and began their spiel, asking about what happened and Art helped you to your feet. The night was still young, the persecution was easy to figure and a diary you kept detailing his abuse was a great help to the case. You, Patrick, and Art all spent the night at the police station with forms and questions and people trying to get a grasp on the situation. A blurry security camera was also a great amount of help. Greg was charged properly, put away. It was easy to see who was the real problem. You sat with ice to your face in one of the police chairs, being offered therapy and counseling and numbers to call for trauma and crisis. Everyone was so sweet, one of the policewomen held your hand for a good while until it stopped shaking. 

You still cried a lot. Sorry that everyone had to go through this just because you couldn’t leave a guy. Just because you had tried to forget your feelings for Art in someone else. But the words, ‘it’s not your fault’ were thrown around a lot. And that you’d be safe. And it felt good to know. You’d sobered back up, obviously. So did the boys. You had the most extensive questioning, the boys waited in the main room. 

“All the excuses, the ball to the face, the stairs…” Patrick sighed heavily, staring forward into a void. 

“It was him.” Art nodded. “I feel like such an idiot, how the fuck did I not know? I know her better than myself, she hid it and I didn’t want to think about her and Greg. It was… it hurt.” He admit. Patrick looked over at Art. 

“He’s gone. He won’t hurt her again. If he tries, best believe I’m doing more than knocking his ass out. I can’t fucking believe this shit. I’m glad I got off, but jesus fucking christ, I wish I’d done enough to be behind those bars.” 

“No you don’t,” Art sighed, leaning forward into his hands. “Fuck. I didn’t even fight back.” 

“You’re not that kind of guy,” Patrick reasoned. “Which is fine. You got him off her, that was all you needed to do.” 

“I guess, but… fuck.” 

“She told you she wanted you,” He reminded Art with a slight sly smile on his lips. He gave Art a gentle little push off the shoulder. As if Art had been able to stop thinking about it. He’d sobered up just the same and the confession might have been badly timed, but at least it happened. He meant it, he hoped you did too. He was trying not to let it eat him alive alongside the fact your now-ex hit you and he hadn’t known. Maybe he missed the other clues? How did he not know? “She likes you too. It’s all you’ve wanted.” 

“I know,” Art sighed. “After that, though?” 

“Means she’s yours.” 

Art looked up and met Patrick’s eyes, trying to verify if he meant it. As if Patrick was the dictator. But Patrick was only the reality. The gravity of the situation hung above him, but you were in front of him, free from the questioning. Your cheeks were pink and tear-stained still and your eyelashes were still wet. Patrick tipped his head toward you to gesture to Art and the second Art saw you, he was on his feet. His eyes were wide like a doe’s, hands in his pockets. 

He met you halfway down the blue-painted precinct hallways. Your eyes said more than words did as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He pulled you in the rest of the way into a hug that had more sincerity and life than the walls had ever seen. His arms wrapped around your waist, grabbing onto the fabric of your shirt on your sides, holding you tight and close. He kissed your shoulder, his chin resting in your hair. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He mumbled. You shut your eyes for a moment, allowing him to envelop you in his arms. He held you so tight, it felt like he was keeping you from falling to pieces. It would take you a while to get over all of this, but right now, it felt like you’d be okay. 

He was refreshingly cold, the precinct was warm and you’d been upset, so of course you were warm. He held you for a minute or maybe five. Nobody had to use the hallway and anyone who did just went back around. Patrick didn’t watch, instead, he went to the counter to ask about getting a ride back to campus. 

Eventually, you pulled away from the hug. Not entirely, just almost. His arms slid over your back, his grip just loosening, not leaving. In fact you didn’t get very far in pulling away. Your heart beat fast in your chest. Even in the upset, even after the fact, Art was still your peace. He was quiet and he held you as long as you needed him to. He was always there and you knew he would be. With everything that happened just then, with that confession… Your forehead pressed against his. Gentle. Safe. You were safe. You felt safer here, like this, than you did in that room with the officers who asked you so many things. 

You looked at him through your eyelashes. He must have read your mind, he must have known you too well. With a tilt of your heads, your lips met. There was the slightest, softest bit of hesitation, but it was soothed over in seconds, your hand sliding to cup Art’s cheek. He pulled you back in with slow, easy hands that didn’t grab too hard. The kiss was patient, calculated, and warm. It sent what felt like tiny sparks through all of your veins leaving goosebumps in their wake. It felt like completion, like a satisfying end to a movie, like putting a book back on the shelf after reading it. It was easy to kiss him, your heart slowed for the first time as his pace matched yours. However, out of understanding, the kiss wasn’t too long. Maybe a minute, nothing more. 

You’d been through something. He couldn’t be the one to fix all of that, but he’d be there for you until it felt better. Stepping in now felt wrong, felt like it was one thing to another. You needed the time to yourself. Art didn’t kiss you again for another five months. All of which were spent the way they usually were, aside from being a little closer than usual and hanging out so much more. You were free to do as you pleased. Free to see him. Free to stay home- and you spent a good amount of your time alone healing. Physically and mentally. 

Patrick was often around to help you laugh it off, but when you needed to cry, Art was always right there. After some time, you were feeling like yourself again. And you were laughing too much, smiling all the time again, spinning in a new skirt and crashing into Art. Who you then kissed, after so much time thinking about it, replaying it, wanting it again. It was finally okay to do so. After seven years, it was only fitting that he welcomed it, fully, and entirely. You were giggling, your lips pressed to his, and he knew it was okay. There was no bruise on your cheekbone to be cautious of, both of his hands held your face, your head tilted back just a little as he kissed you the way you were meant to be kissed. The way Greg couldn’t. It would never mean so much. 

Greg was in your past, but Art was your past. And your future, now. Because now that you had each other, neither of you was going to let go. He promised you that between kisses. You promised it back. 

taglist: @swetearss @lalalandofive @reallycreativeusername @kaaaiiaaa @ladystardust-thinks @ke4s @ellzbellz18

[chlmtsdoll]

omg omg yes patrickkk!! maybe something like he says something in regards to her relationship with art and tashi and how one day she’ll be alone and they’ll leave her after she retires and she gets all sad and just lots of angst ???

YES OMG this is just what I needed !! Even though Patrick is a real bully in this one I had a lot of fun with thisss I love writing intense emotions 🤍

NOTHING WITHOUT YOU

౨ৎ Pairing: ballerina!reader x Patrick Zweig/Art Donaldson/Tashi Duncan

౨ৎ Summary: Art and Tashi leave you home alone with Patrick, deciding to keep your distance from his dislike of you only goes but so far when you get caught in his wrath

౨ৎ Word count: 3.8k

౨ৎ Warnings: no use of y/n, sensitive!reader, sugar baby! reader, lots of angst, some fluff at the end, hurt/comfort, light verbal abuse, mentions of bullying, age gap (reader early 20’s), older!Patrick/Art/Tashi, protective Art & Tashi

While Art and Tashi had been out for the night seeing their daughter Lily in a local tennis tournament they were having for all the kindergarteners qualified in town, you’d stayed back at the penthouse the couple had been renting out for the time being. Although, you hadn’t been staying back alone — you were accompanied by the maid that waited on you all day to day and Patrick, who well, was brought along on this months tennis cycle.

It was mandatory you weren’t home alone during this time though. Tashi had been extremely potent on the matter, a strict rule about you being by yourself or out of her or Art’s view with Patrick. She made a big thing about how she didn’t trust the vindictive man that Patrick was around you. Even though it was known to you he was trusted within the couples sanctuary and personal life — they also were sure to remember he was Patrick at the end of the day.

With his deadly looks and slightly verbal abuse towards you since you met, down to his canine like draw that led him towards using his cruelty as shield for his compulsive desire that made him want to tear you down piece by piece. You didn’t know if it was because he still just couldn’t quite figure you out, or your purpose with the Donaldsons — why they were so intrigued with you or the fact that he wanted them, you, to himself.

It wasn’t overlooked by anyone that Patrick couldn’t stand the light that you were in Art and Tashi’s lives. With your innocent stares, fawning eyes at them like they were your world and stars, or how you always had a sense of obliviousness to your encounter. Always walking around the place in the tiniest shorts or pastel leg warmers trimmed with things he thought was all too ridiculous for you to be really real. At least not enough for him to take you seriously. Like ruffles or dainty flower trimmings of some sort that made his senses go untamed. You saw it whenever you’d walk by his robust presence as he’d sit and have a beer with Art. His eyes following your waist and perfect stature to do virtuous things like help the maid out with the laundry, kind smiles and sweet “please” and “thank you’s” as you folded attire. Or when you’d be quiet as a mouse in your the side of whatever massive place Art and Tashi would rent when you’d join them on tour during your off seasons, to pick up a thousand piece puzzle. Clench your fists in the cutest of ways when you got stuck in a loop of no hope to finish. But you always finished. You were the perfect sweet little thing.

