#like yeah patrick just say whatever <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[melkingmd]

I was getting a little scared that I was gonna let you leave here without us having done that. So, thank you for making that happen for us.

@pscentral​ event 39: pride -> favourite first kiss

[jordiemeow]

AHHHHHH

I wanna DEEPTHROAT your fics!!

Okay okay so imagine enemies to fuckbuddies/lovers with patrick and he pisses reader off so much she pounces on him and chokes him and hes like "are you grinding on me rn...?" Like she didnt even realise and they fuck :3

girl i wanna deepthroat YOU for this suggestion hello. Please. anyways wasn't supposed to yap so much sorry self indulgent i just want him to call me a bitch and then tweak out about it.

warnings: smut 18+ (p in v), dry humping, choking, no proofreading soz

Oh, what a fucking asshole.

You swear your eyes are going to be stuck permanently in your skull with how hard you've been rolling them at Patrick all night. Smug grin and blue collar slightly upturned from a flick of Art's hand—you just wanna choke the life right out of him. Awfully tempting.

"—I just think you're being sensitive," he insists, leaning forward in his beach chair.

The gathering has long died down by now. Most of your friends have 'gone to bed' (are drunkenly hooking up with each other). Art staggered off ten minutes ago claiming something about having a hangover in the morning. Bullshit. He's had two beers at the most; he's just avoiding the bickering still going on in his absence.

Two weeks into the summer and you're regretting agreeing to come along with your friends to the Zweig summer house. You're only here for Art. Sweet boy.

Patrick? A menace.

"Sensitive?" You retort incredulously, setting your drink on the ground with a soft clang.

"Yeah. Sensitive. Sensible," he replies in a very poor imitation of French. "Does that help?"

Your jaw clenches. "Oh, yeah. Thanks."

Your dry reply amuses him further, head tilted as he observes your very apparent frustration. "It's just a word. Don't get your panties in a twist."

"I just don't think that men should—"

His groan interrupts you. "Should, what, say bitch? Don't get all liberal on me."

"Liberal?" You bark back.

"Liberal. Feminist. Whatever." A dismissive wave of his hand. "It's all the same."

You rise to your feet, scoffing under your breath about men having zero awareness. He just watches you, smirk still in place as you smooth down your summer dress and prepare to head for the house. Maybe you'll be matching nursing headaches with Art in the morning; you don't understand how he doesn't have a permanent migraine when he's stuck with this shithead all the time.

And then, of course, just as you start up towards the house—

"What, not even a goodnight? You don't have to be such a bitch about it."

You whirl on him in an instant. One, two, three, four long strides before you're lunging at him so hard his chair almost tips over. His smirk melts in an instant, the sound of surprise he lets off breaking into a choked sound when your fingers curl around his throat. You aren't sure whether it's the amount of times you've heard the word bitch tonight or just the complete assholery you've had to put up with for the last few weeks.

It doesn't matter. All you know is you can't take it anymore.

"Shut up, Patrick," you snarl. "Just... shut the fuck up for once in your life."

He's not sure what silences him: the pressure around his throat, or the sheer venom in your voice. But his mouth snaps shut audibly, and you can feel him swallow against your palm.

"You just... you never know when to quit, do you? Do you get off on this? On being a degenerate asshole? Or are you really just so much of a bitch—" He almost cracks a smile when he hears that. For the sake of his poor neck, he doesn't. "—That this is who you really are, huh?"

"I was just joking," he tries to pacify you, his voice strained. He's not sure why his hands stay on the arms of his chair; certainly not out of self-preservation, that's for sure. He should be prying you off him right now.

You take some satisfaction in the way he rasps, and that tiny flicker of fear in his eyes. But you're far from done. "You're so entitled that it's baffling. We get it, Patrick. Mommy and daddy don't love you so you feel the need to take it out on everyone else. But you aren't funny. You're just an asshole. So just... just shut up!"

It's a miracle he can breathe at this point. The way his eyes have widened and his breathing is stilted makes guilt settle at the pit of your stomach. Not enough to remove your hand entirely, of course, but your grip loosens enough for him to inhale a deep breath.

You're expecting either of two things: an apology, or for him to call you fucking crazy. Instead, what you get is:

"... Are you grinding on me right now?"

What? That's ridiculous. Laughable, really. Why would you be—

Oh, shit, you are.

In the midst of your tangent, you'd hardly noticed the way your hips had started to gyrate. Little circles of your hips, just enough to stimulate you. The movement was involuntary; grinding down against the thigh you're perched upon, little sparks of pleasure mixing with that guilt in your stomach. Fuck.

"N-no—" You stammer, cheeks flushed at the realisation.

"I can feel it. You are," he insists incredulously. And when your grip on his throat tightens in retaliation (or embarrassment), he just smirks this time. "Oh my god. You're enjoying this."

"Don't be so fucking ridiculous," you shoot back, your hips stilling. Somewhere deep down, you're disappointed by the loss of friction.

His hands finally leave the tanned wicker of the chair. Not to push you off, though. Instead, you find a pair of firm hands holding you in place, grinding you down hard against his thigh. Your own hand tightens instinctively, a pair of stuttered gasps synchronising between you.

"You're insane. Stop it."

"Am I? You're the one that's wet."

Touché. Your cheeks burn harder. There's just enough light coming from a lamp post to illuminate your mortified expression. All you can do is stammer over your words in an attempt to salvage your dignity.

"Yeah, well... well you're hard!" Good comeback.

You aren't wrong, though. You can feel his cock pressing against your thigh through the fabric of his shorts. You pointedly ignore the little thrill you feel when you realise how big it feels.

"Because you're choking me."

You stare at him incredulously for him a moment. "... You're sick."

"And yet you haven't stopped."

No, you haven't. Your hands are still wrapped around his throat, and you haven't made any attempts to stop the way he keeps grinding you down against his thigh. If you sat up long enough to look, you'd see the damp patch of slick you've transferred onto the cotton.

"Just... just shut up!" You repeat.

He just smiles crookedly. "You gonna keep saying that, or are you gonna make me?"

A moment of staring, and then your mouths are clashing together. There's no method behind it; just teeth and noses bumping together, stray tongues licking at lips and into mouths. Gasps and moans each time you grind against his thigh.

It shouldn't be happening. You hate him. You do. But just because he's an insufferable asshole doesn't mean he's ugly, and there's something oddly cathartic about the way his eyes flutter when your hand squeezes or he groans into your mouth when your knee presses against his erection.

"Sit up," he pants against your mouth. Against your better judgement, you find yourself obliging. One knee on each side of his thighs as he pushes his shorts out of the way.

Between the darkness and the angle, you can't see what he's doing. Your breath hitches when the rubs the head of his cock against your panties. They're so soaked it hardly feels like there's a boundary there at all.

"Can I?"

"Yeah."

Your reply is a little too fast, but he seems too focused on pushing your underwear to the side to mock you. Besides, mocking is what got you both into this whole mess. Your forehead thumps against his when the blunt head slides between your folds to tease at your entrance, breath stuttering.

Your hands slide to his shoulders for purchase, and you swear you see a flicker of disappointment cross his face. It's so brief you can't be sure as you sink down onto his cock, head tilted back with a groan at the sheer size of him. It takes a few moments to ease yourself down, and the stretch is almost blinding.

He waits for your hips to be flush together to make any sly remarks. "Big enough for you?"

"Shut the fuck up," you reply, voice rough.

He laughs. It's equally as strained.

And then you're riding him. It starts off slow enough for you to adjust at your own pace, just grinding back down against him. Patrick lives up to his asshole reputation, though—his hands find your hips to hold you in place and soon enough he's pulling you down against him, his hips bucking up to meet you.

You're vaguely aware of the fact anyone could still be awake and take a peek out the window, but it doesn't stop your hand from sliding down between you to circle your clit mindlessly. Your head lolls back, sweet moans filling the air each time he drives up into you.

Patrick, on the other hand, is watching you with rapt attention. Grunting and panting while he drinks up every sound and expression, his grip just short of bruising every time you're brought back down onto his cock.

"Fuck. You're so hot like this," he grits out.

"Bet you've been thinking about this," you shoot back breathlessly.

"Hell yeah I have," comes his unabashed reply. "Every time you're going off on your feminist bullshit. Or calling me a brat."

"You are a brat."

There's a glint in his eye. "Treat me like one, then."

So you do. Your fingers curl back around his throat as he fucks up into you; his reaction is almost instantaneous. Eyes fluttering shut, lips parted in a soundless moan, his pace faltering for just a moment before he catches himself.

"Yeah. Yeah, just like fuckin' that."

It's not long before you're both nearing your peaks. You can hardly focus on keeping a good grip with how desperately your other hand is rubbing your clit, knees digging into the wicker. You can feel the indents forming against your skin.

"Close—" You manage to warn.

"Yeah? Y'gonna cum on my cock?"

"Jesus, stop with the fucking dirty talk."

He laughs. Hoarse. Unrepentant. "Sorry. Used to fucking people that like to hear my voice."

To his credit, he does shut up for the next minute or so. It's just the sound of you both moaning senselessly and chasing your highs, until he shifts the angle just right and—

"G-God, yeah, right there. I'm gonna—"

"Cum?"

You'd glare at him if it weren't for the abrupt fluttering of your walls around his length. "Fuck, Patrick, oh—" And then your vision is whiting out and you're gushing around him.

His name on your tongue is almost enough to do him over. Almost.

"Choke me. C'mon, I'm so close," he whines, hips stuttering upwards into you. You feel like your brains have been fucked out, but you have just enough sense to comprehend the request. And then you're squeezing and watching the whites of his eyes appear.

A few more jolts of his hips and your name is cried out as he comes undone. You can feel the hot warmth filling your cunt, and he continues to pull you down onto him to milk out his orgasm. Moaning pathetically with his head tipped over the back of the chair.

And then it's just the sound of you both panting as both of your hands release each other. You shift off awkwardly, ignoring the whine he makes and the way the sudden emptiness has you feeling the same way. You stumble to your feet, yanking your dress down and peering at the crosshatching on your knees.

At least you're both sporting evidence of the encounter. Patrick's neck is sporting a reddening print, the start of little bruises forming where your fingers pressed too hard. Now you have to look at that for the rest of your vacation.

Great.

You swallow thickly. "Just to be clear, I still think you're an asshole."

He nods, like he hadn't even considered otherwise. "Yeah, I know. But I think you like that about me."

"Patrick—"

"Kidding." His hands raise in mock surrender. "Just get your pretty ass to bed. I've had enough of you yelling at me for one night."

You scoff. You aren't sure whether it's out of contempt or amusement. But you turn on your heels, shaking your head as you finally start back towards the beach house the way you'd intended to fifteen minutes ago.

You're making your way up the steps when he calls out behind you: "But we're doing this again, right?"

"In your dreams." You shoot him your middle finger over your shoulder. His laugh rings out as you trudge up towards the house on wobbly legs.

He watches you go, and it's only when you're safely inside that he mutters under his breath.

"... Bitch."

—

taglist: @gracelynnx @tacobacoyeet @blastzachilles @cha11engers @magicalmiserybore @newrochellechallenger2019 @coolgrl111 @artspats @peachyparkerr @stanart4clearskin @misswrldd @kaalxpsia @downtwngrl @s0ftcobra @strfallz @dazedandconfusedlvr @turnerrst @m4lodr4ma @artdonaldsonmalewife @challengersism @artstennisracket @elsieblogs

[lavenderslace]

so like!! art x clingy!reader… I feel like he’d act annoyed with you but the minute patrick says something a lil bit mean about how clingy you are art is SO QUICK to defend you <33

this so late, and i’m so sorry…. but i totally think art would act a little standoffish in front of his friends n stuff w you because he doesn’t wanna seem like soft (like he so is..) but when you guys are alone it’s a whole diff story <3 he is a silly little lover boy & patrick is a dick <3 !! #lovethem

🏓 you’re a shy girl, always have been. you're always hiding behind art like he's a wall, your finger wrapped around his pinky. your doe eyes always traveling around the room and taking in your space.

patrick thinks its fuckin' hilarious, and he's everywhere with you guys.

you three are at a college party. one of art's tennis friends had thrown it in his frat house. you haven't left art's side since you guys got here, not really finding the courage too. art's talking to one of his friends; he's got a drink in his hand, his other hand is holding onto yours loosely. and patrick's standing behind you like you're his wall. he's doing it to be amusing, he can smell your purfume like this. jasmine.

you sip softly at your drink in your free hand, you can feel patrick's eyes on you. your gaze flickers over to his, you look up at him through your lashes. "you're quiet tonight," you mumble to him. it isn't very loud and the room is. he raises a brow down at you and bends at his waist a little to get closer to you. you huff, "you're quiet."

patrick hums, smiles, smirks, whatever. "don't gotta do any talkin', art's doin' it all tonight." you hum as your eyes flicker away from patrick. your gaze moves around the room once more, except this time you perk up a little. some of the girls in one of your classes are here, they wave you over.

you don't even look towards pat, you just gently pass him your drink. he takes it without a word, even takes a sip. gross. your hand slips out of art's and you move deeper into the room like a small fox. you don't bump into anyone and you pratically disappear between bodies. patrick still can see the top of your head as you reach the girls. they giggle, you beam, they hug you, you hug back. you're probably flushed now. cute. your shoulders drop from your ears.

art's eyes are on patrick now. he's a little shock to find you gone. your lack of touch in his palm had ended his conversation. "where'd she run off too?"

patrick says nothing. he nudges his chin towards your direction as he drinks from your drink. art's light eyes find your form, "surprise she ran off in such a hurry."

pat snickers, nudges his best friend with his shoulder. "aw, you sad? you had a clinger, now she's gone and you're freakin' out. tough."

art glares at his best friend, he hits at pat's ribs with the back of his palm. patrick groans a little. "don't be a dick. she's great. she's perfect."

yeah, patrick knows.

both boys watch you come out of your shell. you eventually turn around, wide grin on your face as you wave towards the both of them. they both wave back at you in unison. art's smiling, pat snickers.

you're endearing, no doubt.

[amorisxx]

Snickerdoodle pt. iv

pairing: Art Donaldson x reader, Patrick Zweig x reader, Tashi Duncan x reader summary: Art comes out of retirement to test out his coaching skills. Your relationship with him continues to spiral. warnings: smut 18+, cheating, divorce, rough sex, piv, marijuana use, slight angst, hastily proofread word count: 7.7K divider by @cafekitsune <3 prev part | next part

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

Kaleb decides he wants to play tennis. Or that he wants to “get serious” about it. He’d done tennis camp every summer along with soccer camp, and he’d enjoyed it enough. But for some reason, he’s determined to be a tennis player now. You blame it on how much time he’s been spending around the Donaldson’s. Between the various play dates and carpooling, he and Lily have been attached at the hip.

The two of you are enjoying a quiet evening  on a weeknight when he brings it up. 

“Lily doesn’t really like tennis,” he tells you in between bites of mashed potatoes. 

“Well that’s okay. Sometimes our friends end up having different hobbies,” you say.

“Hm,” he puts his finger to his chin, “kinda like you and Mr. Art?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well he’s like the greatest tennis player ever,” he says, spreading his arms out wide. “But you’re terrible at tennis. And you guys are friends right?”

His assertion has you placing your fork down. “Okay, first of all, I’m not terrible at tennis. Secondly, it’s really not fair to compare me to a professional tennis player, K, he’s had years of practice.” Then, you reluctantly think of the last thing he said. About the two of you being friends. 

Images of Art kneeling above you in bed dance through your mind. You think of the last time you were with him. How he’d laid his cheek on your thigh while you threaded your fingers through his tufts of blonde hair. His gaze searing as he watched you in all your post-orgasmic bliss. Your chest was still heaving as you tried to recover.  

You clear your throat. 

“Yeah, um, I guess we are friends.�� You avoid eye contact with Kaleb and pray he changes the subject. You don’t want to think about Art. 

Unfortunately, your son is too young to properly read the room. If he was, he’d see the way you’re clenching your fork in your fist. Or he would’ve realized by now that his mom is a harlot. Instead of calling you out on your immorality, he turns to you with express earnestness. “I wanna play tennis like Mr. Art,” he says definitively.

