gggcherry

[gggcherry]

Chapter IX: GAME

Masterlist

Pairing: Art Donaldson x F!Reader

Warnings: The big three – fluff, angst, and smut.

Author's Note: have fun with this chapter :)

GIF Source (I couldn't find the gif when they're at the Cincinnati Masters so let's just pretend that this gif is that gif)

2019. New Rochelle.

You drove the rental through the city, your eyes roaming over the unfamiliar scenery with a languorous curiosity. The sun was hung high, its view unobstructed by the cloudless sky, casting harsh blocks of shadow onto the street. Despite the storm warning, the only indication was the strong gusts of wind that fluttered the tree branches, wrapping the leaves in their grasp and blowing past your car window.

The Authors' Exchange conference was the reason you came to New Rochelle, which would begin tomorrow and expand over three days. Afterwards, you'd drive to Manhattan and stay with Sophie for a week before heading back to San Francisco. The event organizer, Jennifer Roux, had sent you a message earlier in the day detailing the tour of the conference area that would take place after you'd settled in your room.

The GPS's alert chimed for a right turn. You took it and found yourself heading towards a big advertisement that scaled along the side of a building, featuring Art and Tashi prominently. You sucked in a deep breath as old emotions threatened to bubble. You hadn't seen Art in almost ten years, and during all that time, the brief sight of his face, the casual mention of his name were enough to make your heart clench. Affliction, indifference, frustration, and guilt. They all fought one another to claim their place when you tried to place exactly how you felt. But you could never get it right. It was a mess, and it was different every time. But you had moved on. The old feelings were here a moment and gone the next. It dissipated just as you drove past the wallscape advertisement, heading straight for the hotel.

/

Jennifer was much more bubbly in person than in formal emails, which was something you didn't expect. After gushing over your books, she insisted on taking you to your room herself despite your polite refusal. With the keycard in one hand and your suitcase in another, you followed her into the elevator. A voice called out.

"Hold it, please!"

You stepped back as much as you could to make room for the strangers, drawing your suitcase and bag closer to yourself. Hurried footsteps followed by two blurry forms. Jennifer asked for their floor, and the door closed. Your breath caught at the sight of the taller silhouette.

Art.

His name was a noiseless whisper on your lips. His mouth parted slightly, and his eyes widened as they drilled into you. The shock seemed to mask the hurt and guilt behind his features, but you used to know him so intimately, just like how he knew you. Your eyes latched onto his face, tracing the familiar traits that had changed slightly over time. He looked good, even though you didn't want to admit it. His hair was shorter than when you saw him last. His face was sharper and more angular, as if time was an infatuated sculptor obsessed with their subject, barely taking away his youthfulness and leaving his beauty whole. Your eyes locked, its pull intense and undeniable. A movement drew your attention away from him to the little girl he was with. Her hand was clasped in Art's, and the other tugged on yours.

"Hi."

Her timid voice broke the spell. You forced your eyes away and looked down to address her. Her sweet, innocent face beamed as you crouched down to her level. She looked so much like her mother, but you could see traits of Art in her as well. You responded with a smile of your own.

"Hi."

"I like your cherries."

She pointed to the charm on your bag.

"Thank you. Do you want to feel how soft they are?"

She nodded eagerly. You held out your bag, and she carefully petted the synthetic fabric. She squeezed the cherries in her hand, and you took that moment to ask.

"What's your name?"

She looked up at her dad, and only after getting a nod of approval from him did she turn to you.

"Lily."

You smiled warmly at her, even though your insides were punctured with a thousand little cuts.

"What a pretty name."

Her toothy smile deepened as she shyly thanked you. You introduced yourself.

"I like your name."

"Aww, thank you. You're so sweet."

"This is my dad."

Lily let go of the cherries, using both of her hands to tug on Art's attention, which was temporarily reserved for you. She craned her neck to look up when her dad failed to respond.

"Daddy, say hi."

"I–"

You stared at him, wondering if he was going to say anything at all. But you'd never know. The elevator dinged, announcing your floor. You stood up, extending a sweet smile to Lily.

"This is my floor. It was nice to meet you, Lily."

You rushed out with your luggage, and thankfully, Jennifer was right behind you. The elevator doors closed, and you looked away, refusing to make eye contact with Art despite him seeking you out.

Jennifer left quickly after walking you to your room and reminding you of the tour. In the quiet room with only the hums of the air conditioner presented, you sat on the pristine full bed, your luggage forgotten on the side. Pressing a hand to your chest, you could feel your heart's frantic beat as the memories of what happened years ago came rushing back all at once.

2009. Stanford.

After the fight, nothing was the same. There was a passiveness in your relationship that you were forced to come to terms with. You could keep yourself suspended in denial or cut yourself free of the entanglement and the exertion to keep up the illusion. And you chose the latter. Art rarely called and texted, and even when he did, your conversations were brief and awkward. You took his lack of contact as a sign for you to step back. You ceased all communication with him, even though you still kept his number on your phone. You even went as far as avoiding places you often went to with him. Art seemed to know not to visit the coffee shop. Eventually, by the end of that summer, you fell out. There was no final explosive fight, no goodbyes. Things just ended.

But your mind always strayed back to him. How you'd been a bother, you'd been too much, and this distance was his way of telling you that. The way you completely depended on him for comfort after Christmas made you wince in embarrassment whenever you thought of it. Perhaps he felt like you were a burden. You took that as the truth, and no matter what Art might tell you then, it could never change your mind.

In the two years that followed, unexpected yet welcoming changes were made. Your story was featured in the Stanford paper as the first-place winner's prize, along with a cheque for $500. The exposure caught the eye of your current literary agent, Avery Clarke, who then showed interest in the possibility of representing you. She was from a small agency that focused on finding new writers. After reading through your collections of short stories and much anticipation, she decided to take you on her team. You spread yourself even thinner across school, work and writing. Your book took form in the dimness of late nights, many of which you were accompanied by your roommates. And the hard work paid off. Three publishers expressed their interests, and after a long conversation and lots of consideration, you decided to go with The Paper House. Now, you were waiting in a nervous yet content state while Avery worked on negotiating the finer details of your first book deal. Life and new purposes took over the place Art used to be. But, eventually, he found his way back into your life, as if there was an invisible thread that connected you, and Art was pulling on it.

/

It was early October. You remembered it so clearly. The air was brisk, and the sun was warm, making the perfect weather that you were looking forward to enjoying. Your shift at the cafe ended in the early afternoon. When you came out from the back, Art was there, standing by an empty table near the entrance. He looked good, as he always did. The soft smile that was one of your many weaknesses played with your heartstrings, making your breath catch in your throat. In a polo shirt and jeans, he looked like he came here just for you, and this wasn't a standard smoothie run. His lips parted, and his throat worked to form what he had planned to say into audible words. But you got to it before he did.

"What are you doing here?"

"I … I just wanted to talk to you."

You responded to that with a discontented hum. Art picked up on it.

"I saw that you got a book deal on the newspaper. Congratulations."

You nodded warily.

"Thank you."

"How do you feel about it?"

You shrugged.

"Just fine. It's just a book deal. It's not like it will define my career or anything."

Art laughed softly at your sarcastic response. The low vibrato reminded you of how much you'd missed it.

"Do you want to talk about it over a coffee?"

His tone was casual, yet there was a deliberate calculation as if he was laying down a chess piece and waiting for your next move. You arched an eyebrow at your surroundings.

"Here?"

"No. Somewhere else."

His smile was endearing, and you found yourself persuaded by its charm. You reluctantly agreed. On the stroll to the all-day breakfast bar nearby, the two of you walked side by side but left a distance in between. Your conversation remained formal, but after you'd sat down for some crepes and waffles, it returned to a liveliness that it hadn't been for two years.

"You'll do great. I read your story in the newspaper."

Your eyes on him were nothing if not skeptical.

"You have?"

Not that your win was kept a secret. You just didn't think Art was keeping up with you after your fallout.

"Of course I have. I read the whole thing in one sitting. You have such a brilliant way with words."

You rolled your eyes playfully, and your cheeks warmed at his compliment.

"Thank you. That's just one story, though. How are you so sure of it?"

"I just know."

His smug smirk drew a chuckle from you. Your talk, just like your food, was piquant and smooth. You missed the conversations you had, the casual flirtiness, the way being yourselves felt so easy, like how it was meant to be. You took a sip of your water, watching Art staring back at you from the other side of the table. You tilted your head, enticing him to speak his mind.

"What happened to us?"

"You know damn well what happened."

He chuckled, but when he talked, there was no trace of humour.

"I know. It was my fault. I'm sorry for acting like a dick to you. For what it's worth, I liked you a lot …"

You stayed quiet at the past tense use.

" … and I would be lying if I said my feelings for you had completely gone."

You placed your fork down and levelled him with a guarded stare.

"What are you saying?"

Art took a moment as if he was giving his words great consideration. And after what felt like an agonizing wait, his voice carried the significant weight of his confession.

"I still like you."

You let it settle in. This moment had passed through your head many times before, but you never thought it would come true.

"What about Tashi?"

"There's nothing going on between me and her."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm being honest. The last time we talked was two years ago. During the summer break, actually."

"Why me? Why now?"

"I was a fool messing up what we had."

And there it was. All that you wanted to hear. Art admitted that there was something akin to love between you, before everything that happened. Your hope was a small ember, and all it needed was the tiniest spark to burst into flame. Your eyes locked with an intensity that nestled deep in your bones. Neither of you could look away.

"Are you asking me for a second chance?"

"No. I'm asking you if I deserve one."

"We'll see."

You continued to see Art after that. It was a second chance at being casual friends, and things almost went back to how it was before. But something was different this time.

You remembered not leaving Art's single room until the morning the night you slept with him for the first time. It had to be his room because, by that point, Ashley and Grace were unaware of your involvement with Art. If they did, they would strongly oppose your reunion, as they knew all too well about the aftermath in 2007.

His skin was soft and warm, and the way he draped over your body made you arch against him for more. Art kissed his way down to your body, worshipping every inch of your skin with fervour kisses, drawing whimpers from your clenched lips. As eager as he was to taste you, the man knew how to tease you until you begged for it. And when he did, your body shuddered in response. He worked you up with his tongue, swirling it over and over on your dripping lips and sensitive clit before dipping it into your entrance. Your hips bucked into his mouth, seeking for release, but he had none of that. With one hand over your belly, holding you down, the other was two fingers deep into your cunt; he was relentless. You came quickly after that, and all you could think of was how much you wanted him. You pulled him up to meet your lips in a sloppy kiss. Your hand skimmed down the length of his torso, and when you almost reached what you wanted most at that moment, he stopped you with a hand on your wrist. His flushed face tinged with a little embarrassment, and the stickiness under your calf told you what you needed to know. You shared an awkward laugh, and you pulled his face down so you could kiss his forehead. Pushing him back onto the bed, you took over by crawling down the length of his body until you reached his leaking cock. You touched him with tenderness, and it didn't take much coaxing and sucking until his cock became hard again. Art was gentle and took his time with you, slowly working you up to your climax with his thickness pushing all the way in and out. In the final moments, your bodies worked in tandem; your hips were pressed flush against each other. The fervorous thrusts, the barely contained moans and the creaky sound of his twin bed helped create an obscene sound in the small room. You came just moments before he did. Afterwards, as you basked in the afterglow and the sweat of your bodies, you chuckled to yourself.

"If we did this two years ago, we wouldn't have broken up at all."

That drew a laugh out of him. You found yourself falling for Art again. He felt the same. Your lives were better with the other in it, and that was enough. You didn't put a label on your relationship, but you mutually agreed that you were exclusively seeing each other. The ever-evading title wasn't a cause for concern, especially now that Art hadn't talked to either Tashi or Patrick in a while. You were surprised when you found out about the latter but didn't inquire further. All you cared about was Art, and how good it felt to have him back.

2010. Mason, Ohio.

Art had been on a good streak during the Cincinnati Masters tour. He was heading to the next rounds with ease. And you were there to cheer him on for every match. You graduated with honours back in May, and now that your first book was on its way to the production stage, your life finally felt like it was under your control. The water was still and peaceful, but you should have known better than to blindly believe that nothing could disturb it. The ripple came in with shoulder-length hair and a slim body, the object of your deeply rooted self-contempt, of the haunting idea that you weren't good enough for Art despite telling yourself that you weren't the same person anymore. You had changed.

But some things were harder to forget and forgive.

You were watching Art and his coach practicing from the outside of the fence when Tashi came in. When you noticed her, she waved, her languid pace undisturbed, as if she was in control of everything and everyone around her. Helplessness surged as you thought about how Tashi was too close to Art for your own comfort. You put on a smile, hoping that it didn't look strained.

"Hey Tashi."

"Hey. It's nice to see you again."

"You, too. How have you been?"

"Oh, uh, I've taken some time off tennis to recover."

You thought it was strange how Tashi seemed to think of herself as a tennis player first and a normal person second. But since she mentioned that, you asked.

"When can I see you back in court?"

Tashi went quiet at that. She briefly looked down at her shoes before answering.

"I'm not sure yet."

There was a kind of pensive sadness in her eyes, and you found the Tashi in front of you now were miles away from the Tashi you often watched on the tennis court a few years ago. Your heart broke for her. Tennis seemed to be her whole life, and from the sound of her answer, it was now something that would always be out of reach.

"I'm sorry. I thought you were here to compete as well."

"No, I'm not. I'm just Katerina's hitting partner. She's the one who's competing."

Tashi looked over to Art and waved at him. You craned your neck to see that Art had seen her as well, his hand lowered from reciprocating her. She then turned to you.

"Anyway, I'm here because they told me that Art was here. And I wanted to talk to him."

You nodded and looked at your watch.

"I think he'll be done soon."

His practice ended five minutes later. You walked to him, and your innate need to stake your claim compelled you to put on a show. You pulled Art into a hug despite the playful protest he put on because of his sweaty shirt, and when you pulled away, you kissed his cheek and whispered.

"Looks like you guys need to catch up. I'll leave for the restaurant and get us a table. I'll see you there?"

"See you there."

You left the court, but not before looking back to see them talking. You turned away as old insecurities threatened to resurface.

/

After that day, Tashi sat in the audience for Art's matches. You knew because she often opted for the bottom row while you went for the higher view. During Art's semi-final, you couldn't be there as you had a meeting with Avery and The Paper House in Norwood. You made it to the court as the match had ended; some people were waiting around for Art's signature and photos. You weaved your way into the court and stopped dead at the entrance. Even though they were only talking, your jealousy and insecurities coloured it into something else. They looked good together. Her height almost matched his. The way Art listened to Tashi, his attention was fully wrapped in every syllable she uttered and hand gestures she made. You stayed quiet for most of the ride back to the hotel, even though you should've put on a smile, a show, anything because Art made it to the final. Later that night, during dinner, the weight of your thoughts had become so unbearable that you surrendered yourself to its whim. You didn't even look away from your plate when you spoke.

"It's nice to see Tashi doing so well."

"Yeah, it is. She had a tough time after her injury."

"Oh yeah? How do you know?"

"She told me."

"Oh, right."

You fell into silence again. What Art had to say next drew your attention away from the dinner that you had no appetite for.

"I'm thinking of asking her to be my assistant coach."

You angled your head to look at him fully. Apprehension filled your tone.

"Why?"

"I think … she can make me a better player."

"But you're already great. You're in the final. You've beaten so many guys to get here."

"I want to be better than great."

You leaned back on your chair.

"And you think Tashi can help you with that?"

"Yes, she gave me some helpful tips after the match. She really watched the way I play and gave me corrections and they were things I didn't even notice."

You looked away from Art, your voice verged on bitterness with sarcasm as its coat.

"Right. To me it sounds like you want to spend more time with her."

"We were friends."

"Just like how you and I are friends?"

"That's unfair. It's different with us. We're seeing each other."

"But we're not exactly dating, are we? You're not my boyfriend, and I'm not your girlfriend."

"Isn't that what we both agreed on? That we would take it slow?"

You didn't like it, but he was right. Your answer was only a whisper.

"Yes."

"I guess we can both agree on that, then."

Dinner ended in an uncomfortable silence. It stretched on as you ignored Art on your walk back to the room. Tension brewed and bubbled, and it was only a matter of time before it exploded. You dropped your bag on the desk with a heavy thud, and Art couldn't stand your deliberate shun anymore.

"Could you please tell me what I did wrong?"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong."

You shrugged, pretending to be busy with unloading your bag.

"Can we not do this, please? Can we just celebrate my win tonight?"

"You can celebrate with Tashi."

Art was taken aback by your words if his brief silence was an indication.

"Why would you say that?"

"Go ahead, and call her. You have my permission."

He touched your arm, which was still moving as if you suddenly needed to empty everything.

"Please, stop. Can you please look at me?"

You jerked your arm away from his touch and whirled around to face him.

"Be honest with yourself. Don't you want to spend more time with Tashi? Don't you wish that she was here right now, in my place?"

"Is this because I talked to her? You can't possibly condemn me for that."

"Yes, I can! You basically ignored me when she came around three years ago after her break up with Patrick, who was your best friend, by the way. Sorry if I'm still sensitive about it."

Art stepped back as you leaned onto the table. It felt nice and awful at the same time, being able to say what you'd thought about.

"Tashi's just looking out for me. She sees who I can become, and I can become so much better."

"What about me? What about what I think? I think you're great already."

Art's face was flushed with a simmering anger.

"If I'm so great, why have I never won a game against a nobody?"

It took you a moment for it to click in. He was talking about Patrick. It renewed the anger inside of you.

"For fuck's sake! Is that all you guys talk about? Fucking tennis?"

"It's what I do."

"You know she's just using you to get back to tennis, right? It's all she's ever talked about."

"It's what we're both passionate about."

Art's willful ignorance irked you, and you exploded.

"Can't you see it? She wants to get back out there as a player and she can't and it's making her miserable. One day, you'll realize she has never seen you more than a mean to live through."

He pointed an accusing finger at you, and you felt like you were pinned down under his gaze.

"That's cruel, and you know it."

"It's the truth."

Despite the nonchalance in your tone, your voice said otherwise. You didn't even realize the tears that had run down your cheeks. Art's red-rimmed eyes stared back at you. His jaw ticked, working to put the thoughts in his head into words. And they cut deeper than a knife.

"This relationship will never work if you can't trust me."

"I'm sorry that I have trust issues. It's not like you've never given me any reasons to doubt you, right?"

"Are you talking about Tashi again?"

"Of course I am. She's always been a problem to us."

"No, she's not."

"Yes, she is."

Your name formed on his lips, a beautiful sound in the gravel of his voice.

"I love you."

The argument that poised on your lips held itself in place. You felt like the air in your lungs was sucked out of you in the three syllables that Art uttered. The world slowed, and you could hear the thunderous beat of your heart. If this was a perfect world, you would be over the moon. You would kiss him until neither of you could breathe and whisper those words back to him, and everything would be fine. But this was the real world, and you were a creature of pragmatism and self-destruction. Your voice shook, knowing that this would be the end of you and Art.

"Do you really love me for me, or do you love me because Tashi wasn't there?"

"How could you say that?"

"Let's be honest with ourselves. You know it, and I know it. You've always loved Tashi more. For as long as she is around, I will always be second. And I really, really, don't want to feel that way again."

Art shook his head. You closed the distance in between and held Art's face in your hand. You caressed his jaw, smudging the wetness on his cheek and whispered.

"You can love more than one person, Art. I just don't want to be put second to someone else. I don't want to wait around for love and, approval and affection. I'm tired of having to beg for it, like I did with my parents."

Art held onto your wrist, squeezing it softly.

"Please don't leave me."

With an equally shaky voice, you forced yourself to say it.

"I need you to make up your mind. Or else, I will do it for you."

"I can't."

"I know."

The finality of your situation settled in, and deep down, you knew that it was for the best. You wouldn't be able to support Art like Tashi would. Tennis was everything to Tashi, and you, on the contrary, were only an outsider looking in. She would be able to help Art achieve his professional goals. What would a writer like you have anything to offer to an athlete like him?

"Can you hold me until I fall asleep, please?"

You nodded, kissing his forehead. You settled in the softness of the bed, with his head on your chest. He slept soundly next to you while you were wide awake. Morning came, and you quietly packed your stuff and left. No note, no goodbye. There was nothing else you could say that could change the situation. Even though you blocked his number, you still looked out for news of him. You convinced yourself that you were okay with your decision. You were selfish; you couldn't share. You'd rather have none than half of him. In the end, you were unable to come to a compromise. You left Art, knowing that he loved you, too, and that somewhat soothed the ache that seemed to be a permanent attachment to your heart.

The news of his engagement to Tashi was everywhere in 2011. Your heart shattered all over again. Even though it caused you so much pain, you still tried to be happy for him. You truly loved him with every fibre of your being. But from then on, you avoided news from Art, hoping the physical and virtual distance could heal you.

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[gggcherry]

Snickerdoodle pt. iii

(Halloween special)

pairing: Art Donaldson x reader summary: The fall fest rolls around. You and Art are part of the parent committee. An unexpected meeting leads to another moment in a parking lot. warnings: smut 18+, car sex, piv, cheating, description of panic attack word count: 3.6K a/n: This part gives a bit more context to each of their lives. It doesn't really progress the plot very much, but I enjoyed writing it. previous part here

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

It’s a Wednesday afternoon. The house is quiet, free of the frenetic energy that children bring. Kaleb is still at school, and you’d taken the day to finish preparing your baked goods for the fall fest on Friday. The only noise to be heard is the sound of Art panting into your ear.

“Oh…f-fuck… please, please.”

Halfway through decorating the sugar cookies, he’d started pressing kisses to the side of your neck. You had tried shooing him off, but it was to no avail.

That’s how you end up pressed against the kitchen counter with your dress bunched up at the hips. One strap is halfway down your arm as Art frantically ruts into you from behind.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans into your neck. 

He has one hand holding your hip in place while his other arm pins your back against his chest. In between thrusts, he uses one hand to greedily palm at your breasts.

When you start clenching around him, Art snakes a hand around to your front. He moves his fingers to where his cock is throbbing inside you. He groans at the wetness that has seeped out of you and collected at his base. You moan when he drags his fingers up to rub desperate circles over your slippery clit.

“Want you to cum, ah, need to feel it baby, please,” he pants.

It isn’t long before you’re throwing your head back and squeezing around him.

Ѽ

“Now, will you please let me finish these cookies?” You huff. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you come over.”

He snorts. “You said you could use the help.”

“Well that’s when I thought you’d actually be of some help.”

He grins at you with lidded eyes.

The truth is Art did come over to help you, but he also came because watching you bake has become one of his favorite things to do. Since the two of you have started seeing each other more often, he’s started spending time at your place during the weekends when Kaleb has to stay with his dad. Though you don’t admit it, he’s noticed that you tend to bake when you’re worried. Art thinks it must take your mind off of things. It’s as if you go on autopilot. You disappear into the task as everything fades to the background. It reminds Art of what tennis used to feel like.

The baking also reminds him of his grandmother. Before she moved to the nursing home, she would always bake cookies for Art when he was young. He’d know because the sweet aroma would fill his nostrils upon entering the front door.

Sometimes, he was able to watch her bake and take in the entire process. It was calming for him to observe all the various steps and pass her different ingredients. He wondered how she knew the exact amount to add, and she’d tell him it was because of “years and years of practice.” Art quickly grew fond of the idea of building something up from scratch. And he learned that through lots of practice, you could make something really sweet.