He found you to be nauseating.

Your sweetness like a straight poison, always just too polite and never having outburst or a temper rise. To Patrick it seemed too good to be true, and you were. Just too good. Just to sweet for him. He wanted to destroy you.

Corrupt you, chew you up and spit you out.

And you just hadn’t known how to handle it or approach him at all, so not even knowing the appeal that Tashi and Art saw in him, you mostly ever just stayed away.

With the man being over an entire foot taller than you, you had no problem in keeping your distance. Any time you two were caught walking down a tight hall, his towering presence over you, he’d knock right into your miniature body. On purpose. Making you fly the other way, or when you’d basically spent most of the summer reading, he’d take your books by the spine and toss them across the room. If you were watching tv he’d snatch the remote from the coffee table and turn on a tennis match.

He was a grown man and a full blown bully.

You’d only put up with it because you knew it was in response of him not getting the same savory and tender treatment that Art and Tashi gave you. You were taking it all. Stealing their affections and hogging it from him with a naive (annoying to him) little smile on your face.

So you’d take a couple pushes and teasing if that meant you could hurt him in his weakest ally.

And you respected Tashi’s wishes of not sharing space with him for caution of yourself, but when the maid had to run out suddenly for an abrupt emergency — that plan had went downhill quickly.

You were left with Patrick Zweig all by yourself.

“Okay, I hope everything’s alright… see you next week.” you’d said your goodbyes to the maid as she hurried out of the place and you’d shut the grand doors behind her gently, turning on your heels to approach the kitchen area as your cold feet lightly toed against the marble floors. You decided not to bother making too much noise now that it had been just you and him. If you could just get through the next hour without having to get into an interaction with him and upset Tashi, it would be fine.

Nearing the close kitchen, you could hear switches of the second stove being turned and messed with. The sound irritating and getting louder as you stepped closer. Gas. Not the electric one that had also been provided right next to it.

When you walked in, of course Patrick had been hunched right over the stove, what looked like trying to light his cigarette in the most odd way that made you raise a brow on sight — until you remembered the rant he went on to Art and Tashi about leaving his one and only lighter back at one of the other rental homes in La. His fingers taking a quick break to scratch at his only slightly shaven dark colored beard to neck in modest confusion as he toyed with the fire. Just a couple seconds from catching onto his jeans.

You viewed the scene for a quick moment before letting out a piqued small sigh as you’d let him deal with that at his own funeral. You went to grab a soda from the fridge a few steps away from him.

Going through the loaded refrigerator stacked with only the highest healthy planned meals and smoothies, accompanied with fruits and cut up vegetables, you reached in the drawer to get a Diet Coke. The sound of Patrick just a couple moments away from burning the entire penthouse down made you scrunch your face up in annoyance before shutting the fridge by the handle.

“Could you not do that ? It’s really dangerous.”

His expression was hardened, Patrick looked up from his amateurish work to meet your glance when the sound of your soft chary voice had reached his ears.

“it’s fine, pipsqueak. I know what I’m doing.”

You rolled your eyes at the name he’d call you, and raised the sharp edge of the soda can to your lips as you watched the top of his cigarette beam a bright crimson at last. The taller fit man matched your gesture as he brought the stick to his mouth. Pink, and not reaching for a care in the world he let the smoke he breathed in travel out and above. You watched with hesitation to bring up the fact that the smoke detectors had been near flashing a signaling light just above him, you eyed the small but alarming circle before your eyes drifted back down to Patrick’s dark curls framing his face.

“You really shouldn’t smoke in here,” you crossed an arm over your cropped pj top that had displayed your belly button by a few inches. Patrick lifted his chin and peered down at your small figure to inspected you from your socked feet to your head through lidded eyes.

“Relax. Mommy and daddy aren’t here right now,” he scuffed in slight displeasure of your voice already. “Don’t you ever do anything apart from what you’re told ?.. ever ?”

“I’m just trying to be safe.” You had to crane your neck to look up at him, so it was much easier to just stare down at your feet against the floor before shifting your weight to the other. Patrick turned from your exposure already tired of you sticking your nose in his business anyways. He had looked at you like some stray kitten walking around the place unwanted and unfamiliar to his prey attitude.

“Well go be safe somewhere else.” His voice gravely before he started to chuckle in thought, you frowned. “Isn’t it pass your bed time anyways ? Oh, wait.. I forgot, you just have to stay up so you can see Art and Tashi walk through the door right ? Like some needy puppy or something ?”

Your eyebrows furrowed and you swallowed to coat your now dry throat in slight offense as you dropped your arms to your sides.

“Art always makes sure to make me tea and kiss me good night.” You defended even though your tone remained faint and Patrick only grinned in ignorance at your comment wanting to laugh a bit more at your seriousness for a joke.

“God. I almost feel bad for you, y’know.. you’re so dependent on them. They’re not your fucking parents.”

Patrick had pointed his cigarette to your presence and you shook your head at his words.

“I never said they were.”

“You don’t have to. You’re addicted to them.”

“And so are you.” You raised your voice a bit and Patrick moved to the counter in front of you with frustration. “You were just as lost as me before they acknowledged you again. Now all you do is pick me apart for it but you’re the same… and you’re just too jealous to admit it.”

Patrick had looked away as he begun to laugh with a smile that hid his insecurities deep down. Only to meet your eyes again, the most disquiet look of enmity in his stare that made you start to back up in regret. Right into the cabinets behind you without even realizing it.

“Jealous ? Give me a fucking break. You’re a pet.” He verbally spit at you and your lip quivered a bit at the name, he once again, had the upper hand on you. Because when he started to move closer, starting to tower over your fragile space you once called personal — you should of just gotten out of it then. But something stopped you from getting away.

You were frightened, his words too big, too rough for you to escape.

“And you know what’s sad ? Your brain isn’t even developed enough to know the difference. You’re gonna keep this up with them. Get so tightly wrapped up in this.. whatever the fuck- - and get your feelings all fucked up and confused thinking it’s love. That they really could love you, till one day you’ll be stuck on the side of the road with your life fully flipped over when they get sick of your little shit get up.”

His words were harsh as he snapped at you. Your body was frozen there as he backed you up into the deep of the kitchen, and even though you knew you could leave. Just walk away. Your limbs slowly started the tremble as well, nose flaring and redden as you fought back tears. You couldn’t let him win. But what if he was right ?

You knew he hated you enough to say anything to make you cry, but what if it had all been true.

Something inside of you broke.

“That’s not true,” your voice shaken as you shook your head to fight the anxieties,

“Yes. And you know it. They’ll leave you one day. Are you really that stupid, you can’t see it ? You think this will last ?”

You didn’t answer, and Patrick grinned.

“You’re a fucking tool, that they can play with and you let them. A toy.”

You tried to muster up the power to block him out. You were failing. Your heart pounded and you gripped the counter behind you in correlation to your discomposure as you begun to sniff.

“The way Tashi hardly looks in your eyes unless you’ve won every god damn tournament, they way your definitely as much to Art as a doll he can fuck to keep himself in the game. Face it. You’re no better than a hooker on the go.”

“No.” You started to cry, tears falling from your ducks before your brain could alarm your hands to wipe them, you uttered the word out as you faced Patrick and he still got in your face even closer. The man scowled at you as he pushed his words into you, cramming them in your head. He cornered your petite body in the side on the kitchen and you could feel the overwhelming hurt take over your body.

“Yes. You mean nothing to them.”

“No !” You screamed at him as tears streamed down your face as you tried to fight off his presence, not knowing what to do or where to go so you stood there and cried. And it felt pathetic. You let him win. He was bigger and smarter and knew better. You don’t know why you tried to stand against him, lord knows you were never going to win and now you were left the fool, crying like a child while being dog leg by Patrick Zweig.

You suddenly heard heavy foot steps and the sound of heels clashing against the floor as Art and Tashi rushed into the room at the sound of your scream.

“What the fuck is going on here ?” Tashi’s voice over powered the entire room as she dropped her bag and called out the maids name in hurried frustration of the scene she observed. “Where the fuck is she ?” Tashi huffed before telling her mom to take Lily to her room quickly, then storming back in to stop whatever they walked into.

