#so sweet ...

[rohankishibesgirlfriend76]

Why can’t I receive free little rat themed trinkets from random people! This is so sweet! 🥹 I’m gonna go cry now! 💕💕💕💕💕💕 why are people so wholesome!!!

Shout out to the little girl at my store today who had a shirt that said "skeleton mouse" and she was carrying around a plushie of a rat, had hair clips in her hair that had rats on them, and a necklace with a rodent skull on it.

As I was checking her mother out at the register she pulled out a handful of rubber rats from her pocket and put them on my counter, to which her mother sighed and said "no sweetie, he doesn't need rats" to which I just looked at her like this

[thiziri]

Zara Tindall with her mother, Princess Anne, as they attend Day One of Royal Ascot, on 17 June 2025.

[amethystsoda]

Anya picking her dance dress because it looks like Yor's 🥹🥹🥹

[guppiechuu]

sweet like cherry pie 𓂃⋆⭒˚🍒｡⭒ s.j.

boyfriend!jake x virgin!reader

length: 3.7k

contains: female!reader, fluff, utterly devoted jake, sweet relationship stuff, seriously so sweet I got toothaches writing this, date night, whiny jake, talks you through it, so gentle with you, but can hardly contain himself, consent checks

warnings: smut (minors dni), unprotected sex (don't be silly, wrap your willy!), praise, dirty-talk, loss of virginity, oral sex, p in v penetration, lots of kissing, mutual orgasm, that pie is creamed guys

synopsis: Jake is perfectly fine waiting as long as you need to take your relationship to the next step. He's never doubted for a second that you're the one for him. So when you finally approach him with the very simple request, "will you have sex with me?", he just about loses his mind. But not before he makes sure you lose yours first ;)

⤷ chuu's 💌 ── .✦ this was so freaking fun to write and made my heart literally flutter the entire time. GOD. I LOVE JAKE. anyways. enjoy <333

——

Jake loved everything about you.

The smell of your shampoo in his room when you got out of the shower. Finding your lost hair ties amongst his dirty laundry. The sound of you mumbling to yourself in your sleep.

He loved you, and he loved being your boyfriend. Doing all the boyfriend things he was meant to. Silly, stupid things like opening doors and giving you a steady hand as you leaned down to put your shoes on.

He loved the feeling of you on his arm, or that excited skip in your step when he picked you up. Your crinkled eyes when he said something funny. Even the way you grumbled in the morning before you had your coffee, he just couldn’t get enough of it.

Being your boyfriend meant Jake had responsibilities, ones that he took very seriously. To care for you, to keep you safe, to make sure you were happy, these things mattered a lot to him, and he took care in demonstrating just how much.

This kind of love and respect extended to your sex life as well.

Jake knew you were a virgin. Of course, he knew. He knew everything about you: your favorite foods, your guilty pleasures, all the words to your favorite songs. He knew that you’d had a few short-term relationships before him and that you hadn’t had sex with any of them.

They just weren’t right, you’d explained early on. None of them made you feel important, or special. You knew you wouldn’t sleep with any of them. You wanted to feel desired and respected, that someone had truly earned their right to your body.

Jake liked the way you’d said that—so matter of fact and confident. He liked that you knew yourself well enough to wait. Sex was important to you, and there was nothing that Jake wanted more than to prove he was worthy.

Despite your inexperience, you had a sexual appetite that rivaled his at times. You were a kisser — a sat-on-the-counter-with-him-between-your-legs, grabbing-him-by-the-collar kisser. You liked to pull him in close, dragging your hips against his as you slid your tongue into his mouth.

You’d pant and grind against each other until, eventually, you’d pull away, hand to your chest, face blushing bright red. It drove him crazy.

But Jake was patient, and utterly devoted to you. If you wanted to wait, he would wait. Hell, if you wanted a ring on your finger first, he had no objections. He had a design picked out halfway through your second date.

It was real for him, realer than anything had ever been in his life. He was ready to remain very patient and very devoted for a long time, right until you were ready to trust him with this part of yourself.

It just so happened that, on the most random of late afternoons at his place, you were ready.

——

At first, Jake thought he was hallucinating.

The way you looked at him—open, sure, no sense of hesitation—it knocked the breath from his chest.

"What did you say?" He breathed.

You blushed. Your face—your sweet, adorable, beautiful face—turned several shades redder.

"Don't make me say it again," You whined, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater.

"Please, baby?" He insisted, inching closer to you. "I need to know that I heard you right because if I didn't—if you didn't just say what I think you just said, I'm officially going crazy."

You laughed. "Jake. Will you please, pretty please, have sex with me tonight?"

Jake looked like you'd smacked him straight across the face.

You tried insisting that it didn't have to be a big deal. That all you really wanted was to be with him, to take the next step in your relationship together because, damn it, Jake Sim was the best thing that had ever happened to you.

You didn't need roses or candles, just the feeling of having him close. For real this time.

And in typical Jake fashion, he wasn't having any of it.

He leapt up from the couch, running his hands through his hair a few times as he paced back and forth. "Right," He murmured. "Right, right, right."

Then, he took off down the hall, disappearing into his room.

"Where are you going!?" You called after him.

"Phone! Restaurant! Taking you out and buying you the nicest fucking dinner you've ever had in your life!"

You got all done up. Jake fucking loved it. Watching you in the bathroom mirror, bent forward as you put your makeup on, it drove him wild. He couldn't keep his hands off you, stopping to kiss you every time he came into the room. Hell, coming in just to kiss you.

He felt like he was dreaming. Like this was one, long, unending delusion that he'd somehow slipped into. He put a finger to his pulse, checking to make sure he hadn't accidentally died and ended up in some kind of amazingly strange afterlife.

But, nope. His heart thrummed against his finger, and his beautiful, perfect, way out of his league girlfriend was in the bathroom, putting her hair up to go out.

And she wanted him to fuck her.

Good god.

Jake beamed all night long, getting your car door and pulling your chair out for you as you sat down at your table. You giggled. He was always a gentleman, but now he was really dialing it up���insisting that you order whatever you wanted, refilling your wine glass the moment it was empty, complimenting the way you looked.

"Your makeup looks so good, baby," He said cheerfully. "I like the sparkly stuff on your eyes."

You laughed. "I wear it like this every day."

He shrugged, giving you that dopey grin. "Well, you look beautiful. Gorgeous. I love you."

"I love you, too, Jake."

Whether it was the wine, or the candlelight, or the way Jake's knee brushed up against yours as you ate, you could hardly contain yourself the whole drive home.

Jake tried to keep a steady eye on the road, but the way your hands were roaming up and down his chest, fingers playing with the buttons of his jacket, he found it nearly impossible to focus.

You barely made it through the front door before his lips were on yours, hands scrambling for your waist. You giggled against his mouth, pulling him through the door by the collar and slamming the door shut behind you.