He then furrows his little eyebrows and asks you, “you think I can be as good as him one day?”

You smile, reach over to smooth your palm over his curls, and tug his ear. You say what every parent would. “I think you can do whatever you put your mind to, my little monkey.” 

He grins at you, dimple poking out.

After all, you’re almost certain this is just an eager phase prompted by Lily bringing Tashi to school for career day. Tashi mentioned to you that Kaleb was very eager to ask questions about her job. Apparently, he thought it was super cool that she “got to coach the best tennis players in the world.” You’re worried that before dinner is over he might ask you to put in a word with her about coaching him. 

Once you’ve finished eating, tucked Kaleb in, and tidied up the kitchen, you finally get to relax with a cup of lavender chamomile tea.

Before you settle into the refuge of your bed, you make a note to sign Kaleb up for club tennis. 

ᯓ

You’re at a gas station near Kaleb’s school when you realize your dumb credit card has a faulty chip. You grab your purse and lock the doors to your car, having been forced to go inside the store and pay for your gas the old fashioned way. 

The door shuts behind you with a ring of a bell. The unmistakable smell of fuel fills your nostrils as it mixes with stale coffee and the emblematic stench of small convenience stores. You grumble when you see there’s a short line. 

With a sigh, you take a detour down one of the narrow aisles to grab a pack of gum. You pick out a random pack of spearmint, but your inner child lingers on the yellow packaging of juicy fruit bubble gum sitting beside it. When you were little, your mom would’ve made you pick one or the other. Without a second thought, you pluck the yellow pack out from the shelf and head back towards the front. 

On your walk back, you glance out the windows, checking to make sure the pump you’re parked at is still number 5. 

The line is shorter now. There’s only two people. You think you recognize the dark head of the person standing at the counter. They’re digging through the back pocket of their jeans and pulling out a leather wallet when your cellphone dings. It’s an email notification from your boss. You read the subject header before dropping the phone back into your purse, hoping to avoid whatever stressor awaits you there for a couple more hours or so. When you look back up, you’re met with the face of the dark haired stranger. 

His eyes meet yours. Patrick Zweig sends you a mischievous smile of recognition as he saunters toward you. He snaps his fingers. “I know you.”

“Hi, Patrick,” you say through your tight smile. The last time you’d seen him, he tried to blackmail you into going out with him. If he wasn’t so attractive, you’d probably be repulsed by him. 

“Long time no see.” He pockets his package of Marlboros. “How you been?”

“Um just busy you know,” you hum. “You?” 

He nods. “Same, same.” He looks you over, smile growing wider when he meets your eyes after lingering on your cleavage. He doesn’t even attempt to be discreet. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes to the side.

Thankfully, the bald guy in front of you finishes up his transaction so you have an excuse to say “excuse me” to Patrick as you approach the register. You glance back when you hand your money to the bored cashier, catching one last glimpse of Patrick as he exits through the door. You nibble on the inside of your cheek, feeling the tiniest hint of disappointment. 

You accept your change and two packs of gum and make your way back to your car. Not wanting to waste any more time at this point, you toss the plastic bag into the passenger seat and hurry to pump your gas.  

You’re leaning against the trunk while the fuel fills your tank when you hear a small “hey.” 

You’re startled as Patrick approaches you again. You look around suspiciously. “Um are you stalking me?” 

“No.” He huffs out a laugh. “I was standing over there taking a smoke.” He points towards his beat up suv. You wonder why he doesn’t have a better car. You thought tennis players made money. “And I saw you. Didn’t get to say goodbye earlier.” 

You click your tongue. “Well, bye.” 

“Wait—I hope I didn’t rub you the wrong way last time.” He rubs his palm over the back of his neck. “I kind of have a fucked up sense of humor.” 

“It wasn’t the joke,” you supply. “It was more so you trying to blackmail me into going on a date with you.” 

He laughs. “Yeah, I don’t know why that didn’t work.” The grin he gives you sends a shiver down your spine. 

This time, you smirk, your gaze tracing the length of his body, from his Nikes to the curly wisps of hair flying in the wind. The gas pump clicks, signifying that your tank is full. You don’t remove it right away because you’re busy letting Patrick type his number into your phone. You wish you could say you played hard to get, but that would be a lie of monumental magnitude. 

You don’t actually intend to call him, content to let his number go forgotten in your phone. After all, what type of woman would get involved with the best friend of the man she’s having an affair with? 

Later on, when you’re having a glass of wine, mommy duties complete for the night, you pause on his number as you tap through your phone. You inhale, take a sip from your glass, and quickly save his contact before swiping out of the app. You can blame it on your being slightly tipsy when you notice that he’s saved as “for a rainy day.” 

ᯓ

It turns out that the tennis thing isn’t just a phase. You don’t mind of course. You’d always support your kid in whatever he pursued. The only issue is that Art fucking Donaldson thought it would be a good idea to train little Kaleb. As if you needed more reasons to be around the man. 

You’d told him that you didn’t think it was necessary because your son was only eight years old. Surely, he wouldn’t need a retired professional tennis player to train him. His tennis lessons at the local club would certainly suffice. Plus, you imagined he had more important things to attend to than give private lessons to a third grader. 

On a random weeknight, you’d gone to pick Kaleb up from a play date with Lily, hoping to grab him and get back home before the rain got any worse. Art had greeted you at the door, placing a hand on the small of your back. 

He decided to bring up the topic again. Even Tashi, who was usually busy with training of her own, chimed in, claiming it would be a good opportunity for Art to find real meaning in tennis again. Whatever that meant. Patrick, who you had been avoiding thinking about, once again inserted himself into a conversation, pointing out how young he and Art were when they first started playing tennis. According to him, it was never too early to learn how to properly hit a ball with a racket. 

ᯓ

The thought of Art spending time with Kaleb through tennis is an endearing one if you’re being honest with yourself. But you know you would have an intense fight on your hands should Chris find out. 

Ever since Art had stepped in with your ex at the fall festival, he’d harbored an attitude toward him. He’d gone as far as complaining about all the time Kaleb spent at his house, accusing you of trying to turn your son against him. If it weren’t for the court mandated visits, you’d have simply told Chris to go to hell. But in an attempt to maintain peace for your son’s sake, you reassured him that Kaleb only spent so much time around Art because Lily was his best friend. 

You asked him if it was worth destroying his son’s friendship. He conceded for the time being, but you’re sure if he found out about any extra tennis lessons, he’d blow a gasket. 

Ironically, you had never been offered the freedom to express such possessiveness. You had to be content each and every time your son stayed at his father’s new house with his new fiancée that you barely knew anything about. You handle some occasions better than others. 

This time, though, when you watch Kaleb go through the front door of their luxurious home, Spider-Man backpack affixed on his back, your stomach churns. Chris’ fiancée smiles and waves to you with her left hand. Bitterly, you think it’s a miracle she can even lift it with the large diamond wrapped around her finger. She places her hand on your son’s shoulder, pulling him into their home, as if she wasn’t the one that helped wreck yours. 

Maybe it’s the fact that this past week would’ve been your anniversary, but your shoulders shake with sobs throughout the entire drive home. You sniffle as you think about Kaleb building a life with his soon to be step-mom. You hope she treats him right, but, ultimately, you wish he didn’t have to know her at all. 

It doesn’t help that you aren’t able to bury your sorrows in Art’s chest or on his dick. He’d already told you about the gala he’d be attending that weekend for the Donaldson Foundation. You haven’t seen him since last weekend, and you ache to call him, but the thought makes you feel nauseous when you think about the wretched irony of seeking comfort in a married man. In a decision that’s almost homogeneously pathetic, you sit in your lonely driveway and send a “hey” to ‘for a rainy day.’

ᯓ

It doesn’t take long for Patrick to offer to come over. You send him your location as you pop open a bottle of wine. 

You reach for a glass, your eagerness causing you to apply too much force as you slam the glass down. It breaks under the pressure of your haste, immediately cracking at the stem. The inconvenience is too much for you. You curse before bringing the entire bottle up to your mouth. You take a swig, red liquid spilling out of the corner of your mouth. With a gasp, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Pitifully, your vision starts to blur again as your eyes swell up with hot tears. You resort to sitting on the kitchen floor, taking the occasional drink, and wallowing in your despair. 

You’re propped against the cabinet, knees to your chest as you cradle the green tinted bottle of red wine like a toddler holding a stuffed animal, when you hear your doorbell ring. You stumble to your feet, dragging them as you move toward the door. When you swing the door open, Patrick is standing there with his hands in his pockets. He looks you over once, mumbling that you “look like shit” before stepping into your home as if he’d been there a thousand times. 

He lifts his eyebrows when he sees the neglected pieces of glass on your counter. He looks back at the bottle in your fist before groaning. “Please don’t tell me you’re an alcoholic.” 

You roll your eyes. “No, I’m just having a pretty shitty day.” 

“No shit,” he snorts. 

You send him a glare. “I don’t even know why I called you,” you say and rub your temples. 

“Because I’m obviously easy and you know it.” He smirks. 

It makes you laugh, your red, puffy eyes squinting back at him. 

Patrick eventually convinces you to smoke the joint he’d brought with him. You haven’t gotten high in years, and you find yourself mindlessly rambling about your life as you pass the joint back and forth to him. You’d stopped crying a while ago, your eyes now red because of the weed. 

You and Patrick are lounging on the floor of your living room. You’re dragging your fingers through the shag rug underneath you and leaning your head back on the sofa when you hear him laugh. He sounds like he’s far away, down through a tunnel, but when you turn your head, his face is right beside you. 

“What’s funny?” You grunt. 

He shakes his head. “S’nothing.” 

You frown and shove his bicep. “Tell me,” you say, scooting closer to him. “I hate feeling left out.” 

His smile falters for a second like he’s remembering something, but when you blink he’s sporting a melancholic grin. “It’s just—you kind of remind me a lot of Art.” His head falls to the side to really look at you. “I mean not like completely, and not really how he is now, but when you’re upset—it reminds me of when we were teenagers.” 

“I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not,” you say. It comes out as a whisper. Your faces are so close that you don’t want to startle him. 

“Hm.” His eyes flicker to your lips. “Not a good or bad thing. Just a thing.” 

“That’s why you like me?” You mumble teasingly. “Because I remind you of your boyfriend?” 

He smirks, lips so close to yours you feel his breath fan them. “Who said I liked you?” 

“You don’t have to.” You’re just the slightest movement away from kissing him. If you tilt your head just the tiniest bit—

He lets out an almost imperceptible moan when he finally presses his lips to yours. It’s so quiet, you think you might’ve imagined it. It all happens incredibly fast, but feels like slow motion. Your head is fuzzy and your body is tingling as Patrick grabs your waist, hoisting you onto his lap. It takes you a moment to build momentum, your sensory overload working against you.

When you’re finally able to match his energy, the kiss is searing. He’s sucking your lip into his mouth like you’re already his, hands roaming everywhere he can get them. When he bites your bottom lip, you suck in a breath, giving him room to thrust his tongue into your mouth. You mewl at the way your mouths seem to fit together like velcro. Your toes curl and you tighten your fists into his dark locks when you feel his hot tongue traveling down your throat, leaving white hot bites that feel like being branded. His teeth sting and your cunt throbs as you impulsively rut against his length. 

Patrick rubs his large palm over your ass before abruptly smacking it, making you release an embarrassingly airy moan. His teeth tug on your earlobe. “You like that?” 

You only nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. 

“Hmm?” He mumbles, continuing to lave over the skin behind your ear. His hand comes down on your ass again, harder this time. 

You let out a pathetic squeal and slam your hips down against him in search of some kind of friction to relieve the ache between your legs. “Oh god—please fuck me—“

His mouth meets yours again. You can barely kiss him properly, panting about needing him to fuck you right now. 

He really is easy, you think, but it’s not like you have room to talk.

ᯓ

The first time Patrick Zweig sinks his cock into you, you’re on your knees, face pressed against your rug. The slam of his hips threaten to take your breath away as tears cling to your eyelashes. He’s rough, possessively grabbing your flesh with no regard for potential damage. When he experimentally grips your hair in his hand, tugging your head back gently, you see stars behind your clamped eyelids.

Patrick nearly whimpers at the way it makes you arch your back into his thrusts with increasing intensity. He groans something about you being a slut and fists your hair with less restraint. Your walls clench around him when he wraps his hand around your throat, pulling you to his chest. 

He grunts into your ear. “I knew you liked it rough, could tell from the first time I saw you.” 

The tears have started to spill now. Whether it’s from the humiliation or the utter ecstasy, you aren’t sure. All you know is that you almost sob when Patrick drags his tongue alongside your face, collecting the salty tears.

ᯓ

He buries himself inside you for a second time no more than twenty minutes after you’ve both cum. You gasp and claw at his back as his body presses you into your couch cushions.

You have to admit that Patrick knows how to fuck. Knows how to read your body, tapping into just the right frequency to get you off. 

It’s obvious that you’ve been craving this type of treatment from the way you’re responding to him. But you’re sure that he must have a sexual sixth sense because in the midst of fucking you wildly, he grabs your ankle that’s dangling by his ear, turns his head, and plants a sweet kiss to the bone. It makes you melt into the sofa. 

He leans down to shove his tongue into your open mouth. Softly pats your cheek, relishing in your cock drunk state. 

“Does he fuck you like this?” He murmurs into your neck.

You don’t have to ask who he’s talking about. 

“Huh?” He prods. 

You choke down a moan. “Better. He—“ You cry out when you feel him start rubbing harsh circles into your clit. “He fucks me better.” 

He huffs out a laugh through his smile, but his hips slam down harder as if he’s determined to change your answer. In less than a minute, you’re biting down on his shoulder when you feel another orgasm rack through your body. 

ᯓ

You take a longer break this time. Stopping to pour yourself a real glass of wine. One with its stem intact. Patrick lazily inhales from a cigarette as he watches you, with hooded eyes, attempt to hold a throw blanket over your bare torso. In contrast, he nonchalantly spreads his thighs over your couch, body on full display. 

His eyes leisurely meet yours. They shine prettily in the dim lighting of your home. His dark lashes flutter on each drag of his cig and it makes the corner of your mouth curve up when you take a sip. The lamps have cast a cozy shade of amber over the room. It blankets Patrick’s skin in a golden aura reminiscent of something being baked in an oven. 

Patrick reminds you of the gingerbread man, you think. It makes you press the tips of your fingers to your lips to stifle a giggle. 

He tilts his head at your odd behavior, but he assumes the weed must still be affecting you. 

Once you’ve placed your glass on the coffee table, and he’s put out his cigarette, Patrick is pulling you by the ankle, tossing your blanket to the side and kissing his way down your abdomen. 

You yelp when he captures one of your hard nipples in his mouth but let him press his hot kisses into your skin nonetheless. 

You end up cumming for the third time that night with his head buried between your legs. 

ᯓ

Patrick leaves while you’re asleep. 

When you wake up around 3am to an empty house, you think it’s for the best. You check your phone. You have a missed call from “a.d.” and a text from Patrick that says “had fun” with a winking emoji. You don’t respond to either, instead, opting to pad your bare feet to the bathroom. You desperately need a shower.

In the morning, you tidy up your home from the events of the night before, cringing at what took place on the terracotta colored sofa.

When the buzzing in your head doesn’t stop after cleaning your entire living room from top to bottom, you find yourself in the kitchen, pulling out ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies. 

You’re frantically kneading dough when the doorbell rings. You frown, not expecting company, but clean your hands as best you can as you make your way to open the door. Sometimes, your talkative neighbor, Mrs. Taylor, likes to come knocking on your door early in the mornings. 

You’re surprised to find that Art is standing on the other side with a latte and a bag containing a chocolate croissant. You assume it’s for you. He places his things down on the table by the door, the one that holds your catch all tray, and scoops you up into a hug. 

He groans into it, making you smile. “Hi,” you mumble into his chest. 

“Hi, pretty girl,” his voice comes out equally mumbled. “Missed you.” You can hear the grin in his tone. It makes your heart clench. 

You allow yourself to hold onto him, despite the ever present worry that you should be reining yourself in when it comes to him. He moves to let you go, grabbing your face in his palm and kissing the side of your head. You whine and lock your arms around his waist in protest. You inhale his scent, all warm and familiar. You’ve missed him. 