So, in a way, you remind Art of his grandmother. He doesn’t tell you that though because he doesn’t think that’s the best thing to say to someone he’s just been balls deep inside. He does tell you, however, that he likes seeing you like this.

You look up at him in between adding orange icing to a cookie. Some of the icing spills onto the counter as you tilt your head and furrow your eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

He gestures around the kitchen. “It’s nice, you know, being able to watch you make something.”

Though you’re looking down at the cookie, he sees the smile splitting your lips open. Art leans forward and swipes the icing from the counter with his index finger before popping it into his mouth. He smiles at you around his finger, and you flush as warmth spreads throughout your body.

Ѽ

“Nancy,” you start. “I just finished setting up this entire table. I am not moving all of this again.” You gesture to the spread of homemade cookies, pumpkin shaped cake pops, and pretzel rods dipped and drizzled in orange, black, and purple icing and sprinkles. The cookies themselves were a pain to arrange. You wanted there to be an even number of skull and jack-o’-lantern shaped sugar cookies on each platter. And each cookie needed to be facing forward. You didn’t think you had the patience for some snaggletoothed kid to ask what’s this? And plant their finger right on the cookie only to decide they hate pumpkins and leave it there. 

“Okay!” She says defensively. “I just wonder if it’s such a good idea for the sweets table to be so close to the bouncy house. I wouldn’t want the kids to get sick.”

She turns to assess the giant inflated pumpkin. “I’d say they probably need a good 50 feet to walk and let the cookies settle before they start jumping up and down…don’t you think?”

You stare back blankly at the woman. “You just had me move because you said the smell of the petting zoo might ruin appetites.”

“And it could!” She whips her head back around at you, her blonde bob slapping the side of her face. “Those baby goats are cute, but they don’t smell great hon!”

You fold your arms.

“Alright.” Nancy raises a hand with a shake of her bobble head. “We won’t move,” she relents, “but could you maybe just tell each kid to eat their treats at the table, you know just to make sure they stand around for a couple of minutes before running to the bouncy castle?”

You start to tell her that it’ll be hard to control what a bunch of excited, elementary schoolers do after they get some sugar in them, but decide it’s not worth arguing with her. You glance over at her husband, Frank, who has set out his red and black folding chair next to the drink cooler. She’d instructed him to make sure each kid grabbed one drink at a time because “lord knows we’ll be picking up half full juice boxes all night.” Without so much as a glance, he’d mumbled a well versed “yes honey” and sat in his chair, staring into the distance and scratching his chest.

You decide to take a page out of Frank’s book.

“Sure, Nancy.”

Ѽ

Your table proves to be a popular one. You’re not even halfway through the festival, and most of your cake pops are gone, and the sugar cookies are depleting by the minute. You blame Art for being such a distraction that you didn’t think to bake more cookies just in case. Once he’s done with face painting duty, you plan on letting him have it.

You’re counting how many jack-o’-lantern  cookies are left on the platters when a voice interrupts you.

“I always did love your baking.”

“Chris? What are you doing here?”

Your ex husband is standing in front of you, hands in his pockets as he smiles down at your spread of goodies.

He makes his way over to your side of the table. “My boy practically begged me to come, so of course I had to show up.”

You turn and purse your lips. “Well I hadn’t heard from you so I assumed you weren’t coming. They took your name off the list at the PTA meeting.”

“Dad!”

You look over to see your son barreling towards his father. He laughs reaching out to haul him up into the air. His little pirate hat goes crooked on his head. “You came!”

“Yeah, man, I told you I would!”

They fall into their own conversation as you help serve treats to some other kids that have wandered to the table. Despite your feelings about Chris, you can’t help but smile at the sound of Kaleb’s giggles. You’re glad that his dad’s presence brings him so much joy. You remember a time when you too felt that unyielding happiness around him. That flutter in your belly and the warmth in your chest that can only be characterized as pure, genuine fondness. God, you were so fond of him.

At the time, you thought you could never experience anything better than that. It’s why you agreed to marry him. And why you also agreed to stopping your birth control. Knowing he wanted to start a family with you made you love him even more, because to have a child with someone is to irrevocably tie yourself to that person. Being loved by Chris was your point of reference for so long.

But that was before.

Before he decided you weren’t enough for him, before he decided to be withholding, before he made you feel unlovable. It turns out that having a child with someone isn’t the symbol of unconditional love that you’d believed it was. Once you had removed the rose tinted glasses, you were able to see that love isn’t something that’s promised to you. Even if someone makes that promise to you, the love itself may not endure. You’re not sure how much control Chris really had when it came to loving you. You’re still figuring out what love entails when you’re not with him.

Now, you just hope that Kaleb will never learn what it’s like to not be loved by his father. That he’ll never have to vie for his affections nor his attention. That he will always feel held by his love and not stifled by it.

You feel something poke your hip, jolting you from your thoughts. It’s Kaleb, pressing his plastic pirate’s hook into your side to get your attention. You grab the hook in your hand, reminding him to be mindful of the point. He offers you a sheepish, snaggletoothed smile. “Sorry.”

You sigh and run your hands over his curls before gently tugging his ear. It’s a habitual motion that began when he was a toddler. He could be a little rambunctious, running around the house in nothing but a pull-up to avoid bedtime. When you’d finally catch him, you would ruffle his hair and gently pinch his little ears, calling him a silly monkey. He would erupt into fits of giggles before breaking away again making “ooh-ooh ah-ah” sounds.

Kaleb takes his arm behind his back in an effort to control his hook. “Dad said I can go with him tonight!”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah! Said once this is over we can go have some real fun!”

Chris laughs, patting Kaleb’s shoulder.

“What does that mean? Real fun?” You raise an eyebrow at your ex.

“Oh Christ! I’m just gonna take him to get some ice cream or something,” he says.

“I’m just trying to make sure my son doesn’t pick up any of your…” you look over him from head to toe, “… bad habits.”

He rolls his eyes.

“But yeah, that’s fine,” you sigh. “Do you have the booster seat?”

“Yeah, and it’s the perfect height for him to see the girls at the strip club tonight,” he cracks a smile like it’s the funniest thing ever.

Kaleb catches sight of a classmate and almost knocks his dad over in his haste to run to them. Chris shouts “Be careful!” before glancing over at you and chuckling.

You curl your lip in disgust before turning toward the couple approaching your table and offering them a bright smile. You can feel Chris’ eyes on you as you move to serve them. Once they’ve gone, you turn to him.

“Is there a reason you’re still standing here?”

He chuckles. “How do you know I didn’t want some of your cookies?”

“Okay, well what are you getting?” You ask impatiently.

He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he runs his thumb over his bottom lip and smirks, “You look really good.”

Your stomach twists.

“I miss you.” He searches your face. “You know that?”

You scoff. “No you don’t,” you say definitively before turning away from him.

You then notice that Art is making his way over to your table. He’s wearing the same black and orange “fall fest committee” shirt that you are, but his figure fills it out much better than you can. His jeans are hanging effortlessly on his hips, and you think that if he hadn’t stuck with tennis all those years, modeling would’ve been a great second option.

Your field of vision gets cut off by your mosquito of an ex husband. You literally swat at him to move away, but he’s still smiling at you.

“Please just get whatever you’re gonna get and leave me alone.”

He reaches for you. “C’mon, baby, don’t be like that.”

You yank your arm out of his reach, sending him a warning glare.

He ignores the warning, stepping closer to you to lean down near your ear. “You know every time I come pick up Kaleb, I just think, God, what will it take for me to get those pretty legs open again?”

A loud smack resounds as his head snaps to the side. You’re gritting your teeth. “Fuck you.”

He holds his cheek from where you’ve smacked him, a tiny smirk etched onto his face.

You point your finger at him. “How dare you? How dare you come to me with this shit! You have a fucking fiancée!” Your hands have started to tremble as your anger rises. “I mean, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?? You don’t get to treat me the way you did then come here saying shit like that!”

You don’t realize that Art has been standing there. He sees your trembling hands and glassy eyes and subtly positions himself between the two of you. “Is everything okay?”

You’re still glaring at your ex as if daring him to say something else.

Like the coward he is, Chris lowers his voice like he’s talking to a rabid animal. He tells you that you need to calm down before turning to Art. “Yeah, man, everything’s fine.” It’s just like him to make it seem like you’re the one who’s unhinged in the company of outsiders.

Thankfully, Art isn’t just some person.

He fully stands between the two of you, blocking you from Chris’ sight. You hear him say, “yeah well it doesn’t seem like it, man.” The muscles in his back are tense and his shoulders are square.

Chris sounds like he’s about to say something, but Art doesn’t let him finish. “I think you should leave her alone.”

You swallow and look down at your shaky hands willing them to be still.

Chris makes a move to step around Art. His jaw is clenched tight. “Respectfully, I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

Art lets out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. It wasn’t a request,” he says.

A second or two passes by as the two men stare at each other. Chris squints at Art, throws a glance around at you before stepping back with a laugh. He shakes his head assessing the way Art has planted himself in front of you. His eyes drop to where you’re fisting the end of Art’s t-shirt in an attempt to calm your nerves. He mumbles something about not being surprised but continues his retreat. “I’ll drop Kaleb off Sunday night,” he announces over his shoulder.

Once he’s gone, Art turns to you, rubbing his palms down your arms. “Hey,” he bends down to look you in your eyes. “You’re okay.”

It only makes your lip tremble more, the anger from earlier dissipating as something else takes over. Art tells you he’ll be right back. You bring your arms over your chest as your breathing gets heavier. The ruckus in the air is starting to feel suffocating. Your ears are ringing and you begin to feel tingling in your cheeks.

When Art comes back, he has Nancy’s husband, Frank, in tow. He tells him something, but you can’t hear him over the sound of your own heartbeat. You’re gasping for air. You barely pick up Art’s voice saying “come with me.” You let him take your hand and lead you out of the chaos.

Ѽ

The sound of Art’s car door shutting makes you realize that your face has stopped tingling. You blink as your breathing returns to normal and the static-like ringing in your ears fades away. You rub your palms over your fabric covered thighs and take one big breath before exhaling. Something moves in your peripheral vision, and you glance to your left. Art is sitting in the driver’s seat, but most of his upper body is facing you. His soft eyes watch you with a patience that makes you want to cry all over again. You reach for him.

Art immediately pulls you to him, letting you settle in his lap as you wrap your arms around his neck and rest your head on his shoulder. He presses a kiss to your head.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” you mumble into his shirt.

“Baby,” he runs a hand over your back.

“No, it was pathetic. I can’t believe I let him get under my skin like that.”

“It was a panic attack. It’s not your fault,” Art murmurs into your hair. “And that’s exactly why he did that. He wanted to get a reaction out of you. Don’t blame yourself.”

You lift your head up to look at him. You search his face. All you find is sincerity.

You brush your thumb over the skin behind his ear and lean in. Your noses gently bump against one another before you’re pressing your lips to his. It’s soft, slow, and deliberate. Art places his palm flat against the small of your back as he returns the kiss with equal tenderness. Through your lips and your tongue, you try to tell Art everything you aren’t able to say with your voice. And if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was telling you the exact same thing back.

When you bring your hips down to roll against him, Art tells you “we don’t have to.” It’s your turn to tell him that you want this.

You move to the backseat. He peppers quick kisses over you every now and then as you both work to get each other’s pants down. It would probably be quicker to simply take them off one at a time, but you two aren’t thinking properly. Your head is swimming from how bad you need him right now. Once you’ve gotten your jeans off, and Art’s are to his knees, he’s sitting back against the black leather, pulling you with him.

You release a small whimper when his wet mouth attaches to your throat. His forehead knocks against your shoulder as you reach your hands under his shirt. “Off. Please.” He lets out a soft grunt as he complies with your request.

Before he can fully toss the committee shirt to the side, you’re running your hands over his chest. You stop at his nipples, letting your thumb roll over the small buds. Despite his attempt to hold it in, Art moans when you lean down and swirl your tongue around his nipple. It makes his cock jump.

You begin to move against his hard member, seeking out the friction of him bumping against your clit. Art gets his tongue back into your mouth as he reaches under your shirt, pinching your nipples. His lips smack against yours as he brings his hands around to your back. He lets them trace down your spine until they meet the band of your underwear.

Art dips both hands into your panties and smoothes his palms over your cheeks. He grips your ass as he guides you to rock against him. You moan into his mouth before you lift your hips to allow him room to pull his underwear down his thighs.

His dick slaps against his abdomen.

Your mouth waters and your stomach clenches in anticipation. You reach for him, and Art lets you take him in your hand, pumping him one, two, three times before he’s greedily grabbing your hips. He promptly hooks his thumb in the seat of your panties. He uses the leverage to pull them to the side, and you guide his tip to rub against your sticky folds. You moan as you drag it upwards to which Art starts rutting his head against your clit.

Without warning, you press Art’s tip to your opening. He hisses when you start to sink down onto him. With him fully buried in your cunt, you let out a sigh. He wraps his arms around your waist, hugging you to his chest. You two share a kiss as he begins shallowly thrusting into you.

Ѽ

After the both of you have finished, Art doesn’t pull out right away. He keeps you there for a moment telling you he just wants to feel you for a little bit more. Naturally, you don’t protest. The two of you sit within the fogged windows of his car in blissful silence as he lazily strokes your back.

Unfortunately, the shrill ringing of your cellphone punctures that silence.

It’s Nancy.

She asks where you’ve disappeared to, then doesn’t let you respond as she tells you that Frank is at your table which is now empty. They’re going to start cleaning up in about 45 minutes.

When you rejoin the festival, you and Art spot your kids and their friends comparing their various prizes and candy. Standing off to the side is Tashi. She sends you a smile when she notices you. Your stomach drops.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

a/n: As always, let me know what you think <3 my asks are open!

[gggcherry]

Chapter VIII: FOOT FAULT

Masterlist

Pairing: Art Donaldson x F!Reader

Warnings: Major angst.

Author's Note: Strap in and enjoy the ride 🫡 there will be even more turbulence from now on

GIF Source

Ever since that day, your contact with Art had been far and few between. Every time you texted him, he would respond much later and in brief sentences. The conversations would always start and end with your message, and often about Art trying to balance school, practice, and Tashi. You weren't on that list, even though he apologized for not being able to see you as much. Disappointment wasn't at the forefront of your mind whenever you reread the recent messages. Still, it had smouldered into something hard to ignore.

The surgery was over a week ago, and you hadn't seen Art since. You told yourself that he was being a good friend to Tashi like he was to you, but a part of you couldn't help but think there was more to it. Your mind had started to accumulate the evidence that had always been there: the lingering look at Tashi, the tempestuous shout at Patrick, and the lack of dialogue between the two of you. The underpainting had taken shape on the canvas, and the finer details began to fill in with your overthinking. You forced yourself to look away from the easel despite being the one holding the brush. To acknowledge it was to admit that Art was only using you, to accept the fact that you weren't enough to be a worthy person in someone else's life, only to be a temporary placeholder, was too much to bear. Your heart fractured, morsel by morsel, when you thought about how his affection wasn't even for you.

The very possibility of it occupied so much of your mind that you were consumed by the thought. Ravenous was its nature; it feasted on the fact that Art hadn't tried to stay in touch with you as much as you had. It revelled in the insecurities that had resurfaced in such a short time. The neverending cycle ran you haggard, and despite your conscious effort to take yourself out of it, it went on.

You barely left your room these days. When your roommates asked you to hang out with them, you would come up with excuses not to. Without Art, you felt like you didn't have anything to do or anywhere to be besides classes and work. And when you weren't at either place, you would be at the library, obsessively watching Art and Patrick's old tennis matches. There was undeniable chemistry between them, and they complimented each other, highlighting the best part about their respective skill set. Patrick was an extension of Art, and vice versa. A bond like that was hard to break, and from the exchanges you'd seen, one on the polar opposite of the other, you wondered if there was anything else underneath all of this.

/

On an unexpected night, while you perused the reading material for the following week's class, your phone vibrated with Art's name lit up the screen. A rush of excitement, tinged with a touch of nervousness, ran under your skin. You put the book down and let the phone ring three more times before picking up.

"Hey."

"Hey stranger."

You cheekily added. At that, Art chuckled softly. The low vibrato of his voice reminded you of just how much you'd missed him.

"Uhm– so, how are you?"

At your eager question, Art sighed. A muffled sound came from his end, the sound of him running a hand through his hair.

"I'm … alright. I'm sorry I haven't called much. Midterm was awful, and practices have been a lot, and, uh …"

He trailed off. You completed the sentence for him.

"… Tashi."

"Yeah."

His answer settled low in the air between you. It stalled the usual effortless flow of your conversations, rendered you speechless, and he, too. You prodded the fragile silence, and it gave away under the push of your careful voice like a shaky sigh.

"It's okay. I haven't had much free time either. Are you doing okay though?"

"I'm fine … for the most part."

The hesitation in his wording piqued your curiosity. Art wouldn't have said that if nothing was wrong.

"What's with the other part?"

A moment of silence stretched over the thinning air. You added.

"Art. You can tell me anything. I'm here to listen."

Another sigh slithered from the other end to the speaker.

"I don't know how to say it, but at the same time, I feel like it's so obvious. I … miss Patrick. But I'm also mad at him for what he's … done."

His incertitude on the latter part made you feel like he wanted to withhold the information itself.

"Hm, I see. From the sound of your shouting it must be something serious."

Art had gone so quiet that you couldn't even hear his breathing. Your voice was barely a whisper when you called out to him.

"Art?"

"Did you catch all of that?"

"Yes, I did."

You toyed with the hem of your shirt between your fingers before continuing with uncertainty. Unsure if you should pursue this.

"I've never heard you shout like that. You must've been really mad."

"Yeah, I was."

"What happened? Did they get into a fight?"

"Yeah, right before the match."

"What did they fight about?"

The nervous twists of your fingers had left fleeting creases on the fabric as you released it from your grasp.

"Tashi didn't say much, … except for the fact that Patrick might be seeing other girls while on tour."

"You're his friend, did he tell you anything about seeing other girls?"

From suspicion born uneasiness in the pit of your stomach as Art prolonged the silence. You tried again, your voice laced with resolution, unwavering.

"Art. How did Tashi come to that conclusion?

"… I don't know."

"Did you say something to her? To both of them?"

"I might have mentioned Patrick's… tendency to have multiple options at the same time."

"Well, it doesn't mean he's not serious about Tashi."

"But he's my friend. I know him. He's always been a player. And he's… you never know with him. Whether he's genuine or not."

"He's your friend. Don't you think he deserves more grace than what you give him? What if it was different with Tashi?"

"I was just trying to look out for her!"

"That's not looking out for your friends. That's meddling and you know it."

"If my meddling could make them fight so easily then they'd never been good for each other in the first place!"

"That's not up to you to decide!"

You couldn't believe that you yelled at him. You exhaled sharply, trying to regain some control and wishing you hadn't said anything at all. But it was too late. It was like putting back a broken vase, but it was splintered in so many tiny fragments that the more you tried, the worse you hurt yourself.

"Look, it's late, and I'm tired. Can we pick this up another time?"

There was an edge to his voice, and somehow, you knew that this conversation would never be brought up again.

"Sure."

You swallowed your fighting words, knowing if you persisted, it wouldn't end well, even though it was too little too late. After saying goodbye, you hung up with a heavy heart. The heavy fog of your argument closed in on you, turning the air you breathed into suffocation.

For days after, your contact was reduced to none. You abandoned the ongoing draft in the notebook Art gifted you and directed your attention to something else. The inspiration you'd drawn had become a withering reflection of the past, of everything good in your relationship. Nothing could revive it; the only thing left was the dwindling hope that things would be alright between the two of you again. You buried yourself in all the other aspects of your life, hoping you could, at the very least, not think about Art so often. But it was impossible. His imprints on you were branded marks, a thing of permanence on your mind and skin.

/

In the quiet hour of the afternoon, the rhythmic sound of a pen hitting paper sounded louder than the whispered small talk from the only two customers in the cafe. The sentence was left like an unfinished thought, and you were searching for the words to wrap it up. The literary competition at Stanford was announced two days ago, and you immediately got to work. For the prized money and a feature in the school's newspaper, you weren't going to pass it up.

The bell above the door rang. You pulled your eyes away from the half-written page to settle on the new customer with a smile on your face.

"Welcome …"

Art stood there, holding the door open for Tashi. She walked in with a pair of crutches, thanking him. His eyes trained on you for a moment before tearing away. His brief gaze was enough to draw heat to your skin. Tashi slowly and carefully made her way to the counter with Art's arms hovered around her. She smiled at you.

"So, this is the place. My friends have been raving about the drinks here. Him, too."

She inclined her head at Art. He only smiled and said nothing in return. You realized then he wasn't going to introduce the two of you. You maintained a polite smile and what you hoped to be a friendly manner.

"Do you want any recommendations?"

"Yes, please. I love anything with berries in it."

"Then I have the drink for you."

You explained what went in it, and Tashi approved with a nod. Only then did you turn to Art.

"Do you want your usual, Art?"

You looked at him pointedly. His face warmed as he pretended to consider the options, even though, up until two weeks ago, he knew the menu inside and out. Tashi's gaze travelled back and forth between you and Art.

"Do you guys know each other?"

You fixed him with a look, daring him to own up to it. He finally conceded and introduced the two of you.

"I think Art mentioned you once or twice."

"Did he?"

"Yeah, you're his friend. Were you the one who came to check on me after …"

She trailed off.

"I did."

Tashi gave you a rueful smile.

"Thank you for that."

"Don't mention it. How are you doing now?"

She looked down at her knee brace briefly.

"Slowly but surely recovering."

"Take care of yourself. You'll be back to playing again in no time."

"I hope so."

Tashi gave a sad smile, and you mirrored with more assurance. You wanted to dislike her, but you felt nothing but sympathy for her. Art watched the whole exchange wordlessly. You broke eye contact with Tashi to address Art.

"Do you want your usual, Art?"

He nodded, and you told them the total. You watched as Art paid for Tashi despite her refusal. Jealousy flared hot and heavy in your chest, yearning to take back Tashi's place that used to belong to you. But who were you to him to feel this way?

You dropped the change into his hand and pulled away quickly as if you were burned by the thought of your skin touching. You didn't make eye contact and walked away quickly, and though you knew it was rude, you couldn't help it. Your bottled-up feeling was barely contained now; it bubbled and wanted to break free of its confinement. The sound of their soft-spoken exchange churned your inside, making you sick with envy. You made the drinks, and like a habit, you grabbed a marker to put a heart on Art's. But you caught yourself and set the marker down.

You pushed the drinks towards them. The smile on your face felt strained now, and you weren't sure how much longer you could keep this up. You settled for a small wave as opposed to a verbal goodbye, but Tashi interrupted your thought.

"It's very nice to meet you."

You reciprocated her smile.

"You, too."

You looked at Art briefly before wordlessly turning away, making yourself busy with an inane task. With their backs to you, you discreetly stared at their closeness. Despite knowing your problem wasn't with Tashi, you couldn't help but feel envious. You wished you could be her. Beautiful, talented, and doused in Art's attention. With a conscious effort, you tore your teary eyes away from them and set your sight on the open notebook on the counter. If you lingered for a moment longer, you would have caught Art's eyes looking back at you with a longing that you were all too familiar with. Only this time, unbeknownst to you, you were on the receiving end.

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[gggcherry]

Chapter VII: DROP SHOT

Masterlist

Pairing: Art Donaldson x F!Reader

Warnings: None.