“Baby ? Hey hey hey,” Art made his way over to your quivering body, face taken over by utter concern as he immediately took your shoulders into his hands and pushed Patrick roughly to the other side of the counter.

“The fuck are you doing, man ??” He cursed out at the other man. If you weren’t overwhelmed with emotion, you could say this was the first time you’d ever seen Art so terribly angry. But all you could do was turn away and sob into Art’s chest as he held you close, eyebrows furrowed deep and a fire in his eyes as he stared at Patrick like he could snap.

“I got this. Take her upstairs,” Tashi gestured to you and Art as she pushed between the two of them. It was in one swift motion that she tugged on Patrick’s ear by the lobe, forcing him to follow her out of the kitchen. He winced through his trailing behind her.

“Ow! What the- -”

Tashi jabbed him in the arm, and then again, then again till he he jumped back from her furious state.

“Are you a fucking idiot !? What is the matter with you ?!” Tashi roared at him with straight daggers in her eyes. “What did you say to her ??? I told you to stay the fuck apart !”

“Your brat came bothering me!” He grabbed Tashi’s wrists to yank her away from enforcing anymore pain on to him, but she just snatched her arm away mercilessly again. “She’s a little shit, so I told her the truth. You and Art just baby the fuck out of her for gratification. You don’t give a fuck about her, admit it. All of you are delusional !”

He argued and Tashi closed her eyes for a brief second with a deep breath before she got in his face.

“You’re a fucking piece of shit.”

Patrick rolled his eyes, but Tashi caught him off guard when she shoved him straight in his chest again.

“Who the fuck gave you the right, Patrick ? Are you blind ?? No one gives a shit about you ! It’s you !” Tashi had grunted with eruption, only getting madder because he had madden her so much already. She and Patrick both knew her words had only been half true, but it didn’t matter right now when he was playing so dirty and spitting words carelessly after the other. He truly did have no right.

Patrick stood there and looked at her, there was no use of more words when she had gotten like this and he knew she knew exactly how he felt about it all.

“Just- just- dispose of yourself somewhere. Go.”

“Where do you want me to go ?”

“I don’t give a fuck. Away from here, away from me. You’re an asshole.”

Tashi’s eye slightly twitched while she looked at the man in repulsion, and he was stone cold as he pushed passed her, knocking her shoulder as he slouched by, Tashi folded her arms.

“You will apologize to her first thing in the morning or you can pack your shit.” The irked woman gave a forced sympathetic smile before glaring at him and walking away, leaving Patrick there groaning in vexation as he shook his head.

Upstairs, you had been curled up in Arts lap. He held you in his arms as your soft cries and salty tears melted into the cotton of his shirt, he rubbed small circles against your back while he sat there in thought.

Art was distraught by the fact that whatever Patrick had said could of disturbed you so bad he had to find you crying your eyes out and shaking in the kitchen. He tried his best not to let you see the way his fists clenched and unclenched with his anger fueled throughout him, since he didn’t want to scare you or make you worry any more.

No matter what, Patrick always found a way to be a fucking dick. He just couldn’t understand the motive around why he’d want to make his perfect girl hurt or scream like that.

He felt your breathing start to steady as you sniffed and your face had been all hot and flushed, your heart had gone back to a normal pace, but you still were quite shaken as you curled farther into Arts embrace with a low wine.

“Baby, look at me. Can you sit up for me ?” Art’s voice chimes in sweetly through the sunken air of the room. He lowers his head to stare down at your state in his arms and you moved so you were sitting on your knees on the bed, you sniffed and Arts thumbs went to caress your face as he wiped a few tears from your damp cheeks. His icy blues met your wide teary eyes that were filled with sadness and your lip had been just swollen a touch.

“What happened ? Can you tell me what he said to you ?”

Your eyes travel down to his hands brushing your face and you held one of his wrists, your expression was laced with sorrow. You whimpered a little just from the memory, which Art noticed with a sigh. You knew it would feel better if you just got it out. Emptied the words from your chest because your kind and caring Art always took care of the worries for you, but it had been different this time. Because it involved the ideal of him leaving you.

You took your time to think as you sat on that bed with him. And Art watched your face soften under his comforting touch.

“He said I was nothing. That you’d leave, Tashi would leave. And i’d be stuck heartbroken with nothing because I don’t mean anything to either of you.” Your voice was sparse and trembled as you spoke to get the words out, Art already started to tense up as he listened. “Maybe- I- I am too dependent on you both, and I shouldn’t be because I’m so young and you guys don’t need another child on your arm to have to look after. I don’t want to be stupid.. I’m so- stupid.”

You wanted to sob again, your voice cracking and your hands going to cover up your face, the corner of Art’s lips twitched as he frowned, “no, no, no, sweetheart. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

Art had brought you back into him as you cried softly under his chin, your arms wrapped around his torso and the older man sighed deeply. “Nothing is ever determined, and life takes us all in ways we just can’t predict, but I want you to know that whatever you choose to do, or want along the line — Tashi and I will always be here to support you. We’re not going any where and we would never leave you. Fuck that. You’re so loved, by us. You’re always welcomed in our lives no matter the circumstances that may come upon.”

You wiped your nose briefly before leaning up to look at the blonde once more, eyes searched his face for any uncertainty but all you found was honest and pure devotion.

“Really ?” You budged tenderly and Art brushed a few stuck locks that were caught in your wet face. He nodded with a light simper.

“Really, Princess. We adore you’re company and the person you are dearly. And you don’t have to think about all those bad thoughts right now, okay ?” He kissed the top of your head to your cheek while you hugged him like a lifeline. A feeling of warmth spread within you from there, worries calm and you felt collected of your emotions once again. You just wanted to be reassured. Words cut you and got to you deep. But right now being with Art, it was like the perfect bandage to your wound that was although bittersweet in theory, a very delicate heart.

You heard footsteps nearing as Tashi walked into the bedroom. She was looking exhausted. Absolutely tired from the inside out as she sat on the bed next to the two of you, your eyes met hers and you immediately curled up and laid your head in her welcoming lap when she settled. Soft hands against her leg where you felt the fabric of her dress pant brush your cheek, and a sullen sigh escaped the woman’s lips.

“He won’t bother you again, baby.” Her sultry like voice filled your senses and your chest collapsed with ease once again. Her fingers went to journey through your loose locks gently as the vigilant but warm woman relaxed you now physically too.

“I’ll go make you a hot chocolate, and Tashi will run you a warm bath. We’re gonna make you feel better, love.” Art left you with tender adoration as he promised to you, and reached to leave a delicate stroke on your thigh with a fond smile before he stood from the bed. Tashi nodded him off as she held you there for a moment more, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple.

[zweiginator]

hmm thjnking about bsf!patrick and inexperienced reader (projecting). you're in college and everyone you know is getting laid. you're just really nervous and have all these hangups. who better to ask then your best friend who's also a guy! patrick gets around, you're sure he's got some insight there.

you're sitting and talking with him when you start spacing out on how to approach the topic with him. when he's like Hello?? are you even listening to me? and you're like can i ask you something? he says yes and it takes you forever to get the words out because you're so embarrassed. you're beating around the bush like, "umm i know you sleep around a lot. and you're probably like super experienced and familiar with sex.. and like i'm not.. so i was just curious like." he's like holy shit just spit it out. you start bombarding him with questions like what's it like? and what do guys like? and i'm worried im not good! or what if i smell? am i supposed to shave? what if-

patrick starts laughing and at first you're so humiliated cuz you think he's laughing at you. but then he's like you've thought Way too much about this. he starts giving his two cents by talking about his experiences in Detail. and you're squeezing your thighs together bc you just found out your best friend is a munch. he notices bc ofc he does. and to prove how much he doesn't care about your insecurities, he eats you out right then and there to prove it.

him groaning when he sees your pussy and kind of getting a kick out of knowing no one's ever touched you there before. bringing your hand to touch his erection straining his pants to show how much you turn him on. you're instinctively trying to clamp your legs shut and he just shakes his head and pulls them apart like "nu uh i wanna see all of you. lemme see that pretty pussy."

omg best friend patrick save me …being so insecure and feeling so inadequate. asking yourself how the fuck you haven’t had anything more than a meaningless kiss at a party with a guy whose name you don’t even remember.

and being best friends with patrick— who has absolutely no issue putting himself out there, getting phone numbers and hooking up with beautiful girls—only makes it worse. you feel like you’ve tried putting yourself out there and going out more and it’s just not working.

so the conversation turns away from the movie you’re watching and towards sex because you just can’t stop thinking about it. you’re almost done with your first year of college and you’re still a virgin. it feels like a clock is ticking.