He groaned frustratedly into your mouth, dizzy with the knowledge that he was about to have you completely to himself, that you trusted him enough for this. He could hardly think straight as he picked you up and carried you down the hall to his room.

Your moans grew softer as he laid you down, your hands nervously fidgeting with his shirt. He pulled back, taking in the sight of you—your cheeks flushed all pink, your lips swollen from kissing him. Your eyes darted around his face nervously, not quite sure where to look.

Everything else seemed to fall away. It was like the world began and ended with his bedroom, everyone beyond it ceasing to exist. All that mattered in that moment was you.

He leaned down. "Hey," He said softly, brushing his fingers against your cheek. "You okay?"

You nodded, biting your lip. Your voice was small as you replied. "I'm nervous," You whispered, looking up at him with those big, round eyes of yours.

His heart felt like it was melting inside his chest. "You can change your mind," He said, matching the volume of your voice.

You shook your head. "No, I want to."

"Are you sure?"

"Mhm." You gazed up at him determinedly, still chewing anxiously at your bottom lip.

God, he fucking loved you. You were so cute, so sweet, exactly the kind of girl he always felt like he'd never deserve. You smiled, and he felt his mind go to mush. You laughed, and the rest of the world seemed to go quiet.

Jake took his time. Kissing you slowly, rubbing soothing circles on your hip with his thumb. You sighed into his touch, marveling at the way even the lightest brush of his fingers made your stomach tighten with desire. Long overdue desire.

"Gonna take this off, baby," He said, pushing your dress up your legs.

You'd been naked around him plenty of times—changing out of your swimsuit, getting out of the shower, sharing the shower on the rare instances that you both woke up late for work—but this felt different.

Your body temperature seemed to go up several degrees as he pulled your dress over your head, tossing it to the floor.

"Mmm," He murmured, bending down to kiss the skin on your chest. "You're so beautiful."

His kisses were feather-soft, brushing against your collarbones, your shoulders, your jaw.

He was always telling you how perfect you were, how pretty you looked, how smart you were—but he was all of those things and more. You admired him as he moved down your body, strands of dark hair falling over his face.

"I love you," You said suddenly, prompting him to look up.

"I love you, too, baby."

"No," You insisted, reaching down to grab his face and haul him back up to you. "I love you. I don't ever wanna be away from you. Like, ever."

He grinned. "Good. Because you're never getting rid of me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," You said breathily, tensing as his hand lowered between your legs.

His breath hitched and he froze, biting his lower lip.

"What is it?" You asked, heart quickening at the feeling of his fingers against your underwear.

"Mmm." He shook his head, dropping it onto your chest.

"You can say it, what is it?"

"You're so wet," He whined, voice muffled against your skin. "Fuck, baby. Fuck."

"Will that mess things up?" You asked, unsure. You didn't think being too wet was a problem, but what did you know? All of your knowlege had been based off of explicit movie scenes and poorly written internet blog porn.

"No," He gasped, looking up at you with wide eyes. "No, baby, you're perfect. So perfect, wanna taste you. Can I?" He asked.

Your stomach twisted with nerves, but he was so needy, staring at you with his lip between his teeth. You could've said no, and Jake would have moved on, no questions asked. But something about the look on his face, the way he was waiting so diligently for your answer, all movement paused until he heard what you had to say...

"Yeah," You nodded sheepishly.

He let out a deep groan, coming up to kiss you again before hooking his fingers over your underwear and pulling them down your legs.

It was a foreign feeling, having him so close to this part of your body. You were still nervous, a little self-conscious, but it was hard to stay that way with Jake talking like you were the most perfect thing he'd ever seen in his life.

"God, what am I gonna do," He muttered anxiously, lips tickling the inside of your thigh. "I'm not gonna last a fucking second. Jesus Christ, baby."

You giggled as his mouth brushed your skin again, sending shivers up your body.

"So sensitive," He teased, pressing his mouth to your inner thigh and nibbling gently with his teeth. "I'm gonna kiss you, baby. Tell me what feels good."

"Okay," You said breathlessly.

You ached painfully for him, overwhelmed by the feeling of his breath on your core, his fingers digging into your thighs. He pushed his face between your legs, making contact with his full, pouty lips, and you gasped, your entire body tensing.

"Okay?" He asked, glancing up at you.

You nodded, sitting up on your elbows to watch in wonder as he opened his mouth against your cunt, dragging his tongue between your folds like you were the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.

"Oh, Jake," You whined, letting your head fall against your shoulder as your brows furrowed.

He responded with a hum, the sound vibrating against your skin as he pushed his mouth further onto you. It was, by far, the most erotic thing you'd ever experienced.

Jake had an incredible voice. Hearing it always put you at ease, no matter the kind of day you'd had or what mood you were in. But feeling it? Feeling the shiver of his voice against your sensitive skin?

Your legs trembled with how badly you wanted more.

It was overwhelming. His sloppy kisses, the soft swipes of his tongue, the way he moaned into you like this was the only thing he'd ever wanted in his life—it left you speechless.

You could hardly make any noise at all, too consumed in the feeling of him curling his tongue against you. It was the hottest thing you'd ever seen. Hotter than getting to watch him work out. Hotter than his voice first thing in the morning. Hotter than all the times he'd confronted rude or handsy men at bars.

This was sexy. The way his hair fell against your skin, his face disappearing into your cunt. The bunch of muscles around his shoulder blades, tensed as he leaned in for more, more, more.

Jake, who had no way of knowing just how unraveled your thoughts were becoming, looked up from between your legs, a concerned expression on his face.

"You okay?" He asked, kissing the inside of your knee.

You nodded eagerly, pushing your hips up towards his mouth. You needed more. You needed to grind into his tongue until you were shaking.

The little action sent Jake over the edge, like gasoline on an already lit fire. He went in again, his tentative demeanor from before disappearing.

You moaned, arching your back as his tongue swirled around your clit, dipping into the well of your pussy with a delcious "mmmm" that reverberated up your body.

"Jake," You cried, hips grinding down on his tongue. "Can you come here? I'm ready, really. Want you now."

He stilled your hips with his hand, holding them in place so he could drag another wet stripe up your cunt. "Not yet," He cooed, kissing you sloppily. "It'll be better this way, trust me."

You struggled to see how anything could get better than this, until your stomach clenched violently at the feeling of his lips massaging your clit. You stuttered, looking down to see your legs shaking around his head.

Your body bucked upwards, hips chasing the feeling that was building in your lower abdomen. Jake's face was slick, your arousal mixing with his saliva as it dripped down his chin. He drank in the taste of you, dick hard beneath his jeans at how whiny you were, twitching under his tongue like you could barely take it anymore.

Every touch made you shiver, each puppy-lick to your clit caused your voice to rise an octave. He devoured you, savouring the knowledge that no one, no one, had ever given you this feeling before.

When it seemed like you could take no more—your hips shaking, your voice cracking under the weight of your moans—he pulled away.