Author's Note: I'm so so sorry for the late upload! Your girl has been in the trenches mentally and creatively lately 😭

GIF Source:@/birdmans

2007. Stanford.

New year, new semester, and what came with it was a promising fresh start. Despite the mental toll from the disastrous few days spent with your parents, you chose not to address it. You could never get the time you cried over them back, and it was time to move on. Your focus was swiftly redirected to something much more pleasant and exciting: you had started drafting for a new project. 

An inkling of an idea bloomed from the paradoxical of your life. Being on the verge of entering your 20s, you were aware of your inadequacy when it came to love. Yet, you couldn't keep the feeling of knowing and understanding its inner workings and mechanisms from rising above your insecurity. Being a child of parents who weren't very loving and born into the belief that everything was transactional, you thought you knew everything there was about love. There needed to be a form of reciprocation so the relationship could thrive. Love wasn't an infinite resource that you could take and take because, eventually, the other person would grow tired of you and leave. This belief was built into your foundational core, and its development intertwined with yours as you grew up. 

But Art confused you. He gave up his vacation in Vermont to spend time with you and make sure you were okay without the constant reminder that you owed him something. He'd made you feel like you deserved to be cared for without conditions attached. The dismantling of your guarded exterior was slow, yet he had been so patient. You realized you didn't need it when you were with him. 

The connection you shared was something different. It passed the point of infatuation but not quite there at love. Unknown yet so unanimous in its nature that you didn't have to say it out loud. A beautiful thing that was nameless, yet its existence was tangible and real. It lived in the vigorous beats of your heart every time he was close. It ran wild in your bloodstream every time he smiled at you. Its cadence rose and fell with the touches of laughter you shared. 

In a way, Art had become your muse. You started to write about the way Art made you feel, about the way your perception of love had changed, and what it was like to be on the receiving end of it. You would often feel the itch to write, to grasp onto one of the many loose threads that swirled around your mind and follow it to wherever it'd take you. The wandering then materialized on the pages of the notebook he gave you, glistened in the fine ink. Pages after pages, and he knew of none of them. You felt like it was fitting to immortalize him with your words, within the scope of your ability in the only way you knew how. The more you filled the notebook, the closer you came to realizing that you were falling for him, with each walk to the tennis court, with each minute he spent with you at the coffee shop, and outside of that, too. It was scary to be so smitten with him, but you didn't care. He was your only friend, your most trustworthy companion, and no one could compare to that. You declined invitations to go out with Grace and Ashley so you could spend more time with Art. Your world revolved around him like he was the most important person in the world. What else did you need?

You accompanied Art to practice whenever you could, and during late hours, when the soft white lights lit up the court, he taught you how to play. He fixed your stance, adjusted your grip, and showed you the basics. After a few weeks, you could rally with him. You came to every match and cheered him on. You came to Tashi's matches, too, just to spend more time with Art. You never failed to notice that distant look in his eyes as he watched Tashi play, almost like a longing, a hopeless yearning for something he couldn't quite reach. Was it wrong that you wanted Art to look at you that way? Was it selfish of you that you wanted his longing gaze to be on you and only you? Even though when he looked back at you, he would flash you a smile that made you temporarily forget about the pestering question. 

/

The sun was warm on your skin, staving off the brisk wind, but you didn't want to move from your spot in the corner of the court. With the notebook on your lap, you were writing while waiting for Art to finish practice. He was with Robbie, and you could hear his grunts from where you were sitting. In your bag were two admissions to the movie Art told you he had been wanting to see but didn't have the time to check it out. Your excitement and anticipation were barely contained; you had looked forward to surprising him all week.

The gate rattled, and then, a voice called out.

"Let's go!"

That made you look up from your notebook. You watched as the stranger sauntered over in Art's direction.

"Come on, Donaldson, big serve. Big serve!"

Art went to serve but gave up halfway as the newcomer called out again in a teasing tone. Art angled his body to face the new guy, finally acknowledging him. 

"Finish it up, Donaldson. Come on."

Art went for a serve so quick that Robbie couldn't catch on. He turned towards the guy, and the racquet fell limp in his grasp. The stranger opened his arms and walked toward Art, who then walked away and playfully dismissed the gesture. You could see a genuine smile on his face, highlighting the boyish charm in his features. You watched as they started to chase each other through the courts, jumping over the net and other boys on the bench. 

You waited until their chase came to a stop, when they were standing face to face, talking to one another in an effervescent manner. You noted to yourself that this was a new side of Art that you hadn't seen yet. 

Art waved at you as you approached, drawing the newcomer's attention to you. He looked at you up and down as Art introduced the two of you. His big hand enveloped yours in its warmth and callouses. Patrick's eyes had a spark of recognition the moment you told him your name. He smirked, still holding your hand.

"It's nice to finally meet the girl Art's been 'hanging out' with."

He glanced cheekily at Art. 

"What do you mean?"

"Art wasn't being very clear on that, so …"

You looked to Art to see him glaring at Patrick. Your brows furrowed as understanding dawned on you. Your heart thumped harshly in your chest. 

"Oh, right."

Patrick didn't seem to catch onto your confusion. He drew you closer by tugging on your hand, which was still wrapped in his.

"I don't get it. If I was him, I'd waste no time."

Art elbowed Patrick lightly.

"Dude, what about Tashi?"

"Dude, I said if I was you."

You interrupted before Art could say anything.

"You're not wrong. We're just casual friends."

Art looked at you, his gaze inquisitive, but you pretended that nothing was wrong. You put on a cheery voice, hoping Art would overlook what you'd just said.

"Anyway, it looks like you'll be busy. I'll… see you later."

Without waiting for an answer from Art, you turned to Patrick.

"It's nice to meet you, Patrick."

Patrick's reciprocation fell on your ears as you turned around and walked away. You didn't make it too far before Art got a hold of your wrist. 

"Wait, didn't you say you wanted to ask me something?"

You thought about the tickets in your bag, but you shook your head.

"No, it's nothing."

"Are you sure? I'm sorry, but I didn't know Patrick were stopping by today. I haven't seen him in a few weeks as well ..."

You understood his implication perfectly. You patted his forearm. 

"I'm sure. Don't worry about it. Go hang out with your friend."

You made a move to leave, but Art didn't budge, holding you in place.

"Will I see you tomorrow? Tashi's match?"

You nodded without hesitation.

"Of course."

This time, you were able to leave without Art's intervention. Almost immediately, your mind started to whirl, hurtling headfirst into overanalyzing what you had witnessed. You knew that Patrick was Art's friend from the academy. From what Art had told you, they were very close. But you couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it. 

Each step was heavier than the last as you felt the increasing disappointment weighing on your mind. Instead of going home or to the theatre, you pivoted in the direction of the library. Choosing the most private spot in the computer area, you looked up Art and Patrick's names. A list of articles unfolded themselves before your eyes, inviting you to click on them, with most of them reporting on their victory at the US Junior Open last year. You read through the articles, and your eyes studied every single photo attached. Art and Patrick posing for pictures, kissing their cups, and celebrating their victory. 

But pictures could only tell so much. Opening a new web browser, you went on YouTube and searched for their names. You clicked on the first one you saw, which highlighted their best performances throughout the tournament. They played so well together. They fit like two pieces of a puzzle. What one person lacked, the other would make up for it. They were unstoppable, and it was hard to look away from their exquisite dynamic. 

You watched as the camera zoomed in on the two of them celebrating in the final, clinging to one another as they went down to the ground. You replayed the moment over and over until you could recount it as if you were there. You clicked on another video, then another, going from the beginning of their US Junior Doubles tournament to the very end. You were fixated and only left the library late into the night when fatigue took over. The night went by as you sat by your phone, assignments on your desk, waiting for a call or a text from Art. You went to bed that night disappointed, with a spark of indignation simmering in your mind.  

/

Even though your class ended at 12, and you could've gone home to study, you went to Tashi's match anyway. You hadn't met the girl yet, but you had been to her matches as if you were a Duncanator yourself. But you went because Art would be there, and you wanted to spend time with him. Even though he'd spend most of that time looking at another girl. Despite going to the match of your own volition, your anger still felt justified somehow. 

You came in, and the bleacher was already half filled with people. You looked around to find Art. He saw you first, his long arm reaching up and waving at you. You didn't wave back; instead, you looked down, pretending to watch your steps as you made your way to him. He beamed at you as you inched closer to his seat.

"Hey."

"Hey."

You took the seat next to him without making eye contact with him. Art seemed to catch onto your mood. 

"Look, about yesterday–"

"Where's Patrick?"

He took a brief moment before answering. 

"I ... don't know. I texted him, but he hasn't answered."

"Oh. I was looking forward to seeing more of him today."

Still refusing to look at Art, you trained your gaze toward the court. At that, he sat up straight. 

"What do you mean by that?"

"I like him. He seems like a fun guy."

You turned your head to look at him. You could almost see the thoughts written on his face, and your tense moment was interrupted by an onslaught of cheer as Tashi made her appearance. You used that moment to look away, to direct your attention to Tashi and clap for her. But it didn't stop the heat from spreading through your skin and burning your cheeks. You knew what you were doing was petty, but at that moment, all you cared about was getting back at Art. 

The match commenced with bated breath and tension so heavy you could feel it in the air. Tashi's usual assertiveness was replaced by a nervous energy. She usually met each volley with precision and confidence, but right now, it was because she had to. You had watched her play enough to tell the difference. And in a blink of an eye, you almost missed it. The air shifted with Tashi as she went down to the ground with a sharp cry. The sight and sound were so visceral that you sprang from your seat, your mouth parted in shock as you watched Tashi writhe on the ground, hugging her knee. Her cries were piercing in the dead quiet of the court, and before you could say anything to Art, he took off. 

You followed his blurred movements and watched as he jumped over the net to get to Tashi. Your eyes glued on them as Art put Tashi's head on his lap; his mouth moved, whispering things you couldn't hear over the rising whispers around you.

The audience dispersed after a while. You stood outside of the rec centre where Tashi was taken, debating whether you should go in or not. After another long moment of consideration, you sucked in a breath and entered the building. After asking for directions, you went down the corridor and looked at each room before you found Tashi on a bed with her arm on her forehead. Art sat on a chair next to the bed she was resting on and was partially shielded by her, but he saw you. He squeezed her arm, telling her he would be right back. You instinctively stepped back from the opening of the door, not wanting Tashi to spot you. Even with what she was going through right now, you doubted that she cared. It was purely from the fact that you weren't ready to be confronted by what you'd been suspecting.

"How is she doing?"

You whispered. Art shook his head, his lips flattened into a grim line. 

"Not good."

"What can they do for her?"

"Not much. They can't tell until they can get the x-rays from the hospital. We're waiting for the ambulance right now." 

You nodded. Behind the outline of Art's body, you could see Tashi. Crestfallen, scared, if the impatient shakes of her uninjured leg were any indication.

"Is there ... anything I can do?"

You didn't even know why you offered. Still, you felt like you needed to do something, to be useful even though nothing in this situation pertained to you. 

"No, nothing. I'll stay with her to make sure that she's okay." 

You resigned with a nod. 

"Alright. Call me later, okay? Let me know how she's doing."

He inclined his head in agreement and went back to Tashi without sparing a second glance at you. Your heart chipped a little at that, but you brushed it off. Art cared about her, and there was nothing wrong with that. They were friends. You'd do the same for Grace and Ashley. To feel jealous was to be irrational, and you didn't want that. But was your inkling of doubt really unreasonable?

You were about to round the corner when Patrick almost ran into you. He murmured an apology before taking off. He stopped in front of the door you were at just moments ago. You were frozen in place, hearing Patrick's desperate pleas, Tashi's angry cry, and, at last, Art's thunderous shout echoed down the hallway.

"Patrick, get the fuck out!!"

You had never heard him like that. Angry, with a territorial edge to it. You forced yourself to walk away; the need to withdraw into yourself once again overwhelmed your mind despite your conscious effort not to think about what'd just happened. But you couldn't help it. 

Later that night, there was no phone call, not even a text. Art's silence was a knife that dug deep into your heart, but like always, you ignored it, even though you knew it had never been a good idea.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

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[gggcherry]

Snickerdoodle a.d.

pairing: Art Donaldson x reader prompt: Imagine being that parent who always brings baked goods to the PTA meetings and generally getting along with everyone really well. But for some reason Art Donaldson says something that rubs you the wrong way one night. warnings: smut 18+, car sex, piv, cheating, adults acting like horny teenagers, flashbacks, not proofread word count: 2.4K a/n: I wrote this in one sitting just from seeing this post 🤭

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

He notices he’s offended you by the way you stop talking directly to him, looking everywhere but him. Smiling at everyone but him. You’re giving your undivided attention to anyone who speaks but when he opens his mouth you seem much more interested in your nails.

Art has known you since he's been coming to these meetings. He knows that you offer a polite smile to everyone, but he'd grown used to the small smiles you'd give him. The secret grins and the sarcastic eye rolls you shared with him when Nancy got a bit too controlling or when Dan overshared about his marriage.

You would playfully nudge his elbow when Cynthia inevitably brought up her small knitting business. You’d been initially interested, always loving a good sweater, until you found out the only things she knit were small replicas of pets.

You would discreetly play tic tac toe or hangman on a napkin while the more aggressive moms argued about where to host the next school event, or when the guest speaker for the night would drone on and on.

Once, you baked snickerdoodle cookies and Art ate three of them in one sitting, then asked to take some home for “Lily.” So, you made sure to bake snickerdoodle cookies almost every time you brought snacks. Everyone knew the circular red tin you’d bring was Art’s.

The two of you didn’t really talk outside of the PTA, but Art considered you his friend at these things.

Which is why he should've known not to bring up your recently divorced ex-husband during the meeting. He’d simply been trying to make sure the headcount for this year’s Fall Fest committee was right after Nancy had thrusted the clipboard into his hands. He was tasked with making sure everyone on the list was still showing up. When Art asked you if your husband would still be attending, you went silent, your lips tensing up like you’d tasted something sour.

“Are you really asking me that right now?”

Art stammered. “I just wasn’t sure…”

You scoffed at him disbelieving.

“Well when he finally gets his head out of that whore’s ass then maybe he’ll be able to let you know.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Before he hands the clipboard back, he makes sure to draw a line through your ex-husband’s name.

Art tries to apologize after the meeting is over. Insisting on walking you to your car and carrying your dessert containers back for you. His self deprecating little smile makes you roll your eyes, but you turn for him to follow you anyway. You silently lead the way to your car keeping a couple steps ahead of him. Despite his attempts to look away, Art’s eyes stay glued to the sway of your hips the whole way.

Once you pop the trunk and gesture for him to place the containers down, you finally look him in the eyes for the first time since he’d pissed you off. Art shoves his hands in his pockets, telling you he’s really sorry for what he said. That he wasn’t thinking. He wants to make it up to you.

You purse your lips, look at the way his eyes seem hopeful yet a little too pleading for an offense so small. You tilt your head to the side, taking in his features before eventually telling him that “it’s fine,” and that you forgive him. He seems to visibly relax at this and you can’t help wondering why he would be so hung up on your forgiveness. After all, it was really an overreaction on your part.

You tell him as much and reassure him that you don’t need anything, he doesn’t need to make it up to you. He grabs your hand then, insisting that he wants to.

Art has always been this way, you think, all placating and overly apologetic when he thinks he’s done something wrong. You’d chalked it up to the media training you know he must’ve received. Being agreeable probably made his PR manager’s job ten times easier. Not that you didn’t believe he was genuinely a kind person, but you knew even Art might be overcompensating every now and then.

You’d seen the way he could be snarky without remorse before. The two of you would basically laugh about it later. You’d also seen how he never hid the way his eyes would linger on your cleavage. The way he’d give you a small, bashful smile when you’d catch him, his smirk only growing wider the more you blushed.

Art Donaldson could be sneaky.

ᯓ

He’d never been ashamed about being touchy with you. Placing a warm hand on your arm or back when greeting one another, letting his fingers skim your hand on the table next to his while he listened to speakers. The touching seemed innocent enough until one night when he’d walked you to your car after the two of you had stayed longer. You had been distracted during the meeting.

Art stayed and listened as you told him about your husband and how he’d come home late after you planned a romantic evening for the two of you the night before. You made sure your son was at your parents’ house, made his favorite meal, and lit candles around the house. The two of you had decided to schedule date nights per your therapist’s suggestion. When 1 am rolled around, and your husband had returned none of your calls, you scraped the food into tupperware containers and got ready for bed. He came home with apologies and excuses about getting caught up in the office. He had already eaten, and he smelled of a perfume you didn’t own but had grown to recognize.

That night, you told Art that you were sure your husband was cheating on you. He told you that he understood how you felt. You didn’t believe him. Tashi was perfect.

After your tears had dried, and Art managed to pull a few laughs out of you, the both of you decided it was time to call it a night. You moved to give Art a casual hug, but he wrapped his arms around you so tightly that you couldn’t help but melt into it, burying your face in his chest. You remembered him smelling warm, like amber.

Art had rubbed your back as he held you, whispered that he was sorry that your husband was a dumbass. You huffed out a laugh, pulling away to look at him. He’d brought his hand up to your cheek, his other hand on the small of your back. You smiled at him through your eyelashes before letting your head drop down with a sigh.

Your cheeks burned as you took in how your legs were tangled with his. Art had tilted his head to get a better look at you again, but you’d stuck to hiding your face against his chest.

He huffed and let his chin fall to your shoulder. You still refused to look his way, turning to watch some trees. You felt both his hands on your back now.

“What are you thinking about?” He whispered.

“That we said we should go home like 5 min ago.” His hands traveled lower. “You?” You asked shakily. You could feel his breath warm against your neck.

“That I might not be any better than your husband.”

Your eyes widened. Art’s palms firmly cupped your ass. In contrast, his lips were pressed gently to the skin of your neck.

“Art!” Your hands flew to his hair.

He laughed into your neck.

You slapped his arm, but when his eyes met yours and his lips were mere inches away from yours, you let your eyes flutter shut.

His breath fanned your lips. He smelled like snickerdoodle cookie.

Then, his phone rang.

Art had pulled away from you, turning around to answer the call. You could tell it was Tashi. He’d been honest, telling her that he’d stayed late talking to you. At the mention of your name, he paused and looked over his shoulder.

“Tashi says hi.”

ᯓ

The two of you never brought up the almost kiss again, but you knew Art hadn’t been sorry. The next time he saw your husband, he’d smirked and told him how lucky he was to have such a great wife. Your husband, ever the narcissist, soaked it all in, pulling you in by the waist, showing you off like a shiny toy. When he turned away, Art had winked at you.

ᯓ

So, you know that Art is either laying it on thick or feels extremely remorseful about reminding you of your cheating ex-husband.

When he grabs your hand, insisting on finding some way to make it up to you, you see a look of desperation in his eyes that looks new.

Your eyes drop to where his large hand covers your own, then they travel up his toned arm until you find his face, flitting between his eyes and his lips. And for some reason, you’re leaning in. Maybe it’s your way of reassuring him that you guys are good. Either way, he’s not moving back. You’re gripping his forearm with your free hand and suddenly your lips are on his.

You’re not sure if it was his tongue or yours that first went seeking out the other, but now you two are sharing sloppy kisses on the empty school parking lot.

When his left palm presses into your cheek and you feel that cold metal band sting your skin, you pull away with a gasp, remembering where you are, who he is, and that he has a damn wedding ring on. This is Art. PTA Art. You know his wife, for god’s sake. You’ve hosted play dates between their daughter and your son. You carpool with them. You curse and back away from him.

“I’m sorry, I—I don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t have...”

Art shakes his head, stepping closer to you. He’s looking at you with those damn eyes again. Like he’ll break if you say the wrong thing.

“I—we, we shouldn’t have done that, Art.”

He shakes his head again. Your palm comes up to hold him back, but it doesn’t work as he simply grabs ahold of the hand on his chest and presses himself against you more. His forehead comes down to lean on yours. His eyes closed.

“You don’t understand,” he sighs. “I want you.”

“But you’re married Art…”

“I want you.” He repeats. “I’ve wanted you…for awhile now.”

And though you already know this, it still shocks you that he’s actually saying it now. Before you have time to register it, he’s back on you and you don’t know if it’s because you’re afraid to break him or if you’ve just always been this selfish, but you let him press you against the trunk of your car. You let him push his tongue into your mouth, let his big hands knead the flesh of your hips and ass. Let him lick and nip at your neck, nibble on your earlobe.

You let Art push you into the backseat of your car. You let him settle between your legs, guiding his lips to yours, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He’s pressing his hips into yours rocking against you as he pushes your top up. Art’s hands frantically work at your bra, impatiently bending the wire in the process of taking it off. You gasp at his eagerness but can’t say anything as he’s already wrapping his mouth around your nipple making you arch your back up off the leather seats. His hands are gripping your thighs and shoving your skirt up when he releases your nipple with a pop.

He’s up long enough to tear his shirt off and for your equally impatient hands to reach for his pants. His shorts are barely past his balls before he’s back on you. Kissing all over your lips, jaw, neck. Art groans when his fingers find their way to your soaked underwear, rubbing his thumb from your slit to your clit through the fabric. You whine and rock your hips into each movement. You pant into his open mouth as he pulls them to the side, letting the air hit your bare cunt. He dips his thumb into your entrance then drags it up to sloppily circle your clit.

You’re moaning loudly into his mouth, begging him for more. Art smiles against your lips as he takes himself in his hand. He lets his head sweetly kiss your sticky clit, and he asks if you want him to put it in.

You nod eagerly.

"Yeah?" He grunts, tapping his head against you in a taunting manner.

You nod again and let him press against your opening.

Art covers your mouth with his when he finally pushes into you, stifling both of your moans. He gets his arms around your waist, holding you as he rocks into your pussy. You’re whimpering and squeezing around him like you haven’t had dick in years, and Art thinks he might pass out when you start bucking up into him and begging him to fuck you.

He doesn’t even care that he won’t last long. He can’t deny you. So, he wraps your thighs tighter around his waist and pushes himself forward. Your mouth falls open as Art slides out and pushes back into you with a grunt. Your hands are in his hair, pulling at the short strands. You mouth at his jaw as his thighs slap against you.

Art buries his head into your neck as he frantically fucks into your tight hole, and he’s whining that he’s close. His fingers that have been playing with your clit are slippery with your juices and you clench your thighs, nodding with him in agreement.

You end up letting Art Donaldson cum inside you. You let him rub your clit until you orgasm around his dick that’s still buried in you.

You let him help you redress. He’d winced when he saw the mess he made of you between your legs. You ignore the way you can tell he wants to say sorry.

Once you’re both dressed and you’re standing against your car with wobbly legs, Art tells you that he still wants to make it up to you.

You roll your eyes.

“Good night, Art.” You get into the driver’s seat.

“I’m serious.”

Your hand hesitates on the door handle. You look back at him and his pleading eyes and his pathetic yet charming smile.

“Your wife has my number.”

And then, you shut the door.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

a/n: reader reminds me of Anna Kendrick’s character in A Simple Favor, sweet but also kinda toxic

thanks for inspiring this @artdcnaldson <3

[gggcherry]

uta hagen

(divorced!art donaldson x reader; tw divorce obviously; tw sporadic mentions of violent or otherwise shitty partners; that sounds intense but this is actually a fun time i swear; cw a little smut; as a treat; tw ironic intimacy; kaz write a normal romance where one or both people aren't hypercritical of the other challenge ((impossible)); tw group therapy; tw condensing of tashi duncan's character for narrative reasons but i hope you know me well enough by now to know where my heart lies; whoever came up with the art donaldson calvin klein campaign headcanon i owe you a kidney; tw exploiting therapeutic exercises for sexual tension lol; tw hamfisted closure; raymond carver easter egg for all who have the eyes to see)

Before anything happens, Art Donaldson is just another guy in the “Learning to Let the Ex Go” group therapy session you signed up for.