“i just feel like there’s something wrong with me.”

patrick looks at you. he looks serious for once. “there’s nothing wrong with you. i promise.”

“how do i know i mean—you have sex all the time. is there something about me that guys don’t like i mean, you can tell me—“

patrick cuts you off. he smiles and shakes his head. “fuck no, there’s nothing about you that guys don’t like. i mean, if a guy doesn’t like something about you then that’s on him, okay?”

but you just won’t let it go and you’re delving into the girls patrick has hooked up with. comparing yourself to them which is awkward for so many reasons but you just want to know—what sets them apart from you? what does patrick like in bed? maybe you could practice, maybe you could learn.

patrick’s cheeks are growing red, which is abnormal from a boy who’s never embarrassed.

and patrick goes into detail about what he likes in bed. you tell yourself you’re just curious, sitting on your hands and swinging your legs as you lean closer to him on the couch, wanting to digest everything he says. wanting to absorb and learn and be better. more desirable.

he talks about a lot of things. tits and ass, obviously. pretty glossy lips and nice hair. he likes thighs too, likes grabbing them when he fucks girls. patrick says of course he loves blowjobs and pulling girls’ hair up to watch them suck him off. the perverted part of him likes when they choke on him and sputter and whine. he likes messy make out sessions and when girls ride him so hard he doesn’t even have to move. he also likes doggy. pulling girls’ asses back onto his dick and rubbing his thumb over their asshole.

but patrick saves his favorite for last. he says his most favorite thing is eating girls out. he goes into detail with this one, maybe because he likes how intently you’re listening, how you’re letting out little gasps and how your lip is bitten between your teeth.

he likes spreading little pussies open with his big hands and keeping girls’ legs pinned apart. wide open for him to admire how wet he makes them. he loves to tease and rub their inner thighs, kiss them and lick them. he loves when they inevitably mewl and beg for his mouth. he loves pressing sloppy open-mouthed kisses to their cunts and laving and licking at their clits. spitting on them and splitting them open with his fingers. curling them up and making their hips jerk.

you’re wet now. and you squeeze your legs together.

and patrick stops his storytelling.

“you know what?” he asks.

you lean closer, wanting to be extra keen on what he’s going to say. “hm?”

“maybe i should just show you, yeah?”

you whimper. you’re not so sure but god you’re so turned on and patrick is really hot—you’ve known that forever but you’ve never seen yourself as on his level. it’s never felt in the realm of possibility to have him but now he’s looking into your eyes asking to eat you out. you nod.

“yeah. only—if you want to. but i’m nervous.”

“no need to be nervous. i’m your best friend.”

that’s precisely why you are nervous.

“okay—“

and patrick pulls you to him. kisses your navel and then your hips, his fingers looped around your pajama pants. he pulls them down and your legs are glued together. patrick can see your pretty panties, pink and cotton but beautiful nonetheless. he spreads your legs, runs a finger over your clothed cunt. he comments about how wet you are.

you hide behind your hands.

patrick wants to build your confidence. he wants you to realize how fucking beautiful you are because he sees it but you just can’t seem to.

“don’t be embarrassed.” he pries your hands away from your eyes and grabs your hand, pulling it to his erection, tented beneath his sweatpants. “see what you do to me? we’re in the same boat princess.”

then, he says your pussy is beautiful and you can tell he really means it.

and maybe you didn’t expect it to feel that good. you didn’t know anything could. but patrick’s mouth latches onto your pussy and he drools and licks and spits. sucks your clit into his mouth and rolls his tongue over it. plunges his fingers inside you and fucks you with them, with his tongue. slobbers on you and drools, moans against you with his fingertips dug into your thighs. you feel yourself about to cum and patrick can tell too by how you’re writhing and how your legs are shaking. you’re trying to shut your thighs and his head is locked between them but he’s strong and he can spread you how he wants to.

“keep ‘em spread i told you how i like to eat pussy didn’t i?”

[ethansluvbot]

ART DONALDSON X READER X SLIGHT!PATRICK ZWEIG

warnings: 18+, kissing, fingering, p in v, creampie, slight voyeurism(?)

an: probably making a part 2 for a threesome! my request are open if anyone has a suggestion.

Art wasn't jealous that you had been talking to Patrick for the majority of the night. It was the fact that you had his jacket draped around your shoulders, laughing at every little joke Patrick had made. Your head against his shoulder toying with the bracelet on your wrist. Patrick's hand tracing shapes over your exposed thigh.

"So, is this how you lure in all the other girls?" You asked, lifting your drink to your mouth. She sensed Art staring at her for the past fifteen minutes, but she didn't care enough to look back at him.

"Only the special ones," he grinned, running his thumb across her lip to remove the extra alcohol. After that small interaction, her cheeks began to redden. She averted her gaze from him, feeling increasingly embarrassed by how easily he could make her blush.

He grasped your chin, making you meet his eyes, saying, "No need to feel embarrassed, sweetheart."

"I think your girlfriend wants you back," you teased, shifting your focus to Art and Tashi, both of whom were staring directly at you two.

"Not my girlfriend," looking over to see their expressions. It was obvious that both of them were jealous, even if they would refuse to admit it.

Art wasn't a jealous person. Or at least that is what he thought. You were just too close to Patrick for his liking, but who was he to say anything? He was the one that didn't want to make the relationship official.

Art summoned the courage to approach you, observing your smile widen as he came into view. Your eyes flickered up to meet his. Patrick released the hand from your thigh.

"Can I talk to you for a second," Art asked, extending his hand to help you get up. Patrick chuckled before strolling over to Tashi and sending you a wink.

"What's up?" Taking his hand you got up from your original seat. Walking with Art to find a secluded spot on the beach. Your back leaning against the wooden fence.

"Do you like Patrick?"

"Are you jealous," you teased, tilting your head to the side. Your smile turns into a smirk.

"No. I asked you a question though, sweet girl," he cupped your face with his hand and gently brushed his thumb against your lips, just like Patrick had done earlier. Maybe he felt jealous, but he refused to play into your games.

"No, he's not like you," his pants got tighter as you spoke. You parted your lips, allowing him to push in his finger. Your tongue circling his thumb.

She tilted her head back letting his thumb slip out of her mouth. "Let's head over to my hotel room."

"I'll be right back," he replies. Walking to Patrick, who was now standing alone. After five minutes of the two talking, Art came back towards you. He drew you closer to him by wrapping his arm around you.

You walked to your hotel room, Art trailing right behind you. Art had you pressed up against the door as soon as you stepped into the room. Your lips brushed against his lips, and his heart began to beat faster by the minute.

You closed the distance that separated the two of you. His lips were unexpectedly soft. She felt his teeth dig into her lower lip, causing her lips to separate. His tongue slid across her lips.

She missed this feeling. Weeks have passed since their last kiss. The erection in his pants started to grow, and she could tell the feeling was mutual.

The kiss began slowly and sensually but ended up sloppy and desperate. His hand tightened its grasp around your waist. He moans as his spit mixes with your own. He picks you up and places you on a nearby surface, which happens to be the bathroom sink.

He lowered his lips to your neck, breaking the kiss. As you sat there like a helpless mess, he started marking your neck. He assisted you in removing your pants and thong.

His finger brushed against your clit, collecting the wetness from your cunt. At his touch, all you could do was whimper. Slowly, two of his fingers slide inside of you. Your walls tighten around his digits.

Art's fingers sped up after you adjusted to the feeling. Your moans were music to his ears. He suddenly curls his fingers, making your back arch. He was aware of you being close to your release. Which was why he pulled his fingers out of you.

"Shhh, i'm gonna give you what you want sweet girl," he flips you around pressing your body onto the cold counter. You can hear him taking off his boxers and unzipping his pants.

You lick your lips at the thought of him fucking you like this. You gasp as he rubs his tip against your folds. Teasing you before slowly slipping into you. His pace quickened the second his cock slipped inside of you.

You can see his face through the bathroom mirror. Your eyes rolled back when his fingers teased at your clit. He watches your face as he fucks into you. Which was enough for him to be close enough to his orgasm.

Your head tilts down as your cum spills over his cock. Your body is having trouble holding yourself up. Art's eyes look up to meet a pair of eyes, but they aren't yours. It was Patrick.

Patrick was there; you were unaware of his presence, but Art had left the door unlocked for him. Patrick watched as Art smirked in the mirror as he fucked himself into you.

Art knew you had a thing for Patrick, even if you wouldn't admit it. Patrick watched as Art unloaded his cum into you. When Art pulled out, his cum was running down your legs.