“Baby,” he laughs into your hair. You grunt, squeezing him tighter. “Okay, c’mere.” He pulls you into him, securely engulfing you in his arms. “I got you, I got you.” 

You eventually release him long enough to walk into your home. 

You’re relieved that you’d been overtaken by a cleaning spell this morning because you fear that Art might take one glance at your couch and figure out who had been here. That he’d smell him in the air. 

You’re afraid he might’ve detected it anyway when he freezes in the walkway separating your kitchen from the living room. You nibble on your lip as you try to search his body for any signs that he’s onto you. 

To your relief, Art is actually focused on the copious amounts of cookie dough you have on the counter of your kitchen island. He turns to you with the all knowing look of a father, his eyes creased with concern. “Oh no, what happened?” 

ᯓ

After a therapy session in which you decide to stop letting your ex influence your decisions from afar, you finally relent, allowing Art to begin practicing with Kaleb on their private tennis court. It seems like since you got involved with their family, that’s all you ever do, give in to everyone’s requests. In any other context, it would be disturbing, but the sight of Kaleb racing to the court with an oversized tennis bag fills you with joy. The bag threatens to pull him down, but his excitement keeps him upright as he makes a beeline for Art. 

You don’t know who’s more excited to see Art between the two of you. Your son’s tennis instructor waves at you from across the court. And you have to fight the rush that flows through you, threatening to cut off your oxygen, and give a simple wave in return. It makes you feel like a kid with a fervent crush. You could gag.

You remind yourself that you’re here for Kaleb. Not you.

You think that as long as you get to see him happy like that, you’d agree to anything. It’s a scary notion, but becoming a mom has made you aware of a lot of terrifying realities. 

ᯓ

It’s this maternal need to preserve your son’s happiness that leads you to another prolonged encounter with Tashi Duncan. She’d caught you when you were dropping him off for tennis lessons one day. Apparently, she had a free day. Lily was spending the day with her grandparents, and Patrick is, thankfully, nowhere to be found. You try to hide your relief when she tells you that. You don’t think you can face him right now. 

She insists you join her in their sunroom while the boys practice. You try to think of an excuse to turn her down, but you decide your karma from sleeping with her husband has built up too much to take the chance of tacking on more. So, when she offers to make you a cup of tea, you oblige and sink down into the fabric of a warm sofa.

When Tashi reappears, she sits down with a cup of steaming hot tea for the both of you. You thank her with a smile, letting your eyes trail over her figure. She looks ethereal. The sunlight pouring through the glass forms a halo of light around her, illuminating her like a Madonna painting. She has her hair pulled back into a low ponytail that causes her to have to tuck the loose strands behind her ear every now and then. The motion makes you take notice of her slim neck and the way her collarbones dip into her loose-fitted button down. Even dressed casually, she looks like a goddess. 

You feel your heart start to beat a little faster and reach to take a sip of your tea. You wonder how she knew that lavender chamomile was one of your favorites.

It’s only awkward for a moment because the two of you quickly fall into a conversation about what she’s missed now that Art has taken over attending the PTA meetings. That’s how you’d initially met her. She had actually been the one who you exchanged communication with about carpool and play dates. Art’s retirement allowed her to focus on tennis and other aspects of raising Lily that she preferred. You giggle when she admits that she never really liked those meetings anyway. You don’t tell her that you always had that inkling. 

When you mention that Cynthia is still advertising her knitting business at every single meeting, she sucks in a laugh before leaning toward you. She presses her lips together, holding in her giggle. “Guess what?”

You squint at her, your expression already anticipating a joke. “What?” You all but sputter out. 

“I’m probably responsible for like half the sales on her Etsy shop.” She says like she’s admitting to something top secret. It’s a lot like the expression Lily takes on when her and Kaleb are playing “secret agent.”

“Girl, what?” You didn’t think she’d be a fan of crocheted animal figures. 

“I ordered one for my mom for Mother’s Day,” she explains. “She fell in love with the thing I swear, thought it looked just like her little Yorkie, next thing you know she’s asking for the link to share with all her friends.” 

You’re snickering into your mug imagining Tashi unintentionally being Cynthia’s best saleswoman.

She smiles at you. “I’m serious. Apparently, amigurumi is the new thing. It’s gonna be flying off the shelves. That’s why I had to go ahead and put in my order.”

“Of course you know the official term.” You toss your head back. “What’s yours look like?” 

“It’s a little tabby cat,” she smiles wistfully. “Like the one I had growing up. Her name was Aphrodite.” 

It’s a fitting name.

You’re biting back a grin as you take a sip from your tea. You sigh at the taste. “How’d you know what type of tea I liked?” You ask absentmindedly. 

“Art mentioned it to me.” 

You freeze. “Art?” 

“Yeah he says you like to make it before bed. Now, he’s hooked on it.” 

All the blood in your body rushes to your head. You feel that unwelcome yet proverbial sinking in your gut. You think you might start projectile vomiting.

“Are you okay?”

You don’t respond. It’s hard to speak when you feel like you’re dangling upside down on a roller coaster.

“Wait… you didn’t think I knew did you?”

For some unintelligent reason, you decide to play stupid. Usually, in times of danger, humans resort to fight, flight, or freeze. You choose fucking idiot. “Knew what?”

“That you’re fucking my husband.” Tashi says quite unceremoniously.

“What—what do you mean?” You squeak out.

“Don’t.” She laughs. “I’ve known the whole time.” 

“How?” Your voice is shrinking smaller and smaller to your ears. The sound of Tashi’s voice, her pert laughter, drowning it out.

“Art tells me everything.”

“And you’re okay with it?” You attempt to ask though you can barely hear it.

You know your question reaches her ears because she shakes her head and tells you, “I suggested it.” 

Your eyes go wide. Her divulgence seems to propel you forward on your metaphorical roller coaster. In a snap, it brings you out of your stupor.

“I told Art that he should fuck you.” She says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s as simple as telling him to pick up some carry out on the way home. 

You’re confused, and your head is starting to hurt from the whiplash, and you wish this ride would end already. “I’m—I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here.”

“Okay, well, Art’s been attracted to you since the day he met you,” she says plainly. “But he’d never actually do anything about it because that’s just who he is. He needed that push—“

“That push?”

She nods. “He needed to know he could do it and everything would be fine. He’s still figuring out how to be open to stuff like this.” She explains, gestures vaguely in the air. “He’d never break up what seemed like a happy marriage, but when it was clear that your marriage was far from happy…well he started to warm up to the idea.”

“What do you mean far from happy?” The shock has you feeling unreasonably defensive.

“Clearly something was off. You never seemed happy with him. You’ve said it yourself that he was a dick.”

“Um—okay, well, I’d say something has to be off if you’re coaching your husband into sleeping with unsuspecting women.” You shoot back. Your gaze is sharp and accusatory.

She lets her eyes fall down to her lap, picking at little buds of lint being exposed by the sun’s glow. “You’re right, something was off between us,” she says like it’s something in the past. Like maybe they’re good now, but at one time they weren’t. “But Art knows how I feel about him.” Then, her gaze returns to you. “Something tells me your husband either didn’t know or didn’t care.”

Her comment strikes a nerve. Chris did know something was off, and she was right, he didn’t care. He made you feel like needing more from him made you selfish. As if the reminder of the vows he made to you was an affront to him. He knew you were unhappy. That you felt ignored. But he didn’t care. When you’d served him the divorce papers, you naively thought that he’d realize what he might lose, that he might beg for your forgiveness, promise to be better. Instead, you watched him sign the document in the same way he’d signed receipts for dinner before closing the tab and tucking the pen inside. 

You think you envy her. Because she has a husband that actually doesn’t want to leave her. 

“Hey.” She grabs your attention. Her voice softens when she sees your glassy eyes peering back at her. “I’m not judging you. I’m just trying to offer an explanation.” 

You work to swallow down the onslaught of emotions threatening to rise up like bile. You release a fractured noise from your throat, letting the revelation fully soak in. “So you really knew this whole time then? Or rather you orchestrated it?” 

“Okay, that’s a little extreme,” she says. “When we found out you were getting divorced, I mentioned to Art that he should pursue you. That’s all.” She shrugs. “I never knew if he’d actually do it or when he’d do it. All I know is that the first night he came home smelling like you, he fucked me like he did when I first agreed to be his tennis coach.” 

“Then, he was constantly meeting up with you or staying to talk after PTA meetings,” her fingers curl to form quotations around the word, talk. “But I knew what was up.” She bites her lip. “It was honestly kind of hot.” 

You frown. The thought of him sleeping with her immediately after being with you has your stomach in knots. The worst part is that you can’t stop wondering if he’d showered first. If he’d cleaned himself up or if he’d went straight to her, buried himself inside her, cock still sticky with your fluids. In a way, it’s like you had also been inside her. If you think about it long enough, you can imagine what it must feel like. So, you don’t think about it. Instead, you fix your gaze on the golden pothos plant sitting on top a table to your right. The tapping of your nail against the ceramic mug fills the silence. 

She gives you a questioning look. 

Ignoring the implications of what she just told you, you settle for the anger you’re feeling instead of dwelling on any confusing arousal. “Do you not realize how fucked up this is, Tashi?”

“Excuse me?” 

“Yeah! It’s fucked!” You throw your hands up. “I mean I’ve been running around feeling guilty, thinking I was a fucking homewrecker while the two of you get off on a cheating kink!”

She can tell you have more to say, so she leans back and lets you go on.

“I mean how could you do that? I was fucking depressed.”

She snorts. “Not so depressed that it ruined your libido. You two have been going at it like rabbits.” Her smirk makes your cheeks burn. 

You place your mug down onto the table. “Wow. You know what?” You’re on the edge of the couch now, body rigid. “You and Art can go fuck yourselves! This is seriously messed up.”

She raises her eyebrows. “As messed up as you fucking another woman’s husband?” 

Her words drip with mirth, and it pisses you off that the fiery look in her eyes is poking at a budding desire in your belly. “This is ridiculous,” you mumble to yourself. You’d rather focus all your energy on being outraged than interrogate why this is kind of turning you on. You’re about to stand up to leave when she places a hand on your arm.

“Are you seriously mad right now?” She asks you. 

An incredulous look takes over your face. “What do you think?” You spit out.

“Well, would you have preferred I not know?” She asks as if you’re the crazy one here.

“I—“ you squeeze your eyes shut, and try to gather your thoughts. “Obviously not, Tashi.” You glance up to the glass paned ceiling. “I just—it would’ve been nice to know what was really going on. I mean he never even told me that you knew.”

“Well, did you ask?” She asks simply. 

Did you? You think back to the past couple of months. The more you and Art hooked up, the more you avoided directly mentioning Tashi. He didn’t bring her up more than what was necessary, so you suspected he was actively trying to keep it from her. 

To be fair, he did mention a couple of times that he’d told Tashi you two were going to meet up for lunch, but you thought he must’ve been leaving out the activities that followed. And if she happened to call him while the two of you were together, he would casually tell her he was with you. You obviously assumed he was downplaying your friendship because there was no way Art would be so nonchalant about a mistress. But, apparently, the word mistress didn’t even apply to you. 

“I mean, I guess I didn’t.” You stammer. “But I feel like that was on him to bring it up to me.”

“Well that’s where you went wrong. Art can get in his own way sometimes.” A pensive expression works it’s way onto her face. “Or maybe part of him did kind of get off on feeling like he was sneaking around.” The thought seems to bring a small smile to her face. 

It still doesn’t make sense to you. You try to tamper down the sinking feeling that you’ve been nothing more than a pawn. “I just don’t understand why you two couldn’t proposition me like a normal couple looking for a third,” you say.

“Who said you were our third?” 

“Oh, so there’s other women you’ve sent Art to fuck?”

“No. I—I don’t just pimp out my husband, okay?”

You back down.

“We already have a…third I guess.”

You look at her with furrowed brows. 

“Patrick.” She answers.

“Patrick? Like Patrick Patrick?”

She nods.

You laugh cynically. You didn’t think this situation could get any worse.

“I know.” She sighs. “I know how it seems—”

“Was that part of the plan too?” You’re out of breath, chest heaving. 

She looks genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?” 

“Me and Patrick,” you blurt. 

“Wait a minute, you’re sleeping with Patrick?” She’s scooting closer to you. 

You shake your head. “It just happened once.” You think of how he’d shoved your face into the rug, fucking into you as he grunted out various obscenities. “I was high. I haven’t spoken to him since.”

She looks away for a moment, brows drawn together tightly. She’s piecing together what you’ve told her. 

“I—I didn’t know he was with you guys,” you try. 

She waves you off. “No, it’s not that.” She sits back. “I’m just not surprised that he wormed his way into your pants. He just couldn’t take that Art had something to himself.” She’s speaking to you, but her eyes are trained ahead. 

“So, you really didn’t set that up too?” You ask meekly. 

“God, no!” She says. “I had no idea.” 

You believe her. 

“Look I don’t care what type of weird shit you tennis players are into, if you guys have wild orgies or whatever. I just would’ve liked to have known that I wasn’t a hypocrite.”

“A hypocrite?”

You nod. “I mean I sit here and give my ex shit for cheating on me with that skinny ass whore from Modesto. Hell! That’s why I got so much fucking alimony.” You’re rambling now. “And, then, I go and let Art fucking Donaldson screw me and then send him back home to play loving father and husband like it’s nothing. God! And on top of it all, I also sleep with his best friend! I became the whore from Modesto.” 

Tashi’s watching you like you’re a kid experiencing big feelings.

“I felt like a home wrecker.” You sniff. “But apparently I’m actually not…because it was your idea, well only Art, not Patrick, and I—it’s all just fucking with my head.”

Tashi swallows. “I honestly thought you’d be relieved to find out.”

She looks at the frown on your face, takes in the way your plump bottom lip is jutting out. She reaches for your hand. “We’ve never really been the best at communicating. Me and Art. For the past year or so, we’ve gotten better at talking to each other, being honest about what we want, but we’re still working on doing that with other people I guess.” You let her thumb rub the back of your hand before you gently pull away. 

You grab your mug again. The handle is cold to the touch. 

“I promise we didn’t mean to fuck with you. Honestly, I think Art really likes you.” She offers you a small smile.

You look into your mug trying to still your reaction. You don’t care. 

Tashi’s gaze feels heavy on the side of your face as you feel her watching your expression. You start to fiddle with your watch. Checking for the time. Except your watch is too busy displaying your increased heart rate to offer the time. 

You sigh. 

She reaches out to you again, but this time she brings her hand up to your face, moving the curls falling down over your eyes. You let her nimble fingers caress your cheekbone before trailing down to your chin, guiding you to look at her. 

She gives you a steady, knowing smile. “You fell for him didn’t you?” 

Your cheeks go ablaze, and you try to look away from her. 

“Hey.” She grasps your chin in a firm, but gentle hold. “It’s okay.” She nods as if it’ll telepathically make you agree. 

You clear your throat. “I know you say that, but this is all new to me.” Your voice is slightly wobbly and you think you might cry. “I—I didn’t think it’d happen but it did. I thought I could get him out of my system but now,” you inhale and press two fingers against your neck, subconsciously trying to self-soothe. “Now, it’s like—it’s like I can’t stop.” Your voice comes out almost like a whisper. Like you’re afraid to admit the truth. 

And, really, you are afraid. You’re fucking terrified. 

You’re scared to fall in love with a man who already has one—two people in his life that he’s in love with. The last time you entrusted a man with your love, he was only meant to love you, and he couldn’t even give you that. 

What if you realize you’re absolutely enamored by Art Donaldson and he realizes the same thing Chris did? That there’s something about you that makes you unworthy of love. That the depth of you is as deep as your cunt goes and that’s it. 

What if he realizes that he already has what he needs in Tashi, even Patrick? What if they realize they actually aren’t willing to share?

You apparently voice the last bit aloud.

Tashi tilts her head, some of her strands have fallen loose again and she wears the prettiest pout on her lips. “Do you want me to prove it to you?” 

You gulp when her hand presses into your thigh, and she brings her face impossibly close to yours, forcing you to hold her gaze. “You want me to prove that I’m okay with it?” Her eyes flit between each one of yours with a level of seriousness you’d expect from someone like her. 

