yeahtimesten

[yeahtimesten]

heat lightning

He isn’t usually an early riser. 

Patrick remembers you told him that you placed the bed next to the window on purpose, so when the sun came up it would pour through the gauzy curtains onto your face. A thoughtful decision among the more careless scatter of objects around your apartment (which in all honestly he also felt had some level of thought behind it he couldn’t comprehend). Regardless, now with both of you squeezing into the twin bed, the hazy light passing through the chiffon is more of an alarm clock for him than you. 

Aimlessly his hand wanders over the hem of your t-shirt. The bed is a bit too small for him, like most of the apartment, but he can’t stretch to get rid of the slowly developing crick in his neck. With your back pressed against his chest, there is no way he could move without waking you up too. 

You’d probably wake up soon anyway; let him borrow a toothbrush and then take him into the kitchen for coffee, asking him to stay for breakfast. He’ll say no and you’ll ask again. Back and forth, until after a couple minutes of this little dance he’ll agree and you’ll smile. He wasn’t even supposed to spend the night. He told himself he wouldn’t, his car still parked outside of the building, but he knows he’ll stay for breakfast anyway.

His finger wraps around a loose thread from your shirt, as the sound of your heavy exhales softens to something lighter. A low, effortless noise as you shift in place, legs moving with a slight stretch before intertwining with his again. 

His hand presses against your t-shirt, resting in the subtle groove between your waist and hip. He has to focus on keeping his touch steady, as the hand gravitates underneath the thin fabric to the warmth of your skin. 

You mumble something that sounds like good morning, too tired to be coherent. For a moment, he rests his palm flat against your stomach, burying his face in your hair and holding you close as he takes in a shaky inhale. The warm, comforting smell pushes his hand to inch its way up to your breast, eventually cupping the mound over the soft cotton of your bra. 

Your lips part with a soft sound he can barely hear over the thumps of his heart, only grounded in the moment by the way your hair brushes against his face as your head turns to meet his. Eyes half-lidded and cheeks flushed, he takes in the lingering drowsiness on your face, slowing each inhale and exhale to the same pace of your warm breaths that brush against the face. His grip on your breast tightens, suddenly feeling his hands are too large and brutish on you, but the thought is drowned out as your lips find his. 

He doesn’t hesitate, tongue pressing against your bottom lip seeking entry. When the warmth of your mouth accepts his, he groans into its depth, closing his eyes as he imagines you swallowing it whole. He can make out the faint rustle of sheets and the way your body moves against his, probably trying to turn to face him and deepen the kiss even more, but his hand slides down from your breast again, back to laying flat on your stomach. Steadier this time, authoritative only in the way an aching body can convey. He holds you still, and when the only sounds are that of your helpless breaths, he lets his hand move down deeper past into the band of your shorts. 

His eyes flutter open with a sudden exhale, as his middle finger grazes the wet mark of your panties. You whimper, and he hooks his pointer to the damp cloth, pushing it to the side and watching your teeth bite down into swollen lips. Not a new sight, but a pleasant one. An instinctive reaction he doesn’t think he deserves to see. He watches the lips part again, as he gently presses the pad of his thumb to your clit, his heartbeat speeding up once more at the gasp that leaves your mouth.  

The soft sound threads together his fragmented assurance in the reality of the moment, echoed through the increasing rhythm of his thumb against your clit. His middle finger pushes his way into you, and he groans alongside the next breathy moan that escapes your lips. Your body moves against his in a wavelike motion, guided by the growing pleasure and pushing your hair back against his face. His mouth finds its way to your ear, tongue tracing the edge of it as he pushes his index finger into your cunt as well. He bites down on your earlobe when you gasp at the added stretch, the sound intensifying the tender desperation in his chest. His free hand sneaks under and around you, holding you close, as he continues to push the fingers of his right hand in and out, attention split between the sounds you make, the smell of your body, and your wetness coating his fingers. 

Your breath hitches, hand reaching for the bed sheet. He feels you squeeze around him as his heart somehow beats even faster. Your fingers grasp the sheets and he groans as one final harsh swipe against your clit sends you over the edge. The sounds of his panting breaths and your high-pitched sighs come together, your body shaking with a delicate tremor. 

He isn’t oblivious to the growing ache between his legs, the straining in his boxers pressing into the plush of your thighs, but he just watches your chest heave in pleasure. He pulls away, to see you properly, letting you fall to your back, eyes half lidded, face completely flushed. Your hair is strewn around the pillow from sleep and satisfaction. Bliss, for you and for him. 

Eyes opening properly, your lips move with your chest up into a breathless smile. He exhales, slow and deep, a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. As your hands move slightly towards him, he instinctively lays back down next to you. Closer, than before, head resting in the crook of your neck. His heart beats against yours at an erratic pace matched by the way your chest heaves with the aftershocks. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, settling in place with a gentle kiss to your throat. 