You watched him with a dazed expression on your face, sweaty and already spent. His stomach twisted protectively at the sight of you, the ache of his erection the very last thing on his mind. All he wanted was to make you feel good. To get you over the edge.

To feel you cum around his cock.

He pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor where your dress lay, forgotten about. He trailed his hand up the side of your body as he crawled over you, admiring the way your muscles tensed under his touch.

You hastily reached for his buckle, pulling the clasp apart and unbuttoning his pants. His chest tightened, still half-disbelieving that this was really happening. The rest of your clothes were discarded as he settled between your legs, the heat of your bodies spreading like fire.

You pulled him in, hands on either side of his face. His mouth tasted bittersweet, still hot from being buried between your thighs. Your pussy clenched desperately, missing the feeling of his lips, aching for something to fill it.

"Gonna go slow, okay?" Jake said, his voice wavering slightly. His heart was pounding in his chest at the heat between your legs. "You ready?"

You'd never been more ready for anything in your life. "Stay right here," You said, your lips barely hovering over his.

He nodded as he lined himself up, the slick warmth of your entrance sending a mind-numbing shiver through his body.

You hardly blinked. You watched, lip trapped between your teeth, as Jake's brows furrowed, his mouth falling open.

You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders as he pushed himself inside of you. It hurt, but not like you expected. It stretched you, slipping deeper inside as you leaked around him, the sensation reaching all the way up to the base of your stomach.

Jake's breath hitched, his whines getting trapped in his throat as he fit all the way inside you.

"Fuck," He breathed, eyes squeezed shut. He couldn't move. If he did, he'd lose it. If he moved even an inch, he'd lose all self-control. And once he started to fuck you, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop.

Unfortunately for him, you had plans of your own.

You twisted under him, pushing your hips up in an effort to get him to satisfy the burning desire that had tangled itself up in your lower abdomen.

Jake moaned, his head falling into the crook of your neck as you slid against him, your cunt sucking him in even deeper.

"Babe," He growled, trying to get a hold on himself. "Give me— just a second. Need a second or m'gonna fuck you," He said through gritted teeth.

"Do it," You murmured against his mouth, dragging your fingers over his skin.

"Won't be able to stop," He whined, kissing you again.

You didn't care. You needed to feel him moving inside you or you were going to scream.

Slowly, carefully, he started to move, ignoring the stars that were bouncing around the edges of his vision. His body was tense, barely controlled, as he pressed himself all the way down on you.

To take his mind off how unbearably good you felt, he turned his attention back to you, kissing your neck and sucking harshly at your skin to alleviate some of the pressure building in his stomach.

"Jake," You moaned, tangling your fingers in his hair. Your breath heaved unevenly.

He pulled away. "You okay?"

You nodded, stuttering. "Y-yeah, don't..."

"Don't what, baby?"

"Don't stop."

Jake practically fell apart right then and there. He collapsed into you, driving his hips so hard that the bed began to rock beneath you. You arched your back as he filled you up, your throat exposed for him to drag his tongue across and mark up as he wished.

Mine, mine, mine, he thought, digging his teeth into your skin. "Jake, can you..." You bit your lip, squeezing your legs tighter around him. "Can you t-talk to me?" He obliged, kissing you furiously as words tumbled from his mouth onto your lips. "You feel so good, baby, so fucking good. Jesus—I could come right now. Taking it so good, baby. Wanna stay like this forever. Wanna drown in you."

His words were like a drug, injected directly into your bloodstream. The way he touched you, like you were the most precious thing he'd ever laid his hands on, how he praised you for being so good for him, it all made the tension in your stomach threaten to spill over.

"I'm close, Jake," You said against his mouth, tilting your head to bite his lower lip.

He groaned.

"You feel so good," You echoed, watching desperately as he bit his lip, brows furrowed. "You're so big— I didn't think you'd fit at first."

"Mmm, knew it would," He said, reaching a hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit. "Knew you'd take me perfectly. Such a good girl. So wet for me—I hardly had to touch you and you were soaked."

You moaned, grinding your hips against his hand. A tightness formed in your abdomen, rising up like a wave threatening to crash over your entire body.

Jake talked you through it, relishing in every rough stroke you took from him, drinking in the sound of your pretty voice as it called his name, begging to finish.

"Please, fuck, please, Jake," You cried.

"That's it, baby, just like that. Do I make you feel good?"

"Yes," You whined desperately.

"You wanna come?"

"Yes," You repeated.

His breath shuddered, his muscles going tense under your hands. "Cum with me, baby. I'm right here."

You bucked your hips into his, muscles aching with how tense you were, as the nerves in your stomach unwound entirely. He whimpered as he stuttered into you, fingers pressed into your waist so hard it ached.

"Fuck! Fuck— y/n, god, oh my god."

His whiny moans fell against your lips, cock twitching inside of you as he shuddered through his orgasm. You gasped into his mouth, the feeling of him finishing spurring your own climax.

He held you through it, kissing the length of your neck as your body shook, his name falling from your lips. Your body slow beneath his, cum dripping onto his thighs as your pussy clenched around him.

"That's it. Good job, y/n. So pretty. So pretty. Could watch you cum on me forever."

You whined, face buried in his neck as the last of it rolled over you. He leaned his head down to look at you, his pupils blown, expression equal parts concerned and exhausted.

"Jake..." You mumbled, pressing a hand to your face.

He pulled back, eyes darting over your face hesitantly. “Yeah? You okay? Did I hurt you?”

"That was… the best thing that has ever happened to me. In my whole life." Your eyes were bright, skin flushed and glowing with satisfaction and affection for your boyfriend. “If I’d have known— Fuck, that was good, baby.”

He released the breath he'd been holding and laughed. "Good, I was worried for a second."

You looked up at him, pursing your lips. "Was it for you? Good, I mean."

Jake widened his eyes. "Was it... Babe, today is the best day of my life."

He cleaned you up after, carrying you to the shower and covering your face in a smattering of happy kisses. He washed your hair, and your shoulders, and your neck, admiring all the marks he'd left behind.

He was tender with your lower body, kissing your cheeks gently as the water rained down his chest, forming little rivers that lined his muscles. You'd never felt so tired and so rewarded at the same time.

You fell asleep curled into his chest, the sound of your breath slow and steady. Jake kept his arms wrapped around you protectively, a new feeling taking root at the very base of his heart. The very core of his being.

He loved you more than he'd loved anyone or anything in his entire life. And he was going to spend the rest of his days proving it.

[winterprince601]

the best thing about jon and sam's friendship is that aside from their core shared identity of being alienated within a classist patriarchal society, they have Nothing in common. sam spends the whole first jon chapter of acok nerding out over the sociopolitical signifance of a bunch of old maps and jon's response is "litcherally why does it matter as long as the rivers are in the same place, you sweet fool" they're like the medieval equivalent of nerd who likes lotr and jock who likes evanescence forming a deep affection on the basis of no one else understanding them.