Her expression demands an answer, and so, you give a faint nod, transfixed on the woman in front of you. 

You gasp when you feel her mouth on yours. 

You learn that Tashi tastes sweet when she has her tongue in your mouth. You think you can taste the tartness of the lemon she’d sucked on earlier. It’s good, and you realize you’re fucked because you really like kissing her. 

Her tongue twirling around yours has you panting quietly, and you keen when you feel her manicured nails press into the nape of your neck. You haven’t kissed a woman since your last girlfriend in college, and you find you miss it. Something about it feels like drinking sweet tea on a hot summer day. Climbing into cool sheets at night when you’re bone tired. Or the feeling you get when you discover the song that you’re going to replay for the next week. 

It also makes you feel absurdly wet. 

The two of you work up a rhythm of pulling away for a breath before coming back together like magnets, letting your foreheads gently press together as you breathe deeply, thumbs caressing skin, eyelids fluttering. 

Your tongue is sweeping across Tashi’s lip, on a path to enter her mouth again, when you hear someone clear their throat. 

There’s an audible smack as you yank yourself from Tashi, eyes flying to the doorway of their sunroom. 

Art is standing there staring at you, gaze shifting from your face to the hand you still have placed on his wife’s neck. His jaw is clenched, and his bulge is painfully evident in his pants. 

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

a/n: I've been waiting for this since the first post. Let me know how you feel about the reveal <3 as always, my asks are open!

[artbiter]

wolf in sheep's clothing

art donaldson/reader nsfw summary: art falls for you first yet patrick gets the fortune of having you. what else is art supposed to do but play dirty? tags: stanford!art, stanford reader too, art is a borderline homewrecker, art donaldson is a SNAKE, patrick gets cucked right under his nose </3, oral, slight body worship, TBH idk note: hi this is my first time writing ff since .. 2021 .. and this is definitely a diff style from the ao3-approach i usually take to writing but please enjoy i really like art donaldson i really like challengers and i really like art taking what he wants (and i really like mike faist in blonde curls)

art donaldson is not a homewrecker, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't waiting for his chance with you.

he first meets you at one of his games, eyes flitting over the crowd and panting hard after a rather close singles win, before his gaze is magnetically drawn to your pretty face in the bleachers. smiling with your friends, you look so happy to just be watching this game, and when you make eye contact with art you wave excitedly like he's a celebrity, and whisper to your friends after he salutes back with a grin, trying to catch the breath your gorgeous smile has knocked out of him.

he wants to find you so bad after, and so he does. your friends are tennis groupies, hanging behind to flirt with any guy with a racket in hand, but you're just there for moral support. he chases after you just before you leave, just to say hi. an innocuous greeting and thanks for your support. and he sees how jealous your friends are that you tag along once with them and immediately get picked up by art freaking donaldson, but you seem to be oblivious, beaming at him and clasping your hands to your chest. you tell him he was great out there, that you've never "gotten" tennis but that you can feel he's a pro anyway. you part ways and he can't stop thinking about you.

when he tells patrick that he's met the prettiest girl he's ever seen at one of his matches, patrick thinks it's endearing and the epitome of dumb puppy love.

"did you even get her name? or were you just drooling over her?"

"nah, that would've been weird... right? oh shit, should i have? i was trying to be normal about it, i don't know." art beats himself up for not even picking up on your name in conversation, and resolves to seek out your identity and ask you out.

so when he finally has the fortune of seeing you again at a party, he's heartbroken when you smile and wave to patrick in tow.

"patrick!" you laugh and bound up to the pair. "didn't take you as a stanford party type of guy."

"i'm a plus one tonight. lucky i ran into you, huh?" patrick is eye-fucking you and doesn't even try to hide it, and art feels like doubling over in pure grief.

patrick notices but says nothing, only introducing you to art. "yeah, i'm here with my buddy art." he slaps art on the back lightly and art finds out that you and patrick met at another party before this. he remembers you from patrick's anecdotes over lunch, where patrick wouldn't shut up about the hottest chick he's ever seen who wouldn't go home with him, but has been texting ever since.

some other girl, presumably one of your friends, attaches herself to art's arm for the rest of the night, but he can't bring himself to notice or care when patrick kisses you and you lean into it.

patrick got to you first, and art hates himself for it. he won't admit it, but he feels the resentment festering inside of him as soon as patrick announces it's official.

the next best course of action for art is to play the best friend role, obviously. except like the unassuming snake art is, he's going to be your best friend, too.

he's your puppy, waiting on your beck and call — whatever you need, he's got it. your bio homework is impossible? sure, you can copy his. you got no sleep last night? he has your regular order from your favorite café committed to memory. patrick's being such a bad boyfriend? oh, tell him all about it.

"he's so inconsiderate," you whine, slumping over your pillow. "can you believe he forgot our six months? and when i brought it up, he didn't even say sorry. he was just, like, 'i didn't know we were still in high school.' i wanted to die, art, really."

art clicks his tongue in sympathy, criss-crossed on your dorm floor and nodding along to your laments. "no, he's definitely wrong here. i'm sorry he forgot something so important." for good measure, he adds in, "guys should be looking out for their girlfriends all the time. i'd be celebrating monthly anniversaries if i had a girl."

"ugh, right? i thought so, too." you flop back onto your bed, turning your head to gaze at art. he thinks you're so beautiful like this, clad in a t-shirt and shorts, bare faced with tears tinging your eyes. "you're a good guy. i don't know why you don't just date."

he doesn't want to date anyone if it isn't you, but he doesn't say this.

art watches you and patrick continue for another few rocky months, marked by arguments spawned from patrick's chronic nonchalance and your sensitivity to his perceived lack of care. and art gets the full report from both sides; patrick tells him all the time about how he's really trying to make you happy and support you, but he doesn't see why you value such small things. and you cry to art, sobbing that patrick never takes you out anymore if it isn't to fuck, that patrick is too friendly to other girls. art thinks to himself that patrick doesn't deserve you, but he rubs small circles on your back and reassures you that you need to do what's right for yourself.

(he's elated when you don't remove yourself from his touch.)

when you finally break it off with patrick, he hears it from his best friend first.

"dude, she dumped me." patrick's voice buzzes over the phone. "not gonna lie, i saw this one coming. but i thought i was doing good, seriously. fuck, what am i gonna do?"

"i'm sorry, man," art sympathizes before he hears a knock on his door. "yeah, it really does suck. take a breather for a few days. i'm sorry, but i really have to go right now." he peeks into the peephole and sees you standing outside. "let's talk more later?"

patrick is still rambling on the other end, but art hangs up and opens the door for you to immediately come spilling.

"art, i broke up with him. i really couldn't do it anymore." you tell art more things he already knows, like that you liked patrick a lot but you were just uncompatible in the end, and that you wished he listened. as always, art feeds into you, agreeing with your every word. something deep inside art tells him it's wrong to coax his best friend's girlfriend into breaking up with him, and that he's messed up for offering you his support when patrick technically should come first. but when you look up at art through wet eyelashes, sniffling and yearning for comfort, who is he to deny you?

art cups your face gently and presses his lips to yours. he doesn't miss how your eyes widen, but you don't jerk away. his heart pounds in his chest as he holds the small of your back with one hand while the other caresses your cheek. you smell so clean and warm, and your lips are so soft art wonders how patrick could ever give you up without a fight. it solidifies art's need for you, that if patrick won't make you happy, he will.

when you pull away from him, you're breathless, voice barely above a whisper. "art, i don't think we should—"

he can't contain himself from kissing your neck, relishing the soft, smooth expanse, inhaling your scent so deep into his lungs he finds it oxygen. "tell me you don't want this." he laps at your jaw, sucking light bruises onto the sides of your throat. "tell me you don't want me to treat you the way you should be, and i'll stop."

you moan his name involuntarily, and art takes it as the green light to carry you to his bed and kisses back up to your lips. "i'm sorry," he murmurs into your skin. "i'm sorry. i want you so bad."

"then show me," you sigh softly, hands rooting themselves into his blonde curls as his tongue probes your mouth.

like you even had to ask.

tugging down your sweatpants and feeling like coming just as the sight of your underwear, art immediately tears it off of you. he latches himself to your cunt, already weeping, and he looks up at you through hooded eyes, pupils blown wide. "already so wet for me, baby?"

"mmf..." your fingers, still tangled in his hair, tighten their grip as you push his head forward, and he obliges.

he licks wide stripes, feeling you convulse and twitch every time his tongue comes in contact with your clit. his dick throbs in his pants just from eating you out.

"you taste so sweet. fuck, you're delicious," he pants, making out with your pussy like it's your lips. "don't know how i survived this long without you."

you buck your hips up into his mouth, mewling and spasming as he suckles and licks at just the right places. your cunt is soaked, but neither of you can tell whether it's from your arousal or how much art is slobbering over your pussy. "right there," you squeak out, a hot wave washing over your body as you cum on art's face.

and fuck, art almosts busts on the spot with you. his mouth doesn't cease, swirling patterns all over your vulva, grazing over your clit, dipping his tongue inside of you as you lock your legs around his head desperately.

"too much, too much!" you feebly try to pull his head up from your cunt, but he's so addicted to your taste he barely notices how sensitive you are now, how your clit twitches and aches for a break.

art can only laugh softly as he pulls himself back up to you, kissing you gently as his hands roam underneath your shirt and to your bra clasp.

"mm, you're so good," you gasp into art's mouth as his kiss becomes sloppier. "so good to me, art."

"it's what you deserve," he mumbles back, unhooking your bra and clumsily pulling your shirt off so your tits spill free. and even art is admired by his own self-restraint, just staring at your perfect body on display for him. he's been dreaming of this day for months now, jerking himself off late at night to thoughts of you sucking his cock, to pictures of you smiling on his phone, to the memory of your voice the day he met you. it's so wrong of him to fuck his best friend's ex fresh after the split, but why do you feel so right beneath him? "i've been waiting for this," he whispers into your neck. "been wanting to show you how much i want you. want to make you feel good. want to treat you so much better."

"fuck me, art, please," you beg him, relenting and palming at his boxers. you're so fucking easy, letting him touch you like this and being compliant as he undresses you, kisses you all over, shrugs his boxers off as you help him position his cock right at your entrance. it's not your fault that art has been nothing but kind and gentle to you. it's not your fault that he's been flirting with you since day 1, and now all his desires have culminated into head of a lifetime. and art finally has what he wants now: you.

and even when he barely pushes the tip in, he wants to cum inside of you so badly he feels dizzy. "so fucking tight, i'm gonna cum, gonna cum right now," he gasps in your ear as he unsheathes himself, stretching your warm, tight hole. "so perfect, holy shit. fucking made for me, baby, you feel so—" he can't stop himself from rutting into you, and he just about comes undone when he hears his name tumble from your lips in pained moans. it takes all the self-control in the world for art to not pour himself into your wet heat right now.

"slow down, art, fuck, you're so big," you sob, clawing at his back. he wishes he could fuck you nice and slow, the way he always envisioned his first time with you would be. he'd fantasized about nights with you full of languid strokes, making you scream his name with calculated, intentional thrusts straight to the spongy patch buried within you. but art is just a humble man, and when your walls, silky and warm, are choking his dick, he can't resist fucking into you like a jackhammer. you cry, moaning uncontrollably as your hands clutch tightly at him, letting his cock ruin you.

art's head goes fuzzy, and all he knows now is your pussy trying to milk him dry and that he can't say anything coherent besides strings of guttural moans telling you how warm, how tight, how good you feel on his dick, how your sweet cunt was made for him, how beautiful you look and sound at his mercy, how he wants you to be his so bad and that he'll do anything for you to be his. that his only regret is not claiming you first.

you keep crooning in his ear, honeyed moans that intoxicate him dizzier and dizzier as you tell him that he can have you. with a few more stutters of his hips, and a convulsing squeeze from your walls onto his cock, his head falls into the crook of your neck as he pulls out and shoots ropes all over your stomach, right as you cry out his name uncontrllably, heaving beneath him. a low, resounding grunt rips from his throat while his seed paints your abdomen, and he feels you shiver upon the warmth touching your skin.

"i'm sorry," he apologizes again like the gentleman he is. his breath still heaves at an uneven rhythm, staggering as he attempts to regain his composure, but every time his eyes fall upon you it feels like he wants to go for round 2. "i'll clean you up, pretty girl. you were so perfect." he presses his forehead to yours, sweaty and damp, and whispers, "you were made for me."

some sick sense of pride fills art from head to toe as your body trembles in an attempt to catch your breath, your hair disheveled and lips puffy, patches of skin blooming pink and red from art essentially making out with every inch of your body. and you blush when you catch him staring, covering your face and murmuring for him to come back to bed.

he did this to you. he made you such a picturesque image of ruined perfection, splayed out on his bed and stained with his cum, pleading for his embrace.

patrick would have to pry you from his cold, dead hands.

[artstennisracket]

Fire and Ice read Thirst Tweets! ib: all the thirst tweet videos buzzfeed makes art donaldson x patrick zweig x tashi duncan :)

big shoutout to the lovely @diyasgarden for editing the thumbnail and making my idea come to life <3

cw: nsfw (18+), no smut but suggestive content

The bright lights of the studio were something Art had become accustomed to over the years. Many interviews and photoshoots later. But for Patrick this was all new. He wasn’t sure why so many people had gained interest in him after the challenger, but he wasn’t complaining about it. Now that Tashi was coaching him, and he and Art were playing doubles again, it definitely added to that garnered interest.

Today they’d be doing an interview together but it was completely unlike anything Art has ever done before.

“Hello! I’m Art Donaldson”

“And I’m Patrick Zweig”

“And we’re here with Buzzfeed to read your thirst tweets” Art finished.

When the Donaldson’s publicist had presented this opportunity originally, Art was confused . Who would be thirsting over two 30 something tennis players? To which Patrick responded, “We’re hot Art. Let’s just give the people what they want.” Tashi okayed it as long as they were on their best behavior, and with the stipulation that she gets to go over the final edit. Throuple rumors were at an all time high and while they weren’t necessarily incorrect, Tashi needed these rumors to die.

“I’m actually excited for this,” Patrick says leaning forward in his chair. Shuffling the cards with twitter screenshots in his hand.

Art shrugs, looking at the stack of cards in his hand, “I’m nervous? Why am I nervous?”

A producer off screen calls out, “Which one’s fire and which one’s ice?”

Art starts, “I-“

Only for Patrick to cut him off, “What do you think?” He smirks.

Cut.

Patrick reads his first card.

“@tennisluv3r says I need to climb Patrick Zweig like a tree. That was a pretty tame one, I don’t think that’s the first time I’ve heard that one,” he chuckles.

Art reads his first card.

“ @gaeulchild says Thinking about Art Donaldson backshots once again. Oh that picked up very quickly. I can’t tell if that means they want me to do that to them or they want to do that to me?”

“Probably both,” Patrick chimes in.

Cut.

“ @itoldyatshirt says Patrick Zweig is the kind of guy who would eat your food and your ass. That is bold accusation.” Patrick says, not being able to help the smile spreading across his face.

“But they’re right,” Arts adds nodding. Only for Patrick to start cracking up. That’s when Art realizes how that sounded, “About the food part!!!! About the food not the, yeah you get it.” Art sighs, faint blush dusting his cheeks. They were right about both parts.

Cut.

“@atpalltheway530 says Art is soooo fine, i need him BAD. Thank you but I think need is a strong word. There are so many other things you actually need like food and water.”

Patrick shoots Art an amused look, “Don’t invalidate their feelings man. Not cool.”

Art scoffs, “Whatever man.”

“@artstennisracket says I want my man to look at me the way Patrick looks at Art’s ass when they’re playing doubles,” Patrick laughs because it’s not not wrong. But he was under specific instructions from Tashi to not add fuel to the throuple rumours that were circulating. “That was a good one, I’ll give you that.” What else was he supposed to say?

Art shakes his head playfully, “So that’s what you’re doing back there? Instead returning serves like you’re supposed to?”

Patrick shrugs, “I’m only human.” He’ll deal with Tashi’s disappointment later, he was having fun.

Cut.

Art’s face contorts when he looks at the card, “Oh I can’t read this.”