It occurs to you, pretty quickly, that Art Donaldson has zero intention of letting his ex go. Dr Harper has this question he asks all the newcomers.

You’re having circle time with a bunch of adults on a Friday afternoon. So that look of longsuffering on the new guy's face isn’t particularly remarkable. You note a few furtive whispers and glances his way. But then this sad little workshop is mostly comprised of weepy middleaged women. They, too, kicked up a ruckus when that silver fox with the Harley—Rick—deigned to grace the room with his impossible biceps for a single, cigarettescented session two weeks ago.

What you’re saying is you know he’s handsome.

And, anyway, you’d never hold anything against your motley crew. Agnes invited you to her neighbourhood book club. Padma brings little clingwrapped trays of desserts every other week. These are your gal pals. Your bereaved bosom buddies. You wouldn’t begrudge them their eye candy.

Dr Harper says, “So,” and claps his hands the way he starts every session, narrowing his eyes with that scarily sentimental smile and sweeping his gaze around the circle. He makes a point to make eye contact with every single person for two whole seconds, as though he knows something you don’t. Then, “As you can see, we are not as few as we once were.”

He tends to speak in that meandering sort of way. He makes a flourishing gesture with his clipboard, as if setting a stage, and says,

“If you wouldn’t mind introducing yourself, and letting us know…” He pauses for effect. He tends to do that, too. “… Why can’t you let your ex go?”

You do the guy the favour of not laving him in that expectant stare people seem to love doing here. You fiddle with your fingers and listen to the uneasy knell of his sneakers against the linoleum. The stilted whine of his little plastic foldout chair. You cast him a glance as stands. He’s sort of tall, but not imposing. His fingers fidget at his sides like he’s awaiting a time bomb.

When he speaks, he looks so upset you’d think he’s getting a root canal. “Uh, hi. I’m Art, uh… just Art.”

And, at the time, you think this is kind of strange.

The next week, when Dr Harper brings a purple tennis racket with Just Art’s face on the front to get him to sign it for his daughter—which you already think is unprofessional and a bit presumptuous, considering how few people actually return for a second session, and how fascinatingly tortured he looked all throughout the first—you will think oh. And then his whole humble kicked puppy thing will feel a little annoying. But that’s besides the point.

On that first day, while he’s standing there awkwardly, and every shriek of his shoes against the ground is making him wince like he’s sporting stab wounds, and he keeps casting very conspicuous glances at the clock, Dr Harper asks why can’t you let your ex go?

And the thing about that question is it’s mostly rhetorical. Sure, it’s supposed to make you think. But the ultimate unearthing there is of the truth that there is no real reason. And such is the first step to selfactualising change and so on and so forth. You get it.

There’s a couple answers you come to expect. The notably lachrymose will get to weeping straight away. Because I’m pathetic! you remember someone wailing, which made you feel like a bit of a sadist, just sitting there and watching. You’re pretty sure you’d said a less than kind, I don’t fucking know, on your first day, but you’ve grown since then, and you appreciate Dr Harper’s abiding effusiveness despite that.

But Just Art releases a contrite sort of exhale and says, “Because I still love her.”

Which—okay—strikes you as a bit overkill.

A tissue discreetly finds his palm, but he only rumples it into a ball.

Dr Harper nods sagely, leaning back in his seat, steepling his fingers under his chin.

“Go on,” he prompts in that gentle, needling way he does.

You don’t Google him. You don’t really need to. Dr Harper keeps intentionally-unintentionally peppering sporadic little pearls of information about him into conversation like some sort of bizarre BINGO game.

Like—for example—when he’s passing out little notepads and outlining your task of writing unflinchingly honest farewell letters to your exes, he tacks on, “—it’ll be tough, but it’s no Wimbledon, am I right, Donaldson?”

And Just Art’s ears will turn a dazzling shade of crimson.

You file these little tidings away in some less important corner of your mind, passively constructing a criminal profile.

Padma brings her son to a session, which you’re pretty sure she’s not allowed to do. Luckily, the kid doesn’t internalise any of Padma’s scathing anecdotes about his father because he’s too busy marvelling at his own freshly signed Art Donaldson racket.

There seems to be a new racket to sign every week.

You doubt people actually give this much of a shit about tennis. But—anyway—you suppose if fucking Michael Cera rocked up and joined the circle, everyone would be hauling a Superbad poster out from some dusty corner, too. Such is the nature of celebrity.

Dr Harper, for one, appreciates the effervescence. He seems to think the mere presence of a famous athlete will motivate everyone in the room to face with renewed fervour their own pathetic little romantic quagmires.

Well, it’s that, or a strange personal infatuation he houses with the guy. Probably both.

You don’t Google him. You don’t Google him, nor his conceivably equally famous exwife. You don’t need to. Dr Harper seems to think it necessary to give you all regular progress reports on that whole imbroglio.

You know there’s news—perhaps unfortunate news—by the colour of Dr Harper’s voice when he says, haltingly, “And Art… how have you been doing?”

By the severity with which Dr Harper nods as Art reads his letter. (“Tashi,” he begins, and one of those not so furtive whispers ricochets around the room, another tissue in his hand; you think it’s Agnes who’s slipping them).

By the abject enthusiasm with which Dr Harper declares what real progress Art is making. Like he’s one of those zoo animals being parallelreared with a human child, and he’s starting to glean the art of speech without being prompted.

This is all saying something, for whom you know to be an already colourful, severe, enthusiastic Dr Harper.

What you gather is a vague impression that Art’s exwife tortured him psychologically by wielding his body and tennis career as serrated edges by which to flay their marriage intricately, slowly. And then there’s something about her repeatedly sleeping with his exbestfriend? Which—big whoop. Eleanor’s boyfriend tried to kill her, which you feel is a marginally more exceptional love story.

A month in, you realise what’s really bothering you is the untruth.

Art Donaldson has zero intention of letting his ex go. He still loves her. He opened with that.

He reads his letter (that reads a lot more like a draft for vow renewals) aloud to the room. Everyone looks at him with these misty eyes like he’s just chainsawed his chest open and wrested his heart from his arteries while simultaneously reciting Sappho.

Which is to say—and you’re no doctor, but—what fucking progress?

You don’t think you’re the patron saint of therapy or anything. But you’ve paid decent money to be here, and you’ve spent more afternoons than you’d stomach admitting on guided meditation. You’re doing The Work, as they say.

You get it; you do. Losing a relationship can feel like a death. Losing yours certainly felt like the Sun had imploded. But Eleanor—you’ll mention again—could be dead. Your jaded inner voice struggles to identify with this probably deplorably wealthy Adonis who can't seem to cut the racket strings.

So you think it’s a little irresponsible to glorify the abject pining of this crestfallen man. All flaxenhaired and broadshouldered like Prince Charming lamenting bedside of Sleeping Beauty.

This is a class about severance.

Art Donaldson seems to weave himself inextricably around something. The love of his wife, sure, that’s obvious enough. But there’s something. Something. Something very sad, sure, but not sad in the way you’re all so sad around here. A different kind of sad.

You’re trying to figure it out.

So you spend some time doing that. Trying to figure him out. You expect to start to hate him the more you stare. The more you note the weird slope of his nose, his selfdeprecating laughter.

But you don’t.

In fact, you find it delightfully, uncomfortably strange. He carries himself like an interloper to despair. Not like he thinks he’s above it necessarily—you’d thought that (reproachfully) for a while—rather like sadness is one of many things stored at the other side of the city, and he keeps missing the train.

Like these brilliant sorrowers are deigning to include him in their orbit, even though he doesn’t belong. If he remains silent, maybe they won’t notice that he’s not one of them. Better yet, conceivably, he’ll actually belong one day.

That’s what it’s like. Like he’s striving for sorrow. Like he’s working with something worse than sorrow and is saying, you know what? I’d rather take the sorrow.

In the exercise you’re doing this week, you’re supposed to personage your ex and act out your final argument. Take your scene partner’s hands and look into their eyes and everything. Dr Harper makes a big deal about how he's not trying to trigger anyone's relationship trauma, but that feels like a lie. You can’t imagine a productive reason to make a bunch of lonely, divorced adults hold hands in a cruel parody of their last brush with fleshdeep connection.

And anyway, fuck this shit.

That doesn’t mean you won’t communicate circles around it. You’re doing The Work, after all.

But fuck it hard.

His hands sort of swallow yours. They are warm and calloused and a little sweaty.

You were, at first, excited by the idea of this proximity. Excited in the way a cultural anthropologist would be, at the prospect of conducting participant research. But now you’re here. Sitting at the edges of your little plastic foldout chairs. Your knees between his. And his fingers are curled pretty firmly around yours. He looks about as comfortable as a grade schooler called to the chalkboard. And you’re the one who’s been sitting around observing him from a distance and gleaning your data and passing your judgement all this time, but it is he who makes—and holds—eyecontact.

His eyes are dusky and intent—molten navy—like he’s seeing past your skin and bone. And you are less than pleased by this subversion.

So when he shifts and his knee brushes your outer thigh, a potent shock of heat resounding through the denim, and he clears his throat and mumbles, “Sorry,” you say,

“You could back up a bit.”

His expression falters. You must admit, there is something alluring in his being disappointed by your little rejection. Anyone looking at it from the outside would find the whole thing pretty ludicrous. That you could say no, that he would even ask.

Dr Harper comes up and puts his hands atop both your heads, which feels more than a little patronising. He squats to be eye level between the two of you and whispers, “Do you know why I paired you two together?”

For a moment, you almost roll your eyes. When all is said and done, and the skull speaks and the bell tolls, your primary takeaway from your time Learning to Let the Ex Go is that Dr Harper has a spectacular penchant for assigning meaning where there is absolutely none.

If he paired you with Art based on eyelash hue, would he come up with some reason for that? Probably, you think.

But what he says next manages to throw you.

“You two…” he begins, pausing for effect. Because, of course. And Art shifts his weight uncomfortably, quite literally wincing as he accidentally bumps your knee again. He glances fleetingly in your direction, ears gone florid, but you have little time to delight in this before Dr Harper stands up straight again and delivers his verdict, “… have the same problem.”

You make a face like you have just seen a lizard eat a bird.

And fucking Art, of all people, has this look in his eyes, this look that’s almost hopeful. Like some explanation is finally to be offered for what the hell is wrong with you.

And you don’t care for that shit. At all.

You bark out a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

Which is, of course, when Dr Harper’s gaze sharpens like a scalpel and locks on you, like you’ve said exactly what he predicted you would say.

Which you care for even less.

He doesn’t look smug. Not exactly. He doesn’t even look vindicated. The only way to describe that look on his face is total delight. Cat with the canary in his maw.

Art seems very committed to staring at the ground, now. Trying, perhaps, to evade something of a brewing storm. You’re tempted to reach up and flick his head for his cowardice, but his hands are—very tightly, now, you’ll note—still holding yours.

“You two are both at mercy to judgement,” Dr Harper declares, and he’s still got your head in his palm like a basketball, and all that selfregulatory yoga feels fucking useless right about now.

You shift to look up at him better. “I’m not at mercy to judgement,” you inform him as calmly as you are able, and maybe you’re disproving his point in this moment by being so affected by this analysis, but you sincerely believe that you’re generally pretty hardwearing.

Dr Harper pauses for effect. “You are at mercy to your own judgement...” Another pause. And you’re about to tell him that—nice fucking try, but—you’re actually a remarkably selfassured person who rarely, if ever, gives yourself to negative selftalk. But then, “... Of others.”

And now it occurs to you that the fucking room has gone silent. And you feel like your eyes have all but crossed in simmering anger. Because—okay—everyone here is crazy, and miserable, and a little fucking pathetic, but you’ve prided yourself on being the least crazy one here.

And fuck.

Fuck if you’re not proving his point right now.

When you open your mouth to argue—because you are going to disagree, if only for the sake of disagreeing—Art Donaldson’s fingers screw up firmer around yours, like he’s some sort of sentient lie detector, and you’re about to ask him where the fuck he gets off, but Dr Harper isn’t done.

He turns, now, to Art.

“And you…” he says. You’re getting seasick with all the pausing. “Donaldson. You’re at mercy to others’ judgements of you, my man.”

So Art, you see out of the corner of your eye, looks like he’d rather debone himself than be sitting here.

And fine.

Okay.

Let’s all agree that that much is true. That Art Donaldson lives and dies by the judgement of others, and you live and die in the name of it. Fine.

Even so, you can’t help but think that these are directly antithetical problems to have.

And, in practice, if you’re a callous shrew, and he’s an open wound, you’ll probably kill him. Or something.

But now Dr Harper’s pushing your heads together like a ref before a rugby match. And he crouches down again. And Art’s nose brushes yours, and your lash swipes his cheek, and you can smell the coffee Dr Harper was just drinking.

And he says, “Let. First serve.”

Then he stands again and pats Art’s shoulder like they’re old friends, and gives a wink to the room at large.

He saunters away. Art looks like someone is pointing a gun to his head. But really it’s just your—heartlessly selfrighteous, apparently—forehead still against his. His skin is feverwarm.

You pull away.

Of course no one takes the exercise seriously.

In its defense, you think, there’s very little that goes down in this room that can be veritably labelled a ‘serious’ event. Most of it—the guided meditations, the writing exercises, Dr Harper’s entire vibe—feels like you happened to miss some crazy event that tore reality asunder and tipped you over into a sadistically tragicomedic alternate universe.

But if you all were to sincerely sit here, knees to knees with mourning strangers, and concretise this litany of other strangers who have wounded you all irrevocably in different ways—shit—Harper’d be sitting with a fetid heap of weeping corses.

So—well.

Eleanor’s chasing Ally around the hall with a her fingers hoisting an invisible shiv yelling, I love you, I love you, you bitch. Which is certainly one way to contend with a murderous exlover, you guess.

Padma and Colin are treating this as a gossip session. You can tell because you can hear that delighted peal of laughter she emits whenever someone interjects one of her—deeply engrossing, by the way—caustic vignettes about her exhusband with a little observational jab at the guy.

Most people are laughing. Or making fun. You catch fleeting dregs of remarkably hilarious conversation from all angles and are reminded why you keep coming back here.

The only person, however, who seems to have really taken Dr Harper’s thought experiment to the harp of his heart—much to your horror—is Art Donaldson.

He sets his elbows on his knees and leans forward. You get a waft of him. Something acerbic like citrus, and maybe pine. He blinks up at you with this almost regrettable intensity. Like he’s about to tell you that he has to pull your teeth. But he’s not thrilled about it. You’re still deciding if you’re flattered by the notion. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to glean the pattern of your sinew with his eyes alone.

“I’ll be you,” he says, his voice low and soft. And there’s a hoarse quality to it, like he’s just run up a staircase.

You’re suddenly very aware of all the noise around the two of you. The laughter, the bedlam. Something faintly percussive.

His thumbs swipe over your knuckles, which you’re hoping is an absent thing.

You blink. Your face is overcast with a less than kind, more than unimpressed glower.

“You’re serious?” you deadpan.

He looks serious as the end times. His fingers twitch around yours. You feel his knuckles like piano keys against your palm.

Dr Harper has essentially told this man that you have something he doesn’t. Something he needs. And now—with a tenacity you can only imagine churns through his bones by rote—he seems determined to find it.

He’s gripping your hands like you’re the fucking racket.

He leans down further, elbows pressing into his thighs, and his face gets alarmingly close to your fingers. A whisper of heat against your nailbeds.

When his tongue dips out to swipe the chapped coral edge of his upper lip, you nearly flinch, because you think that wet will touch you. But it doesn’t.

He peers up at you intently. You see the way his throat shifts under his wan skin as he swallows.

“I’m as serious as you want me to be,” he says. He is absurdly sincere, but also something else.

Your brows twitch, and you frown, because you are now realising that, even after several weeks of careful observation, you do not have even a remote understanding of this man to speak of. You feel like an academic whose thesis has just been rejected, and now they’re back to square one of some miserable odyssey. Moreover, this is all just unutterably ridiculous, so you sigh and roll your eyes and shift in your seat, your knee knocking against his inner thigh.

“Fine,” you say, “You be me.”

Art’s face is set in what you first think is determination, but are incredibly unnerved to discover is him getting into character. He’s trying to emulate that vaguely bitter perennial scowl of yours. He looks like a bitch—which means he’s pretty fucking dead on.

You’re almost impressed.

Of course, he still looks sad. There’s a vulnerability his mimicry cannot conceal. But you think he’s finding something cathartic in wearing the hue of your passive vitriol.

You tell him to express a perfectly reasonable grievance to you—and you yourself are now rolling your shoulders and slinking into the ethos of a gaslighting asshole—like how you never wash the dishes. Like, ever.

He clears his throat.

“You never do the dishes.”

You swallow.

“Right…” you murmur.

You’re still a little facetious about this whole thing, but there is that intensity in his gaze that wrests you into the moment like a fervid point of gravity.

“Well, now I—as my ex—would probably tell you—” You roll your eyes again, but now it is at the memory you’re unsheathing. “—oh, you’re being dramatic. I was just about to do them. Why are you always on my ass?”

And Art’s nose wrinkles, like the memory is offensive to him, too.

He looks you over like a sawbones trying to determine a patient’s symptoms. Mapping out the incision.

“Then I—you—would say…” He’s speaking really slowly, too. Like he’s giving you the chance to object where you see fit, on grounds of mischaracterisation. “I would say that you always say you’re going to do all kinds of things. But you never actually do them.”

“Exactly!” you blurt, kneejerk. But then you catch yourself. Flex your fingers a bit in his. Clear your throat and put on your best impression of a total dolt again. “Okay—oh, maybe you’re too busy focusing on the little stuff I don’t do to recognise the large sacrifices I make for our relationship.”

He scoffs.

It’s your scoff. A facsimile of that incredulous ire you seem to always be evincing. It’s deeply disturbing.

“What sacrifices?” You can’t tell who’s asking.

“W—” You falter. Swallow. It takes you a moment—like you’re emerging from deep water—to answer, as your ex, “Well, I moved here, didn’t I? Packed up all my shit and left my friends, my family, fucking everything. To be with you.”

“I didn’t ask you to move.”

“You didn’t,” you confirm quickly. And you can’t tell who’s saying that, either. But you put on the voice again, and say, “You didn’t. But I still did it for you. And I don’t think you’ve ever said thank you. Or sorry.”

A beat.

Your hands go slack in his. You sigh. “You never say sorry.”

Art’s eyes search you like a probe.

Your shoulders are stonerigid and the blood is rushing like torrent through your ears because—somehow—this feels uncomfortably like a fight. Like that fight. And your body seems keen on adjusting the scoreboard accordingly.

His thumbs rub your knuckles again, in a way that feels a lot less idle this time.

“I’m still not going to say sorry,” he guesses with a marginal tentativeness, but a general certainty in his assessment.

You swallow again. “Yeah,” you rasp, “You’re not.”

It occurs to you that this exercise is a little like immolation.

He’s supposed to be acting like you. But he’s acting like you at your worst, and doing so—to his credit—a little more accurately than you’d like to admit.

It strikes you as unfair. And excoriating. And you picture yourself tackling Dr Harper to the ground and choking him out.

And then Art says, “We’ve been having this fight for…?”

“Two months,” you mumble. You’re not even doing the voice anymore.

Art clicks his teeth, a sentimental crease at the corner of his eye. “I think we should break up.”

You sigh. “Yeah, probably.”

“It’ll be really hard for me.”

A guess again, but then you’re here. Doing The Work. Holding hands and roleplaying. It’s not inconceivable that you didn’t take the breakup exceptionally.

Your lip twitches. “You’ll survive.”

He pushes off his elbows and sits up straight, his knees sidling fully around your thighs, now unashamed. He gives you a look. A different one. His mouth purses to the side in some alloy of pensive amusement, a dimple delved into his cheek. His gaze coruscates with a deep cornflower intrigue.

“I think I will, actually,” he says finally.

And he has the nerve to smile. Revoltingly soft and sympathetic.

He gives your hands a parting squeeze before dropping them in your lap, his chair scraping loud the linoleum as he backs off.

You call your ex that night.

“Hey, listen,” you say, “Sorry.”

Dr Harper’s probably somewhere creaming his pants so fervently as to have rendered himself numb in a state of gleeful stupor.

“Hey,” husks your ex—who, for his flaws, has always been more magnanimous than you—before chuckling, “No worries.” You can hear that easy smile of a life unburdened by you in his voice.

Which is fine.

“How are you?” he asks then, “You good? You surviving?”

You smile wryly. You feel like you’ve been flogged by four consecutive eighteenwheelers. “I think I will, actually.”

You Google Art Donaldson.

You’re having a drink with Eleanor and Ally and Colin and a few others from the group, and you’re basically shitting all over the whole programme in a very hush-hush sort of way because you all know what an Opportunity For Growth this has been, when Art walks into the bar and spots your table and nods at the whole gang. The mood quickly shifts. Excitement, sure, but a collective wordless agreement that the lighthearted gossip between real friends ends here. You feel bad. It’s not his fault.

Art slides into your booth with beer floats and greets Colin, who’s looking at him with a senex’s disdain because he was just telling you all how he’s thinking of getting hair plugs. Again, not Art’s fault.

Art’s in camouflage, with his baseball hat and T-shirt, which you think is unnecessary because—again—you’re still quite certain no one gives enough of a shit about tennis as to recognise him in a bar.

When he slides into the booth—into the space between you and Colin—he’s careful to leave a distance between the two of you. Which you only really notice at all because you’re acutely aware of exactly how much space occupies the expanse between the two of you at any given instance.

A bunch of people at the table are already looking at him like he’s some sort of foreign dignitary.

You don’t think athletes are necessarily charming by nature, and you refuse to give Art Donaldson that kind of credit, but he doesn’t have to try very hard to make himself agreeable to everyone.

He buys a round for the whole group. He asks after jobs, and the state of marriage, and family, and life. He seems sincere enough.

You all start chatting about the various horrific relationships that lead you here, as though they were all particularly uninteresting ham and cheese sandwiches. Colin’s exfiancée diagnosed with early onset dementia. Ally’s exgirlfriend developing a heroin habit. You’ve all jabbed and scrutinised these woes to deflated nothingness, by now. None of it hurts anymore. Is that the whole point? You still don’t know.

No one knows by what fancy Dr Harper pushes you all about in his great cosmic dance of personal selfimprovement.

You do know that Art remains quiet. Generally inconspicuous, but then you’re you, so you’re paying attention. And you don’t think he should get to sit there like an archaeologist recording the fossils of your collective melancholy, as though his own warm and living bones are out of the question.

Maybe you all can pull up the People.com article, A Comprehensive Timeline of Art and Tashi Donaldson’s Perfect Relationship and Messy Divorce, and have it contribute to the conversation.

Eleanor’s telling a story about the time her ex wrested her from bed and lobbed her out of the house at 2 AM in midwinter.

“And we lived in Duluth,” Eleanor’s saying, and she’s laughing in that disconcertingly manic way she does when she shares these things. “And I sleep halfnaked, so I’m fighting frostbite, and I’m just totally mortified that one of my neighbours will see me.”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about being halfnaked,” Ally shrugs.

And then you say, “Ha, yeah, I mean Art would know.”

Art—who, until now, looked like he was studiously contemplating the meniscus of his beer, or the grain of the table—flicks his gaze up to you.

You snort. “What, I’m supposed to act like everyone here hasn’t seen you oiled up and smouldering to the camera for Calvin Klein?”