[ikuneko]

Beyond preciously sweet and tender c0mm from Ruthie: https://x.com/kkcoocool

I seriously love this c0mm so much 🥹 Jin Ling's little pout~ The way Lan Sizhui is looking at Jin Ling... Gods, they so clearly adore each other 🩵💛💐

[clqiredunphy]

OH MY GOD

[queensunshinee]

So sweet || Patrick Zweig x reader, Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex), drinking, mention of an eating disorder, again, I really don't know what's going on here. It's so weird. Just a small but important reminder: English is not my first language, so please don’t be mad if there are any embarrassing mistakes- I’m really trying my best!

Word Count: 7.3k

So sweet

Patrick wanted to know what is it about you that makes Art lose it. You're not the funniest, not the best at tennis—or at anything Patrick has ever seen you do, to be honest—and you're definitely not the prettiest. You're not the best. You're just not.

"She’s just so sweet," Art had said when the two of them were sitting in one corner of the Stanford cafeteria, and you were in another. Patrick didn’t see it; he thought you were scheming. That you were the least sweet person he knew. And because Art has known you for so many years, Patrick has known you long enough not to trust you. Who picks a college just because the guy she’s sleeping with also chose Stanford? Only a conniving witch. Someone who wants to pull Art away from him and Tashi. Someone who wants to pull Art away from his dreams. From tennis. Someone who wants Art all to herself. Patrick figured it out years ago. You can fool Art. Fuck it, you can fool yourself if you want. But you can’t fool Patrick.

And it doesn’t matter at all that you and Art have known each other since you were six. It doesn’t matter that all the evidence points to your parents being responsible for your academic choices. It doesn’t matter that it’s only since you got to Stanford that you started sleeping together; he never touched you inappropriately even once before college. Patrick didn’t like you before you two started having sex, so he sure as hell doesn’t like you now. You didn’t even bother to sit with them. You didn’t even bother to say a simple 'hi' to him. You don’t respect him enough to sit at the same table when he comes to visit Tashi and Art. You don’t respect him. Period.

“Do you think she’s ever eaten a burger?” Patrick suddenly asks, completely ignoring Art’s rambling about competitions and trying to inspect your plate from afar. He can’t see what’s on it, but he’s sure there’s nothing nutritious enough there. “I know for a fact she’s eaten more than one burger in her life,” Art rolls his eyes. “Why are you so obsessed with her?” he asks for the millionth time. He asked it every summer. He asked it after Patrick went on about how insane it was that you and Art were going to the same college.

“I’m not obsessed. I just think there’s no way her pussy smells normal with that diet,” Patrick says, earning himself a well-deserved elbow jab from Art. Art never talks about you that vulgarly. Art doesn’t talk about you much at all. That’s part of what annoys Patrick: that they can talk about any other girl, but with you, it’s never an option. Even about Tashi, he managed to talk to Art. He gave him the signal. He told him. But Art doesn’t share anything about what he does with you.

Patrick knows about Melanie from statistics that Art slept with. Patrick knows about Georgia or Regina or whatever her name is who works at the library and made it to second base with Art. He knows down to the exact books they leaned on. But he doesn’t know anything about you. Art keeps you to himself as if you’re some treasure he needs to guard at all costs. Patrick hates you and the broccoli you’re shoving into your mouth while reading a book, ignoring the outside world. You’re such a fucking smug witch. You won’t be able to fool him. . . . Art will never tell Patrick that there are moments when he thinks he loves you. Sometimes. Most of the time, he doesn’t. Most of the time, he knows he loves Tashi. The same Tashi that Patrick took for himself. Snatched her right out of Art’s hands.

But with you, it’s different. With you, it’s been building for years. You’re the one he smeared snot on when you were six, and somehow, you kept coming over to his house to watch cartoons with him. You kept showing up at the tennis court, reading a book while he practiced. You kept being an inseparable part of him.

Art knows you love him. It’s so clear to him, almost as clear as the fact that his first dog was named Jameson and that he died when Art was 8-years-old. You held his hand when he forced his parents to bury him. He didn’t want you to hold it, tried to shake you off for a few seconds, but you insisted. He never told you, but it felt nice.

Your first kiss was with Art. He insisted. Of course, he insisted. You love him so much, and you’re so, so sweet. Always polite and blushing at the right moments, and at 14, he kissed you. Explained to you that you couldn’t start high school without knowing how to kiss. He was doing you a favor. You said “thank you” afterward, like the polite girl you always were.

You kept kissing after that, as if it was the natural thing to do. Every time he came to visit in the summer and you’d come over. Every time he went to your place. You’d end your time together with his lips exploring yours. So sweet.

He will never tell Patrick that he knows you better than he knows himself. That he knows all your secrets just as you know all of his own. That sometimes he melts under your gaze and would be willing to tell you his ATM code if you asked. He will never reveal this to Patrick. Or you. He will never tell him that sometimes he feels like you’re such a deep part of him that you are simply him. And he is simply you. And when he thinks too deeply about that, he’s capable of barging into your lecture, telling the professor there’s been an emergency, dragging you into the janitor’s closet, staring for a second at your terrified face, and fucking you there on one of the shelves. Not that it happened. Maybe. He won't tell anyone.

And he will never give you the chance to go all in for him because it’s too terrifying. Because with you, he feels helpless, out of control, almost embarrassed. And because Patrick hates you. He’s never seen Patrick hate anyone as much as he hates you. And Art doesn’t think he can be in a relationship with someone Patrick doesn’t like. Which, in itself, is a crazy thought.

But Patrick loves Tashi, and Tashi has nothing sweet about her. No look that radiates tenderness or sweetness. She doesn’t smell like cinnamon and vanilla. She doesn’t have a soul that wants to share secrets with him. Tashi doesn’t look at him like he holds the moon. Tashi doesn’t look at him as if he could fill an empty space in her heart. Because she has no empty space in her heart. Tennis fills her heart. Tennis and Patrick. Art looks at her heart from the outside. He’s not a part of her story. He so badly wants to be part of her story. He thinks it's a need at this point.

And every time his mind fills with Tashi, he finds some random girl willing to stroke his ego (and his dick) just enough to make him forget. He never goes for the easy option; he doesn’t go to you. He only wants to be with you when he’s thinking of you. When you fill him so completely that he can’t breathe. When he physically needs you in front of him. Not when he wants someone else to touch him. Not when he wants Tashi Duncan so badly he could cry.