He lets himself smile into your neck when you chuckle.

author's note: this was really just an excuse to practice writing smut, which isn't something i usually do. shout out to @artstennisracket, @jesuistrestriste, and @newrochellechallenger2019 who really helped me find a balance between being smutty and my own writing style! and @voidsuites and @itsrensfairygardenn to just being angels who gave me the confidence to post this. i may make this into a longer fic? we'll see! thank you for reading, ily all <3

[yeahtimesten]

[yeahtimesten]

ATP as archaeologists

[yeahtimesten]

Party boy Patrick

Moodboard for party people x Patrick

[yeahtimesten]

Me at 3am clicking “keep reading” on the most jaw dropping, earth shattering, pantie dropping, smutty fic when I have to be up in 3 hours

[yeahtimesten]

i’m so glad tumblr isn’t getting banned because no one loves challengers as much as tumblr does. i love it here!!

[yeahtimesten]

I WILL BE YOUR FATHER FIGURE PUT YOUR TINY HAND IN MINEEEEE

[yeahtimesten]

Ok but artrick as both your boyfriend’s moodboard

This vibe

that was the vibe i was going with for my og one😔 (but here’s another anyway! i hope this is clearer!)

[yeahtimesten]

Spot the difference…(You cant)

[yeahtimesten]

[yeahtimesten]

ben, he loved her like he loved no one

the way she laughed and held a smoking gun

the way she always said, “what’s done is done”

but he is not the only one

[yeahtimesten]

you showed up after work, im bathin' your body/touch you in places only i know

art wipes the sweat from his brow, satisfied with temperature currently in the sauna. he flexes his shoulders, muscles relaxing with the heat. art quickly feels himself getting a little too warm, wrapping his towel loosely around his waist and stepping out of the sauna with a sigh of relief. art runs his fingers through his hair, pulling the wet strands away from his face. he sits down on the bench next to his locker mustering his energy to go shower and rinse the sweat off of his body. he flinches slightly when a hand is placed on his shoulder, relaxing when he looks up and sees your face. "how'd you get in here?" art questions you, not mad that you're here. "just pretended i was going to the women's locker.. you told me you would be the only one here today so i thought id come surprise you.." you lean down, kissing the heated skin of his shoulder, admiring the freckles that are scattered over his back. art stands up, dropping his towel on the ground and holding out his hand to you, "come shower with me?"

you're wet and you're warm just like our bathwater/can we make love before you go?

you get up and follow him into the shower room, smiling up at him as he turns the faucet on, shivering at the first droplets of cold water before it turns warm. art rests his head on your shoulder, running his hands down your wet skin. "glad you're here.." he mumbles into your skin, slowly starting to rock his hips into the small of your back. "please can i.." art snakes his arm towards your stomach, moving it down to cup your cunt, nimble fingers trying to swirl around your clit. you moan, tipping your head back onto his shoulder behind you. nodding, you help art guide himself into you, whining at the stretch as art grips your hips so tight he may leave bruises in the shape of his hands. he shudders when he presses himself fully into you, balls smushed up against you in a way that makes you moan and back your hips into him. "you're so fuckin' warm.." he groans into you, obviously exhausted after a long day of practice but you can tell this is what he needs, moving his hips quickly and sharply into you. art moves your body for you, almost using you for his own pleasure, but you don't mind, happy to just have him holding you in the warm rinse of the shower.

the way you say my name makes me feel like im that -/but im still unemployed

"art.." you moan his name, almost feeling like it's being punched out of you with the strength of his thrusts, knowing that if someone even peeked into the locker room they would be able to hear what was going on. you try to hold onto him as best you can, with both of you sliding against each other with the water making your skin slick. art gathers himself enough that he's able to rub at your cit again, and the feeling of his fingers, his cock, his body lean and strong behind you and the water.. it's almost too much. it’s so much stimulation that you find yourself unable to stop your orgasm from crashing over the edge and art is right behind you, pumping ropes of his cum into you and fucking it back in even after he’s got nothing left to give. he doesn’t stop until there’s a creamy ring at the base of his cock and it’s leaking out all over the inside of your thighs, quickly getting washed into the drain. you look behind you and art is almost pouting, sad that evidence of all his hard work went, literally, down the drain. you lean up to kiss him softly, smiling against his lips. "cmon art, ill make it up to you" art matches your smile as you lower your knees to the tiled floor of the shower <3

[yeahtimesten]

jewish patrick posting on main and I will not apologize. I don't really like this one but I wanted to write this because the idea's been swimming around my little jello brain since the holidays. still not proof read and banged out in like a half hour, so it's sloppy but i just want it out there. anyways, as always hope you enjoy this late chanukah fic because better late than never, and feel free to leave tips and such :) much love

Patrick can categorize his fond childhood memories into two categories: the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy (specifically the moments involving Art, girls, beer, or a combination of the three), and holidays. Not the fake holidays, like the massive Christmas party his parents threw each year for “networking” purposes with their primarily Catholic business associates, but the real ones. The ones he’s had to explain to his friends, and the ones he winces at when they horribly butcher the ‘ch’ sound in. 