Patrick shoves him playfully, “You have to, that's the challenge.”

Art looks over at Patrick, “There’s no challenge we’re just reading—“

“Just read it.”

Art sighs asking off camera, “Are we allowed to curse?” He gets a thumbs up from the producer who says, “We’ll bleep it out later.”

He takes in a breath, “@atptruther says I want Art Donaldson to fuck me with a tennis racket until I cum all over it and then he makes me clean it up… I don’t even know what to say to that.” He looks down at his hand, mimicking his grip on a tennis racket to remember the width, “I feel like that’s not even anatomically possible.”

Patrick wants to say That makes two of us, but that would mean certain death from Tashi. So he opts for the safer option, “Anything’s possible if you believe.”

Cut.

“@tacobacoyeet says Need to lick the sweat off Patrick’s abs post match, can I be his designated sweat licker? Is that a thing? While I am extremely flattered I don’t think that’s a thing,” He chuckles before signing to the camera and mouthing Call me.

Art laughs as he can’t even begin to comprehend the logistics behind any of these tweets but the next one is so astronomically long he has to ask, “You want me to read this whole thing?”

The producer replies, “As much as you want but reading most of it would be appreciated.”

He clears his throat before he starts,” @sceletaflores says no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor, to the toilet seat, from the dining room table, to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink, to the shower, from the front porch, to the balcony, vertically horizontally, quadratic, exponent, algorithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, forward, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall— Okay I think I’m done. I have no response I don’t even know what half those math words mean.”

Patrick grabs the card from Art to read the rest, “Wow they were not playing around. I’m sorry I can’t stop laughing. So much effort went into this Art you should be appreciative to,” He glances at the card again, “Sceletaflores. C’mon tell them.” He says gesturing to the camera.

Art sighs side eyeing Patrick before he looks back to the camera to say, “Thank you @sceletaflores. I appreciate the effort you put into typing that out.”

Cut.

“@Anon5376 says All three of my holes are for the use of Patrick Zweig and Patrick Zweig only. I would let him use me everyday of the week and twice on days that end in Y. He definitely seems like the kinda guy who presses on your lower stomach while hes in you just to feel how deep he is ,” He hangs his head for a second to hide how much he’s smiling. It’s just funny because well, it’s true he does do that.

The faint blush on Art’s cheeks isn’t helping but it’s not Art’s fault. The sex flashbacks are running through his brain now. So Art laughs and hopes people assume that’s why his face is flushing. From all the laughter.

Patrick looks up at the camera forcing himself not to look at Art, “Wow I love the enthusiasm in that one.”

“People really tweet these? Like on the internet? For anyone to see?,” Art says.

Cut.

The producer starts, “Since everyone knows you two dormed together for 6 years at boarding school, we have a few tweets relating to the both of you so you guys can alternate reading them.”

Art and Patrick have a new stack of cards in their hands. So Patrick goes first, “ @artdonaldsonbabygirl says someone needs to invent time travel so I can give Art head while Patrick fucks me in their dorm room asap. I swear some of you guys are psychic. How’d you know?” Patrick laughs.

Art smacks Patrick’s shoulder with the cards he has, “Stop. We never did anything like that ever,” He turns to look at the camera, “He’s joking.”

Patrick nods smirking but holding up his hands in defense, “I’m joking, I’m joking.”

Cut.

Art goes next, “ @artdonaldsonbabygirl, wow two for one, says best believe if I went to that academy I'd have left a teen mum and wouldn't know which was the baby daddy. Okay well,” Art laughs this time. “Okay this was funny, but everyone should be practicing safe sex. And regardless we had no time for shenanigans at the academy. It was just school and tennis.”

“Who even calls sex shenanigans? What are you 80 years old?” Patrick snickers before he continues, “Yeah maybe you didn’t have enough time Mr. Goodie Two shoes, but I had more than enough time,” Patrick winks at the camera.

“And that’s why your grades were the way they were.” Art jokes.

Cut.

“Okay gotta save the best one for last,” Patrick says holding up the last tweet. This one had a picture attached to it.

“Oh my gosh, how did you guys even get this picture?” Patrick bursts out laughing, “I completely forgot about this specific moment. Even though, this was one of the best days of my life.”

Confusion leaves Art’s face as Patrick turns the card so Art can also see the picture. “Wait yeah how did you guys find this? I don’t remember anyone taking a picture,” Art asks chuckling.

“@compress1repress says Why were you doing missionary on the court in 2006? Well as you can see we’re just not big on doggy.”

If Art had water in his mouth, he would’ve spit it out, “Patrick!”

Patrick is itching to make a comment about how they actually did both this morning, missionary with Art and doggy with Tashi, but he refrains.

Cut.

“Thank you so much for having us Buzzfeed. This was really fun. You guys are so incredibly creative, we love it. Right Ice?”

“No this was actually very fun, I’m glad we agreed to do it. And you guys are amazing. We love you all. And I’m not calling you fire.”

Cut.

taglist: @artdonaldsonbabygirl @tacobacoyeet @newrochellechallenger2019 @antxnxlla

[ghostgirl-22]

artrick phone sex

I gotchu, my love <3

CW: 18+ !NSFW! First time dynamics, angst, Art has avoidance issues like me.

Apologies this may be too long and full of my own personal angst I fear.

—-

“Art?” It’s Patrick.

Art feels his stomach sinking and now he wishes he’d avoided his call, again. He rolls over on his bed and looks at the sparsely decorated wall of his dorm room. It’s his first time talking to Patrick since… since…

He shivers and tries to put it out of his mind.

“Hey,” Art says and clears his throat. “What’s up?”

Patrick chuckles.

Art shivers again. Did his voice always sound that way? Or is Art just crazy still? He’s been really crazy lately. It’s been two weeks and he’s still…

“Really? What’s up?” Patrick mimics. “That’s all you have to say?”

Art shrugs for the benefit of no one but himself. “What—um— what’s wrong with that?”

“Oh I don’t know…” Patrick hums and then he sighs. “Okay fuck it. I’ll go with it. Are you okay?”

Art is still anxious, his stomach still uneasy. It’s just Patrick. His oldest and closest and best friend and yet he can’t relax. He can’t settle down and they're just talking on the phone. He can’t imagine seeing him in person when he inevitably shows up to Stanford again to watch Tashi play. Everything is different now.

“I’m fine, Patrick.” He lies.

“But you don’t want to talk to me?” Patrick sounds weird. Worried? A little. Disappointed? Probably. Sad? Definitely.

Art sighs, he doesn’t want Patrick to be sad. “No I— I’ve just been busy. We had finals last week. And um…. practice has been crazy. I’m um… I started seeing this girl and—” he hears Patrick huff a laugh but barrels through, ignoring it. “Sorry I missed your calls.”

“And texts,” Patrick adds.

“I’m sorry,” Art says again.

They’re quiet for a while. Art turns back to look at the tv. He was watching Sports Center, they were talking about gymnastics. Apparently there had just been some kind of qualifier competition.

“Who’s this new girl your seeing?” Patrick asks. This time Art can’t tell what his tone is.

“Uh well she’s nice, pretty. She’s actually not on the team. She’s an English major.”

“Sounds hot,” Patrick says, flatly.

“Yeah, she’s um— she’s nice,” Art says. “Are you—are you high?”

“A little. I won’t lie. Me and the buddy I was telling you about we smoked a couple and then went and got tacos and Margaritas. So fucking good. Who knew Dallas was a food town?”

Art laughs. He begins to relax, this feels more like best friend stuff. Maybe he was overreacting. Avoiding him for two weeks. But of course that wasn’t the only reason Art was avoiding him. “What happened to your match?”

“Uh well— I lost again. This shit is so fucking rigged.” Patrick complains.

“Dude that fucking sucks,” Art says. He sits up on his bed and looks around for his own weed stash.

“Yeah, it’s fine though. I’m going against this guy tomorrow, stats are all over the place but I think I can take him.”

“Whats his name?”

“Moussa or Mousso… I can’t remember but he’s French. Kinda hot, actually.”

Art feels his stomach flip flop again. “Uh… so what about Tashi?”

“She’s good, she actually answers my calls. I mean not tonight but she told me her cousin would be in town so…”

”Do you want me to beg for forgiveness or something?” Art says, smirking.

Patrick takes a breath and doesn’t say anything while Art is rummaging through the bottom drawer of his night stand. He finds the baggy he was looking for and sits up on the bed, legs crossed as he opens it.

“I’m sorry but I was honestly busy.” Art adds when Patrick still hasn’t said anything.

“Are we ever gonna talk about it?” Patrick asks.

Art stops moving. His stomach begins doing all kinds of things again.

“Look I don’t want to… I don’t want it to be weird,” Patrick continues. “I can do whatever you need. If you want me to pretend I didn’t fuck you… okay fine. But you have to talk to me because I’m going fucking crazy.”

Art stares at the television but he’s not seeing anything. He gives up on the weed and tosses it on the nightstand. “Yeah um… okay.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Art mutters. “I’m— we can talk.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No,” Art says. “I—“ he lays back down on his side and looks at the wall, pulling his knees up. He wishes with everything in him that they hadn’t done it in here. In his fucking bed.

He’s got it on a loop playing in his head all the time. Patrick crawling between his legs. The way he looked, hair still damp from the shower, freckles all over, pupils too big, blue eyes all sparkly. How he smelled, like vanilla soap and cigarettes. What he sounded like, voice so much deeper and softer than normal, saying stupid things like “You’re so fucking pretty”, “Gonna make you scream my name,” and then moaning when he got it in.

And how it felt.

God.

How it felt.

That’s the part that stays with him. How much it hurt. And then how much it didn’t hurt at all. By the end Patrick was touching something inside him and he was seeing stars. In between consciousness and some other plane of existence is how good it felt. That was the silly part. Feeling like he wanted it again and again and again.

He let Patrick do it again in the morning. Patrick’s arms wrapped around his waist fucking him on his side while he stared at this wall his whole body blooming with pleasure. And then just sitting with it for the rest of the day. The ache. The stretch. The feeling like everyone could tell. Patrick left that afternoon for the airport, sent Art a text. Well that was fun. Which he ignored. Called him that evening. Also ignored.

Art had been trying to avoid thinking about it ever since (it was impossible). He’s thrown himself into school, tennis, he’s even tried to talk to a new girl. It didn’t go anywhere. In his worst moments he’s even tried to flirt with Tashi. But then he remembers she’s fucking Patrick and his mind swings right back around to the way Patrick fucked him. And that makes him more crazy because now he doesn’t know what the fuck he actually wants.

And every fucking night, late at night he’s lying in bed staring at the wall touching himself over and over… thinking about it.

He doesn’t know how to say any of this to Patrick.

“Did you die?” Patrick asks, dryly. Even now since they’ve been on the phone, just hearing Patricks stupid voice is making Art’s stomach hurt, and his cock fill up.

“No… I’m just confused okay,” Art says.

“About what?”

“I don’t know.”

”Did you hate it?” Patrick asks.

“Not really,” Art murmurs.

“You’re so fucking full of shit,” Patrick groans.

Art sighs and realizes he just mindlessly put his palm on his cock because of how gravelly Patrick’s voice sounds. And fine. Patrick can make him crazy all the way in whatever fucking city hes in however many fucking miles he is away from Palo Alto.

“I’m sorry if I don’t know how to feel. I’ve never… I’d never done any of that before.” Art says quietly.

“And yet you practically begged for it in the morning.” Patrick says softly.

Art swallows thickly.

“I can’t get it out of my head.” Patrick continues. “The way you were rubbing against my dick before you even woke up properly. Fuck. I can’t get you out of my head.”

Art’s rubbing himself now. “I can’t either,” he sighs, he’s starting to lose it again. He feels silly. Too silly to care if Patrick can tell.

“Yeah?” Patrick sounds eager, breathy.

“It was… I still… I still feel it. Is that crazy?” Art says quietly.

Patrick takes a deep breath. “Fuck. You drive me so fucking insane. Are you fucking touching yourself?”

“’m sorry. I just…” Art says, closing his eyes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Art knows he’s never gonna recover from this but right now it doesn’t matter. He would stop if he could but he can’t.

”You still feel me?”

“Mmhm.”

“Feel me stretching you? you’re so fucking tight I don’t even know if it’s all gonna fit,” Patrick says, his voice sounds like it did. When Arts eyes are closed it’s almost like he can feel Patrick’s breath on his skin.

“Ah—“ Art gasps, grabbing himself properly. “I like the stretch.”

“You love it.” Patrick says. “You don’t even want to wait. Don’t want me to take my time, you’re just so eager you’re pushing that pretty ass back on me.”

“Yeah,” Art gasps, he rolls onto his back and puts the phone on speaker, letting one leg fall open as he jerks himself. “It feels so good—when you fuck me. Its too much. Im too full please… please I don’t think I can take anymore.”

“Oh you fucking liar,” Patrick moans. “You can take it baby. I know you can. You’re a little cock slut already and its only your first time. Fuck. You’re so tight.”

”So tight,” Art says mindlessly as he tries to ease two fingers along his ass, the way Patrick had done before he entered. “I wanna… I want you to… I—I miss you.”

”I miss you too,” Patrick says. “If I was there I’d have you on all fours taking my dick all night.”

“Ah—mmh— Patrick I’m gonna�� you’re gonna make me—“ Art cries. The fingers are enough… even dry.

“Come on, yeah… fucking come on my big fat dick sweetheart… come on.. nngh…” Patrick moans.

It’s enough. Hot strings of pearly white are suddenly spurting out of him and spilling everywhere, on his fingers and clothes. On the bedspread. He’s breathless, as his whole body goes lax.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck… I need to be in you again, gahhh..” Art can hear Patrick’s bed squeaking wherever he is and then he’s groaning loudly, and gasping through his own orgasm. “Oh god, oh shit… that was…”

“Yeah,” Art says breathlessly, looking up at the ceiling.

”Mm don’t fucking ignore me again,” Patrick says.

As relaxed as Art feels right now. Distantly, the pit in his stomach is returning. “Patrick… are we… I mean… are we still gonna be… friends?”

“Yeah of course,” Patrick says, easy. He yawns. “Always.”

Art feels tied up in knots but he can tell Patrick’s relaxed, sated, relieved even. If anything he’s going to be asleep in five minutes. No point getting any deeper now.

“You wanna fall asleep on the phone or—?” Patrick asks, yawning again.

“No it’s… it’s fine.” Art says. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Mmkay. Sweet dreams.”

Art bites his tongue to keep himself from saying something fucking stupid that he can’t take back. The line goes dead. Art stares at the ceiling for a minute, the three words he can’t say platonically to his best friend who he’s now fucking, are flitting about in his head. And Patrick wonders why he’s confused. He grabs his second pillow and pulls it over his face. He’s so fucked.

[parkerluvsu]

day 9: kink discovery/negotiation <3

despite what you might think, art is quite open to experimentation. the hushed whispers by patrick who would walk in on art during college are enough to tell you that. you're surprised at first, hearing about how patrick gifted art a fleshlight as a joke for his birthday one year and art couldnt be left alone or else he'd cum himself stupid. more embarrassing (to art) was when patrick walked in on him spreading himself open, bending his legs and thrusting his fingers inside himself, too fucked out to realize patrick was standing there.

once in a relationship with you however, he tones it down, afraid of scaring you away like he has done with other partners before. after hearing from patrick about arts sexual escapades, you start looking online for something to surprise him with, settling on a strap-on that had the best reviews. now you just have to play the waiting game, and hope that art doesn't check your expenses and find out what you bought for him.

you're intensely thankful when you get the notification that your package was delivered while you're on your way home, hoping that art hasn't seen it been delivered, but you're pretty sure he's at the gym. you get home and grab your keys, before you notice that the package isn't outside your door. the first thought is that someone stole it, but then a sinking feeling in your stomach accompanies the thought that art might have seen it and brought it in.

opening the door, you see art looking at the package, smiling at you shyly as he sees you. "oh you.. you picked up my package" you say, trying not to be suspicious as you set down your bag and take off your shoes. "yeah i did.. i thought you'd appreciate it but.." art looks down, then glances at you again. "um.. do you mind if i ask what it is?" he asks quietly, turning the package towards you so that you can see the label. it boldly reads, "toys for his pleasure" and you almost have the urge to laugh, thinking back to the promised "discreet packaging" advertised on the website.