He looks at her and Patrick, unable to understand what she sees in him. What she finds in his best friend. The scatterbrained guy who doesn’t shower every day, who wears the same underwear longer than is acceptable, who snores while laughing, who eats whatever he wants, whenever he wants, like he isn’t trying to make a living as a pro. Like everything is a joke. Art doesn’t understand how Tashi can waste her time on a joke. . . . "What are you studying, Little Dove?" Patrick pulled out one of your earbuds when he found you tucked away in a corner of the library. He saw how you physically recoiled at the nickname he’d given you the first time you met. Not a nickname you liked. That only made him want to call you that enough times for it to be engraved on your gravestone when you die. For you to maybe one day think it was your real name. For it to become a part of you. Little Dove. He didn’t even know why he called you that. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good either. But it wasn’t necessarily bad.

"What are you doing here?" you replied, half-indifferent, reaching out for him to give you back the earbud he’d so brutally yanked. "Killing time. I had a fight with Tashi, so I can’t go to her match. Art’s obviously there because well, he’s in love with my girlfriend." He paused to study your reaction, wanting to see how you’d respond to the fact that Art didn’t love you. That he loved what belonged to Patrick, and you didn’t belong to Patrick, so he would never love you. Not really. Not entirely. "You’re the only person I know here. It’s your job to entertain me," he said, flashing a fake smile.

Everything about Patrick was fake. That was something you’d learned to be indifferent to years ago. Every time he jabbed at you or said something vulgar to disgust you, you knew it was fake. There was no point in taking him seriously. You pitied him the way you’d pity a little kid whose ice cream cone had fallen and no one was willing to buy him a new one. "I’m not a clown, Patrick. I have a test tomorrow," you said and snatched the earbud from his hand. He didn’t retaliate. He simply sat down across from you, examining you more intensely than you were comfortable with. His gaze pinned you like a scalpel. You tried to breathe evenly. He’s always like this. He’s always like this. Remember that he’s always like this, and everything will be fine. This is not the time to panic. Not in front of Patrick Fucking Zweig. He can’t win a war you’re not actively fighting.

"How’s life, Little Dove? Happy at Stanford with Art? Better now that he finally agreed to fuck you?" He was blunt to the point that it made you glare at him and wrinkle your nose for a second. That only deepened the smirk plastered across his face. "Do you need something?" you asked, trying to sound as though his vulgarity couldn’t faze you. As though everyone around you spoke that way all the time. As though your pathetic sex life wasn’t plastered on your forehead like a billboard. He was laughing at you. Patrick Zweig was laughing at you.

The thought that he might know every intimate detail of what you and Art did in bed made your entire body shiver. He could see it on you. He knew he’d won. But you weren’t even playing. You wanted to scream you weren’t even playing. No sound came out. He’d won. He knew it, and you knew it, and there would never be a draw again. Because you would both always know he’d won. That Art had told him how you moan. Maybe Art had even figured out that you fake all your orgasms because you’re probably broken so he told Patrick that too. Maybe it was all more humiliating than you could imagine. Maybe you wouldn’t be able to talk to Art ever again. Maybe-

"You’re overthinking it, Little Dove. I can see it on your face. It’s not that deep," he rolled his eyes and took a bite of an apple he’d pulled out (you had no idea from where). "You can’t eat in here. This is a library," you mumbled, grateful for the change of subject. Any change of subject. You’d be willing to talk about cactuses at this point if necessary. "I’m not a student here," he reminded you, as if you’d forgotten. As if that wasn’t the sole reason for your fleeting happiness- that you didn’t have to see his face here 24/7. Only sometimes. Only when he was visiting people who actually mattered to him.

You put the earbud he’d pulled from you a few moments ago back in your ear, signaling to him that the conversation was over and that you hoped not to see him again for the next year. Or ever, if you're being honest. You wanted to go back to studying in peace. To not think about the brazen guy in front of you. The one so emotionally entangled with the boy you loved that sometimes you felt there was no way to win. No way to beat Patrick Zweig. Because he came gift-wrapped in a package deal with Art. And once, you tried so hard to make him like you. You tried to fit into their conversations, laugh at the crude jokes, nod when Art nodded. Just so Patrick would stop looking at you with disdain, stop looking at you like you were a stray cat too wet to save. Like one that had rabies. Like one that needed to be put down.

He just kept staring at you, eating his apple as if rules didn’t apply to him. As if he were above what was allowed and what wasn’t. Making you hate him a little more, but admire him just as much because you would never have the guts to act like the world belonged to you. You thought it had something to do with the amount of money he grew up with. Art once told you Patrick had two pools (in one of his houses). Who needs more than one pool in a house anyway? But that was all you needed to know about him—he was privileged enough to believe he had the right to treat people like they were beneath him. And you’d never admit it, but you didn’t want to be beneath him. You didn’t want to lose to Patrick Zweig. You didn’t want to lose when you knew the prize was having Art. . . . He finds out that Tashi got injured completely by accident. He leaves you alone in the library because you bore him. You don’t let him sink his claws into you, something he realizes he liked doing only when he's around you. So, he goes out to smoke a cigarette, what else is there for him to do when he’s stuck here while Tashi plays and Art makes eyes at her from the crowd? What else does he have to do when you're sitting in front of a book and ignoring his existence and the nasty words? And then someone said something about seeing Tashi's knee fly through the air, and Patrick’s cigarette fell out of his mouth.

He asked three different people where the athletes' clinic was. Two ignored him, and one gave him wrong directions. He found the clinic on his own, trying to make sense of the campus signage. He felt like it was taking him forever. In hindsight, maybe it was better that it took him longer. Because Tashi looked devastated, Art looked lost, and both of them screamed at him. Art’s scream hurt more. He wouldn’t admit it, but he felt Art’s scream all over his body. It made him shiver.

And that’s how he lost Art Donaldson forever. Checkmate by Tashi Duncan. He didn’t expect that. He thought only you could take his place in Art’s life. Never Tashi. He thought you were the only one Art would lose control for. Maybe he looked at everything wrong. What a terrifying thought, to realize you spent years trying to beat someone without noticing the other players. Absolute blindness. He felt lost. Stuck in your disgusting university. Stuck in the loop that his life dragged him into. No matter how much he tried to think about it in the last half hour, he couldn’t find a way out. He couldn’t see a world where he and Art could be friends again.

‘I've got your bag, you forgot it in the library,’ his phone beeped with a message from you. Another message with your room number. He nodded to himself, even though no one could see. He wiped away some of the tears that had fallen from him, hoping no one would see that either.

He knocked on your door loudly, not caring about the other students living in the hallway. You opened quickly, intending to say everything you think about him, but in the hour and a half he’d been gone from your sight, something in Patrick’s gaze had changed. You’d never seen him like this, and it made you lean against the doorframe, mouth half open. You know for sure that he cried, the trail of tears was obvious. You know for sure that he was confused, his gaze zigzagging. The famous smirk he dedicates to you at every moment wasn’t there.