A brief hush descends upon the table like a falling guillotine.

Then, laughter.

Eleanor snorts her gin and soda with such force that she coughs for a solid minute afterwards. There’s tears in her eyes and Colin is laughing at her and Ally is laughing at them both. And Art looks as embarrassed as a woman strewn porchside in her panties in midwinter in Duluth.

And—okay.

You were trying to be tongueincheek about it. But his discomfort levels are seemingly off the charts. He doesn’t know how to react and it makes him unhappy. Clearly, ten and something years of public scrutiny—and, in your defense, actually doing that photoshoot—have not prepared him for this moment.

You lean forward and awkwardly bump his fist with yours. “Hey, I’m kidding.”

But you’re not, because it was technically true.

“I thought it was artistic,” says Ally.

Eleanor, still crying laughing, “What, the fullpage spread of him fully waxed and laid out on a clay court surrounded by Great Danes?”

“Someone paid attention,” Colin chuckles, and Eleanor erupts into vibrant giggles again. Colin gives Art a courtesy clap on the shoulder before saying to Ally, “Maybe I’m old fashioned, but a Billboard of a guy wearing whities so tightie you can see his dickprint isn’t exactly Starry Night. But maybe I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to worry too much about that. The art has to get you,” Ally says, pointing at him with a fry. Ally studied theatre. “I mean, we are the most complicated machinery in our lives. You have to take yourself seriously to do something like that.”

Everyone’s looking at Art like he’s some kind of colourful textbook.

It’s not often people sit beside a guy of whom they can confidently guess the naked physique.

And maybe you’re thinking that, too; you brought it up, after all. His arms look strong in his T-shirt sleeves. Not, like, bodybuilder strong. But lean and cut. And there’s a sort of animal grace to his movements. Like a fox, or something. Even as his ears burn a practically neon shade of carmine in the dim lighting.

He clears his throat. “I doubt anyone took that seriously,” he says dryly, the corner of his mouth ruefully, if hardly, upturned.

Eleanor shoves Ally playfully, swiping her tears away in a blissful mascara smear. “My God Al, will you stop scaring him with your Uta Hagen spiel?”

The conversation meanders to other topics. Fringe stuff, briefly, like the societal implications of male sexuality and modern advertising. But then things branch off entirely—The Fast and the Furious franchise, artificial intelligence, Colin’s stepson’s career aspirations of becoming a TikTok street interviewer. Et cetera.

You hope Art isn’t looking at you when you chance a glance his way, but when have you ever been so lucky?

So he’s looking at you. He looks at you like he’s taking inventory of you at your expense. He gives a slow blink, an almost imperceptible smile, then he lifts his beer towards you and takes a swig.

At the end of the night, he asks for your number, which feels like a boot to the loins. Not because it’s profoundly unbelievable. Maybe a little surprising, but, if anything, it’s the conclusion you’ve halfanticipated all night. That’s the way he’s been looking at you, at least. It’s just the finality of it all.

But what are you gonna say? No?

You call him that night.

“Hey, listen,” you say, “Sorry.”

God, what have they done to you?

Art, on the other end of the line, presumably lounging in his stately mansion, remains cautiously silent. You sigh like you’re losing something here.

“I hope I didn’t upset you,” you say, but realise your tone is too grudging, so you adjust, “I got awkward, I was trying to be funny. Which we both know by now that I’m not. I’m just a bitch. So, I just wanted to say… you obviously look fucking amazing. And your shoot was great. Everyone can see that.” 

You swallow the dryness in your throat.

Art makes his own pained noise across the receiver. “Everyone?” he groans, and you cannot tell if you’re imagining the fleeting hue of amusement you discern there. “Please no.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say here.”

“You called me,” he scoffs. It’s a good scoff, if such a thing can be said. But he still sounds pretty incredulous with you, and not in a way that says he thinks you a moral paragon. You think he thinks you’re a bit of a monster. Which doesn’t offend you, actually. “To apologise.”

“And I did!”

“Okay?”

A silence befalls you like a yawning maw, stretching out. He could hang up on you. He doesn’t.

“Look, you can internalise the things I say at your own risk,” you say.

“You’re telling me.”

“But it was a nice photoshoot. And, you know… pretty hot and stuff, which I guess was the intended purpose.”

You feel like a corpse whose arteries are being drained of blood and filled with embalming fluid.

“Pretty hot and stuff?” he echoes. You roll your eyes.

If you’re lucky, he’s tipsy, because you guys didn’t only indulge in beer floats. So, maybe—by God’s impossible mercy—he’ll have forgotten this conversation in the morning.

“I—” you hesitate, adding a small laugh, kind of hoarse, kind of unconvincing. “I—honestly—I can’t stop watching it.”

It’s not a joke, you both realise.

His voice drops an octave. “Really?”

And—fuck. Fuck, right? But you’ve made it this far.

“Really.”

You feel his eyes on you, not Tashi. Harper has you all thronged around a burn barrel in the community centre parking lot at 8 PM on a Wednesday. Scintillating honeygold flames lick at the night and shadow his face at pretty angles. And he’s reading his letter—that letter—and looking at you.

That’s bad.

This is supposed to be a cathartic and utterly sexless exercise in closure.

But you feel like a filthy fraud.

You’re crossing your arms, and blinking off the flameheat, and pretending not to stare at the scarp of his Adam’s apple and his tendons working beneath the skin of his hands.

He clears his throat, and his lips are moving like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Tashi,” he starts.

Her name, when he says it, still sounds like a tender orison. But last time he’d been reciting this thing, his eyes had been all flushed, raw, and misty, his voice abraded at its edges. Now—well—Agnes hasn’t slipped him a tissue in weeks.

“I still love— do we have to do this again? Can’t I just throw it in?”

The group sputters into giggles. You don’t know who brought the sweet Moscato.

Dr Harper pinches his nosebridge like an enervated preschool teacher. You think he, of all people, ought to be pleased—and you suspect he furtively is, but doesn’t want to discourage your good spirits with his approval—because, as much as you’re loathed to acknowledge it, all his forcible, unwelcome attempts at conjuring vulnerability amongst the lot of you have actually kind of worked.

The fire warms your brows to dampness, the saccharine acidity of the spirit seeping through your flesh and sweltering the rest of you. You should’ve worn a thinner sweater.

“Art,” says Dr Harper, “Your feelings are valid. Even—” The group interjects with a smattering of jeers, a slurred, densetongued amalgam of fuck you! and get a life, Harper! and other stuff to that effect. “—even your reluctance.”

The flames thrash deep indigo and copper. No one can quit laughing.

Dr Harper continues, “But the whole point of the exercise is—”

“Come on, Doc, we’re still pretending these exercises have points?” someone heckles.

“We’re still calling these exercises?” says someone else.

“Hurry up and cry already, Donaldson, I got work tomorrow.”

“Alright, alright,” Art raises a hand and everyone wanes to a simmer of firewarm drunken murmurs as though he’s some sort of Biblical king.

You roll your eyes, but you keep thinking of Great Danes on tennis courts and tightiewhities.

Everyone cheers like this is fucking Madison Square Garden when Art holds his hand out for the bottle, teeth scintillating in the pyreglow with a wry slanting smile.

He takes a long, healthy swig. You think you hear someone whistle. His lips gleam with moisture when they pop off the glass bottlemouth.

“You wanna see me cry?” he grins, eminently rueful and amused and resigned, all at once.

And everyone hurrahs and hollers and maybe some people even bark. He’s being pushed around affectionately from all angles. His gaze is sharp and garlanded by flames and trained on you. You raise your brows at him wryly, perhaps a little dubious, before lifting your hands and joining in the applause.

He clears his throat and sweeps his tongue over his upper lip and flicks the paper out like a Shakespearean scroll.

“Tashi,” he starts again.

You watch the fire lave and singe and swallow all your bitter, pathetic epistles.

Tashi.

I still love you. I’m still sorry. For something, or everything. For anything, really. It’s mostly okay, but it’s worse at night. And on weekends, and with Lily, and when the microwave starts making that shitty sound that you hated.

I miss you deep in my bones. I—

The flames scorch his words to flickering cinders.

You look at him, and he looks at you, and his bottom lashes glisten with tears. But he’s grinning widely. He’s laughing. He’s laughing a lot. Padma sings ‘Auld Lang Syne’, for some reason.

The goodbyes are a little maudlin, but sincere.

It’s time for you to all go home and actually get over your exes, which feels a bit jilting.

Art walks you to your car, and you let him, and you even let him get in your car, which is probably not a good idea. But it’s the end of the stupid workshop and you want to spend more time together. There, you can admit it.

You even say it out loud.

“I’m gonna miss this corny bullshit.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says, a little more quiet.

When the middle backseat belt buckle is digging sharply into your hip, and he’s got you pinned beneath him, and his hands are everywhere—seriously, it seems he was just waiting for your permission, because he’s squeezing all the flesh he can reach, slipping his hands under your shirt, between your thighs, just absolutely no decorum on this guy—you think to yourself, this motherfucker.

A spherule of spearmint gum slips from his mouth and into yours.

You’d thought, too, that he’d be more deft with this. And he is, but he’s also very clunky. Maybe because your car’s quite small. He’s not huge, but he is still fairly tall and broad and trying to fit himself between your thighs while covering you with his body in this small space, so it’s a bit chaotic. You don’t really mind.

And—yes—you have thought about it.

There’s a shot of him, in the Calvin Klein campaign, sprawled across the court in greyscale, his hand resting on his middle, his other arm above his head.

You know they edit those photos. That there’s some kid, fresh out of graphic design school, rubbing one out while airbrushing these halfnaked men to oblivion. But you now see—feel, more than see, really; there’s a streetlight nearby, but it’s blown, so you’re all touch—that such satin cannot be contrived. He really is that smooth. There’s not a bit of fat on him, but he’s oddly liquidfeeling, skin sloughing off like cream.

He’s always looked almost uncomfortably boyish to you. But you’re realising now that there’s an abrasiveness to his haggard breathing, and that potent, vaguely olid, mannish fume to his skin.

It's really doing it for you.

In that shot, he was lying right beside the polyethylene net and the sun was beaming down, searing alabaster, through the lattice, at an angle that splayed shadows all across him. The lines warping over the slopes of his body.

You feel the phantom crisscross of those shadows between your thighs now.

His eyes are still a little wet. He tells you he’s wanted to do this since he saw you giving him the jettatura while he was signing that racket for Harper's daughter. He also tells you he bets you’ve wanted to do this since you saw him in tightiewhities lying under a tennis net.

Can he be your tennis net?

You don’t even know what that means.

You laugh a little, but then he slips a finger inside you and latches his mouth to your pulse, and it is hot as magma, and you forget all about Great Danes and apologies and fires.

You would think they do some computer magic to make the cocks look bigger in those things, too.

They don’t.

To be fair, he doesn’t have some kind of doubletake worthy, John Holmes ordeal or anything, in the pictures. But the slope beneath the cotton, the bend of his hips like the handle of a water pitcher, all that pearlescent skin—so what if your saliva gathered on your tongue as you leaned in (way too closely) toward your laptop screen?

You feel especially shameless now as he slides into you.

Sure, the buckle is a bitch and the seatleather’s sort of chafing your ass and your elbow’s in a cup holder. But you take furtive pleasure in thinking that some people’s fantasies about him probably go like this.

The softest thing is his hand cupping the back of your neck, dragging your head up. It’s a weird contrast to the way his dick is pumping erratically in and out of you. Like he’s trying to control himself, maybe add a little romance.

You keep your eyes open to watch the way his body moves. Fuck it, you wanna see what all the fuss is about.

The talented Mr Ripley whose volleys (and probably orgasms) are intensive, frenetic affairs of selfpersuasion. Unless, of course, he’s fucking the random, judgy woman he met in a group therapy session. In this particular case—though laboured all the same—he comes harder and slower and you hear his panting groans in your ear as you shudder through your own pleasure.

He pulls your hips closer and empties himself in you and you rub yourself against him and you try to keep your eyes open, but, ultimately, you concede that you can only experience this pleasure in the dark.

You keep feeling his muscles work beneath your hands, though.

Dr Harper strongly recommends that you two not start seeing each other. He does just about everything but get on his knees and beg. And even that he nearly does. He reminds you that, on your Vision Tree, you mapped yourself single for at least the next two years.

But Art says he’s had enough of other people saying what’s good for him.

And your Vision Tree also forecasted you taking up jogging, which—come on.

[gggcherry]

Chapter VII: DROP SHOT

Masterlist

Pairing: Art Donaldson x F!Reader

Warnings: None.

Author's Note: I'm so so sorry for the late upload! Your girl has been in the trenches mentally and creatively lately 😭

GIF Source:@/birdmans

2007. Stanford.

New year, new semester, and what came with it was a promising fresh start. Despite the mental toll from the disastrous few days spent with your parents, you chose not to address it. You could never get the time you cried over them back, and it was time to move on. Your focus was swiftly redirected to something much more pleasant and exciting: you had started drafting for a new project. 

An inkling of an idea bloomed from the paradoxical of your life. Being on the verge of entering your 20s, you were aware of your inadequacy when it came to love. Yet, you couldn't keep the feeling of knowing and understanding its inner workings and mechanisms from rising above your insecurity. Being a child of parents who weren't very loving and born into the belief that everything was transactional, you thought you knew everything there was about love. There needed to be a form of reciprocation so the relationship could thrive. Love wasn't an infinite resource that you could take and take because, eventually, the other person would grow tired of you and leave. This belief was built into your foundational core, and its development intertwined with yours as you grew up. 

But Art confused you. He gave up his vacation in Vermont to spend time with you and make sure you were okay without the constant reminder that you owed him something. He'd made you feel like you deserved to be cared for without conditions attached. The dismantling of your guarded exterior was slow, yet he had been so patient. You realized you didn't need it when you were with him. 

The connection you shared was something different. It passed the point of infatuation but not quite there at love. Unknown yet so unanimous in its nature that you didn't have to say it out loud. A beautiful thing that was nameless, yet its existence was tangible and real. It lived in the vigorous beats of your heart every time he was close. It ran wild in your bloodstream every time he smiled at you. Its cadence rose and fell with the touches of laughter you shared. 

In a way, Art had become your muse. You started to write about the way Art made you feel, about the way your perception of love had changed, and what it was like to be on the receiving end of it. You would often feel the itch to write, to grasp onto one of the many loose threads that swirled around your mind and follow it to wherever it'd take you. The wandering then materialized on the pages of the notebook he gave you, glistened in the fine ink. Pages after pages, and he knew of none of them. You felt like it was fitting to immortalize him with your words, within the scope of your ability in the only way you knew how. The more you filled the notebook, the closer you came to realizing that you were falling for him, with each walk to the tennis court, with each minute he spent with you at the coffee shop, and outside of that, too. It was scary to be so smitten with him, but you didn't care. He was your only friend, your most trustworthy companion, and no one could compare to that. You declined invitations to go out with Grace and Ashley so you could spend more time with Art. Your world revolved around him like he was the most important person in the world. What else did you need?

You accompanied Art to practice whenever you could, and during late hours, when the soft white lights lit up the court, he taught you how to play. He fixed your stance, adjusted your grip, and showed you the basics. After a few weeks, you could rally with him. You came to every match and cheered him on. You came to Tashi's matches, too, just to spend more time with Art. You never failed to notice that distant look in his eyes as he watched Tashi play, almost like a longing, a hopeless yearning for something he couldn't quite reach. Was it wrong that you wanted Art to look at you that way? Was it selfish of you that you wanted his longing gaze to be on you and only you? Even though when he looked back at you, he would flash you a smile that made you temporarily forget about the pestering question. 

/

The sun was warm on your skin, staving off the brisk wind, but you didn't want to move from your spot in the corner of the court. With the notebook on your lap, you were writing while waiting for Art to finish practice. He was with Robbie, and you could hear his grunts from where you were sitting. In your bag were two admissions to the movie Art told you he had been wanting to see but didn't have the time to check it out. Your excitement and anticipation were barely contained; you had looked forward to surprising him all week.

The gate rattled, and then, a voice called out.

"Let's go!"

That made you look up from your notebook. You watched as the stranger sauntered over in Art's direction.

"Come on, Donaldson, big serve. Big serve!"

Art went to serve but gave up halfway as the newcomer called out again in a teasing tone. Art angled his body to face the new guy, finally acknowledging him. 

"Finish it up, Donaldson. Come on."

Art went for a serve so quick that Robbie couldn't catch on. He turned towards the guy, and the racquet fell limp in his grasp. The stranger opened his arms and walked toward Art, who then walked away and playfully dismissed the gesture. You could see a genuine smile on his face, highlighting the boyish charm in his features. You watched as they started to chase each other through the courts, jumping over the net and other boys on the bench. 

You waited until their chase came to a stop, when they were standing face to face, talking to one another in an effervescent manner. You noted to yourself that this was a new side of Art that you hadn't seen yet. 

Art waved at you as you approached, drawing the newcomer's attention to you. He looked at you up and down as Art introduced the two of you. His big hand enveloped yours in its warmth and callouses. Patrick's eyes had a spark of recognition the moment you told him your name. He smirked, still holding your hand.

"It's nice to finally meet the girl Art's been 'hanging out' with."

He glanced cheekily at Art. 

"What do you mean?"

"Art wasn't being very clear on that, so …"

You looked to Art to see him glaring at Patrick. Your brows furrowed as understanding dawned on you. Your heart thumped harshly in your chest. 

"Oh, right."

Patrick didn't seem to catch onto your confusion. He drew you closer by tugging on your hand, which was still wrapped in his.

"I don't get it. If I was him, I'd waste no time."

Art elbowed Patrick lightly.

"Dude, what about Tashi?"

"Dude, I said if I was you."

You interrupted before Art could say anything.

"You're not wrong. We're just casual friends."

Art looked at you, his gaze inquisitive, but you pretended that nothing was wrong. You put on a cheery voice, hoping Art would overlook what you'd just said.

"Anyway, it looks like you'll be busy. I'll… see you later."

Without waiting for an answer from Art, you turned to Patrick.

"It's nice to meet you, Patrick."

Patrick's reciprocation fell on your ears as you turned around and walked away. You didn't make it too far before Art got a hold of your wrist. 

"Wait, didn't you say you wanted to ask me something?"

You thought about the tickets in your bag, but you shook your head.

"No, it's nothing."

"Are you sure? I'm sorry, but I didn't know Patrick were stopping by today. I haven't seen him in a few weeks as well ..."

You understood his implication perfectly. You patted his forearm. 

"I'm sure. Don't worry about it. Go hang out with your friend."

You made a move to leave, but Art didn't budge, holding you in place.

"Will I see you tomorrow? Tashi's match?"

You nodded without hesitation.

"Of course."

This time, you were able to leave without Art's intervention. Almost immediately, your mind started to whirl, hurtling headfirst into overanalyzing what you had witnessed. You knew that Patrick was Art's friend from the academy. From what Art had told you, they were very close. But you couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it. 

Each step was heavier than the last as you felt the increasing disappointment weighing on your mind. Instead of going home or to the theatre, you pivoted in the direction of the library. Choosing the most private spot in the computer area, you looked up Art and Patrick's names. A list of articles unfolded themselves before your eyes, inviting you to click on them, with most of them reporting on their victory at the US Junior Open last year. You read through the articles, and your eyes studied every single photo attached. Art and Patrick posing for pictures, kissing their cups, and celebrating their victory. 

But pictures could only tell so much. Opening a new web browser, you went on YouTube and searched for their names. You clicked on the first one you saw, which highlighted their best performances throughout the tournament. They played so well together. They fit like two pieces of a puzzle. What one person lacked, the other would make up for it. They were unstoppable, and it was hard to look away from their exquisite dynamic. 

You watched as the camera zoomed in on the two of them celebrating in the final, clinging to one another as they went down to the ground. You replayed the moment over and over until you could recount it as if you were there. You clicked on another video, then another, going from the beginning of their US Junior Doubles tournament to the very end. You were fixated and only left the library late into the night when fatigue took over. The night went by as you sat by your phone, assignments on your desk, waiting for a call or a text from Art. You went to bed that night disappointed, with a spark of indignation simmering in your mind.  

/

Even though your class ended at 12, and you could've gone home to study, you went to Tashi's match anyway. You hadn't met the girl yet, but you had been to her matches as if you were a Duncanator yourself. But you went because Art would be there, and you wanted to spend time with him. Even though he'd spend most of that time looking at another girl. Despite going to the match of your own volition, your anger still felt justified somehow. 

You came in, and the bleacher was already half filled with people. You looked around to find Art. He saw you first, his long arm reaching up and waving at you. You didn't wave back; instead, you looked down, pretending to watch your steps as you made your way to him. He beamed at you as you inched closer to his seat.

"Hey."

"Hey."

You took the seat next to him without making eye contact with him. Art seemed to catch onto your mood. 

"Look, about yesterday–"

"Where's Patrick?"

He took a brief moment before answering. 

"I ... don't know. I texted him, but he hasn't answered."

"Oh. I was looking forward to seeing more of him today."

Still refusing to look at Art, you trained your gaze toward the court. At that, he sat up straight. 

"What do you mean by that?"

"I like him. He seems like a fun guy."

You turned your head to look at him. You could almost see the thoughts written on his face, and your tense moment was interrupted by an onslaught of cheer as Tashi made her appearance. You used that moment to look away, to direct your attention to Tashi and clap for her. But it didn't stop the heat from spreading through your skin and burning your cheeks. You knew what you were doing was petty, but at that moment, all you cared about was getting back at Art. 

The match commenced with bated breath and tension so heavy you could feel it in the air. Tashi's usual assertiveness was replaced by a nervous energy. She usually met each volley with precision and confidence, but right now, it was because she had to. You had watched her play enough to tell the difference. And in a blink of an eye, you almost missed it. The air shifted with Tashi as she went down to the ground with a sharp cry. The sight and sound were so visceral that you sprang from your seat, your mouth parted in shock as you watched Tashi writhe on the ground, hugging her knee. Her cries were piercing in the dead quiet of the court, and before you could say anything to Art, he took off. 

You followed his blurred movements and watched as he jumped over the net to get to Tashi. Your eyes glued on them as Art put Tashi's head on his lap; his mouth moved, whispering things you couldn't hear over the rising whispers around you.

The audience dispersed after a while. You stood outside of the rec centre where Tashi was taken, debating whether you should go in or not. After another long moment of consideration, you sucked in a breath and entered the building. After asking for directions, you went down the corridor and looked at each room before you found Tashi on a bed with her arm on her forehead. Art sat on a chair next to the bed she was resting on and was partially shielded by her, but he saw you. He squeezed her arm, telling her he would be right back. You instinctively stepped back from the opening of the door, not wanting Tashi to spot you. Even with what she was going through right now, you doubted that she cared. It was purely from the fact that you weren't ready to be confronted by what you'd been suspecting.

"How is she doing?"

You whispered. Art shook his head, his lips flattened into a grim line. 

"Not good."

"What can they do for her?"

"Not much. They can't tell until they can get the x-rays from the hospital. We're waiting for the ambulance right now." 

You nodded. Behind the outline of Art's body, you could see Tashi. Crestfallen, scared, if the impatient shakes of her uninjured leg were any indication.

"Is there ... anything I can do?"

You didn't even know why you offered. Still, you felt like you needed to do something, to be useful even though nothing in this situation pertained to you. 

"No, nothing. I'll stay with her to make sure that she's okay." 

You resigned with a nod. 

"Alright. Call me later, okay? Let me know how she's doing."