"well um.." you blush, tapping your fingers on the table in front of you. "maybe it would just be better if you opened it." you suggest, looking at him for support. art is almost more embarrassed than you, but he nods, opening the box easily and removing the wrapping paper around the strap-on, his eyes widening when he sees it. "you.. bought this for.. me? for.. us?" art is clearly having a hard time understanding how you figured out that he was waiting to ask you to fuck him.. but maybe you just know him so well. whatever the reason may be, art is happy about it.

"well yeah.. i mean i was wondering if you were even interested in that stuff but i guess i should've asked you about it before i bought it.." you admit, anxiously looking at him. "i- would you be interested..?" you ask, resisting the urge to cross your fingers for luck. art smiles sweetly at you, like he always does, and nods. "yeah of course i would.. i mean not of course but.. you know what i mean.." he stumbles over his words already having to shift the way he's standing to accommodate the growth in his pants. "can we try it now?" <3

[yesimwriting]

a/n challengers changed me, so have this drabble <3

----

the soft sound of rubber soles making their way across the court startles you more than it should. it's bad enough that you're running so late you had to change in the library bathroom and that you're still putting on your tennis shoes. you don't need anything else making you seem un-together.

"you know..." patrick's closer than you thought he'd be, his racket dangling by his side, just barely scraping the ground you're sitting on. you let your fingers rest between your ankle and the back of your shoe as you look up at him. "you took so long we started to think you were standing us up."

the sentence feels lighthearted, but that doesn't keep unease from prodding at you. your friendship with patrick and art is still new enough that the wrongness of being late feels sharper.

"oh, no," you shake your head slightly in an attempt to emphasize your point. you straighten an arm to rest it on your bent knee. "no, i--the lunch with my sponsors ran long, and i had to change and--" patrick lets you ramble as he bends a knee, slowly moving to sit across from you. he sets down his racket with all the patience in the world, watching you with a lightness behind his eyes that radiates good humor. "and you were joking."

he leans back on one arm before lifting a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. "a little, but that sponsorship thing..." patrick angles his head to one side in what feels like mock contemplation. "that sounds important, we should consider ourselves lucky that we made it onto your schedule."

his tone leaves your face feeling a little warmer. you let your attention fall back to your shoe. "no, not like that at all."

"well, i feel lucky," he says, "art, do you feel lucky?"

you turn your neck to look back at art. he's closer than you remember, the toe of his shoe so close to your leg that you'd only have to stretch a little to reach him. he lets out soft sigh before sitting next to patrick. "extremely."

the word borders on flat, a pinch of something you can't quite interpret bleeding into the syllables. his attention shifts away from you and towards patrick. maybe you weren't meant to fully understand. after all, they're life long best friends. and while normally encroaching on that kind of dynamic makes you feel like an intruder, with them, everything's always been comfortable.

"don't." you refocus on your shoes, pulling the laces taut between your fingers. "i'm the lucky one, you guys are great."

"and you're amazing." art breathes out the compliment in a way that feels concrete. real. the words don't feel like a necessary step in a polite exchange, they feel genuine. it's the kind of unabashed praise that's hard not to fluster at. "seriously--your backhand, i've never seen anything like it."

you let yourself smile, ignoring the warmth crawling up your chest. "thanks."

before you can dwell on the exchange, patrick leans forward. his fingers carefully bend around your ankle. patrick watches you expectantly as he extends a leg. you release your laces, letting him lift your foot onto his lower thigh.

"patrick."

"what?" patrick's gaze briefly flickers towards art as he crosses your shoe laces. "i'm helping out our girl." he tugs on your laces, neatly looping them. "ignore him, he's jealous."

you squint at him curiously, feeling like you're missing out on some kind of joke. "really? you think he wants to tie my other shoe?"

"i think," patrick secures a snug knot into place, "he wants to do whatever you want him to."

patrick settles a hand over your ankle. you let out a sound that's more a puff of air than a true laugh. "shut up." you lift your foot in a pretend kick. patrick makes a show of releasing your leg, holding up his hand as if to convey innocence. you pull your leg back. "don't make him sound so lame."

"yeah," art echoes, leaning towards patrick, "don't make me sound so lame."

patrick grins as he shoves art's shoulder. he pushes himself to stand with no warning. "c'mon, let's play."

you reach over for your other shoe before bending your leg. it takes no time for you to pull on but before you can adjust the laces, art's by your side. he pulls on your laces until your shoe feels secure. "too tight?"

with the way he's studying you, it takes you a moment too long to react. you shake your head once. "n-no, that's good."

he angles his head downwards, attention returning to your laces. "good."

art smiles as he squeezes your upper calf in an almost startling display of affection. he pushes himself to stand before offering you his hand.

——

lmk if you liked this, i have so many thoughts about them

[artdcnaldson]

PATRICK buying ART TOYS!!!! buying him a VIBRATING COCK RING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MAKES him let him WATCH!!!!!!!! HE BOUGHT IT AFTER ALL……. ITS ONLY POLITE………….. sigh

-🩰

ok... yeah... sorry for the delay pookie wookie i hope you forgive me <3

But yeah <3 Patrick loves buying Art toys after he buys him the fleshlight <3 Loves thinking about how he contributes to Art's corruption with each little black bag he drops onto his bed.

But it's a joke! Of course it's a joke. It's a joke to watch Art splutter nervously and whine and beg Patrick to quit messing around when he pulls out whatever it is this week. It doesn't feel like a joke when Art pulls out a stroker toy or a bullet vibe and holds it in his big, lithe hands and Patrick feels his cock twitch just at the sight. Sometimes it really is a joke. A blow up doll, a ball gag (okay, that one was half a joke).

He gets back to their dorm first, almost twitching with anticipation as he waits for Art to get back and open up the bag Patrick left on his bed. It's after a late night at the gym (in which Patrick did not partake), so when Art gets back he's a little damp from his shower, flushed with exhaustion. And that blush only deepens when he sees the bag.

"How do you have the money to buy all this shit?" Art grumbles as he approaches the bed. "I could call your mom and get your card cancelled if she even knew the half of w—"

He goes quiet when he pulls out the package— thick plastic encasing a device he doesn't even know where to start with. He swallows, squints at it, tries to ignore the way his cock kicks with interest. "What is it?"

Patrick's mouth feels dry. "It's a, uh, it's a cock ring," he stammers, uncharacteristically affected by Art's obvious innocence.

"I thought they'd be different," Art says. But he's still holding it, Patrick notes. He hasn't dropped it and tried to pretend he wasn't interested. That was Art's way of doing things— pretend he wasn't into it until he was alone and could be a little degenerate in private. "Looks confusing."

"It's not," Patrick says. "I could show you."

He expects Art to scoff, to call him some name, to flip him off and change the subject. But he watches the bob of Art's adam's apple, meets his gaze. "Only if it isn't weird."

It's weird. They both know it's weird. Art's cock is nearly at half-mast, but Patrick still manages to fit the silicon ring around him, all the way down to his base.

Art whines, chest heaving, eyes lust-blown. "That's— ngh— tight. It's tight."

"It's s'posed to be," Patrick says, peering up at him from between his thighs. He adjusts it, so the attached vibrator rests at his perinium, a place Art hardly even thinks about, and now there's a firm pressure that makes heat build in his tummy, and Patrick presses a button and--

"Agh!—" He nearly doubles over when it starts vibrating, the muscles in his thighs trembling as the sensations overwhelm him. "Oh, oh fuck, Pat— ngh— Oh my god, that's— fuckfuckfuck— I can't— can't—"

Any other time, he would've blown his load early— cum buckets all over his lap and tummy. Instead, the snug ring at his base keeps him hard, and aching, and wanting. Right on the edge of release. His hips buck and his cock bobs, flushed an angry, needy red.

Patrick grins as Art clumsily pumps lotion into his hand and begins stroking his cock with fast, desperate movements. He's never seen Art this turned on... for this long. He's so used to seeing Art needy and cumming hard and fast.

This is new, it's delicious. "You're lasting pretty long, Art," Patrick teases, like he isn't rock hard in his sweats. "You should wear this more often."

"Shut— ngh— up—" Art whines, bucking into his fist. "Feels so— god— so good, it's— god, you've gotta try it—"

And Patrick will. God, he will. But he wants to watch Art use it a dozen more times before that happens.

It isn't long before Art can't hold back anymore. When he cries out with the most guttural, desperate moan Patrick's ever heard from him as he shoots ropes onto his shirt. He squirms and nearly cries with overstimulation until Patrick turns off the vibrator.

He's panting, breathing hard like he's just run a marathon. Red faced and laughing wryly. "You're evil. Stop buying me shit."

Patrick just grins back. He's not going to stop. He's going to ruin Art Donaldson for everyone else.

[starlinggirll]

plssss do frat!art who can’t keep his hands to himself? reader doesn’t mind even at parties :3

he was drunk out of his mind.

the day before summer break, ofcourse they (his fraternity) would throw a party. ofcourse he would get drunk.

and when he's drunk...he's the most clingiest man you ever seen. "stayyy." he slurrs, his big hands gripping your hips as you attempt to stand up. "im getting you water." you say firmly, or atleast try to.

you cant keep the firm facade when he nuzzles his cheek against your breasts like a baby. "but.." he whines, not finishing his sentence. you sigh, ultimately giving up. you like his touches, they're never too rough, even if his drunk.

and he doesn't care about being subtle either, his hand gripping your ass cheek while the other is cupping your boob. you're just so squishy, soft. its something he does when he's sober too, but with much more subtlety.

but his drunk self throws all of his decency away, groping and squeezing you everywhere he can.

"how about going to your room, hm?" you mumble into his ear, scratching his scalp, which you know he loves. you can tell he's starting to doze off anyway. and you scratching his scalp calms him down like a dog getting his ear scratched.

he nods and lets you go before he stands up and pulls you with him. and he leans his whole weight on you. completely unaware of how he almost made mu stumble back. "bed." he groans, burrowing his face into your neck. "art dont-" "i can help." patrick calls out from behind, whatever gives him an excuse to get away from a rather clingy drunk girl he doesn't know.

he takes art off you, not without a whine from art's behalf. "thank you." you sigh, walking infront of them into art's room in the frat house. patrick releases art on the bed, making the bed creak with the way art sprawls out in the bed. he gives you a small nod before walking out, leaving you alone with art.

"babyyy..." he slurrs, reaching for you. and you let him, you enjoy the attention he gives you when he's drunk or sober. you peck his lips, smiling at his glossed eyes. "shh..." you whisper soothingly. anything to get him to sleep.

and ofcourse, his body cant fight your magic. he's out in seconds, his head tucked under your chin while his hand rests on your ass. you rest your head against his fluffy blonde curls, your own eyes fluttering slowly. "i love you.." he whispers in his sleep, and your heart flutters.

"yeah yeah...i love you too."

[ladykailitha]

Share with Me One Love, One Lifetime Part 4

Yay!! We are about half way there. Because yes, this story will end at eight chapters and I'm so happy to see it end. It's been a long hard road for this series and I'm grateful for all the friends I made since starting out on this journey.

But I'm not the same person who started writing a story to fill a void in the fandom to someone who has written almost a million words in the Stranger Things fandom.

So thank you!

In this chapter we have all the fun Lovers' Lake stuff and a little breakdown from Steve as a treat.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

~

“That’s bullshit and you know it, Cal,” Wayne snapped. “There was no way in hell that Eddie levitated Patrick ten feet in the air, snapped his bones and then did nothing to other two? If my boy could do magic, there are more than a few people in this town who would be dead by now and not three kids he didn’t have any connection to.”

“Wayne...” Powell huffed, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Think of what is at stake here! All those young lives snuffed out. Someone has to be punished for it.”

“And you’re not railroading Eddie to do it,” Wayne said gruffly. “Just because he’s a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks doesn’t make him responsible for their deaths!”

“And you’re saying that Victor Creel is?” Powell said slamming his hands on the table. “Do you know how crazy that sounds?”

“It’s either him or his dead kid,” he said. “Which one do you think is crazier?”

Powell let out a long sigh. “Let’s say we entertained a connection between the two cases. Then it is way more likely to be a copy cat then Victor or Henry Creel.”

“If you’re saying Eddie is practicing evil magic based on a table top game,” he said with a sneer, sitting back in his chair, “then you’ll have to arrest Jacob Matthews, Kenny Martin, and Lonnie Byers because they all played Tactics growing up.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Powell said crossly, “as this Dungeons and Dragons the kids are playing now days.”

“One is playing with armies in fictional battles,” Wayne said, “and the other is playing a small band of heroes to battle evil in fictional setting. I really don’t see the difference. Jake liked being Germany, and I’d say that if far more egregious then playing a thief or rogue whatever they call it.”

Powell licked his lips slowly. “I’m not going to convince you to help us bring Eddie in am I?”

“No,” Wayne said, raising to his feet. “And you try to pin this on him, then you’re more than a coward then I thought you were. There is something evil and rotten in this town, no doubt about it. Hop knew and it’s time you got on board while you can still protect this town.”

Then he strolled out the door.

~

“I concur,” Eddie said leaping from the top of Skull Rock, deftly in front of everyone, “Dustin Henderson, that you are a total butthead!”

“Eddie!” Dustin cried and ran over to hug him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said as he gave hugs to Steve and Wayne, too. “This old man has taught more than a thing or two on how to survive in the wild. I was able to swim back to the house and change my clothes and grab my bag.”

Wayne nodded. “Damn right I did,” he groused. “It’s a good thing too, because when I saw you pinwheel head first into the water, I thought I’d lost ya for good.” He hugged Eddie, too.

Steve hung back, breathing heavily, trying to look everywhere but where Eddie was receiving the worried assurances from Dustin and Wayne.

Eddie leaned his head down to get a better look at his boyfriend. “Hey, Stevie...I’m okay. See?” He held out his arms and turned around, showing that he wasn’t hurt in any way. “I’m okay, baby.”

Suddenly he had an armful of Steve Harrington. A sobbing Steve Harrington, who gripped the back of his jacket in a white knuckle grip.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie murmured gently. “I’m okay.”

“I should have moved you to my place,” Steve whispered harshly. “You would have been safe. You would have been safe!”

Eddie rubbed Steve’s back and made soothing noises. “You don’t know that for sure. But I’m safe now. Okay? Why don’t you guys tell me everything you learned at the Creel House?”

Steve nodded and moved to take a step back, but Eddie held on tight. “I didn’t say you had to let go, Stevie.”

Steve slumped against his boyfriend and they both settled against the base of Skull Rock.

“You say all the light bulbs in your flashlights exploded?” Eddie muttered darkly. “Do you know when that was?”

Nancy and Robin looked at each other. “There was a huge grandfather clock that was somehow still working, so yeah we’ve got a pretty good idea when it was,” Nancy said.

Eddie worked his watch off his wrist and tossed it at her. “That stopped when I hit the water, shortly after Patrick died.”

Nancy looked down at the watch again and her eyes widened.

“It’s the same time, isn’t it?” Dustin asked. “The surge of power we felt in the house was the same power that killed Patrick.”

“Wait, wait hold up!” Lucas said waving his hands. “Dustin’s compass wasn’t wrong. It was acting up.”

Dustin stared over at him in shock. “Oh. Fuck.” He turned back to Eddie and Wayne. “The only reason compasses act up like that is in the presence of a Gate to the Upside Down.”

“You have got to be shittin’ me,” Wayne growled. “You think there is one of these holes in the universe nearby?”

Lucas nodded. Wayne threw his arms in the air and proceeded to let loose a slew of curse words that left Dustin mildly impressed.

“Well what are we standing around gawking for?” he growled and whirled Dustin the direction the compass had tried to direct them on their way here.

Steve and Eddie leapt to their feet and quickly gathered all of Eddie’s stuff, to follow close behind. They took each other’s hands and held on as they marched deeper and deeper into the woods.

~

“Dustin, Dustin!” Eddie shouted as Dustin rushed ahead from the group.

He barely made it in time to pull him back from face plant into the lake. “Shit, dude! Not every edge of the water has a shore line. Jesus Christ!”

“Whoa!” Dustin said. He pointed out to the water. “It’s got to be out there in the lake.”