He can vividly remember being scooped onto his father’s hip, a ball of high energy, wide smiles and a head of curls that grew upwards more than they did down, his mother steadying his hand as he lit the skinny candles stuck into place on the menorah, an heirloom from his paternal side. The fire would shine back in his warm, brown eyes and turn them a deep, rich amber, and he’d scurry off to find whatever incredibly extravagant gift he’d been bought. 

So when it’s finally the first few days before the big old First Night of Chanukah, within your equally big First Holiday Season together, and Patrick’s giddily propping up the menorah near a window, he can’t help but feel a little rush of excitement at getting to explain everything when you say, “Hey, is that the Chanukah thing?” He gives a quick nod, a grin he’s just barely holding back on his lips, as he continues putting everything in proper order. He had to make sure his mom would approve of the set up, whether or not she’d see it. If his mother would approve, meaning not be utterly horrified, that means it’s passable.“Mhm. Don’t you worry, I got you all these sweet-” 

“So it’s like Jew Christmas, right?”

He turns to you slowly, eyes wide and pained like you’d just admitted to cheating. No, actually, this is worse. “Baby… my love…”, he places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it softly, “Never say that shit to me again.” It’s not a genuine threat… mostly, but the comparison irks because, no, it’s not ‘Jew Christmas’. It’s Chanukah, and Chanukah’s Chanukah. So he makes a decision, then and there, to become your personal Chanukah guide. And he takes his position remarkably seriously.

When you return from work the next day, shoulders sore from your increasingly-heavy purse, all you really want to do so bury your face into Patrick’s lap and sleep there. He, though, has other plans, pulling you inside by the hand before you even have the shot to get your boots off. It smells like… hashbrowns?? The scent’s enough to get your mouth watering and your stomach seemingly clawing at your abdominal walls, but Patrick holds you in place. “Eyes closed,” he says with that stupid, gorgeous smirk that you will kiss off of his face later. Not right now, though. You’re too tired. “Patrick, really, can I just-” He presses a finger to your lips, a grin that’s just trying to goad you into doing as he said. You don’t comply though, so he reluctantly hands you a coin. “It’s a little chocolate coin. Go on, try it, they’re terrible.” You unwrap it gratefully, hands faltering when you stare down at the circular candy. “Patrick… why is it… dusty?” You gaze in mild horror at the mysteriously powdery, gray looking thing. That cannot be safe to eat. He shrugs, unphased, padding towards the kitchen. “Oh, they’ve all got this weird, mystery gray shit on them. Ignore that.” You choose to put it on the coffee table when he’s not looking. Just in case.

The rest of the night is just as uninformative as anything taught by Patrick ought to be. He explains the hashbrowns as latkes, and when you ask “What’s the difference?”, his apt reply came: “I dunno.” It’s sweet, though, that he made them for you (he hopes you don’t find the McDonald’s bags from which they came) and when you question, “Why no gafiltee fish?” he looks at you like you’re the most precious idiot he’s ever come across. You guess you know what he must feel like now. “You don’t eat that on Chanukah, babe. And that’s not how you say it, either?” I bite a hunk off a hashbrown, exasperatedly, “Then how do I say it, hm?” He thinks it over a moment with a hum and a tap of his chin. “Oh, you know.” Jackass.

He’s insistent you light the candles for him when the time’s come, but you wave him off. He takes it in stride, mumbling something that must be Hebrew under his breath as he lights them. He’s got a radiant energy to him like you’ve never seen before. One that’s letting that same little Patrick, with the wide smiles and curls that grow upwards, relive childhood just a moment. You think you get the appeal now, even if you’re still thoroughly uneducated, when you see the flickering flames light his eyes up that perfect shade of amber, and he smiles like he’s finally let some weight he’s been carrying for ages go. You wrap your arms around his stomach, chin propped on his shoulder, and you both stand and stare at the small fires flitting about like fireflies tied down by string. It’s perfect because Patrick’s perfect, and there’s still seven more nights of this to go. Gifts are given, accompanied with strings of “I love you”s in his direction and softly spoken “yeah, yeah… I know”s back in yours. But the knit sweater he gifts you is nothing in comparison to just a single kiss, and when he pulls back complaining with a scowl, and a “You taste like McDonald’s hashbrowns, babe”, you can’t even find it in yourself to be mad about them not having been homemade.