"Who died?" you asked quietly, because you couldn’t find any other reason for what you were seeing in front of you. He just passed through you, as if your room was his own. As if he had an invitation. As if you had to let him in. "Can I sleep here tonight?" he asked. His leg was shaking. He looked the worst you’ve ever seen him. "What happened to Tashi's room-" "Please (Y/N)," he used your actual name, "I’ll be out of your hair by morning. You won’t even feel like I was here, there are no more buses, and my car’s at the tournament site," he explained incoherently but clearly enough for you to nod. For you to understand that something terrible had happened. Bad enough that he couldn’t sleep at Tashi’s. Bad enough that he couldn’t sleep at Art’s. The thought of it made you cringe because the only thing that could have happened, the only thing that could have caused Patrick to fold in front of you like this-

"Am I overthinking this?" you asked after what felt like an eternity. When you were lying on the bed in the dark, and Patrick was lying on a makeshift pile of sheets and pillows on the floor next to you. You hoped he’d tell you that you didn’t need to think about it too much. That he’d tell you the same thing he said to you in the library. "Not this time," he said almost in a whisper, "I’m sorry," he added. Neither of you knew what he was apologizing for; For how he acted all these years or was he apologizing on behalf of Art? On behalf of the person who until just a few hours ago was his best friend. Patrick thinks an apology won’t be enough for either of you. He tries to sleep. When he leaves, he doesn’t write you a note. But there’s a flash of understanding when he looks at you before he walks out; Art was right, there’s something sweet about you. Patrick will never admit it. But what reason would he have to admit it now? Art is no longer part of his life, and he’s pretty sure Art won’t be part of yours just as quickly. You and Patrick both lost him, you just don’t know it yet. He almost feels sorry about how out of the loop you are. And what connection do you and Patrick have without Art? He thinks he’ll miss you. He saw you move slightly, one leg sticking out from under the blanket. He’s sure he’ll miss you. What a humbling thought. . . . You haven't seen Art for a week. And that's okay. Because he doesn't owe you anything. He made sure to remind you at every opportunity that he doesn't owe you anything. Not with words. Never with words. With actions. By acting like he doesn't see you, even though you both know he does. He never sat with you in the cafeteria. He never introduced you to his friends from the tennis team. He never introduced you to Tashi. He drew a very clear line about who you are to him, and you decided years ago that it's okay. That it's enough for you. That Art is yours in the summer. That Art is yours at night. That Art is yours when he wants to be yours.

He doesn't want to be anymore. You can see it in him because on the rare occasions you do see him in the cafeteria, he looks away the second your eyes accidentally meet his. On the rare occasions you do see him this week, his arm is half-wrapped around some girl you don't know. He's trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. Hurt you without really hurting you. He's trying to remind you that he doesn't owe you anything.

You'll never tell him it hurts. You'll never tell him that when you were ten, your mom, half-drunk, told you that to be loved, you'd have to sacrifice a lot. You don't know why you remember that, but you do. And since then, all you've done is sacrifice and sacrifice and sacrifice until sometimes there's nothing left to give. And now is one of those times when there's nothing left to give. You look at him from across the room, and he's a stranger to you, and you're a stranger to him.

You expected him to say something when it happened. You expected a hug, and if he were sensitive enough, a kiss. You expected life to flip upside down and for the sun to stop rising. But life went on, and your sacrifices stayed behind. Along with secrets and hugs and caresses and tears and memories. So many memories. All of it left behind. You can handle heartbreak. Everyone can. You won't be the first to sacrifice and not be heard by God. You won't be the first to starve yourself, and you won't be the first to wait for a phone call that never came. You won't be the first to cry and cry and cry.

After two weeks, you stopped waiting for a message. You stopped expecting a 'hello' in the hallway. You stopped hoping that Art Donaldson would knock on your door in the middle of the night. After two weeks, you looked at him one last time with pleading eyes. With an almost tortured look. After two weeks, you decided you wouldn't sacrifice anything more for Art Donaldson.

After two weeks, you ordered pizza and ate the whole box. He doesn't love you. He doesn't owe you anything. It's okay. You're okay. If not now, then soon you will be. . . . Art spent all his free time helping Tashi recover. He missed Patrick the way you'd miss a vital organ that had to be removed in an emergency surgery. He missed Patrick's messages from the tour. He missed his stories. He missed hearing him talk about a show Art had never watched and never planned to watch. He missed Patrick, but he had Tashi. He missed Patrick, but it was necessary, and one day he wouldn’t miss Patrick anymore, and he’d still have Tashi.

It’s different with you. He doesn’t just miss you—he’s hollow without you. He doesn’t know who he is without your admiring gaze. Without your nose brushing his in the middle of the night. He doesn’t know who he is without you ever since he learned how your skin feels under his touch. And he thought he’d be brave enough to walk into your room and just tell you that he can’t keep doing what the two of you have been doing your whole lives. He can’t keep playing this game. Because it’s not fair. Because he wants to be somewhere else. Because you weigh him down.

He knew he’d be in trouble if things got too serious with you, so he followed all the rules. He never introduced you to his friends. He never took you on a date. He never called you his girlfriend. He did everything right, and he’s still in trouble. That frustrates him more than anything.

He’s noticed that you don’t seek his gaze anymore. That you don’t try to catch his attention. That you’ve stopped sending him messages. He’s noticed that you understood the painfully obvious hint of “no,” and he hated himself for it. He showered that day for almost an hour. Scrubbed himself until his skin was red. As if trying to wash you off his body. As if trying to cleanse the filth he carries in his soul. As if trying to convince himself he’s not a bad person.

He found comfort in the fact that summer was almost here. That it wouldn’t be up to him. That there would be family dinners. That your parents would invite him, and his parents would invite you. That someone would force you both to be in the same room. He found comfort in knowing he wouldn’t have a choice. He didn’t want a choice. He wanted to see how you were handling it. He always sees you immersed in a book. Immersed in a conversation with someone he doesn’t know. Immersed. So immersed. Once, he thought that look -that ability to see into someone’s soul- was reserved only for him. How presumptuous of him. How foolish. How fucking selfish. . . . Patrick sent you a picture of a pigeon that wouldn’t leave him alone while he was eating pita on a bench in some park. He didn’t know why he did it. You’re not friends. You were never friends. But he saw that ridiculous pigeon and wondered if there was something about it that might remind you of him. He wondered if you and Art were still you and Art. He wondered and wondered until he sent the picture. Maybe you wouldn’t reply, but ignoring something wasn’t your style. You’re too good to ignore someone. You don’t have any malice in you. He doesn’t know when he started thinking you didn’t have any malice, because up until two months ago, he thought you were a scheming witch.

'You don’t know how to take pictures.' -(Y/N)-

'Look at you bothering me while I'm eating, little dove' -P- He smiled as he typed.

'Are you bored?' -(Y/N)-

'Maybe I miss you like you clearly miss me' -P- He didn’t know why he wrote that. He didn’t know what he wanted from you, if he was being honest with himself. But he wanted something. He wanted someone. Everyone deserves someone, and Patrick deserves someone too.