He inclined his head in agreement and went back to Tashi without sparing a second glance at you. Your heart chipped a little at that, but you brushed it off. Art cared about her, and there was nothing wrong with that. They were friends. You'd do the same for Grace and Ashley. To feel jealous was to be irrational, and you didn't want that. But was your inkling of doubt really unreasonable?

You were about to round the corner when Patrick almost ran into you. He murmured an apology before taking off. He stopped in front of the door you were at just moments ago. You were frozen in place, hearing Patrick's desperate pleas, Tashi's angry cry, and, at last, Art's thunderous shout echoed down the hallway.

"Patrick, get the fuck out!!"

You had never heard him like that. Angry, with a territorial edge to it. You forced yourself to walk away; the need to withdraw into yourself once again overwhelmed your mind despite your conscious effort not to think about what'd just happened. But you couldn't help it. 

Later that night, there was no phone call, not even a text. Art's silence was a knife that dug deep into your heart, but like always, you ignored it, even though you knew it had never been a good idea.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

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[gggcherry]

(Yellowjackets+My favorite popular art)

[gggcherry]

POSSESSION (1981) | THE FIRST OMEN (2024)

TJ MIKELOGAN's HALLOWEEN 2024 EVENT Day 6: Horror Parallels

[gggcherry]

in.convenience: ii

patrick zweig x reader

part i here

rating: explicit

word count: 3k

warning: some bits of smut sprinkled about. but it's mostly angst. lots of it too. unhealthy relationship dynamics abound. 

author's note: entering au territory.

&

The neon OPEN sign still blinks, more tired than before, barely holding onto its flicker. Patrick feels a sorted fucked up kinship with it. He sits for a minute, tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on him. His wrist aches again, like it always does, and likely always will, and his chest feels tight. He tells himself this is stupid. He shouldn't have come back. You should be left alone. 

But here he is.

It's been a couple of weeks since that night, since you. He doesn't know what he's looking for, redemption, absolution, maybe just an anchor to the past or a proper fuck, but the idea of not seeing you again pulls at him like an old wound that hasn’t quite healed. Funny how that works. 

He’s back in New Rochelle for another game, another shot, though the prospects aren’t looking much better than last time with the draw nor is the prize money anywhere as appealing. It's no Art Donaldson, that's for sure, but Art Donaldson would just be waiting in the wings with Tashi Duncan by his side. Probably biting his nails while she's busy barking orders about how Patrick isn't moving fast enough out there. How she doesn't wanna waste her precious time coaching him if he isn't going to put his goddamn blood, sweat, and tears into it. 

Win or lose it'll end up the same way though. Same as it did the night of the Challenger when the two invited him to their hotel bar for a drink. Then a proposition. Art would be lickonghis wounds upon other things. It was a tangle of limbs and a symphony of moans that followed. Patrick would have them both in ways he'd only dared to dream whilst stroking himself raw. 

They'd submit to him and whereas Patrick would've once bust at the mere thought of it, there was something sick to the way they'd take it. Like they pitied him. So even as his hips slammed against Art's ass and the blond whimpered with abandon into the pillow he clutched in his arms and Tashi wrapped her fingers around Patrick's waist as if to guide his thrusts with whispers of 'fuck him good' it was clear that it was just that. Pity. Patrick Zweig a vehicle for their debauchery, the collar to hold their picture perfect marriage together. The only good he could provide them was the very fuck Tashi was whispering about before he came apart gripping Art's slender hips for dear life. 

In the hour after, Art would call the nanny to ensure their daughter was fast asleep while Tashi saddled up beside Patrick after the fact,a soft slender hand coming to cap his shoulder. Another proposition. I'll coach you. And when it's over Patrick Zweig is still alone. He returns to the motel on the other side of town, unsure if he should be proud or disgusted with himself...

When he finally steps out of the car, he realizes his palms are sweating. Patrick rubs them on his jeans, scowling at himself. He doesn’t get nervous. Not for this. He pushes the door open, the familiar jangle of the bell ringing above his head.

Inside, the station is the same: flickering lights, dusty shelves, the smell of stale coffee in the air. And there you are, behind the counter, same as before, your oversized headphones covering one ear, slouched in your chair as you scroll through your phone. You don’t even look up at first, and for a moment, he wonders if you’ll remember him at all.

Patrick stands there, unsure, before finally muttering a greeting. “Hey.”

You glance up, pulling your headphones off. “Oh. You again.”

There’s a flicker of recognition in your eyes, and it sets something off in him, a heady mixture of relief and dread all at once. You don’t smile, but the scowl you wore last time is softer, more curious.

“You’re back,” you say, leaning against the counter. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Didn’t think I’d be back.” He forces a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. It feels like the first time he’s talked to someone in days. 

You eye him up and down, taking in the slight tremor in his hands, the lines of exhaustion on his face. “You look worse than before. That game thing didn’t go well, huh?”

He shakes his head. “Not quite what I was expecting, but..."

There’s a moment of silence that stretches out between you, thick and heavy. He’s not sure what to say, not sure why he’s standing here with his heart beating too fast in his chest, like some stupid teenager trying to make sense of a feeling he’s too old for.

You tap your fingers on the counter, eyes narrowing slightly. “You nervous about something?”

Patrick blinks, surprised by the bluntness of your question. He opens his mouth to deny it, but nothing comes out. The truth is, he isnervous. More than he cares to admit.

“Yeah,” he finally says, the word feeling heavy on his tongue. “I guess I am.”

You don’t push him, just nod slowly like you understand more than you should. “You want something to calm those nerves?” There’s a teasing edge to your voice, but it’s not cruel. It’s an offer. A way back into something dangerous and familiar.

Patrick swallows hard, his mind flickering back to that night, to the way you’d looked at him like you were seeing all the parts of him no one else wanted to touch. He should say no. He knows he should. But instead, he steps closer, resting his forearms on the counter, leaning into that strange pull you have over him.

“Yeah,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I think I do.”

The look you give him is one of quiet understanding. You don’t say anything, just nod once, pushing the door open behind the counter that leads to the back room. It’s not an invitation. It’s an expectation. He follows you without a word.

The back room is the same as before, dimly lit, cluttered with forgotten boxes, like the world outside has disappeared. It smells faintly of cigarettes and old cardboard. There’s something almost comforting about the familiarity, even though it makes his stomach twist.

Patrick stands awkwardly in the middle of the room while you lean against one of the shelves, arms crossed, watching him. He feels exposed, like every nerve in his body is on fire.

“You always this jumpy?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You shrug, pushing off the shelf and walking over to him. “Nothing’s wrong with you,” you say quietly, your fingers grazing his arm. “You’re just lost.”

The touch is so small, so light, but it sends a jolt through him. He’s frozen in place, heart pounding in his chest, torn between wanting to pull away and wanting more. You step closer, your breath warm against his neck, your hand sliding down to his wrist. His injured wrist.

He flinches, and you stop, looking up at him with a mixture of concern and curiosity. “This still hurt?”

Patrick swallows, nodding slightly. “Yeah.”

You frown, gently turning his wrist over in your hand, studying it like you’re trying to understand what’s broken inside him. It’s not just the wrist, and you both know it.

Without thinking, he cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Why’d you let me come back here?”

Your eyes meet his, steady and unflinching. “Why’d you come back?”

It’s a simple question, but the answer feels impossibly complicated. He doesn’t know. Or maybe he does, but he’s too afraid to say it out loud. Instead, he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, closing his eyes as he exhales shakily.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispers.

And that's when you hug him. Small arms making great work of wrapping around his broad, rigid frame, but he so quickly melts into you in an almost comical manner. Like butter. Patrick is crying, weeping really, into the crook of your neck and yet there is a hiccuped laughter that is paired with it. The absurdity of it all twisting up something within him. 

"I just want something that's mine." He's squeezing you as he says it and you let him because you think you like the sound of it. Mine. His.

You don't know just how long you stay tied up together like that, but it's a while. Sometime later he He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes red and swollen, but there’s something in them that wasn’t there before. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I didn’t mean to...”

You shake your head, cutting him off. “It’s okay.” And the blood is pumping loud in your ears and you lick your lips but your mouth feels dry. "How can I be yours if I don't even know your name." You smile.

"Patrick."

"Patrick."

"Sounds better when you say it." He's flushed and rubbing at his neck. You tell him your name and suggest it sounds better when you say it too.

"Maybe you should just call me, Sugar."

And he shudders a little shaky breath as he considers the way his tongue loosens when it was coated with you. "Yeah, Sugar. I'd like that."

"Have you had dinner yet, Patrick?"

&

And that's how Patrick Zweig ends up in the shitiest diner he's ever been in with the prettiest girl he's ever met. You order pancakes with whipped cream and berries and for whatever reason he isn't surprised because of course you would. He orders only coffee.

Said berries aren't even fresh, but those frozen ones that just ooze syrup, yet that doesn't stop you from gobbling them up. Your lips stain and your smile is angelic. He swears he could eat you up, and it makes you giggle before shoving a spoonful past his lips. Something substantial to float in the stomach acid and caffeine lagoon of his belly.

For a second, he glances at his distorted reflection in the metallic napkin caddy and notices he's smiling. No, actually smiling, like in those photos from back in Rabello when Art would throw those stupid bunny ears behind his head like he was being slick. Patrick always knew what he was doing and always let him get away with it. Just like how he lets you get away with smearing a dab of whipped cream on the tip of his nose.

"What am I gonna do with you?"

&

Bad things. In a bad place. You deserve better than the dingy motel he can scrape together with petty cash. He could draw from the Amex Tashi slipped him under the guise of business expenses, but the thought of this night being tracked, categorized alongside tennis balls and jockstraps, makes him sick. Worse than the coffee.

So this has to do. It's a shabby motel with a lit vacancy sign and enough unsavory characters around to not blink twice at a couple checking in for the night. The receptionist doesn't even look up as he asks, “By the hour or the night?” Patrick, usually so unflappable, finds himself stammering before managing to croak out, "The night." He almost wants to say forever. Is that an option?

The room isn’t much better than the one he’d shared with Art that night. Maybe it’s worse, but sometimes the difference is hard to gauge when seen through the fog of hindsight and regret. He wishes he had those beers now, and the reckless bravado of a younger man. But where he hesitates, you don’t. You step into the space like you own it, flopping onto the center of the bed, bouncing lightly on the rickety mattress. You grin at him, the simple joy in your movement making something in his chest tighten.

“C’mere.”

There’s something in that look, a coy, almost bashful simper. It’s not Tashi. It’s not Art. But somehow, it’s both of them, mingling in the space between you like ghosts of who he’s been and who he still wants to be. For you. For himself.

Sugar. The word slips through his mind, a sweet poison as he slides beside you. Your smiles are so close they practically brush against each other, featherlight, uncertain.

"I can be yours, Patrick," you whisper, soft yet firm. And in that moment, he believes you. Not because he’s certain, but because you are.

He pounces then, as if fearing that hesitation might break whatever fragile thing holds you both together. The kiss is ravenous, ironic considering the sweetness of your mouth, still tasting of the dessert you'd shamelessly claimed as dinner. He chases the sugar down, his tongue sweeping across yours, a hand coming up to brace your chest, his fingers pressing against your collarbones as he sinks you deeper into the bed.

Clothes shed in a frenzy, no different than the first time. But you're quicker, ensuring he too is stripped bare before he can wind his way down your body. You keep him close, chest to chest, staring at each other as if it’s a contest of wills. You blink first, smirking. He responds by biting down on your bottom lip, firm enough to leave an impression. Because you're his, right? The whined moan from your lips confirms it, and he proves it again, his fingers slipping between your thighs to gather the evidence of your desire.

With a pull of his arm, he hitches your leg around his waist, drawing his hips back—

“Condom?”

The question hits him like a slap. He blinks, nodding quickly, pretending he’s prepared. Because he’s an adult, and he should have thought this through. But you see his hesitation, cupping his face gently in your hands. You don’t want him to leave. You whisper something about getting creative, your fingers sliding between you, wrapping around his length and drawing up slowly to the tip, slick and ready.

The last time he'd allowed someone to give him a proper handjob was Tashi Duncan in a Stanford dorm, right before practice. The first time had been Art Donaldson, a dare the blond hadn’t seen through to the end, but Patrick was still more than grateful to receive. And now it’s you, all doe-eyed and smiling. The rhythm of his hips twitches and bucks into your grip, a mix of shame and raw need flushing his body as his mouth falls open. You seize the opportunity, your eager lips and tongue finding his as you work him over with precision.

He starts to speak again, murmuring his gospel. His Sugar, his honey, his girl. And you devour each word, licking up every syllable until he spills into your hand, forehead pressed against yours as his body sags, spent but still desperate for you. His fingertips dig into your hips, face buried in the crook of your neck, as if pleading with you not to let go.

“So you’re mine now too?” Your words tease at his senses, making him shudder with the aftershocks of pleasure, holding you even tighter.

"Yeah." He breathes deeply, filling his lungs with you, holding it in until it hurts. "Yeah, I’m yours, Sugar."

&

Patrick is bleary-eyed as he reads through the flurry of texts from Tashi. None from Art. All about tennis. Where is he? Why isn't he picking up? How is this showing he’s taking it seriously this time around? He sighs, dragging a hand down his face just about the time you're rousing from bed.

You're stirring, slowly waking, your arm sliding across the bed as you reach for him. The warmth of your skin against the coolness of the sheets makes him pause, and for a moment, he forgets about the buzzing phone in his hand.

"Come with me," Patrick says, his voice rough, still low from sleep and strain.

You blink, your eyes heavy with the haze of sleep, and give a soft hum in response. “Hm?”

He turns to face you, his expression softening as he watches you, your hair tousled, the dim light catching the curve of your face. "I need you to come with me," he repeats, quieter this time but more certain.

You sit up slightly, propping yourself on one elbow, your brow furrowed in confusion. “Where?”

Patrick’s gaze shifts, momentarily glancing at the phone before he tosses it onto the nightstand with a dull thud. He meets your eyes again, this time with a steadiness that hadn’t been there moments before. "My game."

The room feels smaller suddenly, as if the weight of his words makes the air denser. You can feel the hesitation in your chest, an unspoken question lingering in the space between you. “Why?” you ask, your voice softer now, unsure.

“So I can win.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as though your presence alone could shift the odds in his favor. His tone carries a quiet conviction, one you can’t quite ignore.

You tilt your head, searching his face for something that might explain the sudden request. The lines of tension are still etched into his brow, but there’s something beneath it, something vulnerable. “Patrick…”

He leans forward, his hands finding yours where they rest on the sheets. His fingers are cool, pulling you back to him as if you could even bring yourself to stray away. "You’re mine?”

You stare at him for a long moment before nodding, almost on instinct. “Yeah.”

“And I’m yours?”

“Yeah.” This time, the answer comes without hesitation.

Patrick's shoulders relax, and a slow, boyish smile curls at the edges of his lips, a smile that seems to melt away the exhaustion, if only for a second. And just like that, you can’t help but mirror his smile, small but genuine.

The room is quiet again, save for the soft hum of the air conditioner. “So it’s settled then.” His voice is lighter now, like a weight has been lifted. The smile lingers, and he squeezes your hand gently. “We’re going.”

[gggcherry]

Time Of Our Lives || Part 20

warnings: SMUT! 18+!, dirty talk, p in v sex, oral sex, fingering, praise.

Part 20:

There was silence. Liana wasn't sure how long they stared at each other in silence, but it was too long, and she so desperately wanted to stop looking at him and die a slow death filled with agony, suffering, and embarrassment because that was obviously what awaited her in the coming hours.

She was supposed to share a bed with him after she asked him if he wanted to fuck her, and he basically said no. Well, he didn't say anything, which might have been even worse.

"Forget about it. It was just hypothetical about random people," she swallowed, and Art nodded. "As a concept. Like in that movie with Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher," she continued rambling. "Justin Timberlake," Art said in a voice she couldn't quite understand. "What about him?" she asked, desperately trying to change the subject. "Mila Kunis and Justin Timberlake. Ashton Kutcher is another movie," he explained. Neither of them moved their gaze. Liana was afraid to blink. She felt like she was in some stupid game, and the first one to break eye contact would lose and end their life in seppuku out of sheer embarrassment. "Oh," she had nothing else to say.

"Ask again," Art suddenly said after a few more seconds (maybe minutes, maybe hours, maybe days, how long had they been standing in this room?). "What?" she swallowed again. "Liana." His voice was authoritative. They both knew she couldn't escape this. "It was nothing," she tried. She really tried. Why did he have to humiliate her and couldn't just let it pass? Why couldn't they wait a year or two and just laugh about it together? Why was the joke always at her expense? "Liana." The same tone again. He wasn't going to let it go, and he was taking his time to torment her slowly. Why was it so hot in this room?

"Do you think people can fuck without commitment?" she asked after a few more seconds of silence. "That's not what you asked." He leaned on the dresser behind him, losing patience with the girl in front of him. "Put on your big girl pants that you had on five minutes ago and ask again," he said. "If you heard me, why do I need to repeat myself?" she crossed her arms under her chest.

"Okay, if you can't finish the pitch properly, then the answer is no," he rolled his eyes and sighed. Art was getting annoyed with the situation. It didn't make sense that she was doing this. After five years, she gave him a taste of something and then took it all back in a second. She wouldn't let him savor it.

"Why are you angry with me now?" she sounded confused. "Because you're talking in circles instead of saying what you want when you know for sure that the moment you say it, you'll get it. Who's afraid to ask for things when they know they'll get exactly what they ask for?" he looked at her, raising an eyebrow. There was a hint of frustration in his voice, but he managed to keep his cool. He managed to be the more authoritative person in the room without losing empathy.

All Liana could think about was how attracted she was to Art when he spoke exactly like that. When there was a hint of disdain in his voice. A mutual understanding of the power dynamics. Until now, she had decided the dynamics between them, and the moment she gave him an opening, Art grabbed it with both hands, and only he knew how much he intended not to let it go.

"Let's just go to sleep," he rolled his eyes again and moved towards the bed, passing through her as if she wasn't standing there at all. "Art. Wait, come on." She grabbed his hand, and he stopped. They both breathed heavily. He gently ran his fingers over her hand, feeling her pulse and realizing how fast her heart was beating.

Let me in Let me in Come on

That was all he could think about. He needed it to come from her. He needed her to ask, to tell him she wanted it. Otherwise, he'd ruin everything. The entire past year would go down the drain. He couldn't allow their relationship to regress because he misunderstood the dynamics. He couldn't let her ruin what they could be together for a fleeting whim.

"Do you want to try it? The friends with benefits thing?" If it was possible, her heart beat even faster.

Art pressed his head to hers, their foreheads touching. This was the closest he'd been to Liana in the last five years, and his level of self-control was inspiring if anyone knew what it took from him right now. "How will we do it?" he asked. His voice was hoarse and raspy, but outwardly he still showed complete control. As if at any moment, he would detach from her and go to sleep. As if she needed to convince him. To sell him that fucking her was a good idea. He felt almost cruel. Almost sadistic, making her do it. But he needed to hear her talk about how much she needed him. How he was the solution for her right now. How he could give her something no one else could.

"The benefits part is pretty self-explanatory," she mumbled, closing her eyes. "The friends part we're also okay with," Liana added. "We can fuck whoever we want without questions or vetoes, and if someone says the arrangement no longer suits them, we forget everything and go back to drinking wine and playing Scrabble on Thursdays," she took a step back, and Art sighed. A bit angry at himself for showing how much the break in contact bothered him.

"You can't sleep with Patrick, though," he stated. Not asked. Making her raise an eyebrow. "Okay, so you can't sleep with Tashi," she quickly added her own condition. "Tashi and I never slept together, and we don't plan to sleep together anytime soon, but fine," his voice was amused as if he wanted to ruffle her hair because she was so sweet in his eyes. Liana considered kicking him in the balls for being such an arrogant bastard.

"I'll cancel everything, watch out," she said the only thing that came to her mind. "Uh-huh," another amused remark. As if he didn't care at all about what she was saying. "Donaldson!" she crossed her arms under her chest. "I still want wine and Scrabble on Thursdays. If that gets canceled, then the sex thing is also off," he continued while she looked at him as if he were crazy.

"Art," she swallowed and looked at him with a slightly different expression. He recognized she was more serious now. "It can't be like five years ago. You can't use this against me, okay?" she said, and Art wanted to die when he saw how much it stressed her out to tell him that.

"I'm three times more desperate for this arrangement than you are. The only one who can use any of this against anyone is you, Liana," he said sincerely, and she nodded. "So let's do it," she extended her hand for a handshake and smiled sweetly. "Are you for real?" he asked with a smirk on his face. It didn't make sense that she was so cute about such a sleazy deal. It just didn't make sense. "Shake my hand already, Arthur," she said, and he grabbed her hand and pulled her towards him. Their breaths mingled as both their eyes closed, and Art's lips brushed against Liana's. At first, there was a tenderness and almost shyness. As if it was the first time either of them had any human contact with any other person. After a few seconds, the kiss became hungry, and there was no battle for dominance because it was clear to both of them that Art was taking control from here. The moment his tongue asked for entry, Liana would part her lips and allow him to enter and explore her mouth from the inside.

And within seconds, one of his hands was on Liana's waist, and the other roamed over every part of her body. If Art could, he would touch all of her at once. For a moment, he didn't know what to focus on. Just the thought that after five years, Liana was his again, and he was allowed to touch her, could bring him to the edge.

Neither of them knew how, but her shirt found itself on the floor, and Art's lips began to trail small kisses on her neck as he guided them both to the bed, where he threw Liana. Taking a few seconds to look at the woman in front of him, half-naked and smiling shyly.

His. His to do with as he pleased. His to decide what he wanted. His. His. His. Liana was his. And with those thoughts, his lips were on hers again, and one of his hands was on her right breast, playing with her nipple. He pinched, squeezed, and held it fiercely, somewhat punishing for all the years he couldn't do exactly that. She moaned into his mouth, and as strange as the sound was, it felt as if he'd heard her moan just two days ago.

"Fuck, Art," she mumbled in a half-moan as his mouth was on her neck again, "You can't leave a mark," it was barely audible, just breaths, but Art understood her and in response, his teeth found a spot under her ear. Just to show her that if he wanted, he could, and she wouldn't say anything because here she was, not saying anything, just breathing and trying to touch him back. But he didn't leave a mark on her neck. No matter how much he wanted to claim his territory. He decided he'd leave marks elsewhere.

His lips descended slowly, cruelly, little kisses on her collarbone. He lingered on one, adding a nibble. "I'm going to leave so many marks on you, Lia. You'll be covered in them," he said, returning to the same spot. All Liana could manage in response was a mumbled, sultry plea.

"Please," she moaned again. Neither of them knew what she was asking for, but Art had already moved to the other side of her collarbone, taking his time on another spot.

Then his lips halted above her breasts, all the while playing with her nipples. He made sure not to neglect either, giving equal attention to both the left and the right.

"You seem like something's bothering you, Liana. What is it?" he teased, knowing she couldn't answer him now; she was in a world of her own.

"You're wearing too much," she mumbled, opening eyes filled with tears of pleasure that blurred her vision. She wanted more of him. She wanted to consume him entirely, above her, beside her, within her. She wanted Art Donaldson in every way he would allow her to have him. "Need more," she mumbled, and his lips covered her left nipple, making her moan as he growled into her chest.

Art rose above her despite the physical pain of pulling away. Liana's eyes were on him as he took off the pants he'd been wearing just minutes ago. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to say something.

"More," she said, biting her lower lip and playing with her own nipple. What a sight. If Art died now, he'd die happy.