[yeahtimesten]

Presenting 1960s! Patrick Zweig: a product of a conversation with @lvrrgirlll and watching a complete unknown!!!

"So you'll come?" Patrick asks, hand digging into his coat pocket and pulling out a lighter. He flicks it open and slowly raises it to the cigarette carelessly dangling between his lips. When he presses down for the light, it only subtly flickers. He tries again in vain, and you just huff out a sigh before reaching for the lighter yourself.

Your hands shiver against the frosty air, but with one strong press you light the cigarette on your first try. He hums pleased and moves to take a proper drag. You catch the impish gleam in his eyes as he inhales. Instinctively, you move your head and narrowly escape the smoke he blows in your direction. Patrick snickers amused at your avoidance and you roll your eyes, taking the cig. He follows the motion of your hand and the corners of his eyes soften as the cigarette presses against your lips.

Your head tilts up as you blow the smoke out, and you feel his hands pull back the cigarette before you can protest. He doesn't take a drag, and you look back to him eyebrow raised. "So" he asks, thumb gently running over the mark your lipstick left.

"No"

Patrick just lets out another laugh, a heartier one. Deep from inside his chest. He smirks once more and raises the cigarette to his mouth, lips encircling the lipstick mark. He stands up, smirk growing. "C'mon," he says.

You roll your eyes before getting up to go with him.

[yeahtimesten]

Lmao all i can think about is fasting and being grumpy together it's not that sexy but it would help me lol, I hate being hungry

writing this at 6 in the morning so pls pls excuse my tired messy brain. i just really wanted to do this cause its cute. also @shecriestotheclickingoftime we got another jew post

You’re staring at his long, mostly-limbs body take up the majority of the couch he’s spread himself out on. “This fucking sucks, by the way.” You roll your eyes, pulling your knees further up towards your chest. “Tell me about it. And don’t curse today.” His voice is mumbled against the cushions, but the tone is just whiney enough that you can still get what he’s trying to say. Something along the lines of, ‘Yeah, but it still sucks.” You’re inclined to agree, though. Sure, if you break fast it’s a big no-no, and you could have your name written out of the “Book of Life”, which was God’s politer way of saying “kill you”, but maybe you’d done just enough good for it to be passable. You’ve gotta remain strong, though, or Patrick won’t. And Patrick’s holding on by a highly-frayed thread.

Frankly, he should be some kind of exception to the rules of Yom Kippur. There is something about kids not having to do it, as far as you can remember, and he certainly composes himself the same way a child might. There’s a case to make somewhere in there, but the growling of your stomach quickly distracted you from it, pulling the thought up and away, somewhere into the stratosphere.

“Baby, are you sure you can’t just sit over here?” If Patrick wasn’t taking the ‘no food’ rule well, he was practically fighting an internal war about the ‘no sex’ one. If Patrick’s got a rule to break, the idea behind it becomes all the more appealing, which is an issue when it's already his favorite thing on planet Earth, and he’s been groveling for “baby, just one kiss” since he woke up about 2 hours after you. It’s never just one kiss, though. Not when he’s got something to prove.

But he looks so dejected, cheek smushed against the cushion that you bring yourself towards him, draping yourself over the length of his body. “Better?”  He nods almost immediately, a soft, content sigh leaving his parted, kissable, really, really pretty lips. God, it’s like he’s infected your mind. You will yourself not to kiss them.

It doesn’t matter because he does it for you, holding your face in his palms like he’s handling a world-famous piece of artwork, soft, caring, oh so tender. One kiss, nothing more than just a kiss, turns into another and another and another. Patrick’s smart about it, just this once. He knows if he escalates things as badly as he wants, the moment ends. And he maybe dies, but that seems like a better fate than facing this raging stomach ache any longer. So he keeps the pace even. Lets you decide how if this is acceptable. It’s more than acceptable, even if it’s technically not, because you’ve waited all day. It’s only a few more hours until you can religiously get away with the consequences of parting his lips with your tongue. 

You wake up in that same position some hours later, unaware of when you’d ever gotten that relaxed, let alone tired enough to pass out on the couch. Patrick’s softly snoring just behind your ear, and the little puffs of his warm breath against your skin are a nice reassurance of his presence, just the way his arms around you are. When you glance out the window, craning your neck slightly uncomfortably for the view, the night sky is twinkling with stars. Oh, thank God.

He’d tried to be good, he really did, but as soon as you wake him up he’s hungry in every way a man can be, and now that the day’s over he gets to indulge in both the physical and mental kinds. And indulge he does.

[yeahtimesten]

Patrick Zweig

[yeahtimesten]

switched it up a little bit… and also my custom photocard 🤭🤭🤭🤭