“Shit that’s where Patrick was killed,” Eddie whispered back. “Look around for the boat, it should be around here somewhere.”

They finally found it and dragged it up to the shore. Dustin stepped up to the boat but Wayne put his hand on his chest.

“No kids,” he growled. “I should say no one under eighteen, but I have feeling the ladies are just goin’ to ignore me if I try to stop them from going.”

Robin and Nancy shared a glance and then they both shrugged. He wasn’t wrong.

“Someone should stay here and watch the littles,” Wayne continued. “I volunteer. Just don’t do anything stupid, yeah?”

Eddie grinned at him. “I can’t promise nothing. Especially with this lot.”

Wayne huffed out a chuckle and then waved them off. “Dustin, give Nancy the compass so that can find this hellgate.”

Dustin very unwillingly and loudly complaining handed over the compass.

The four teenagers got into the boat and Eddie looked back at the shore as the Party shrank the further they got from them. He had this uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that it would be some time before he saw them again.

~

Steve started untying his shoelaces and working off his socks.

“What are you doing?” Nancy asked, raising an eyebrow. “I was going to go. I’m a strong swimmer.”

Steve looked up from where he was shoving his socks into his sneakers. “Well unless you can beat co-captain of the swim team and a lifeguard for three years straight, it’s going to be me.”

Eddie let out a sigh. “He’s the best swimmer here, hands down. Plus, if something comes out of the Gate, he’ll be better able to fight it off.” Nancy rolled her eyes. “Because unless you have some magic power I haven’t been told about, Steve’s our heavy hitter.”

Nancy threw her arms in the air and turned away as Steve pulled off his sweater and tossed it to Eddie with a smile and a wink. Eddie pulled out a cigarette after that view, because, damn. His boyfriend was hot. But before he could even pull out his lighter, Robin snatched it from his lips.

“Gross!” Robin hissed dramatically, throwing the cigarette into the water.

Eddie wrapped the flashlight in the plastic bag and then handed it to Steve.

“Thanks,” Steve said with a smile, taking the flashlight from him.

“Good luck, babe,” Eddie murmured.

Steve nodded and dove right into the water. He felt that rush that he always did when hit the water. It silenced the roar of his thoughts and narrowed his focus. He was more at home here then on land. With Eddie’s flashlight in hand he moved toward the glowing light.

He got as close as he dared to that thing. It was red and pulsating. Angry. Angry in a way that only the Upside Down could be. He swam backwards to try to get distance from it, but his foot must have brushed something as he swam to the surface, because as he was in the middle of explaining to the others that it was definitely a gate, something grabbed grabbed a hold of his ankle and dragged him back down.

He struggled and fought but it was no use, whatever had a hold on him was not going to let go. With that strange swoop that occurred when you moved from one dimension to the next, suddenly he was in the Upside Down. All alone. Barefoot and shirtless in a world designed to kill you as fast as possible. Yeah he was fucked.

~

Suddenly Steve was fighting for his life, but he wasn’t alone. Somehow all three of them had dived right in after him and were attacking the monsters with boat oars. Eddie was swinging his oar around with deadly accuracy. Even breaking the oar in two on the second to the last bat.

God, Eddie was hot when he was angry.

Wait.

He needed to focus so he didn’t die. He bit the tail of the demobat that had wrapped its tail around his neck, causing the beast to let go fast. But Steve was faster. He grabbed the tail and began bashing in whatever the thing had for brains and then stomped on it, ripping it in two.

He panted, spitting out the brackish goo that made up their blood, trying to get out as much as he could. It tasted vile. Even more so than his own. He looked up at the blood red sky dancing with lightning and his eyes fluttered closed.

“Eddie meet the Upside Down,” he breathed, “Upside Down has already met Eddie.”

Eddie huffed out a laugh and then was suddenly giggling. Then they all were.

“I knew I shouldn’t have introduced you to Jeff’s humor,” Eddie said once he could breath again.

“Let’s get under cover,” Nancy said with a sneer. “Because I really don’t think we’re going to like what happens if more of them show up.”

Steve pointed to the ‘shore’ line where the trees loomed in front of them. “That’s as good a place as any. We know what a demogorgon and the Mind Flayer sound like and can avoid them as much as possible.”

Nancy led the way to the treeline with everyone else following behind.

“I hate that’s a thing we know,” Robin groused as she fell in step with Steve.

Eddie brought up the rear. He kept looking behind them as though he could feel something out there watching them. Or rather watching him.

~

Once they were safely out of the watchful ‘eyes’ of the demobats, Eddie relaxed his shoulders. But the downside to relaxing after an ordeal like that one is that the adrenaline wears off.

“Fuck!” Steve hissed putting a hand on his side and it coming back covered in blood.

“Shit, baby!” Eddie said, moving him to sit on a nearby rock. “That looks bad.”

“What if you get rabies?” Robin asked panicked. “Do Upside Down creatures have rabies?”

“Shut up, Robin,” Steve asked, leaning his head back and gripping his hair to fight back on the pain, “or I swear to god I will hit you!”

Robin hiccuped and then smiled. “At least your humor is intact.”

“Move,” Nancy said, the pieces of the bottom of her shirt in her hands. “We need to wrap that up so it doesn’t get infected.”

Eddie snorted. “Do you know first aid, Nance?”

“Well...” she muttered, chewing on the bottom on her lip. “I mean a little.”

“Well I know a lot,” Eddie said, yanking the strips from her. “Wayne was an army medic and I got into a shit ton of scrapes the first year I was living with him. So if anyone is going to treat Steve it’s going to be a Munson and as Wayne ain’t here, it’s gonna be me.”

Nancy stepped back to stand with Robin, her arms crossed over her chest.

Eddie looked up at Steve and gave his hand a squeeze. “This is gonna hurt a lot, but this is just to stop the bleeding until we can get you somewhere where we can do a proper job of it, okay?”

Steve nodded. “Just do it. I trust you.”

Eddie gave his hand another squeeze and started to wrap the wounds around Steve’s stomach and sides, neatly tucking the ends under the bandage to keep it in place.

“We need to get up high to see where we are so we can get out of this hell hole,” he said with a grimace as he got to his feet.

He looked around him and found a suitable tree and began climbing.

“Just don’t step on the vines,” Nancy warned. “They’re connected to Vecna.”

Eddie turned around to see that the tree was covered in them and he had somehow missed them on his way up. “Shit.”

“Remember when I said the demodogs where connected to a hive mind?” Steve asked as Eddie tried to figure out a way to get down. “Apparently all things in the Upside Down are connected to the rat bastard.”

“Great,” Eddie growled. “Just fucking great.”

“We need to get to my house,” Nancy said, “I have two guns in my bedroom, and I have a feeling we’re going to need them.”

Eddie hopped down. “You, Nancy Wheeler, have guns, plural, in your bedroom?”

“I know, right?” Robin said gleefully, “She such a badass.”

“I have two,” Nancy said with smile. “I have a Russian pistol and an old revolver.”

Steve scoffed and grinned. “You almost shot me with that one.”

Nancy grinned back. “And you almost deserved it.”

THWUMP!

“For your modesty, Stevie,” Eddie growled, with a glare.

Steve realized that he was now holding the battle vest in his arms. He smiled up at Eddie. ��Thanks, love.”

Just then an earthquake hit, throwing Nancy into Steve’s arms and Robin and Eddie to the ground. Once it stopped, Steve made sure Nancy was steady enough and then he began to walk in the direction he was sure Nancy’s house was.

Eddie expression softened as Steve happily put on the vest and then yes, he admired his boyfriend’s ass. Sue him, he loved that ass. He hopped to his feet and dutifully followed Steve out of the forest.

Nancy pursed her lips together and bit her tongue. Ducking her head to hide her smile, she fell in step with Robin.

~

Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Tag List: EIGHT SLOTS REMAINING

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @beelze-the-bubkiss @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @themoonagainstmers

9- @steddieislife @chaotic-waffle

[jordiemeow]

MISC BOT DUMP ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

09/03/25

featuring characters from: challengers, west side story, dune, bones and all & call me by your name

yay!! jo misc bot release. realised as i was linking these that i hit 100 followers on c.ai umm what the hell thank you horny people. challengers bots at the top bc i know that's what you sluts want!

next bot release will probably be based on lady gaga's new album mayhem. feel free to send requests for characters with song pairings (any fandom but more likely to consider ones from my pinned message!)

gender neutral unless specified otherwise. have fun. personal favourite was lee tbh.

enjoy ! <3

CHALLENGERS

PLATONIC? YEAH RIGHT

stanford art x patrick x best friend!user

You've all fantasised about this. Patrick is just the only one brave enough to act on it, even if it is as a result of a joint being shared between the three of you on Art's cramped single and a few stolen kisses. None of you have to say it out loud to know the three of you want to share more than Patrick's weed, though.

YES, COACH!

coach!art x protégé!user

He likes it when you call him coach. He shouldn’t, but it does something to him. He won’t admit it. Not to you, or himself. He’d deny it. Say he’s just tired, it’s the humidity, or something. Anything, rather than face the fact that he has the biggest little coaching kink over you. You’ve probably not even realised it, but your defiant little glare melting away to a compliant yes, coach goes straight south for him every time.

NASTY DOG

stanford era cheater!patrick x partner!user

Patrick knows he's in trouble, but does he really care? It's not that he doesn’t love you. He does, or he thinks he does. But he simply isn’t built for commitment. It's just too limiting, or so he claimed. And the groupies on tour are just so eager to please him. The sight of you throwing a ball in Art's pathetic attempt at a game piques his interest at the party he’s dragged you both along to, but when a hot girl in a low-cut top offers him body shots, what is he supposed to do? Say no? That's not in his nature. Because first and foremost, Patrick Zweig is a motherfucking dog.

FUTILE DEVICES

stanford era!art x best friend!user

To everyone else, you’re an asshole. Snarky and bitchy. You’d insult someone’s dead parent if they were being rude enough. Aggressive and temperamental. And yet there’s something about you that makes you completely irresistible to Art. He’s been in awe of you since he was a little shithead at twelve years old, and now he’s nineteen and he’s still thinking about you, watching your every move, hanging onto every word that comes out of your mouth… And, yeah, he’s maybe in love with you. Whatever.

FRESH YOUNG TALENT

coach!tashi x protégé!user

You could be perfect. An extension of Tashi, the manifestation of her own lost talent the day she injured her knee. Who needs her pathetic excuse of a husband when she has you? With that low drawl in your ear that's like a lullaby, but you know she's more of a devil than a comforting presence. It's almost enough to make you forget the fact that she's technically untouchable—her wedding ring a glaring reminder of the fact she's not yours. And yet you're hers. Her fresh young talent to carve into something beautiful.

SHARING IS CARING

stanford tashi x patrick x art x user

Patrick has always been convinced that he's the leader amongst you all. But, deep down, you all know you're eating out of the palm of Tashi's perfectly manicured hand. Her little white boys and you, her best friend. When she suggests to bring back your old tradition of sharing partners, how are you supposed to say no to that?

CARD DECLINED

2019!patrick x tinder date!user

Patrick Zweig is broke. Like living out of his car and using Tinder to couch (bed) surf kind of broke. The fact most of his pictures were his bulge should have rang alarm bells, but hey, you're on the app for the same thing. But he's in need of a warm meal, so he hits you with the gentleman card. Let me take you out for drinks first. Except his card conveniently declines, and instead of getting dicked down, you're left to pay the bill... great. That's what you get for using dating apps.

THE OTHER WOMAN

2019!tashi x sugar baby!reader (wlw)

Tashi must be getting really fond of you, because she's been indulging in purchases a lot more recently. It's not like you needed that $200 perfume, or the Valentino bag that sits in your closet, or the Hermes belt that you're too shy to wear. But she wanted you to have them. There was a rush there, a thrill of power. A reminder that she could have you with a single crook of her finger. And you always oblige, so sweet and eager to please, because at the end of the day... you're hers.

WEST SIDE STORY

LANDLINE

riff x uptown girl!user (m4f)

Riff ain't exactly been the best influence on you, getting you to sneak out and meet him in back alleys to sneak a couple cigarettes or share a few swigs of alcohol. Ain't ever taken you farther than that, though. Defiling you is tempting, but so is talking down the phone for hours into the night. He can just picture you giggling, twirling your phonecord around your finger and kicking your legs as you talk. Maybe you're sitting on a chair, or maybe in your bed. Hell, either way he knows you're in something cute and lacy to wear to bed, and he's definitely a fan of that. His pretty lil’ girly girl.

PRETTY LIL' SHARK

riff x anita’s sister!user (m4f)

You’re such a feisty lil’ spitfire that Riff can’t help but be drawn to you. If his boys knew he spent so much time thinking about the way you called him a gringo and spat your gum at him the other day, he’d never hear the end of it. Bernardo’s fuckin’ girlfriend’s sister, no less. But boy are you entertaining, ‘n’ it’s worth the risk just to ambush you on your weekly trip to Doc’s.

BONES AND ALL

APEX PREDATOR

lee x eater friend!user

Sometimes, Lee thinks God must have sent you to him. Not that he’s said a prayer in the last few years before you came into the picture. Sent him an angel, because He knew he was too much of a sinner. A deadly angel, though, given the fact you’ve just fed from an unlucky motel employee. No hint of cologne or perfume in the air as he consoles you and wipes the blood from your chin, just the natural, earthy scent of your shared sin. Perhaps demon is a more apt comparison.

CALL ME BY YOUR NAME

LOATHING

elio x family friend!user

Elio isn't sure of the reason for his own irritability. Whether it's your presence or the heat or the fact that everything with Oliver feels like it's spinning out of control. He just knows that he's in a bad mood, and you happen to be there. So, unfortunately for you, picking fruit with a sullen boy is your fate for the afternoon. If he has to deal with your bright smile and cheerful attitude for too long, though, he might just go insane.

LA PISCINA

elio x childhood friend!user

Being Elio Perlman’s dedicated bosom friend is not for the weak, for several reasons. One, he’s an annoying little shit. Two, he’s the world’s biggest hypocrite. Three, he’s in love with an American man six years his senior. Age gap aside, your ire regarding that particular problem stems from the fact that maybe you’re in love with your best friend. Oh, how you wish the summer would just end and things could go back to just being you and Elio. No stupid fucking Oliver.

DUNE

FOREIGN BOY

arrakis!paul x fremen teacher!user

You’re quite the thorn in Paul’s side. A decent teacher in theory, but so full of criticism that sometimes he just wants to smack you up the back of the head. A particularly repetitive session has both of you in a mood today; him wanting to prove himself to you, you wanting him to fail. But, by all the blessings of Shai-Hulud, sandwalking would not be the hill this Offworlder dies on.

PIPE DREAMS

caladan!paul x childhood friend!user

You'd always felt comfortable being yourself around Paul, even if he is to become the next Duke. It's always been like that, a sort of unspoken rule. For you, he was never Paul Atriedes, the son of The Duke. He was just Paul, your favourite person, the boy who was always better than you at sparring, but would never hold it against you. Your best friend, despite the expectations and responsibilities that always seemed to sit heavy on his shoulders. He can forget about that when he’s with you.

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

During a press junket for The White Lotus Season 3, the inevitable question comes up about your past with Patrick Schwarzenegger. The interviewer, clearly trying to stir up some intrigue, leans forward with a smirk.

“So, you two go way back. Grew up together, even dated at one point. And correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you write a song about Patrick?”

You glance at Patrick, who’s already suppressing a grin. You can tell he’s bracing for whatever you’re about to say.

“I did,” you confirm with a small laugh. “But, you know, it was a long time ago. We were young, we had feelings, and I wrote about them. That’s kind of what I do.”

The interviewer nods eagerly. “And now you’re working together again. Is that awkward at all?”

Patrick finally speaks up, shaking his head. “Not at all. I mean, we’ve known each other since we were kids, and we both moved on. We’re professionals, we’re friends, and honestly, it’s been fun working together.”

The interviewer doesn’t let up. “So, Patrick, does your fiancée like the song? Has she heard it?”

You and Patrick exchange a knowing look before you smirk.

“I mean, it’s not like it’s banned from Spotify,” you joke. “But I doubt it’s on her go-to playlist.”