When you noticed Patrick standing there, your eyes grew wide. The bulge in his pants was getting bigger. You turn to face Art, but he looks less shocked than you were.

"Why don't you let our guest have a taste, baby?"

With a slow nod, she is helped by Art to the bed. As Patrick approaches you, you watch while your body squirms. Grabbing his fingers, you help in coating them. Patrick lifts the fingers to his mouth moaning at the taste of both you and Art.

"I want you both," she moans. She collapsed onto her back, and her eyelids fluttered up at them. A grin appears on both Art's and Patrick's faces as they exchange glances.

[artdcnaldson]

i need to be like patricks sister, whos at stanford with art, and just so in love with art. like totally enamored, puppy dog love, and just so terribly needy for him. and he knows. he is fully aware. but he wont do anything for the sake of patrick and their friendship. i need us to be in his dorm room one night, with him in that stupid sexy snapback, trying my hardest to persuade him, promising i wont tell patrick. what would the harm be if no one found out? i need art to tell me i can never have his cock :((( and that i'll just have to touch myself to the thought of it instead :((( (i could keep going, im going crazy)

KEEP GOING 🗣️🗣️🗣️

His restraint is literally so thin, because you’re following him to stupid frat parties in slutty outfits and getting stupid drunk, and he has to take care of you because you’re Pat’s sister.

And every time he takes you back to his dorm you’re clinging to him all needy, pouting and asking for him to tuck you in like he used to when you were a kid :((( he rolls his eyes. He only did that, like, once when you were nine and he was twelve and you came into the room him and Patrick were sharing because you had a nightmare.

“I’m not fucking doing that,” he says firmly, and you pout, but pretty soon you’re passed out on to of his blankets, face smushed against his pillow, skirt hiked up and— fucking Christ— he can see your cute little panties beneath them.

It’s worse when you’re sober, when he knows you know what you’re doing, when he can’t brush it off as you being drunk and stupid. When you ask him why he won’t just fuck you? You know he thinks you’re pretty, you see him looking at your tits, and your friends have caught him staring at your ass when you’re at parties. You both want it, so why is he being so mean?

And he can get meaner. He’ll have to, because Patrick is his friend, you’re just his clingy little sister. So he’s firm, he tells you he’s never going to fuck you, never going to kiss you, or date you, or be your sweet little boyfriend. That the closest you’ll ever get to him is your little fantasies in your head while you play with yourself at night :(

And maybe he does feel guilty, because you’re all teary eyed and your lip wobbles and you mutter apologies in a watery voice before you leave.

That night, when Patrick texts him “bro wtf did u say to her?????” He just groans and ignores it. There’s literally no right choice for him :(

[russsiangirl]

art donaldson x reader headcanons ( both young and dilf art.. ) both banners by me!

starting off strong with young art ( heheh )

i feel like y'all met for a goofy reason

either he asked you for a piece of gum in a class because he ran out

that boy NEEDS his gum he can't live without it ( oral fixation? idk )

OR he saw you on the tennis court when you were meeting up with a friend of yours

you had heard of him of course, he had won the one tournament with his friend

but,, he sadly had his eyes on tashi duncan, not that you could exactly blame him, you've seen her - all lean muscle and tan skin.

that is until tashi starts dating patrick

he's kinda like a kicked puppy , a very jealous one

he's desperate to get his mind off of them, so he finds you

you're perfect for him, you're sweet, pretty, kind. but you're also pliable.

art's seen the way you'd look at him with those pretty eyes when he asked you a question, the way you would slightly stumble over your words

he would wanna laugh sometimes, not in a mean way, more of a 'how cute..' kinda way, yk?

he's a mastermind,, maybe manipulative but that just makes it better

he taps your shoulder one day and is like "hey so would you like,, wanna go out sometime?"

now you thought that he was just gonna ask for help with the assignment, but this- this was unexpected, but good. really good.

you obviously say yes & it goes great! after a couple dates you two start something that resembles a relationship

art is a sweetheart, buying you gifts, treating you to dinner when he can, taking you to his games - model boyfriend!

he loves being romantic and spending quality time with you

also double dates with tashi & patrick ( tension )

you notice the way patrick looks at art and you suspect something. had something happened between them?

you had heard about how tightly-knit the two of them were and something just didn't seem right

so after the date and you two go back to the dorm or wherever y'all are staying you ask him what was up with him and patrick

art shuts down, not saying anything and goes completely silent.

he's not one to talk about things like these or his past

art likes to talk as much as he loves to listen

like if you found a new interest and/or hyperfixation he would listen to you and find so endearing

he loves the way you get so excited and you just beam at him whenever you do something that makes you happy, it makes him just as equally happy

art also loves when you wear his clothes, he finds it funny how they drape over you since he's like six foot.

art does like being praised ( take that as you will ) but when you're reassuring him, especially after his games or practice or anything he just wants to shower you with all the affection he can muster <3

this is my late fathers day present to y'all.. enjoy

ah yes, art as a father, my favorite

he's not married at this point ( sadly no tashi, they got divorced )

he's a lot more tired than he was back in college, obviously

y'all definitely met at some sort of event, you were a reporter for a sports magazine who had sent you to cover whatever it was that you were there for

you just didn't know it would involve art

when you first see him, you didn't really know what to expect - but not this

art with his short-cropped sandy hair and pretty blue eyes and blonde lashes, he looks ethereal, almost like he doesn't belong here

he was distracted most of the interview, too distracted by you with your sweet voice and nice hands and silly questions

so you two rescheduled, over dinner! win-win, you get to spend more time with him and you get your job done

the two of you connect really easily and you agree to do this again, without the interview part

there's something about the two of you thats so entrancing to each other

IMAGINE WITH AN AGE DIFFERENCE

like you're 21 - 22 and he's like 32.. it only makes him crave you more, he can show you things you've never seen

you might be a bit skeptical, but art is telling you that you can trust him, he won't push boundaries, none of that and you do trust him

he does let you meet lily eventually and when you do, you're enamored with her, she's so sweet and you could see art in her

you knew about his past relationship with tashi, but you didn't mind

but older!art is also romantic, sure the paparazzi is interested in the two of you - so most of the dates are at home. he likes it better that way

ough,, this was a LOT - late father's day present yk.. i love you guys - enjoy this! like and follow if you enjoyed these hehe

[murdrdocs]

spinnin' out waiting

description. you find TASHI DONALDSON at a hotel bar. you fall back into a version of your old self, a version that values tashi's opinion as much as you value the taste of her lips.

includes. SMUT 18+ MDNI, infidelity, 69ing, exes (again!), crazy amounts of longing, one mention of pegging, couple mentions of patrick and art, unnamed husband to r

wc. 4.2k+

a/n: art creds unknown. title from satellite by harry styles. barely edited as of 06/10

“Why'd you marry him?”

Tashi's words are soft, they’re inquisitive. They don’t seem accusatory, blending easily with the melody of the Bowie tune playing throughout the hotel lobby.

You hear her. You understand her over the clatter of glasses against table tops and shoes clicking against tile floors. You know exactly what she’s asking you. You have an answer, but beginning to act on the defense, you take your time formulating another one.

Here, at a hotel bar, you won't tell Tashi the real reason why you married your husband. You won't lay it all out for her to take, chew up, and spit right back at you.

You take a sip of your drink, ignoring how unfavored it is now that it's watered down, and you only speak once it's sitting back on the counter.

“Why did you?”

It's lame, nothing but a cop-out, but verbally, you aren't trying to impress Tashi right now. Right now, you're taking what you can, pathetically just trying to exist in her space for longer even if it means deflecting her words onto her. 

Physically, you’re trying to draw her in, attempting to impress her. It’s obvious in the way you’re sitting—shoulders pushed far back until there’s a pinch between your shoulder blades, your legs crossed at the ankles and your thighs squeezed together. You’re the picture of perfection, even holding your face in a way that you think Tashi will admire. 

Tashi takes the bait.

She shrugs, sighs, and dives into a calculated answer. “He's smart. Good at tennis.”

You think she means the words, or she had meant them at one time, but now they’re emotionless. They’re facts, not declarations of love. Her face doesn’t brighten like it should when talking about why you married your husband. 

You nod your head, rocking a little in your seat on the stool. Tashi has always been strategic, you aren't shocked that she doesn't mention her love for her husband in her admission.

She looks at you, eyes briefly taking down your body in a gesture so quick that you aren’t sure if it was intentional or not. You watch her lips part. 

“You were too.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “I was what?”

“Good at tennis.” Again, she says it so simply, so clear cut. To most, it would be. To most, it would be nothing but a fact, a compliment, even. 