He removed his boxers, presenting her with his erect cock while Liana surveyed every inch of his body.

"Do you want me to do a little spin or something?" he joked, trying to regain some control. "Are you waiting for an invitation to take your pants off, or are you just going to lie there and order me around?" he asked, restoring the balance to their relationship.

Liana nodded and lifted herself enough to remove the pants she was wearing, staying in a tiny black thong.

"Leave that on," Art said as she was about to remove it too. He couldn't believe what his eyes were seeing but wasn't entirely surprised. "Such a good girl with underwear like these, what am I supposed to do with that, Lia?" The playful tone returned as he started to plant wet kisses on her stomach, making her moan at the compliment.

Her panties came off with his teeth, after he didn't spare her any comments on how wet she was.

"Look, Liana." He brought them close to her face, and when she moaned, she brought her mouth close to them, opening it, but Art gently tossed them onto her nose. "Are you happy?" he asked, and she nodded. "Of course you're happy. You're so wet you'd come from just one finger inside you." Another moan and growl. Again, her chest arched that Art had to steady beneath him. So needy. So beautiful.

His mouth was on her clit in a sharp movement, along with two fingers inside her. He wasn't wrong; her first orgasm came within seconds. She had been so horny in recent months. So in need of touch, and Art provided it superbly. Art was here to fulfill and respond to everything she needed from him.

"I need to ride you. Please," she mumbled, opening her eyes, returning to reality from her orgasm within seconds.

"Who am I to deny you what you need," he replied and moved off her, sitting on the bed beside her, leaning against the wall.

Liana climbed onto him at that moment. As if she hadn't yet recovered from the high, she began to rub against his thighs while his large hand grasped her ass.

"Fuck," he said, turning his gaze away from her for a moment, but she made him look back at her with her hand. Her other hand found his mouth, inserting two fingers he took deeper, showing her he would take whatever she gave him. Another moan, at this point, it was hard to tell who was making more noise. Who was more desperate.

"Stop being a tease," Art lost his patience. "Or I'm fucking you the way I want." He stated, and as he said it, in that voice she loved, she inserted his dick inside her. Not even slowly. Not allowing herself a moment to adjust to the feeling of fullness. She felt filled with Art Donaldson, and it was the best feeling in the world.

"Move, Lia," Art smacked her ass, bringing her back to reality, and she began to move, initially forward and backward slowly, making him release sounds she didn't remember from him. "Just like that, good girl. Faster, Liana," he released more incoherent commands. She shoved her breast into his mouth to give him something to occupy himself with. He moaned into it, not taking his eyes off her as she picked up the pace, moving up and down.

"I'm close," she managed to say. The fingers that had been in his mouth and then visited hers were now playing with her own clit as she rode him. Both were covered in sweat from the effort.

"Me too baby," he said into her, sounding muffled from her chest, making her moan because he had again decided to bite her sensitive nipple.

"It's okay, I have an IUD," she said, and his growl was deep and throaty as she felt the heat of his release deep inside her while she contracted around him from her own orgasm, thanking God for the decision to get an IUD after the abortion.

"You're perfect," he mumbled as she slowly moved off him. Her body was limp, and she couldn't talk and breathe simultaneously.

"We need to shower," she mumbled and giggled in response. "In the morning," he replied.

Both had their eyes closed, knowing there was no chance they would move from current position.

Art's alarm clock was set for 5:45 AM, waking him swiftly. He hit the button, hoping for a moment before Liana woke up too. His hand rested on her chest, his head nestled into her neck, their legs entwined. Art couldn't stop smiling, feeling like a fool. He wanted to lie to himself and say he always woke up like this when a woman slept over, but the truth was, Liana was the only one he woke up with this way. No matter how much sex he'd had in his life, the sleep and his need for touch afterward were only with Liana.

Amid these thoughts, he realized his cock was hard, demanding to be inside her again, as if she might disappear from his life once more. Slowly, while she was still asleep, his mouth started placing gentle kisses on her neck, where it had rested before. His hand played with the breast it was already on.

Liana woke with a moan. "Morning," she mumbled. "Mmhmm," he replied from within her neck. "What time is it?" she managed to ask without turning to face him, giving him more room to scatter his kisses. "Early," he replied. "Need you like this," he explained what was happening. "Yours," she simply said, and he growled in response. How could she say something like that so effortlessly? "Mine," he said softly. Both of their eyes were still hazy from sleep, and her hand started moving up and down his dick. Another growl. "Fuck, Liana, just like that," he said. They were both too lazy to move, but his hand was already between her legs too. Their moans mingled, and he turned her face to him, giving her a deep kiss as he did. "God, Art," she mumbled into him, and he bit her lip, holding it between his teeth and releasing only when he couldn't stifle a moan.

He moved her small hand from his dick and slowly slid it where she needed him most, hearing the most beautiful sigh he'd ever heard. Everything about it was needy, gentle, slow, and sloppy, and neither of them cared. Liana was drunk on his cock. She could do anything he asked of her right now, in this exact state; wet, lazy, and under the influence of his dick and large hands holding her tightly.

"You feel so good, Lia. So tight and wet, fuck. You take me as if you were made for me," he said into her ear, and all she could do in response was breathe deeply and tighten around his cock. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you," she mumbled, and Art was sure he was hallucinating. He growled so loudly, in such a low tone, he thought he might pass out for a moment.

"Are you thanking me for fucking you?" he asked in that voice she loved, and she wanted to see his face, but she couldn't because she was facing away from him. "Feels so good, Art," she said, and he felt her come around him, making him come too and stay inside her for a moment longer, not wanting it to end.

"Hey," he said after he pulled out of her, and she turned to face him. He moved some hair from her sweaty face. "Hey," she smiled and kissed him, making him close his eyes for a moment. "I need to get warmed up before the match. You can sleep a bit more, but don't miss breakfast," he kissed her forehead as he stood up and headed towards the shower.

And while he was showering, he wondered if Liana knew this wasn't what friends with benefits looked like; This wasn't how you acted if you wanted to have sex and move on as if it never happened. This wasn't how you kissed. This wasn't how you hugged. This wasn't how you fucked.

That day, with Liana sitting in the stands, Art played the best tennis of his life. Two levels above his average, against an opponent all the bets said might defeat Art from the first set to the last. All the commentators trying to explain Art's moves didn't know he was invincible when Liana Levy slept in his bed and then sat in the stands watching him.

And while Art played, there were other eyes that didn't leave Liana, ones that were hard to miss in one of the rows in the stands- Patrick Zweig. He saw Art's performance and, with the necessary caution, understood what was happening around him. He understood that Liana hadn't lied when she spoke to him in the parking lot. She was Art's now, and all Patrick could do was become better. Become worthy again.

Well, hello there. How are we feeling??? I can't believe it's part 20 and you guys can still stand me. It's basically insane to me. I'd like to hear your thoughts about the chapter, so pls pls pls comment and DM me. 

taglist (if anyone wants to join, just ask): @soberbabes @nina357 @lamoursansfin @marley1773 @ruyaas-world @apolloscastellan @primlovesdilfs @fangirl-kimora @serenadingtigers @imbabycowboy @do-it-for-kicks @izzywags478 @4deline08 @igotmajordaddyissues @jackierose902109 @ganana @yoitsme-04 @swetearss

[gggcherry]

Time Of Our Lives || Part 17

Part 17:

The silence in Liana and Patrick's room had a static tint. Like hearing a sound from an old song over and over again but not knowing which song it is. A familiar but distant feeling. A repression that explodes in your face. Over and over and over again.

The knowledge that she was alone made it easier for her to release the tears, as if in this characterless room, in the fancy hotel, she could allow herself to be well…herself. And all she wanted right now was to lie on the bed in a fetal position and cry over the years she wasted. Over the time that won't come back. Over wrong choices. Over mistakes. Mistakes. Mistakes. So many mistakes. Why couldn't she be one of those people who shout "bingo" after exactly three rounds? Why does everything have to be complicated? Why does someone else always win?

Patrick came in late. As if he wasn’t even trying to hide what he did. Liana fell asleep easily, it was past midnight, and he expected her to be asleep. To his surprise, the light was on and Liana was packing a suitcase. "Lilo, what's going on?" He swallowed hard. He didn't see her face but his heart was racing, 'You know what's going on.' "Lilo," her voice was quiet, and sarcasm washed over her like the last of the cynics as she chuckled while repeating the nickname.

"Where were you, Patrick?" She turned to him, and he swallowed hard. She was swollen and red from crying and anger, and like always, all her emotions were displayed on her face like a billboard. He had seen her contempt for him before, but not like this. Not with such determination.

"Liana," he closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing. "Be a man and say it," she said, not moving, continuing to look vaguely at him, past him. He was silent. "Pussy," she rolled her eyes and went back to the suitcase. She sounded like Tashi for a moment, and Patrick wanted to die. Sweet, gentle Liana. The one who thinks eight times before saying something, sounded like Tashi. "Liana, look at me for a second. Wait a minute." He wanted to throw up. He didn’t know how to stop her anger. How to minimize the damage. How to make sure she stayed where she was. How to make sure she would let him get close to her again. "If you touch me, I'll stab you in the eye." She said with feigned indifference when she heard his steps approaching her. "Please look at me." He begged. "Liana." His voice was more authoritative, knowing she wouldn’t withstand it. That her desire to feel needed and good was usually greater than her anger. "It won't work. Not this time. Not when it comes to Tashi Duncan." She said, as if knowing in advance what his strategy would be. What he would try to do.

"Let me explain. Please." He would get on his knees if he had to. She couldn't leave this room without knowing that he loved her. That he would leave his entire life for her. As he had done once before.

"Thank God I don’t have your baby. God, what a mess would that be." She muttered to herself as she closed the suitcase. Patrick took a few steps back. "What are you talking about?" He also had tears in his eyes, and he felt like he couldn't breathe. "What the hell are you talking about? Hey, look at me!" He approached her, raising his voice with every word he spoke.

"Do you really think I would have kept your baby, Patrick? As if this whole life isn’t a mistake anyway," she shook her head from side to side, saying the most venomous and painful things she could think of. "What baby?" His voice returned to being quiet. Like a child who was promised a puppy and then told he hadn't behaved well enough. "Ask Tashi." She scoffed and walked past him towards the door.

Patrick didn't stop her.

Art couldn't look at Tashi. They were supposed to go over videos of his competitor and do a short practice before today’s game, but he couldn’t look at her, and he couldn’t hide it either. "Did you tell her?" she asked after 20 minutes of awkward silences and business as usual. "Huh?" he didn’t understand. "Liana, did you tell her?" she asked more slowly. Sometimes it took Art a moment to understand. "What did I tell her?" His heart started to race. "Oh my God, Art, you saw me and Patrick yesterday. Don’t tell me you didn’t tell her." She reacted as if it was obvious. "You saw me?" he asked. "Of course I saw you. You wore green and stood out like a traffic light." She rolled her eyes. "And you still went with Patrick." He didn’t understand.

"Oh my God, Art. Just answer me, did you tell Liana or not?" She was starting to lose patience completely. "Yes..." he turned red and couldn’t look at her, "I’m sorry, I couldn’t hide it from her, Tash-" he started a monologue, hoping it wouldn’t cost him his friendship with Tashi. He had gotten used to her presence more than he was willing to admit, and she really did make him a better player. "Good, did you seal the deal?" she asked, and he blinked at her, not understanding anything anymore.

"Tashi, what?" he asked, feeling like they were having a conversation between a deaf person and a mute one, at this point. "Art, God help me, did you fuck her?" she asked directly for a change, reaching the conclusion that she couldn’t hint at anything with him. "What? No!" he was startled by her accusation. He would've jumped out of the couch if he hadn’t been more concerned about his composure in front of her.

"Why the hell not?" she asked in disbelief. "I don’t understand this conversation." He voiced his thoughts aloud. He was maroon-colored at this point. "I made it so easy for you, Arthur, what else needs to happen for you to claim what is yours?" She looked him in the eyes and saw him swallow hard.

"Liana is not mine." He said. Loser. "She’s not Patrick’s anymore. That’s for sure." She replied. Tashi really and truly didn’t understand what was holding him back. For a year she had seen him fumbling in the dark with the girl he looked at with hearts in his eyes. A year. Who doesn’t give up after a year?! Maybe someone who carries the key to her room for five years like a pathetic fool while she’s in a relationship with his best friend. But Tashi knew more than Art. Tashi saw Liana up close as a woman sees another woman. She saw the dark circles around her eyes and the despair. She saw so much despair.

And Patrick has this ability, Tashi thinks. To be the best and the worst at the same time. Like an electric current throughout the body, there are places where it feels good and places where it burns. Patrick mostly burns. And Tashi saw Liana six months ago, almost completely burnt out. Almost begging for a lifeline.

So she gave a push. She gave a little shove in hopes that everything would sort itself out. If Art had enough balls, everything would have been sorted out yesterday, but in the meantime, everyone keeps suffering and paying for his mistakes from five years ago.

"Okay," she sighed. "Let’s go back to the video and leave this until we get back from Atlanta, alright?" she asked. "But Tash-" he tried to resist. There were so many questions on the tip of his tongue. "Art. You are going to win this tournament. You are going to be the winner of this week, do you understand me?" she asked in the most authoritative and serious voice she could find. Art had no choice but to nod.

Hey, can we talk? -Patrick-

Liana -P- Hey, not sure if you saw, but I won the Atlanta Open, wish you were here. How are you? -Art- Hey girl, you haven’t answered your phone for a few days, should I be worried? -Melissa- Liana, if you don’t answer me, I’m coming to America and staying in your shitty apartment until I grow old. -M- Patrick and I broke up. -L- Do you want me to come? -M- Always. -L- I miss you. -P- Liana. we need to talk, we can’t leave things like this. -P- Just tell me you're okay. -P- You weren’t at the construction site today, can I call you? -A- I packed all your things, when can you pick them up? -L- Liana, can we talk like adults? Please. -P- Lilo, I’m begging you. -P- Okay, tomorrow at 8 PM, is that okay? -P- Leave the key in the closet outside when you’re done. -L- You won’t be at the apartment? -P- Hey, can I come over tomorrow around 8 PM? -L- Of course. Here’s the address. -A-

Liana heard a knock on the door at two in the afternoon and got annoyed. She didn’t want to see Patrick, and they had agreed that he would come to get his things at eight in the evening. Why couldn’t he just do one thing properly for once?!

“We agreed you’d come at eight, so what the fuck is this?!” she asked as she opened the door, seeing Tashi standing there. “I decided to come early,” Tashi replied sarcastically. “Can I come in?” she asked and entered without waiting for an invitation.

Liana was dressed in an oversized T-shirt and shorts. If Tashi had to guess, and she didn’t really want to, the shirt probably belonged to Patrick. Her hair was greasy, and she looked like she hadn’t slept since Tashi last saw her briefly in Atlanta, three weeks ago.

“You don’t have a couch in your living room,” Tashi said. The small space that could barely be called a living room looked empty, filled with boxes that Tashi assumed were Patrick’s, but the absence of the couch was noticeable. “I paid the neighbor $150 to get rid of it or burn it. I don’t know. Why are you here?” Liana asked, looking at her with complete disinterest.

“You and I, we’re not friends, you remember that, right?” Tashi said. “You came to my house to tell me we’re not friends? You slept with my boyfriend, I figured out we’re not friends on my own.” Liana rolled her eyes. Indifference was the only thing evident in her voice. Maybe also exhaustion. “I just remember you sitting across from me in a café, me asking if you wanted to be friends, and you saying something like ‘God no’. We were both there, right?” Tashi reminded her of their conversation when Liana had asked her to accompany her to the clinic.

“Well done, Tashi, you did a good deed for a complete stranger, and now what? You won’t rest until we all remember that you’re actually a bitch?” Liana asked, looking at her. “Look at you, how much character you’ve developed in these weeks,” Tashi replied and chuckled. “What the fuck do you want? I’m busy.” Liana said, turning her back to her. “With Self-pity?” Tashi asked. “Do you need something? Did you come to gloat? What’s the purpose of your visit? How do we finish this faster?” Liana ignored her question.

The truth was, Liana pitied herself a lot. She had ended a relationship with someone she really loved, who had hurt her so much there was nothing left. And she probably still loved him. And she probably always would. And what did it say about her if she was willing to love someone who treated her like gum stuck to the sole of his shoe? But Tashi didn’t need to know all that.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry if you got hurt.” Tashi sighed, and Liana turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re supposed to get hurt, but I’m sorry if you did,” she added quickly. “I’m not supposed to get hurt by the fact that my boyfriend of the last four years slept with someone I trusted enough to ask for help when I had no one else to ask?” Liana asked in response. Her leg started to shake uncontrollably.

“You’re not in a relationship with me, I don’t owe you anything.” Tashi shrugged. “Do you want to hear what I think, Liana?” she asked.

“No, not really.” “I think you chose wrong. I think one of them thrives when you’re with him, and one of them withers when you’re with him. You chose wrong. And now you’re dealing with your choices. Because we both know Art worships you, and when you stand next to him, he’s the best he can be. He proves to you he’s the best he can be. He’ll be the best for you because you’re there, next to him. Watching.” She paused to catch her breath but looked at Liana with a gaze that made it clear she wasn’t finished.

“Patrick, on the other hand. He’s at his best when he needs to prove to you that he deserves your attention. The moment he got it, he lost it. He lost interest. He lost the reason to prove himself. He stopped striving higher. He wilts. You think he’s draining your will to live? Just by agreeing to be his, you took away his reason to live. It’s too comfortable for him now. He doesn’t need to impress you anymore, and who is Patrick Zweig when he doesn’t need to impress Liana Levy? A shadow of the person he was. You chose wrong, and you know it.” She finished, examining Liana, who just looked at her with tear-filled doe eyes.

“Buy a couch, Liana, or better yet, leave this shithole. It smells like mold here. Art’s apartment is nice, and I think he’d be happy to have you as a roommate.” Tashi applied what looked like hand sanitizer, patted Liana’s shoulder twice, and left the apartment.

All Liana could do was sit on the floor, crying. She didn’t have a couch to hold on to for the remnants of her self-respect.

heyyy :) kinda shorter chapter but I felt like it was a needed one. also, once again, we have more Tashi 🤭 as always, talk to me, the askbox is very open <3

taglist: @soberbabes @nina357 @lamoursansfin @marley1773 @ruyaas-world @apolloscastellan @primlovesdilfs @fangirl-kimora @serenadingtigers @imbabycowboy @do-it-for-kicks @izzywags478 @4deline08 @igotmajordaddyissues @jackierose902109 @ganana @yoitsme-04 @swetearss

[gggcherry]

Time Of Our Lives || Part 16

Part 16:

Patrick heard Liana vomiting faintly and it made him jump out of bed. "Li, is everything okay?" he asked from outside the bathroom. "Everything's great, go back to sleep," she stammered, and he sighed. He went to the kitchen and filled a glass of water, entered the bathroom, and saw her sitting on the floor, holding her hair with one hand and gripping the edge of the toilet with the other, trying to steady herself.

"Hey, baby, it's okay. I got you," he mumbled, placing the glass on the sink and sitting down next to Liana, holding her hair in place and tracing gentle shapes on her shoulder. She was shaking from the effort as her free hand also moved to hold onto the toilet.

"Sorry I woke you," she mumbled after a few minutes, not moving her head out of fear of vomiting again. "Don't be silly, is it something you ate?" he asked. His eyebrows furrowed as he handed her the water. "There was only regular milk at work, I probably drank one cup of coffee too many yesterday," she mumbled, and as soon as she finished speaking, she vomited again, and they found themselves in the same position.

"Come on," after a few minutes of this, he helped her get up from the floor. Patrick spread toothpaste on her toothbrush and put it in her mouth, starting to move it side to side. Liana could cry. She felt the tears gathering at the back of her eyes, in moments like these she remembers how gentle and sensitive Patrick can be. If he only wants to, if he cares enough.

He stood in the bathroom while she showered and didn't take his eyes off her, not in a sexual way but out of genuine concern. Because at the end of the day, Patrick loves her, even if sometimes he doesn't know how to show it.

"Shall we go back to sleep?" he asked hopefully. "There's no point, I feel better and in half an hour, I would've had to get up anyway," she shrugged as he handed her a towel. "Li, maybe you should stay home today?" he asked, even though he knew the answer. "I'm on a schedule and in a few days, the construction starts, I need to get there to fix some drawings. If I'm lucky, I might be able to leave earlier," she smiled at him. "I don't know..." he tried to protest. Just ten minutes ago, she was shaking in his hands, and now he has to let her get dressed and leave the house. "I'm fine Pat, really. I'll drink tea today, and I'll be okay," she gave him a small kiss on the lips and left the bathroom, concluding the conversation.

"Then there must be a pillar here, otherwise the whole thing will collapse, and we didn't draw it in the sketch." Art heard Liana's voice from afar, like an echo. He automatically found himself walking towards her, because that's why Art came. He didn't really care about the construction schedule; as far as he was concerned, the longer this thing took, the more time he had to come and see her work. An excuse to be close without being creepy.

"Hey," he gave a small wave, keeping his distance from her conversation but letting her know he was there. "Mr. Donaldson," she mumbled, and so did the guy working with her. Art could say that nothing happens in his body when she calls him 'Mr. Donaldson'. That formality in front of people doesn't affect him at all. It doesn't send a little shiver through him. No memories surface, and he certainly doesn't imagine that one day she might be 'Mrs. Donaldson'. He could say all that, but he tries not to lie too much.

"Miss Levy," he returned a toothy smile, and she walked towards him. "Why are you here?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Where? On the land I bought?" he was amused. Now that she was closer, he could examine her. He wondered if he would ever get used to the fact that she needed glasses now when she worked. Or the small wrinkle that formed on the side of her mouth from the number of times she smiled and laughed. He wished it was because of him. Too many times he thinks about the number of things he could tell her that would make her laugh enough to deepen that wrinkle.

"You look... green." he mumbled after a few seconds. She was pale, even for her. "It's January, I turn green in January." she retorted. "Liana." he tried a more official tone, a bit more concerned. "I'm fine, Arthur, let it go. Can I ask a favor?" she asked, looking at him with big eyes. Making him raise an eyebrow. There are very few things Liana could ask of him that he wouldn't agree to do. She must know that by now. "Always." he said quicker than his ego was happy to hear. "Can you give me Tashi's number?" she asked and saw his surprised look. "Why? Are you trying to steal my coach for your lazy boyfriend?" he asked, feigning amusement. He didn't understand the endgame of this move. Overall, he didn't understand what Liana had to talk about with Tashi; Liana hates tennis, and from what Art knows, Tashi enjoys talking mostly about tennis. "don't call Patrick lazy, can you give it to me or not?" she didn't answer him. "Will it hurt my interests?" he asked, pulling out his phone. "I would never do that, Art." she sighed, and he sent her the number. There are very few things Art Donaldson wouldn't give to Liana Levy.

Liana waved for a second when she saw Tashi entering the café where they had agreed to meet. She couldn't help but feel tense and wondered how to calm her jittery leg. Why couldn't she just act like a normal person and be more…cool.

"Hey, Liana, what's up? Sorry if I'm late." Tashi was a bit confused. A bit was an understatement. Tashi was very confused. 'Hey, it's Liana, if you have free time, I'd really appreciate it if we could meet' was the message she received yesterday, and that's how she found herself in a café, sitting in front of the girl Art has been trying to fuck without success for God knows how long. Tashi couldn't help but wonder what Art's tennis would look like if he succeeded.