'You’re full of shit' -(Y/N)- He could imagine you rolling your eyes as you typed that. He knows you don’t talk like that. He thinks it’s something reserved just for him.

He decided to call because typing with food in his hand was too much effort. You answered quickly, out of breath. “Are you in the middle of sex?” he asked, unable to stop himself. “Why do you always have to say the grossest thing possible?” you shot back. He was glad you couldn’t see him because if you could, you’d hold the grin on his face against him. “What’s gross about sex, little dove? It’s natural-” “Why did you call?” you cut him off, not giving him any more points. “Just wanted to ask how you’re doing.” His voice sounded smaller. Embarrassed. You’re not friends. You never were. That’s not the nature of your relationship. There’s nothing he loves about you.

“I’m fine. Busy with school.” He could imagine you shrugging. “You’re going home soon, right? Summer break.” He knew what that used to mean for you and Art. He didn’t know what it meant now. He was fishing for answers, trying to figure out where things stood between you two. He wanted to know if Art had cut you out of his life with the brutality of a killer or if he was still keeping you wrapped in a ribbon, belonging only to him. He thought the former sounded more like Art.

“I’m probably staying at Stanford, for obvious reasons.” He could hear your voice, quiet as though you didn’t want to admit it. “It’s not fair,” Patrick said. “You’re supposed to enjoy your summer.” He added, growing frustrated with how inconsiderate Art was, with the monopoly Art held over your shared neighborhood. Bull-fucking-shit; “I’ve got two weeks off, and my parents are abroad. You could come to my lake house if you want a change of scenery,” he said, spitting the words out quickly before he could regret the invitation. Art was the only one who’d ever been invited there.

“That’s nice of you.” You said. He could hear the surprise you tried to hide in your voice. “I mean it,” he said, much more determined now. “It’ll be fun. My parents have the most impressive alcohol collection you’ll ever see.” He didn’t know what he was doing or which part of his brain was speaking for him right now. “I’ll think about it,” you said, wrapping up the call with a few more sentences. It felt like a win. And more than anything, Patrick needed a win. . . . "Is it true?" you heard Art's voice before you lifted your head from the book you were reading. "Hey, Art," you said with the most genuine smile you could muster, ignoring your racing heartbeat that only quickened. The truth was, you hadn’t seen him this close to you in two months. "You’re not going home for the break?" He sat down across from you without an invitation. "Nope," you said, as if it were obvious. As if that had been your plan all along. As if three months ago, you hadn’t whispered to each other in the dead of night all the things you’d do over the summer. As if you’d never loved him.

"You weren’t planning to tell me?" he asked, his gaze never leaving you. All you could do was raise an eyebrow because, honestly, where did he get the audacity? Where did he get the nerve to sit down across from you and make demands? Where did he get the idea that he owed you nothing, but you owed him everything? It’s your fault. You know it’s your fault. You taught him that you’d give every part of yourself for just a sliver of attention. But you don’t need that from him anymore. He’s a stranger. A stranger whose favorite scent you know. A stranger you’ve seen cry at Titanic. A stranger whose taste still lingers on the tip of your tongue. A stranger you know too well.

"No," you answered honestly. Because frankly, what else is there to say to him? "Are you serious? Why aren’t you going home?" he demanded answers. Demanded and demanded and demanded, after you gave and gave and gave. It’s your fault. Your mother’s fault and her foolish advice. You spoon-fed him love. "Because I have other plans. I’m sorry, am I missing something here, Art? We haven’t talked in two months, and I don’t understand what the issue is now." You didn’t want to be rude. Not to Art. Not to anyone. Sometimes to Patrick, but only because he was the most vulgar person you’d ever met. But Art was gentle and sensitive and beautiful, and harsh words had no place in your conversations with him.

"What plans?" he ignored your jab, but you could see him swallow hard, his eyebrows knitting together as if you’d sent him to work in a coal mine all summer. "I’m going to a friend’s," you found yourself shrugging. "Who? Someone I know?" he asked. "No," you felt guilty for the lie, "Why is this your business, Art?" you tried to make him leave or at least give you an answer. "We had plans too," he said quietly, as if revealing one last secret to you.

"I don’t remember." His expression changed in seconds. It was the look you’d only seen when he played tennis or tried to fend someone off you at one of the parties he told you to come to. Ice. He stood up and walked away within moments. Maybe this is the closure you two needed. Maybe it’s for the best. . . . Until the very last moment, Patrick didn’t believe you’d come. He waited for your bus by the side of the road, and when you got off, dressed in a floral summer dress and an oversized hat, signaling to the driver that you had a suitcase in the luggage compartment, Patrick stood frozen in place, his mouth agape. Because if someone had told him six months ago that he’d want to spend his free time in the summer with you, he would have laughed in their face. If someone had told him you’d show up in this remote place, in that ridiculous outfit, he probably would have snorted.

"Little dove, I was sure you’d chicken out," he said. Back when you talked about it, he treated it like a challenge. He spoke about your arrival at the lake house like it was a mission on a reality show. Impossible to pull off, with so much to lose. "I told you I’d come." You shrugged and smiled a smile he’d once seen you give to Art. Patrick had never received a smile from you, at least not a friendly one. Always a fake one. The kind he wanted to wipe off your face. "Are you going to help me with my suitcase, or are you going to keep standing there like a statue?" you asked with a chuckle. Patrick thought he was ready to sell the Porsche he’d come in, just to hear you chuckle again.

"This car is ridiculous," you said as you sat down beside him and raised your hands for emphasis. The convertible top was too much for you. Patrick had chosen this car on purpose. He wanted you to have the full Zweig family summer experience. He wanted you to feel what it was like to be in his inner circle. For a fleeting moment, he thought maybe he could buy your friendship. He didn’t know why he wanted it so badly. He went to sleep with your messages and woke up to them. Neither of you had any other friends, not real ones at least. It would’ve been sad if it didn’t make him so happy. He was such a loser. But it didn’t seem like you cared, and maybe the Porsche would grow on you by the end of these two weeks.

He showed you the rooms and the massive windows that let an unreasonable amount of light into the "cabin," which was supposed to be modest but was larger than most of the houses in your and Art’s neighborhood. Patrick knew that. He studied your reaction to everything he showed you. Watched as you stared at the lake right outside the cabin. Sat on the sofa in the living room for a moment. Placed your belongings in the guest room.

"We need to go shopping," you announced after opening the fridge to find it completely empty. "We don’t have to. You don’t eat anything anyway," he blurted out, and he saw you pale. "What are you talking about?" you mumbled, looking everywhere but at him. "Nothing, I’ve just never seen you eat." He tried to say it casually, but the truth was, it had always preoccupied him. Every time he visited Art in the summer and found himself at gatherings with you, you’d take food onto your plate but never actually put it in your mouth. He couldn’t understand how it didn’t bother Art. He couldn’t understand how Art just ignored it. As if it were completely normal behavior to sit with someone you called your best friend and not eat.