With Tashi, it's something different. There is an admission in itself woven in her words. One you’ve waited to hear for years, one you only heard once before years ago. If you were weaker, still playing for her attention, maybe, then you would’ve let the admission draw you back to your coach who declared there would always be a place for you. Now, you only dip your head, watching your fingernail tap against your glass. 

“I'm out, Tashi. I'm done.”

The back and forth comes quickly. “You didn't have to be. You quit.”

“I retired.”

“You quit.”

You didn't expect the conversation to go this way, but you should have. You know Tashi. You may even know her better than you know your own husband. Perhaps she knows you better than your husband does. It's a thought you don't want to consider for longer than you need to.

You take your glass in your hand and finish your drink off. You don't bother ordering another. You won't be here for much longer. 

You don't know how the exit will be, if you'll be alone, or if Tashi will be in tow. But you can sense its approach.

“Why did you marry him?" She asks you again.

This time, you give an answer. It comes quick and simple. "Safety." What you don’t say is because I couldn’t marry you. 

You watch Tashi react. The corner of her lips lifts just a bit and she gets that look in her eye. The one that tells you that she has just found something out, a piece to add to the puzzle that makes up you.

She hums and you know she wants to say something. You want to hear it, but the words are likely to piss you off. They would ruin the small sense of harmony that exists in this space, and that's something you don't want.

So you let Tashi judge you. You sit there under her scrutinizing gaze and then when she's done, you watch her gaze soften.

“You had a few more in you."

It's tennis talk, but it's comforting.

“I watched your matches, you could've done a few more. A couple more years maybe. Wimbledon was always your strong suit I think you could've won it next year. Maybe Australia, too. France is a little rough on you, you move slower. But if yo—” You can't stand to hear it any longer.

You push your chair out from under you, standing over her. And for once, Tashi stops speaking. She's stunned, her dark eyes staring up at yours. Her lips stay parted, her unfinished words sitting stunted inside of her mouth. Her lips look so nice, and you try not to focus on that, but it seems like it's all you can focus on through the blurry sight. 

Your eyes burn, your nose stings. You're about to cry, and for what? Because Tashi is telling you that you're better than you thought? Truthfully, it's words you've been hearing for a while. Everyone has told you as such. But hearing it from her is different. It's like the words from God himself.

It should be embarrassing, how joyous you feel to have her attention on you once more. How delighted you are that Tashi Duncan—Tashi Donaldson is finally giving you the time of day again. It should be embarrassing, and maybe it would be if you weren’t so intently focused on keeping your tears at bay.

Nearly a decade and a half later, you’re still worshiping at her altar.

Patrick all those years ago was right. You’re no better than Art. You don’t think you wanted to be.

You stand with intentions to leave. Grab your bag, you tell yourself. Go upstairs to your room and to your husband.

But Tashi is looking at you. She's looking at you with kindness beneath her lined eyes. On the surface, it's unnoticeable. Maybe it's not there at all and you're just deluding yourself. But you think that under there, buried down beneath everything she uses to keep herself strong and above everyone else, is kindness. Towards you. Towards the situation. Towards herself.

“St back down,” she tells you.

You stay standing.

Tashi's hand reaches for yours. Her left hand crosses her body, resting on your left hand. You glance down, noticing the way your respective rings glint in the moody lighting. When you blink, a tear falls. You try to wipe it away before Tashi can notice it.

"Sit back down," She speaks slowly this time and it seems like a plea. So you sit back down.

Your pants are touching the cushion of the bar stool for only a few seconds before Tashi leans forward. There isn't necessarily hesitance towards her movements, but she moves slowly. It's as if she's giving you an out.

But there's no way you could want an out for the thing you've wanted for years. Finally, she's giving you an in, even if the circumstances existing outside of this bubble make the situation inappropriate.

But when you close the gap, you don't feel guilty. Because you had her first. Before any of the boys came into your lives, it was you and Tashi. 

And here, and now, it’s you and Tashi. Art, Patrick, and your husband don’t exist at this moment past the rings on your fingers and lingering chastising. Physically, in this space, it’s you and Tashi.

Her hand falls to your thigh. Your hand slides up to the side of her neck. 

She scoots her stool closer to yours and your back arches as you push yourself closer into her. A blast of AC brings her perfume to your awareness. She smells the same as before, a gentle vanilla, but there’s a new maturity to it. The scent is stronger, without being overpowering. It’s aged, with a deeper heat to it. 

It’s alluring.

When you pull away from her, you’re shocked to feel her lips chase yours. She kisses you, once, twice, and then she’s only stopped by your hands cupping her cheeks. 

You stare at Tashi. She stares at you, big brown eyes lined with smudged makeup. She should look intimidating, like how she appears in the stands. But she looks innocent, almost. 

“Tashi.” 

Her eyebrows furrow. It’s nice to see worry on her face when it’s directed at you. You like it when she cares about you. 

“What? What is it?” 

“Tashi, we shouldn’t.” 

Her eyebrows relax and her face morphs into something else. Disappointment? It’s a look that makes your throat sting. 

You’re close to taking your warning back, but you instead let it suspend in the air. You lick your lips, your grip on Tashi’s cheeks relaxing as you prepare to retreat. Your purse sits on the counter, and in it is your keycard to your hotel room. It would be easy to grab your things and slip back into your room for a quick shower before sliding into bed. But that’s not what you want. 

You want to see where this goes. 

If she’ll let you. 

You expect Tashi’s body to relax away from you, but it doesn’t. 

She stands, her hands resting on your thighs as she stares down at you. 

“Why shouldn’t we?” 

You have answers, many of them. Two of them sit just a few floors above you both, waiting for either of you to crawl back into bed and resume the role of the loving, supportive wife. 

You could give her reasons, but you don’t. Instead, you lamely stare up at Tashi, your best friend. 

It’s a title she hasn’t been the owner of for years, but you still find it easy to give it to her now. You’ll extend it for her to forever hold, an honor she doesn’t have to want for you to bestow upon her. 

You’ll let Tashi Donaldson be whatever she wants to be, so long as she’s in your life. 

Maybe that’s why you don’t resist at all when she leans down and presses her lips to yours. 

You kiss her with vigor you’ve never kissed your husband with. Vigor that could have never existed with him, because you’ve been burying it deep down inside just for her. It’s a build-up of all the times you cheered her on for a date. All the times you listened to her tell you about her endeavors and pushed down the images of you two in the described positions. The tears you hid with steamy showers and bottles of wine when you heard about her wedding from the tabloids and not an invitation. 

It all comes together as slides of your lips against hers. Full-forced presses of your tongues together. Wandering hands roaming through expensive hairdos and along even more expensive clothing items. 

You’re in public, sitting at a hotel bar, but you couldn’t care less. Even if it weren’t late at night, if the lobby were bustling with late check-outs and early check-ins, you don’t think you would care. Absolutely nothing could pull you from Tashi’s embrace. You convince yourself this when you stand to your full height, pressing your chest against Tashi’s. 

She turns you until your lower back digs into the edge of the counter. One of her hands cups your face and you can feel the bracelet on her wrist dig into your arm as she rests the other on the counter behind you. You hold her close with two hands on her slender waist, pressing into the thick fabric of her cardigan. 

You need to feel more of her. Her clothing is in the way. You need to feel her skin on yours in ways you had almost been privy to in college when tailored pants and overpriced sweaters were replaced by Victoria’s Secret pajama sets and Stanford sweatshirts. 

You do what you can in this public space, lifting the hem of her cardigan and pressing your hands into her torso beneath it. She’s wearing a shirt, but it’s cropped just enough for you to feel her taut abdomen. She’s soft, just like you expected her to be. 

You melt against her when you circle your hands around her back and feel even more of her skin. 

Eventually, Tashi pulls away. She doesn’t go far, pecking your neck and clavicle even as she struggles to catch her breath. You’re about to ask her where. You can’t let Tashi fuck you in a hotel bar, even if you would’ve let it happen if it weren’t so morally wrong, and you’re about to ask her where she could fuck you. 

The words are formed on your tongue, sitting right on the tip, waiting. And then the elevator dings. You don’t care immediately. You forget yourself. You forget that you’re in public, pressed against a hotel bar with onlookers just a few feet away. They might not be looking at you, but you’ve had an audience this entire time. You could have another member joining the audience, too, if that elevator ding is who you think it is. 

You forgot that you’re married, and not to her. 

But the sound of the elevator, followed by an excited squeal of his name and then your name, the one he gave you, quickly reminds you. 