Patrick laughs. “Yeah, I don’t think she has it on repeat or anything. But she’s cool. She knows it’s ancient history.”

The interviewer leans back, slightly disappointed that there’s no brewing scandal. “So, no lingering tension?”

You shake your head. “No tension. Just nostalgia and some good stories.”

Patrick nods. “And some really bad fashion choices from back then.”

You both laugh, and just like that, the press tour moves on to the next question.

[gamesetart]

Open relationship au I’m SICK!!!!

Approaching Art to ask if hooking up with girls is okay <3 that you met Tashi one of your classes and you might be interested in seeing her if he’s okay with that. And maybe he’s a little conflicted, he didn’t know you were into girls too, it makes him feel a little insecure about it maybe. First he has to worry about Patrick, and now Tashi?

And maybe it’ll make him feel better if he just watches. Just that once. Not because he’s a perv, just because he needs to know what it would be like, if he’d be okay with it again.

cat i need you to know i waited until i could sit with my laptop home from work for this <3

eyes on me (tashi's interlude i)

tags: tashi duncan x fem reader, voyeurism, cunnilingus, fingering, cucking (arts cool with it). nsfw. minors DNI.

"Baby, I'm not... homophobic," Art says, staring at you, nonplussed.

You fluster a little at this -- of course he isn't, one of his friends on the tennis team is gay (the only openly gay man at stanford as far as you're aware) -- but you were genuinely nervous. Art has a rosary hanging on his wall. He prays before bed. Your reservations were warranted.

"I-I know," you frown, "but I'm just asking if you'd be okay with it."

"I didn't know you liked girls," he says, casually avoiding the question. He's good at that, you've noticed. Sidestepping the uncomfortable stuff. (It's probably why he's never told you about Patrick.)

"I like this one," you tell him nonchalantly. "Her name's Tashi -- she plays tennis, actually, maybe you know her. We met in my kinesiology class."

For a moment, you swear his expression flickers. Swear something dark and angry and hurt flashes in his eyes. But the second passes, and it's gone, quick as it came. He smiles. Nods.

"Yeah, I do. She's good, really good. She won the US and the Australian Junior Opens."

"So... you're cool with it?"

Art pauses, cocking his head to one side. He pretends to consider it. Pretends like this is really weighing on him. He waits until he sees that moment of doubt in your eyes, like you're about to take it back, offer up something else to soothe the ache, to speak. He knows you better than you think. And he knows how to use it, more than you know.

"I don't know," he says slowly, rolling each syllable over in his mouth. "I'd have to think about it... maybe. I mean, it's so different from just some guy."

He makes you think it's your idea. It's easier that way, if you think you came up with it all on your own, if you think you're the one pulling the strings. (Both believe the other clueless. Both believe themselves the one in control. Both are sorely mistaken.)

Tashi was the one who suggested it to you.

"He could always watch," she'd said lightly, over your coffee and her weird green energy smoothie. "You know. Sit in. Cum in his pants, or pray, or whatever it is good Christian boys do when they watch their girlfriend fuck another girl."

You'd laughed. "I don't think good Christian boys watch their girlfriends fuck at all, girls or otherwise."

But the seed had sprung. She'd planted the idea in your head, and now it bloomed anew.

"You could aways watch," you say mischievously. "See if you're on board. Do some research."

His ears go red, and you giggle. It's adorable, how sweet he is. Art reaches up to run a hand through his hair, and that damn ring catches your eye. One day, you promise yourself. Soon.

"You're so pretty," you mumble into Tashi's hair. Her lips catch on your neck, biting the skin soft enough that it won't leave a mark. "You're so so pretty."

She laughs breathlessly, and it tickles. You're in your bedroom. Art's sitting on your desk chair while Tashi hovers above you. You lost all your clothes a long time ago, and she's well on her way, in nothing but a thin pink bra and matching panties. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you think she prepared for this. And you like it.

"You ever see her naked before, Art?" Tashi asks. (Something about the way she speaks to him is familiar. Like she's done it before.) But you can't think about that when she shifts above you, clears the view for Art to get an excellent view of your slick, sweet cunt. She spreads your folds with her right hand so he can see your perfect hole.

"N-no," he says, and you can't see him, but it sounds choked.

Tashi smiles above you. Her fingers - sweet, clever, calloused and warm - slide up your cunt, gather the wetness. Slit to clit. And then, slower than you expected her to be, she pushes a single finger into your quivering hole. You gasp, because Tashi doesn't waste any time. She curls right up, searching for that single perfect spot inside you. She wastes even less time finding it.

"Oh, fuck, Tashi, right there--" you moan, hips bucking wildly into her touch. Her wrist brushes your clit, and you sob.

Art's never seen you like this. You're so firm with him. Kind, gentle, loving, but firm. You're sweet, but he has no doubts about who you are. Didn't, anyway, before this. You're fire, you're thunder, you're lightning in a bottle. You're wild and wonderful and brilliant. But right now, you're a just quivering mess melting on Tashi's fingers.

Tashi pulls her two fingers out of your and brings them to her mouth. You watch her suck them clean with a vicious smile.

"Why don't we put on a show for the boyfriend?" Tashi asks you, and she's wicked.

Her bra and panties fall to the floor. She straddles your face. You take it willingly, licking and sucking at her folds. No technique, really, you've only done this once before, drunk at a party, but what you lack in skill, you make up for in enthusiasm. You eat her out like she's your last meal on death row, like she's water to you, the drowning girl.

Tashi laughs, but it's a little shaky. "Oh, babe. You've got a lot to learn. It's okay, I'll teach you."

She leans over, dipping her fingers back into your cunt. Two, and her other hand comes to toy with your clit, bracing most of her weight on her knees - on either side of her head - and her elbows, balanced gently on your hip bones.

"Watch closely, Art," she says. "Your girlfriend's gonna cum on my hand, and then my mouth."

Art whines. But he's good, he's patient, he's nice. He's not a sinner. He's only here to watch. And watch he does. He watches you come undone on her hand, true to her word. He watches her cum on your face - she's beautiful, the arc of her back pushing her tits up, her skin shiny with sweat.

"Fuck, yeah, that's it," Tashi moans, riding your face eagerly. "Yeah, god, you're good. No fucking -- god -- clue, what you're doing, but good."

And then he watches her eat you out, and by God does she know. She knows exactly what she's doing, tongue flat against your slit licking all the way up until she reaches your clit. She flicks that around, swirls the bud around gently. Sucks on it. You lace your hands in her hair and cry out her name, right up until you look up for the first time without anything in your path of vision and lock eyes with Art.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, cumming-- Art," you choke.

Tashi won't admit she enjoyed listening to you fall apart on her tongue, moaning your stupid cuck boyfriend's name. Art won't admit he's probably going to get himself off to the sound of you crying Tashi's name (he gets it, he's been in the same place). You won't admit you really enjoyed being watched. Especially by your sweet, lovely, innocent boyfriend.

[lavender-vixen]

Please please please do one with Patrick braiding the reader's hair, and she has a crush on him, but he doesn't know. No rush!

i love this <3

you're in science class, watching a film projection about cellular mitosis. the images are flickering, and the old projector equipment hums. someone from the av club had to come help the teacher set it up.

you ran a hand through your long, loose hair, trying to get rid of the tangles. finally, you took out a small comb from your pencil case and began working your way through the tangles. the sun-in you'd sprayed in your hair before school wasn't getting the proper sunlight it needed in this dark classroom.

patrick sat behind you, so uncomfortably close, as most of the desks in the room were crammed in to make space for the projector. you'd never actually spoken to him, but you'd exchanged a few glances in passing. nothing memorable. when you got up to sharpen your pencil at the back of the room, you stole a peek at him.

he looked bored, slouched in his seat, his long legs spread out in front of him, idly fiddling with a pair of scissors.

as you sat in front of him, you could feel his eyes on you. it was hard to explain, but you just knew he was staring. you try to focus on the film, but it's hard with patrick hockstetter sitting right behind you.

his presence was always distracting. he had this aura of trouble. he was all lazy smirks and slouched posture. you'd heard the stories, and seen the way people avoided him in the halls.

suddenly, you felt a slight tug on your hair, just enough to pull you from your thoughts. you froze, your heart skipping three beats.

turning your head, you spotted him holding the pair of shiny scissors, his hand paused midair, a determined look on his face.

"what are you doing?" you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady. the sight of him with scissors so close to your beautiful, long hair sent a chill down your spine.

"relax," he said, grinning like it was the most normal thing in the world. "i wasn't gonna cut it. not yet, anyway."

your jaw dropped, and a mix of indignation and shock rushed through you. before you could respond, he shrugged and brushed your hair toward his desk. "it's all over my space," he said casually.

your hair was long...too long...and practically spilling over the back of your chair, brushing the edge of his desk. silky and neat, like something out of one of those shampoo commercials, and entirely too tempting.

"here, rapunzel, let me fix it," he said.

fix it? before you could process what was happening, you felt his hands in your hair, tugging gently but firmly. he was braiding it. braiding it.

"what are you doing?" you whispered again, feeling a blush creep up your neck. you glanced around, but no one seemed to notice.

"fixing it," he said again, his tone bored but oddly focused.

you blinked in disbelief. "you know how to braid?"

he shrugged. "kinda. tied fishing knots with my dad all the time. same thing."

the tugging at your scalp was rhythmic, almost soothing, and you found yourself relaxing despite yourself. it was...nice. but you refused to let him see that.

"did you do the homework?" he asked suddenly, his voice low. you shivered slightly at how close he was.

"yeah. why?" you asked, your instincts telling you not to trust whatever he was about to say.

"because i didn't," he said bluntly. he held your hair in one hand and rummaged through his backpack with the other, pulling something out. "i'll trade you this fruit roll-up if you let me copy it."

you frowned, crossing your arms. "no."

he leaned in closer, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your neck. "c'mon. i'll even promise not to cut your hair."

your heart was pounding now, and you hated that he was getting to you. "fine," you whispered sharply, digging out your notebook and shoving it toward him.

"good girl," he said with a smirk, flipping it open with one hand. "damn, your handwriting is annoying."

you bit your lip, forcing yourself to stay quiet. it was better to ignore him than give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

"here," he said, holding out the fruit roll-up.

"i don't want it," you said quickly, shaking your head.

he shrugged and dropped it on your desk anyway. "take it."

you picked it up and tossed it back at him. “i said, no.”

“whatever.” then, without asking, he picked up here he left off with your hair, finishing the braid.

you glanced at the clock, praying for the class to end, but at the same time, you couldn't deny how good it felt...his hands moving through your hair, the gentle pull at your scalp. it was oddly intimate, and your cheeks burned at the thought.

from across the room, your friend caught your eye, her expression one of complete disbelief. you shrugged helplessly and offered a small, sheepish smile.

when patrick finished, he paused. "what do i tie it with?" he muttered, more to himself. "i could make a knot out of it."

"no, don't do that." you pulled the white, fluffy scrunchie from your wrist and handed it to him. "here."

he held it up, inspecting it like it was some kind of artifact. "what the hell is this?"

"a scrunchie," you said, rolling your eyes.

he tied it around the braid, though not without muttering, "this thing looks dumb."

the teacher's voice cut through the darkness from the front of the room: "mr. hockstetter, if you're done playing beauty shop, perhaps you'd like to join us in taking notes during the film?"

your cheeks flushed, but patrick just shrugged, completely unbothered. "yeah, sure, mr. andrews," he said lazily.

as the teacher turned back to the screen, patrick leaned in close, his voice a whisper against your ear. "he's such an asshole. hey, meet me after next period. i'll give you my calc homework."

you glanced back at him, frowning. his face was inches from yours. "why?"

"because i owe you," he said simply. then, with a smirk, he added, "and i'm generous like that."

after class ended, you gathered your things slowly, heart pounding. you could feel patrick watching you still, his eyes burning a hole in your back.

he brushed past you on his way out, close enough that his shoulder lightly bumped yours. "don't forget," he murmured, low and smooth, before disappearing into the hallway.

your friend melanie rushed to your side immediately. "what the hell was that about?" she hissed, glancing toward the door patrick just exited.

"nothing," you mumbled, though your cheeks betrayed you, flushing hot under her scrutinizing stare.

"that was not nothing. he was braiding your hair. patrick freaking hockstetter. you know what people say about him, right?"

you nodded, trying to dismiss her. "i know. it's fine. he's just...weird."

but even as you said it, you weren't sure you believed it. the memory of his hands in your hair and the way he leaned close still lingered.

after your next class, you were at your locker when you spotted him leaning casually against the wall across the hall. he wasn't looking directly at you, but it was obvious he was waiting.

you considered pretending you didn't see him, but something compelled you to walk over.

"hey," you said awkwardly, clutching your books to your chest.

patrick looked down at you, his smirk sliding into place. "took you long enough," he said, pushing off the wall. he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and held it out to you. "here. calc homework. told you i'd give it to you."

you hesitate before taking it, your fingers brushing against his. it was warm, and you pulled back quickly, feeling like you'd just touched a live wire.

"thanks," you mumbled, unfolding the paper. his handwriting was a mess, barely legible scrawls and smudges, but it was there.

"don't thank me yet," he said with a chuckle. "i haven't checked it or anything, but i'm hardly ever wrong."

at lunch, you were sitting with your friends when patrick strolled past your table with henry bowers. he didn't stop, didn't say anything, but he dropped a cherry fruit roll-up onto your tray.

your friends immediately started whispering. "oh my god, what is happening? why is he..." melanie started.

"i don't know!" you whispered back, feeling your face heat up.

later in the hallway, he found you again. "you done copying my homework?" he asked, leaning a little too close.

you nod. "yeah, but i still don't get any of it. i'm screwed for the test."

"good," he said, flashing a grin. "then you'll need my help after school."

"what makes you think i need your help?" you shot back, surprising yourself with the boldness in your voice.

he grinned wider, crooked, clearly amused. "i'm clearly getting a better grade than you."

"uh-huh," you said skeptically, trying to ignore how close he was standing. people were watching as they passed by. "and what's in it for you?"

patrick was already walking away. "bleachers. after school."

against your better judgement, you found yourself walking toward the bleachers after the last bell. patrick was already there, slouched back with his legs stretched out.

"hey," he said, reclining. "thought you'd flake."

"i almost did," you admitted, climbing the steps cautiously.

he pulled his notebook out of his bag, flipping it open. "alright, let's see how shit you really are at this."

the two of you worked through the math problems, but he kept teasing you about your handwriting, the way you wrinkled your nose when you thought to hard, and the fact that you had pencils with your name on them.

you found yourself laughing more than you expected. when the work was done, patrick leaned back again, tossing his pen onto his notebook.

"guess you owe me now." his smirk was back.

you glanced at him, a tiny smile tugging at your lips. "guess i do."

he studied you a moment, his expression unreadable, before speaking. "actually, there's something you could do for me."

your heart skipped. you felt your pulse quicken as another blush crept to your face. "yeah?"

patrick looked across the field at the girl's soccer team warming up with drills then back to you. "you're friends with melanie, right?" he said, tilting his head toward your friend as she did a few stretches on the field, tying the laces on her soccer cleats. "the one who's always staring at me like she's scared or something."

you tilted your head in confusion. "yeah. what about her?"

"think she'd go out with me?" he asked, as if it were a passing thought he'd spoken aloud.

you blinked, stomach dropping. the words hit like a slap, and for a second, all you could do was stare at him.

"you...um, you want me to ask if she's interested?" you said, recovering as best you could, your voice quieter than intended.

"yeah," he said, leaning back again. "she seems...fun."

you forced a smile, even as your chest tightened painfully. "sure. i mean...i'll try."

"'atta girl." he grinned, clearly pleased. he got up, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. his combat boots slammed against the metal bleachers as he jumped down a row. "see ya in chem."

you sat there for a long moment after he was gone, staring down at the finished homework in your lap. you didn't know why you felt so foolish, so crushed. maybe it was the way he smiled when he said her name, or maybe it was the realization that every teasing word, every fleeting moment of attention...it was all just a way to get to her. and you knew for a fact he'd done it on purpose.

you glanced toward the soccer field, where your friend waved to you, and sighed, offering a weak wave back.

patrick hockstetter is a jerk.