"I eat." Your entire face was scrunched up, the way he’d learned it does when you overthink. When you’re trying to get the most out of a situation you’ve found yourself in. When you’re trying to be nice to Patrick but don’t want to because he doesn’t deserve it. "Whatever, little dove. Let’s go shopping. I’ll show you the main street. There are some cool spots there," he concluded the conversation because he didn’t want to argue. And honestly, it wasn’t his place to comment on your habits. So he decided to let it go.

The main street of the small village you were in was almost empty. It could have been suspicious if Patrick hadn’t been here dozens, if not hundreds, of times since he was born. This was one of his dad’s favorite vacation homes. After an hour of wandering between stores, they found themselves sitting across from each other at a diner. Patrick watched as you ate fish and chips in front of him like your life depended on it. Like you had something to prove. He just rolled his eyes, shoved three fries into his mouth at once, leaned back, and chuckled.

Everything was peaceful. Patrick was sure it would be much weirder, at least at first. But no. You fit into his summer as if you’d always belonged there. From conversations with the elderly neighbors at the cabin next door to the meals you cooked together- it was domestic. Patrick was afraid to talk about how different this was from anything he’d ever done with a girl. He was afraid to mention that you were sleeping in the room that used to be only Art's. He was afraid to admit that he thought you were pretty in a way he hadn't thought before.

He thinks you’re most beautiful in the morning, before you’ve had your coffee. If he’s lucky and goes for a morning run, even before you’ve brushed your teeth. He’s discovered you’re funny. That you can deliver the funniest line with the perfect timing. He thinks it’s because you read a lot. Because you’re smart. Because you know things. He loves that you come to watch him train, even though you’re busy with your own things and only steal occasional glances his way. He thinks he could replace Art in your life. He thinks you think so too.

But deep down, you both know nothing could ever replace Art. And one of the times you’re sitting across from him at the diner, he takes a picture of you sipping a milkshake while smiling and uploads it to Facebook. Because Facebook is the new 'it' thing, and everyone has it. And if Patrick’s lucky, you’ll make it your profile picture. Then he can look at it and remember that he made you laugh, that he made you happy, and for two weeks, he beat Art Donaldson at something. And it felt sweet. So sweet.

The night before you plan to go back to university, you and Patrick get drunk on his dad’s fancy tequila. He’d never seen you drunk before, so like many things, this was new. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and you were wearing shorts that were far too short because August’s heat was unbearable. And the more both of you drank, the fuller your lips seemed to him, the rosier your cheeks, the larger your chest.

He just wanted to touch something. To feel something.

When one thing led to another and you were straddling him, your lips on his, he let out a deep bassy groan he never thought he could produce. Patrick had been with girls before- God knows he’d been with enough girls not to lose his cool over someone agreeing to kiss him. But something about how delicate you were and how much he had hated you a few months ago, how much he’d wanted to erase every trace of you, made him so hard he found himself grinding against you like some kind of desperate dog. He fucked you on the couch in the living room, and though the couch was comfortable, he wasn’t proud of it. He thinks he should’ve restrained himself, taken you to a bed. He thinks you deserve more than him being lazy, drunk, and not at his best. But if there’s one thing Patrick Zweig is terrible at, it’s delaying gratification. And he wanted you so badly. You didn’t seem to mind the location, at least not outwardly.

His lips were everywhere, as if he was trying to swallow you whole in one go. The sounds coming out of you were pornographic. Every so often, the thought crossed his mind that Art was the only other guy who had ever heard you like this, seen you like this- so needy, so vulnerable. It made his cock twitch even harder than it already was.

When he touched you, you were so wet that he told you how dirty you were for him. He talked to you like he still hated you. Like it was all punishment. Like he was about to get up, point at you, and laugh at how pathetic you were. But you couldn’t think about that now. You didn’t have the bandwidth. Not when his hands were teasing your nipple. Not when his lips were marking your neck. Not when he entered you in one hard thrust, making you almost cry out.

At some point, your heels found their way to his shoulders. He looked at your face with the little focus he could muster, and it was a sight he needed to preserve. To remember until the day he died. And he pushed deeper with that thought, drawing sounds out of both of you that neither of you knew you could make. In the end, he felt you clench around him, making him release everything that had built up in his balls with one long groan.

He just lay over you for a few minutes, still wearing the condom. With the sweat, the tears, the marks- you looked so utterly fucked. And it was because of him. He hadn’t felt this proud in a long time.

“So this is what it feels like,” he heard you mumble. “What feels like?” he asked, finding himself playing with your soft hair. “To have an orgasm.”

He hadn’t expected that, so he shifted slightly to look at your face. Your eyes were still glassy. You weren’t focused. If you were, you probably wouldn’t have said that. “What did you say?” he asked, wanting you to repeat it. “I’ve never come before. I thought I was broken,” you chuckled like it was a joke. But Patrick’s heart pounded harder than he expected. He knew for certain that you and Art had slept together before. That wasn’t a secret. He knew you and Art had done things that weren’t just sex even earlier. “You and Art-” He was confused. “I’m not proud of it,” you sighed quietly. “I faked it so he wouldn’t feel bad. I read in a magazine what to do to make it seem real,” you explained quickly, as if saying it faster would make it less scandalous. “You don’t have to fake orgasms to make someone feel good, Little Dove,” he sighed. “You’re the one who's supposed to feel good. That’s the whole point of sex,” he declared, explaining it to you like reciting a rule to a confused puppy.

Patrick needed a win, and this—this was the biggest victory of all times. He had beaten Art Donaldson in every damn set, and it felt so fucking sweet.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve written anything, so this came out super weird and unclear. I hope you like it tho! Please DM me and let me know what you think. That’s it, byeeeeee

[cocoa-mochaa]

can’t stop thinking about The Wild Robot I love it so much 😭 💟💟

[cinamun]

Make it make sense | Next

The Scarlet Oak brought to you by the fabulous @rheya28

[leansquish]

Gifs for my soul

[whatsupidontknow]

She does have astonishing eyes

I know, I know, she’s meant to be ugly, I’m sorryyyyyy

[fanfic-gremlin-ft-trauma]

Some sketches that I actually got around to finishing :)

(ID’s in alt text)

[bittersnsweetz]

if you guys havent read mutually assured destruction by venomouschocolate on ao3, it is one of my favourite krisnix centric fics and i cannot recommend it enough. its so. raw. and emotionally devastating. i started thinking about this paragraph again and had to draw fanart for it

just. the aftermath of everything. the simultaneous pain of relief and the bottomless pit in your stomach when you realise what it all means for you. so much you cannot express in words. so much grief STILL. when you should be celebrating. fucks me up, quite frankly. joyous!

[yugsly]

The way y'all are drawing Huzzle Mug and Bauhauzzo interacting... makes me wanna cry... You Guys Really Get It... you are the understanders...