You pull yourself off of Tashi completely. The only way to do that is to shove her away from you and even though you try to do it as gently as possible, it still hurts both of you. But it does the job. Tashi stands in front of you instead of against you. 

You try your best to collect yourself. Wiping over and around your mouth, fixing your top, righting the position of your ring on your finger, and doing the same for your necklaces. You clear your throat, awkwardly step around Tashi, and then you look at her. 

You look at her, really look at her in case you won’t get the chance to again, and then you turn yourselves around, grab your purse, and just look at her. 

You wait for him to come this way. You wait for the sound of his shoes against the laminate, the strong waft of his cologne, the deep rumble of his voice. You wait for him to pull you into his chest, press a kiss into your forehead, and sincerely tell you that he was looking for you. That he woke up to an empty bed and was worried sick. You wait for the guilt to settle in your gut like a rock. You wait for this energy to be disrupted for good.

When it doesn’t come, you don’t know what to do. 

Tashi cocks her head, crosses her arms over her chest. 

You can sense her wanting to ask you a question so you press your shoulders back and prepare yourself. 

“Are you gonna go with him?” 

You don’t answer. You lick your lips, flit through the array of bottles against the wall behind her, and listen for the sound of fans talking to your husband. 

Tashi only continues. “He’ll only be distracted for so long before he comes looking for you, right? So, are you gonna go with him, or are you coming with me?” 

You try to sit and consider it, juggling the thoughts in your head, but it’s nothing but a waste of time. Your decision has been made ever since she kissed you. It’s what you really want. But it’s what you cannot have. 

So instead, you grab your purse, spare Tashi one final look, and walk away from her. 

“What happened downstairs?”

You’re in the middle of brushing your teeth when he asks you. The action gives you time to consider. Consider the implications of his question. Consider the repercussions of the answer you’ll give him. 

You’re done when you spit the first time, but you go back for another round of brushing to give yourself more time. 

Your actions don’t deter your husband. He stands in the center of the entrance to the bathroom, blocking the exit with his hands in the pockets of his pants. You’d bought them for him for Christmas two years ago. 

Eventually realizing you’re not escaping this, you spit, rinse, and wipe before turning to face your husband. 

“Nothing happened.” 

It’s true to you. You were in Tashi’s embrace last night, but nothing happened. 

You look at your husband, watching him take your answer in. You’re preparing for further questioning, to be put under the white-hot light and spew out lie after lie in order to save your ass and your marriage. You don’t expect him to accept it so quickly. 

“Okay.”

You can’t help but ask him, “Okay?” 

He nods. “I’ll always believe you, you know that. Now come to bed before I start watching Scandal without you.” 

You try to stay put in your room tonight. It’s empty, left alone while your husband attends an event you should’ve been at. But you were sick, riddled with sudden guilt that fostered in your body, creating stomach cramps, headaches, and heat flashes. 

You needed to do something about it. 

You tried to drink it away with warm tea. You tried to wash it away with a hot shower. You try to relax it away in the best ways you know how—room service and an old match of your husbands. But nothing you did helped. You still found yourself in an empty bed, tossing and turning and craving a companion that you shouldn’t crave. 

You know the solution. She sits downstairs. You know she does. You don’t need visual confirmation.

But you get it anyway. Sitting in the same spot as yesterday, in the same cardigan as before. Her hair is pulled away from her face in a clip, but it’s still too short to stay pulled all the way back. Highlights frame her face, and short pieces of hair sit against the nape of her neck. Her head is down, staring straight at the bar where she has her hotel keycard in her hand, tapping the plastic edge against the marble. 

She doesn’t have a drink. You figure she won’t stay for long. 

When you approach her, she doesn’t look up. You don’t bother sitting. 

“Come with me.” 

When you say it, she doesn’t immediately respond. She doesn’t even acknowledge you until at least a minute later, but it could have easily been longer. She looks up at you and she looks like Tashi Duncan. With her hair framing her face messily, her eyes completely free of makeup and soft, she looks like your best friend. She also looks like she’s been crying, or maybe holding it off. 

You want to ask her if she’s okay, but you know what her answer will be, so you save yourself time. 

“Are you gonna leave me again?”

Her response punches you in the gut. It also riles you up. 

You scoff and consider turning back around. You stand your ground long enough to say, “I guess we’re even then, right?”

Tashi doesn’t need further explanation. She backs down, you can see it happening physically. Her shoulders relax and her lips quirk down for a split second. It’s long enough for you to notice it happening, but then it’s gone. She’s stoic, neutral. It’s a practiced look. One she’s perfected by now. 

“Are you coming?” 

She takes a moment, she takes a breath, and then she stands. 

You’re in your hotel room for long enough to hear the door click behind you, signaling that it’s locked, and then Tashi’s lips are on yours. 

It’s unclear who moves first. Maybe you move in tandem, finally satisfied to be with each other in seclusion for the first time in years. 

All that matters is that you’re leading Tashi towards the bedroom and your fallen clothing marks the trail. From the door to the bed lay her cardigan, tee shirt, pants, one of her shoes, your hoodie, your leggings, and both of your shoes.

You fall onto the bed and Tashi quickly follows you. She straddles you, long body curled up to hover over your form, reminiscent of a vulture. 

She kisses you in the same manner as before, but there’s more haste to her lips this time. 

She kisses you like she’s insatiable, taking more and more without taking a moment to see if what she already has is enough. You have a feeling that whatever she takes from you, whatever you give her, will never be enough. 

It’s the same for you. 

Finally getting to hear the sounds Tashi makes whenever you slip your hand between her thighs makes your head spin. It’s an addicting feeling similar to substances that produce the same effect, but this is much better. This is a version you’ll risk it all to have. The moans and gasps that Tashi releases when you press into her clit over the thin fabric of her panties are debilitating. It bruises you, only to build you right back up again. 

You need more. 

So you produce more. 

You slip your hand beneath the waistband and let your fingertips meet Tashi’s bare cunt for the first time. She shudders, so sensitive, and she’s so fucking wet. The first touch flatters you. It comforts you to confirm that you’re having the same effect on her that she’s always had on you. 

Even during times when you hadn’t seen her. During times when you relied on memory, getting yourself off in the shower. Or times when you caught a glimpse of her at a match that your husband was playing in, and you thought of her that night when your husband fucked you in honor of his win. Then, you’d been soaked beyond belief. Much like Tashi is now. 

You don’t waste any more time, giving the suggestion to Tashi with a grin. Of course, she’s quick to accept. 

You ask her if she’s been in this position since that time. She tells you she hasn’t, and she asks you the same. You say you haven’t, but you’ve been dreaming of it. 

You end up face-to-face with Tashi’s cunt, and she is in the same position with yours. Both of you make quick work of the other, no longer in the mood for playing with your food, especially now since it’s sitting right in front of you.

You assume it’s been a while since Tashi’s been with a woman, but she hasn’t lost any of her skill at all. She devours you with enthusiasm, working her mouth in ways that have you momentarily distracted from your own task. 

Until your competitive side kicks in. You refuse to let Tashi win, beginning to engage in a silent, but obvious, competition with her. 

She quickly starts to become more verbal, even her moans sounding breathless. It’s an ego boost. 

“Wish I … Wish I had the—” she breaks her words off to whine and it’s such a heavenly sound. “Wish I had the strap up here.” 

You lay your head back away from her cunt to speak. 

“You have it with you?” There’s humor to your words, and you break off into a laugh when Tashi responds. 

“Art likes it.”

Tashi giggles with you, and as soon as the fit dies down, she lowers her head, you pull her hips closer to you, and you both get back to it. 

The first time is over quicker than either of you anticipated. Tashi cums first, her back arching and her tongue stopping against your cunt. You, on the other hand, kept going. You licked and sucked and teased until Tashi was tapping against your thigh and begging that you stop. Then she continued, and it took barely anything to get you in the same position as her. 

You both finished, but you weren’t done. It was hard to stay off of each other, and even when you did stop, you would take a break and find each other again. You hadn’t fucked that much since your honeymoon. In a way, you felt like you were on your honeymoon. 

The clothes in the closet and the toiletries in the bathroom didn’t belong to Tashi, but you could pretend that they did. The ring on your finger wasn’t Tashi’s, but you pretended it was. You weren’t Tashi’s, but you pretended you were. 

Up until your husband calls you. 

The grogginess in your voice was real and he winced as he thought he woke you. He kept it brief, a quick warning that he was heading home and stopping by a place for food on the way. He sent you the menu, urging you to reply if you wanted something. And then he blew a kiss over the line and told you he loved you. 

You repeated his actions without any hesitation. 

When Tashi inevitably had to leave your hotel room, you kissed her cheek and told her you loved her without any hesitation. 

[iconicstoner]

i found you

gn!reader x spencer reid (fluff)

words: 1778

summary: You and Spencer have been friends for years, so it only makes sense you went to a local St. Patrick’s Day parade together. However, when he loses you at the parade he realizes how important it is that you know how much he loves you, so of course he confesses.

Spencer pushed through the crowd, fighting to find you. You had been his best friend for years. You’d helped him through the fear his work caused, and you were even there during his addiction. He thought of you as his whole world. You reminded him of why it was worth it to deal with the horrors he saw every day. You were his light in the darkness, and now you were lost in a giant crowd of people. It was packed, and there had to be thousands of people around. It was one of the biggest St. Patrick’s Day celebrations in the entire country. 

Spencer’s mind started to race with different ideas. You could’ve been kidnapped, or even killed. He knew the statistics on that, but he tried not to think about them for his own sanity. His mind flashed with different victims he’d seen over the years. You could be in the same situation as any of them right now, but he prayed you weren’t. 

He called out your name as loud as he could, trying to make himself see above the crowd, but the only response he got was a disapproving side eye from a mother carrying her child. He felt embarrassed but knew he couldn’t stop till he found you. His heart was beating in his ears, and his breathing was shallow. He knew this could turn into a panic attack at any second, and as much as he wanted to break down he knew it wouldn’t help him find you. 

He quickly turned around, thinking he heard your voice, but instead found a visibly drunk man. 

“Sorry about that,” the man said as he stumbled, spilling beer all over Spencer’s shirt. The beer smelled awful, and now his shirt was uncomfortably sticky, but the thought of finding you kept him together.

“It’s fine,” Spencer responded before quickly darting off, still set on finding you unharmed. He tried to clear out the horrific images in his mind, but there was little he could do. He rushed back to where he’d last seen you, deciding maybe you hadn’t gone that far after all. The sun was starting to set, and it put him on edge. When it went dark it’d be so much harder to find you. 

He regretted walking away from you earlier. He told you that he had to go to the bathroom, but he actually wanted to surprise you with a drink he noticed you eyeing at one of the drink carts. He had to wait in an excruciatingly long line, but he thought it would be worth it because it meant getting to see your beautiful smile. When he returned to where you were supposed to be waiting for him you were already gone. Looking back, it was stupid, but in the moment he didn’t think twice. He was an intelligent and trained FBI agent who was carrying a gun, so he felt safe, but he didn’t think twice about the fact you didn’t have any experience with dangerous criminals. 

He pushed through people, standing once again in front of the drink cart. He looked around, but there was no one there. He considered calling Garcia. Maybe she’d be able to hack into the security footage and use facial recognition software to see where you went and who you were with, but Spencer knew that would take too much time. Besides, it would be way too embarrassing to admit he was freaking out so much over losing you for 20 minutes. Garcia knew all about his feelings for you, and he wasn’t sure he could handle her teasing at a time like this.

Spencer noticed the street lamps starting to flicker on. They were the only light left now that the sun had set. As embarrassing as it was, he decided maybe it actually would be a good idea to call the BAU. Or Garcia at least. 

He noticed the diner sitting on the road’s edge in front of him and decided to wait there while he called. Running around in a packed crowd clearly wouldn’t help him find you, and it definitely wasn’t making him feel better. 

The diner had a muted brown roof with big white letters that spelled out Tony’s Place. It hardly had walls at all, as most of the sides were large glass windows. There was a quaint wooden bench outside of it facing the street. It was unsuspecting and matched every other building on the street.

Spencer Walked through the door, hearing a bell ring as he did. The place was crowded, but much less crowded than the parade was. The interior looked something straight out of the ’50s. There were black and white checkered tiles, booths with red leather seats, and a bar where people sat sipping their drinks. He could smell french fries and apple pie coming from the kitchen. 

“How can I help ya, sugar?” An older waitress with dirty blonde curls asked him. She looked tired, and Spencer noticed the pack of cigarettes in her apron. Her name tag read Darlene. 

“I just need a place to sit,” he told her nervously. She smiled at him with an understanding, motherly smile. 

“Sounds great,” she told him as she ushered him over to a booth. It was next to a giant window that faced the parade. He looked around, but there was no one who even looked like you. “Can I get you anything to drink?” She asked sympathetically. It was obvious to anyone who saw him that he was upset. 

“Coffee please,” he responded quickly. She nodded and quickly left to get him a cup. He fished his phone out of his pocket and let out a sigh. He anxiously dialed Garcia’s number, almost hitting the wrong keys in a rush.

“Hello, Mighty Professor. It’s not like you to call me like this when you’re not at work,” she said joyfully. Spencer wasn’t sure how to respond. He almost felt bad telling her what was wrong. She loved you too. “What can I help you with, sweetie?” She asked again. Spencer was usually eager to ask questions and get her help, but now he wasn’t saying anything at all. 

“Well, it’s just-“ he stopped himself, not sure how to even explain it. His leg was anxiously bouncing, and every second that passed felt like an hour. Before he got the chance to explain it all to Garcia the waitress had come back with his cup of coffee. He could see the steam emitting from it and he thanked her. 

“Just doin’ my job baby,” she told him in a reassuring voice. He could tell she was used to dealing with people who were upset, and just this once he didn’t mind being treated like a kid. 

“Who’s that?” Garcia questioned from the phone.

“It’s no one, just a waitress,” he responded. “That’s not the point. I need your help, Garcia.” Even from over the phone, Garcia could tell Spencer was anxiously biting his lip.

“What’s up?” She asked.

“I need help finding-” Spencer quickly cut himself off. Across the diner he noticed you. Even though your back was to him, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind it was you. He knew everything about you like the back of his hand. It was your hair, your clothes, your body. 

“Nevermind. Thanks, Garcia. Gotta go,” he told her before quickly hanging up. He stood up and quickly ran across the diner to you. He didn’t even realize it, but he was starting to cry. “Thank God it’s you,” he said. You quickly turned around and he wrapped his arms around you.

“Spencer, what’s wrong?” You asked, feeling one of his hands around your waist and the other on the back of your head. He held onto you tightly, not ready to ever let you go. 

“I couldn’t find you,” he breathed out. “I thought you were gone forever.”

“Spencer, I’d never leave you,” you respond. He nods and you look at him to see the tears running down his face. 

“I just couldn’t stop thinking about all the abduction cases I’ve seen before. All those people who died. I wasn’t ready to lose you too,” he tells you. You’ve never seen him so upset before. Working at the BAU wasn’t easy, and he was finally letting it show. You hold onto him, trying to let him know that you’re safe now. You hear his heartbeat, and it’s pounding quickly. His hands are shaky as they hold you, and his breathing is still shallow. 

“I found you,” he whispers in your ear. He pulls away from you just enough to kiss you. He keeps one hand on your waist and moves the other to your jaw, holding onto it as he kisses you passionately. He slowly pulls away, wanting to be as close to you as possible. 

“Take it outside!” An older man sitting at the bar playfully exclaimed, causing Spencer’s face to flush. He grabbed onto your hand, leaving a twenty on the table for Darlene, and led you outside to the wooden bench in front of the diner. The two of you sat down together, the soft glow from the street lamp illuminating him. A few stars could be seen shining brightly above you. There was a chilly breeze, but with how close Spencer was keeping you the two of you were plenty warm. He wasn’t crying anymore. He just sat next to you, admiring your presence. 

“I need to tell you something,” he says, gently squeezing your hand.

“What’s up?” you ask. 

“When I lost you, I felt sick to my stomach. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the bad things I’ve seen. I didn’t know what I’d ever do without you, and because of that, I don’t ever wanna be without you again. I know dating can be really complicated when you’re in the BAU. Plenty of relationships fail. But I love you so much, and I really think if you gave me a chance this might work, even if it’s statistically unli-” You interrupt him, softly kissing his lips. He leans into the kiss, and you can smell the aroma of coffee and leather that lingers on him. Reluctantly, you both pull away, but only by a few centimeters. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your skin, “did you do that because I was rambling again?”

“I did that because I love you too,” you whisper back. 

“You have no idea how happy I am to hear that,” he mumbles before kissing you again.

He didn’t let go of your hand the entire time. He hoped he’d never have to.

------------------------------------------------------------

a/n: Special St. Patrick's Day post lol! Also, I know I’ve been getting a lot of Twilight requests- and I’m so happy about it!! (and I am working on them)- but I wanted to take a break to write a fun Spencer Reid oneshot bc I love him sm lol