"All good. I'm early." Liana smiled. "Do you want to order something to eat?" she asked, and Tashi waved at the waiter, asking for coffee. Her energy was businesslike. Always in a hurry. Always busy. It didn't matter that she came from the rain. It didn't matter if she was cold or hot. She had no time to waste. "What's up, Liana?" Tashi asked after a few more minutes of awkward silence. "Is this about Art?" she added. "No... Art's not involved." she answered too quickly. Why did she answer so quickly? "So how can I help you?" she asked, taking a sip of the coffee that had just arrived.

"I don't have many friends here." Liana took a deep breath. She knew how it sounded. Desperate and pathetic. But she had no choice. She really didn't know who to talk to. "So... you want me to?" Tashi looked horrified for a moment. Not understanding what situation she had gotten into. "God, no." Liana's eyes widened. "Can you stop with the leg? It's driving me crazy." Tashi said. All the chaotic energy Liana was emitting didn't suit her. It almost threw her off balance.

"I'm pregnant." Liana said quietly right after she took a sip of her tea. She examined Tashi, who looked back at her. "Patrick?" Tashi asked, and Liana looked at her horrified. "Of course it's Patrick's. Whose else?!" she defended herself. "So, congratulations, I guess?" Tashi still didn't understand why she was there. Why her time was being wasted with news about her ex from years ago. If it's not Art's child, if it doesn't become Tashi's problem, why bother filling her brain with this unnecessary information.

"No. I don't want this." Liana said, and Tashi couldn't hide her surprise. "I'm Sorry, what?" she couldn't stop herself. "It was a mistake. I'm on the pill, and I really don't know how it happened. I need to stop this..." Liana mumbled. It wasn't coherent, but Tashi understood every word. "You've been together for years, Liana, I don't understand..." Tashi tried to be more sensitive. "It's just not the right time. We need more stability, and bringing a child into something like this is just not fair." she said, looking at her for a change.

"I would go alone, but I need someone to be listed as an escort," she averted her gaze as she said it. Ashamed of what she was asking from the girl in front of her, a complete stranger in her life, yet the only one she could think of. "Patrick?" Tashi asked quietly. "He doesn't know." Liana's eyes filled with tears. "Please-" she had been thinking about this monologue from the moment she found out, three days ago. "Okay" there was no need. Tashi answered immediately. "Okay, I'll go with you." she smiled the most genuine smile she had to offer.  "Thank you." they both took a sip of their drinks.  The rain outside intensified.

When Liana entered the house, Patrick was in the kitchen, and she quietly leaned on the doorframe, watching him while he wasn't looking. Thinking about what she was going to do tomorrow. Knowing it's for their own good. He wouldn't understand if she told him. He wouldn't understand, and he would want to keep it, and neither of them could raise a child right now. She knows that. She knows he will hate her no matter what she decides tomorrow. If he finds out, he will feel trapped. He will feel like she has ruined his life. Again. Little by little. Each time draining him of the last drop of joy left in him. The last drop of youth.

"Are you just staring now? Not saying hello?" he asked, amused. He had felt her gaze on him for a few minutes. "Hey," she approached him and hugged him from behind. Leaning on his shoulder and closing her eyes. "Hey, Lilo," he was confused. Not understanding the sudden closeness. The last few days had been strange, to say the least. Liana and Patrick hadn't fought even once. She hadn't been feeling well, and he mostly tried not to bother her with his presence. He was afraid of making her feel even worse than she already did, and the more he distanced himself, the closer she got. The more space he gave her, the more she sought touch.

"What are you making?" she asked quietly, not moving an inch, still with her eyes closed. "I'm pretty useless, but I called your mom, and she gave me a recipe for the soup you like," he said quietly. "You called my mom?" she asked in a half-broken voice. "You haven't been well for a few days, Lilo. I wanted to make something that would make you feel good," their gazes met.

Liana started crying, and Patrick panicked. These weren't just tears welling up in her eyes but real crying with her hands on her face. "Hey, hey, Liana. What's going on?" he gently took her hands off her face, revealing how red she had become in those seconds, how sad she was. His hug was comforting. More comforting than anything she had felt recently. "I'm such a bitch. Really," she mumbled. "Lilo, you're the kindest person I know," he chuckled above her head, tracing small shapes on her shoulder while gently rocking her, trying to soothe her in any way he could.

"I really love you. You know that, right?" she pulled away from him for a second and studied him. "Of course, I know," he replied, "I don't understand what's going on, Lil. I need you to talk to me." He was half-lost, not understanding what he did or what she did that led to this situation. "I don't say it enough, but I really love you, Patrick. More than I love most people in the world," she said again, unable to stop the tears. "I know. I really know," he replied, hugging her once more, not letting her slip away from him. "You're okay. Whatever it is, we're okay," he said, and she nodded into him.

Liana also thinks that most of the time, they are okay.

The months that passed were more of the same. Liana worked on Art's house, meeting with him once or twice a week to show him the project's progress. Every time he tried to have a conversation beyond professional matters, Liana cut him off. She owed that to Patrick. She owed it to herself and Patrick to be okay. She couldn't let herself betray him emotionally with someone who, the moment he had a hold on her emotions, her entire system would recalibrate around him again.

The calm dynamic between Liana and Patrick lasted exactly two weeks. Liana was quite sure they didn’t know how to manage without fighting to the point where she wanted to smash a plate against the wall. Sometimes they went to bed without exchanging a single word, and those were the days it was hardest for her to be near him. Those were the days she also canceled meetings with Art because Patrick made her so angry she became indifferent. And indifference leads to mistakes. She knew that. She had seen it up close.

Now, with both Art and Patrick participating in the tournament in Atlanta, Liana found herself ordering coffee and soda at the hotel bar while opening her laptop, hoping to tie up some loose ends before sitting down with Art for a few minutes tomorrow. "Hey, Liana," she heard Tashi’s voice from behind. They hadn’t been in touch since that time, when Tashi went with her. But Liana had a soft spot for the woman in front of her. She used to be so afraid of her once, trembling when exchanging more than a word with her. Today she thought she and Tashi saw each other with flaws and strengths. Sometimes Liana didn’t know what her strengths were, but she always knew Tashi’s.

"Hey," she smiled at her. "Mind if I sit for a bit while I wait for my order for Art and me?" she asked. "Is he sending you to fetch orders now?" Liana raised an eyebrow. It was uncharacteristic. "Actually, no, I saw you from afar and didn’t want his mind to be distracted." Tashi said, and Liana rolled her eyes, wanting to say something. "There’s no way I could distract him right now. Not before I finish working, nothing to talk to him about" she said, and Tashi rolled her eyes and chuckled. Liana wasn’t entirely sure if something was happening between Tashi and Art. It wasn’t her place to ask him, she wasn’t in contact with Tashi, and her parents hadn’t told her anything special as gossip as they usually did about his life. Maybe it was just friendly, and she was purely his coach, but Liana didn’t want to be in the middle of it. She wasn’t going to disrupt Art’s happiness. She was with Patrick. Most of the time, she was happy with Patrick.

"Has he ever shown you his necklace?" Tashi asked. "Excuse me?" Liana was confused. "Art, has he ever shown you his necklace?" she asked again, slower, like speaking to a child. "No, I never asked, and it’s always under his shirt," Liana shrugged as Tashi took her order. "He’s such a pussy," she shook her head from side to side, chuckling. "So dominant on the court and yet, such a coward. Unbelievable. Good to see you, send my regards to Patrick," she smiled and walked toward the exit, not giving Liana a chance to respond.

Art was terrified. He was bored, so he went down to the lobby half an hour before the time he had arranged with Liana. He was so happy he could see her in person and knowing she was also in Atlanta, that he didn’t care the only reason they were meeting was to talk about the house. But now he felt the air leave his lungs. He saw Tashi and Patrick. Holding hands. Like that. In the fucking lobby. And while Tashi didn’t owe anyone anything, Patrick owed Liana. And Art was supposed to be happy because he understood what was happening. It was Patrick. No matter how much time passed, he knew Patrick.

When he returned his gaze to where they had been sitting, after giving someone an autograph, they were gone. His heart was beating faster than usual. He felt like crying. He was supposed to be happy, but all he could think about was Liana’s face and that he was about to be someone who told her something that would make her cry. Again. He swore to himself he'd never make her cry again, but he was about to. And he hated it.

"Donaldson," she smiled at him, causing him to jump in his chair. "How did you get so startled, you were practically looking at me," she rolled her eyes, and he smiled at her. "What’s wrong?" she asked. His smile was fake. Liana hated that she could still tell if his smile was fake. "Nothing, just thoughts about the tournament." he said. "You crushed your competitor today, you’ll be fine." she rolled her eyes. "Mind if I order some wine? It’ll help me sleep." she added. He didn’t know she liked to drink wine. "Of course. I would order some too, but, you know." he replied, somewhat pleased she was allowing herself to relax a bit around him. It took her only a year.

"So, I’ll show you a few things and then let you go." she said, sipping her wine, and he nodded. "Hit me." "Question, while the computer loads." she said, and he looked at her. Liana hated how his green hoodie made the bright blue of his eyes stand out. She had never seen so many shades of blue as when she looked closely at Art Donaldson’s eyes.

"Talk to me." he leaned on his elbow, not taking his eyes off her. A little reveling in the moment. A little afraid to ruin it. A little wanting to ruin it. Because the voice in his head told him he had to tell her. Liana had to know. She deserved to know. Art deserved a chance. He would never do this to her.

"What’s the story with your necklace?" she asked, and he raised an eyebrow, quickly running a hand over the back of his neck. "There’s no story." he answered too quickly. He wanted to punch himself for it. "Arthur. Come on, what’s the deal, you didn’t wear a necklace when we were kids. Is it a gift from someone?" she asked. "Are you keeping track of my jewelry, Liana? Be careful, I might think you care about me more than you let on." he knew it would make her change the subject. He wouldn’t tell, but the blush on her cheeks and the big sip she took from her wine only made the conversation better.

"This is the final plan. They started the interior construction two days ago." she showed him a diagram on the computer, moving a bit closer to him. Close enough for her scent to hit him like a slap in the face. He wanted to dive into that closeness. To reach out. To tell her and immediately promise everything would be okay. That he would be there to pick up the pieces. He knew he could.

"I saw Patrick and Tashi earlier." he said quietly, almost in a whisper. Not taking his eyes off her. "Oh, I didn’t know they were in touch..." Liana said, not moving her eyes from the computer. "Liana," he sighed. He hoped she would understand from the previous sentence. That he wouldn’t have to say it. "What?" she looked at him and chuckled, but her smile quickly faded when she saw his expression, "Just say what you have to say, Donaldson." she said with an uncharacteristic coldness.

She knew Art too well. Every time she tried to deny it, she could precisely recognize a look he gave or a joke that no one around understood. She knew how to tell by his walking pace to a construction site if he had a good practice or if he was tired. She knew who he was at his core. And more than anything, she knew how he looked when he was about to break her heart.

"They were holding hands and then disappeared from my sight," he sighed, breathing heavily. He said it in a whisper, almost not wanting to say what had been weighing on him. "Oh." she drank all that was left of her wine in one gulp and signaled the waiter she wanted another glass, returning her gaze to the computer. "I need to finish a few things, and I believe we can wrap everything up in two months. After that, you’ll need to work with an interior designer-" "Liana." Art interrupted her and placed his hand on hers, giving it a slight squeeze. This made her move her hand to her leg.

Without realizing it, tears welled up in her eyes, and the waiter who brought her wine hurried away from the table as fast as he arrived. "Talk to me, please." he was desperate to know what was going through her mind. "It’s okay, it’s whatever," she shrugged and looked at him indifferently, letting one of her tears fall.

"Liana." he sighed. "How is it okay? He’s cheating on you." Art wanted to raise his voice. He wasn’t mad at her. He was mad at Patrick. He was mad at the circumstances. He was mad at himself. "I know what holding hands and disappearing with Tashi Duncan means for someone like Patrick, Art. Contrary to what you think, I’m not stupid." her words were almost venomous, but he knew she wasn’t lashing out at him. He knew he was the closest person right now. He was ready to take it.

"What do you think is happening here?" she asked, taking another big sip of wine. "That I’ll hear about Tashi and Patrick and go up to your room so you can fuck me until I forget all my problems?" she asked, and he almost choked on his own spit. He didn’t expect her to be so blunt. That sentence showed how long she’d been in a relationship with Patrick. He spoke through her.

"No, Liana." he sighed again. Running his hand over the back of his neck once more but this time leaving it there a little longer. "I’m content in my relationship. Shit happens." she finished the second glass in one go and closed the laptop, ready to leave. "Shit happens? How many times has it already happened, Liana?" he couldn’t believe the level of indifference. He wanted to shake her so hard that her brain would reset and go back to the beginning. To reboot her self-respect that had clearly been trampled on more than once.

"Bye Art, good luck tomorrow." she muttered and turned. This time his grip on her hand was firm above the table. She wouldn’t be able to move him. Not now. "You’re making a scene." she whispered. He couldn’t help but think about the power dynamics between them now that she was standing and he was sitting, but he was holding her. She couldn’t move as long as he was holding her. And if it were up to him, he would hold her forever.

"Look. Here." he did the only thing he could think of and pulled the pendant of the necklace over his shirt. Seeing her breath catch for a moment. "Is that...?" She couldn't find the words and automatically moved her free hand over the metal. "Yes." He whispered. His grip loosened, and he let his fingers intertwine with hers over the table without her pulling away. "Why?" She murmured, not stopping her hand from moving over the pendant, her dorm key. The key he refused to return to her time and again. Hanging around his neck. "You know why." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Why?" She asked again. Not letting go. She had to hold on to something, and he knew that if he wanted to give her a moment of peace, even if not for himself—because for himself, he would have chosen another way to tell her, to show her—that all these years, she had been his good luck charm, even from afar. Right now, she was the only one who mattered. Only succeeding in changing the way she looked at herself and what she thought she deserved. "Because I’m yours. I’ve always been only yours."

Oh my god!!! I hope it wasn't too long. I feel like so much has happened in this part, but we are finally in Atlanta. What are you thinking guys? We've got a bit more Tashi on this one. I love hearing from you, so talk to me. Thanks for still reading and commenting. It means the actual world. 

taglist: @soberbabes @nina357 @lamoursansfin @marley1773 @ruyaas-world @apolloscastellan @primlovesdilfs @fangirl-kimora @serenadingtigers @imbabycowboy @do-it-for-kicks @izzywags478 @4deline08 @igotmajordaddyissues @jackierose902109 @ganana @yoitsme-04 @swetearss

[gggcherry]

tension

part two to reunions - must read part 1 first!

pairing: art donaldson x reader x patrick zweig

length: 3.2k

author's note: this took wayyyy too long for me to do yall, i'm so sorry. these two have a tight hold on me and i'm in the trenches. i've got some good stuff lined up tho, and i'm super excited to write it heeheehee :) also smut in the future will be much longer and much more detailed, just fyi

tags: y/n is art donaldson's wife ; birthday party ; art is down bad ; patrick wants y/n ; possessive!art ; the boys are fighting ; no use of y/n ; pining ; sexual tension ; sugar mommy y/n? ; unapologetic flirting with your bff's wife at his birthday party

warnings: sexual content, p in v, not super detailed but still there!

summary: the stressful night of the birthday party continues, and you find yourself pinging between art and patrick like a tennis ball. how the hell did you get yourself into this?

originally posted by iholdwhatican

It took four minutes and 36 seconds of Art and Patrick being alone outside before the anxiety became too much. Your dress was too tight against your skin and the chatter of the guests rattled in your skull. Your mind replayed the anger on Art’s face over and over, convinced that he’d direct it at you the moment he came back in. And if you were being honest, you couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. 

Your blood boiled with the ferocity of it, and an ache in your core begged for another taste. 

Another three minutes and 18 seconds passed while you downed half of your second glass of wine. You made conversation with a few people who caught your eye, making sure all the food and drink were up to par. Not that you really could care about that right now. Your mind was a jumble of thoughts about the two men on the balcony. 

Art, Patrick, Art, Patrick, Art, Patrick, Art, Patrick

“You look like you’re gonna puke.” 

For the second time that night, Patrick Zweig’s voice made you jump. 

You looked at him, catching sight of that damned smirk that made your stomach flip, and furrowed your brows. One quick scan of the room came up empty for your husband, forcing the anxiety in your chest to worsen. 

“Where’s Art?” You asked, not missing the way your voice wobbled slightly. 

“Relax.” Patrick responded, resting a hand on your shoulder, “He went to the kitchen, I think. I didn’t kill him. And he didn’t run for the hills either.” 

You decided not to comment on how easily he’d read your worries without you saying anything. For some reason, you were an open book to him. 

A deep sigh left you. You licked your lips anxiously- which immediately caused Patrick’s eyes to fall on your mouth. 

“What happened out there?” 

The man gave you a shrug, letting his hand fall back to his side, “Nothing, really. We just talked for a bit. He told me I could stay, as long as I stopped flirting with you.” 

“So does that mean you’re going to stop?” The idea made you slightly unhappy, which in turn filled you with guilt. Why were you so excited by his flirtations when you had a wonderful, loving husband who treated you like a queen? 

But then Patrick grinned, and you knew the answer before he said it, “Well, I’ve never been one to do what I’m told.” 

A smile grew over your lips, and you tried to hide it with an eye roll, “Why don’t you mingle? Try some food. I’m going to find my husband.” 

He didn’t miss the enunciation you put on ‘my husband’, and you didn’t miss the way his eyes darkened as you said it. You didn’t give it time to linger, instead turning away and moving towards the kitchen. 

You knew the look Patrick had in his eyes. You’d seen it a dozen times in Art’s. On the court, over a board game, in all sorts of scenarios. And every time, even now, the look sent a chill down your spine. 

That expression was clear, resolute competition. 

Just as Patrick had said, you found Art in the kitchen. With his back to you, you had a perfect view of his tense shoulders and hanging head as he poured himself a glass of water. He was all wound up, and you knew it was your fault. Now it was your responsibility to fix it. 

You stepped up behind him, sliding a hand between his shoulder blades. He didn’t hesitate to lean into the touch, a subconscious reaction. He knew it was you just by the feel of your hand on him. And, even if he might be furious, he still found comfort in it. 

“Hey…” You breathed, leaning to the side to meet his gaze. Art looked at you over his shoulder, a half-smile quirking his lips up, “How are you doing?” 

“Hey.” He responded, turning and sliding his hands over your hips. Your chest pressed against his as he leaned down and placed a kiss on your hairline. Then he just lingered there, breathing in your smell, “I honestly don’t know. I just- it was so weird to see him.” 

“Yeah, of course it was.” Your words reached him in a soft, comforting tone. The guilt of putting your perfect, doting husband in this situation was enough to make you feel like you had barbed wire around your neck. You had to pay penance- somehow. You rubbed your hand in circles over his back, “I’m sorry, sundrop. I don’t know what I was thinking when I invited him.” 

Sundrop. A nickname that went way back to the early days of your relationship. Art was an energetic puppy dog with a halo of golden curls and a smile that made your insides feel hot. He was what you pictured a personification of the sun to be, hence the pet name. He pretended not to like it, but his eyes always sparkled a certain way when you said it. 

Art pulled his head away to peer down into your eyes, his own pensive and confused, “No, baby, don’t be sorry. It was a great fucking surprise. Just… a surprise.” 

You shook your head. He was so fucking good to you, “You’re allowed to be mad at me.” 

“Mad? At you?” In one quick motion, he picked you up and set you on the counter. Your legs opened for him without hesitation, allowing him to slot right in between them, “I don’t think that’s possible.”

You fought the blush rising in your cheeks and rolled your eyes, “You think too highly of me.” 

“No. Never.” He replied instantly. He kissed your chin. Then your jaw. Then your neck. Then down your throat, “As far as I’m concerned, you’re God.” 

“Art-” You argued, though you weren’t sure what for. You tilted your neck back and offered yourself up to him. 

“I could spend my life on my knees for you and be happy.” His words were muffled as he mouthed at your neck, sending shivers down your spine. This, combined with the kiss from earlier, was making you ache with need. You were half-tempted to end the party early and take your pretty husband to bed. 

You bit your lip when he ran his tongue over a sensitive spot above your collarbone. If he wasn’t in between them, you’d be squeezing your thighs together. 

When Art pulled away, his eyes had darkened. Dilated pupils and heavy breaths told you all you needed to know. He was just as fucking horny as you were right now. His hands held your hips tighter. 

“Do you think we’d be left alone long enough for me to show you how much I mean it?” He asked. It was almost as if he were begging. As if he couldn’t bear the idea of doing anything other than dropping to his knees and devouring you. 

And God, when he looked at you like that, you had no choice but to say yes. 

Unfortunately, fate intervened, and you were kept from making a scene at your husband’s birthday party. 

“Hey, you two, quit snogging and come entertain us!” One of Art’s tennis friends called, sticking their head into the kitchen. The big grin on their face told you it was just teasing, but you still felt your face burning with embarrassment. 

“It’s my birthday, let me do what I want.” Art jeered right back, lifting you off the counter and back onto your own two feet. You laughed airily at the comment, feeling more light-headed than anything. 

Before following his friend back into the action, he whispered a quick, “Later, okay?” to you. And then he left you standing in the kitchen- touch-starved, foggy-headed, and excruciatingly aroused. 

It was then that you realized you didn’t even get to ask him what happened with Patrick.

Upon re-entering the party, you found yourself taking note of two things- or rather, two people. One, Art- conversing with some friends from the foundation with a big grin on his face. Two, Patrick- having his fill of finger foods from the refreshment table. He was alone. And though you tried to fight it, you found yourself gravitating towards him. 

“Do they not have food where you’re from?” You teased, falling into place at his side. Your gaze slid over the spread before flicking up to his face. 

You’d caught him mid-bite, and he attempted to swallow quickly and regain his composure. Something warmed slightly in your chest. Endearing. 

“Well, I’m kinda… in between places right now.” He explained, tongue stuck in his cheek to clear out residual bits of food, “And there’s never stuff as good as this.” 

You let the compliment slide away, instead focusing on his more troubling response, “Are you homeless?” 

“What? No.” He chuckled, as if the question were preposterous, “I go all over for tennis. It’s just easier to stay on the move.” 

You raised an eyebrow, “And on off-season?” 

Something in his expression darkened, only for a moment, and then he was back to cocky smiles and overwhelming confidence, “I’m too busy to care about that. And what’s it matter to you, anyway?” 

“I’d like to think I’m a good person.” You said, plucking a snack off the table and popping it into your mouth. You chewed it halfway before continuing, “And a good person worries if they think someone they care about isn’t doing well.” 

Patrick grinned at you for five long seconds. And it took him actually saying the words to realize where you’d slipped up. 

“You care about me?” 

Shit. You had not meant to say that. Why was this man so damn good at getting every little thought in your head to spill out of your mouth? 

“If caring about you means I don’t want you sleeping under a bridge somewhere, then sure.” 

“Okay, I would never let it get that far-” 

“I wanna help.” 

He blinked, “Help how?” Briefly, very briefly, you thought of your bed. Your comfortable, spacious bed, perfect for three individuals. You could picture it- you, safe and sound and nestled between the two men. Art, your lovely, obedient husband on one side, letting himself love and be loved. And Patrick on the other side, nice and cozy with a roof over his head and a full belly. 

The image flashed in an instant, and you were left with hollow, heavy guilt. You swallowed. 

“How much do you need?” 

“Huh?” You rolled your eyes at him, “How much money do you need? To keep you afloat for the next little while. And I’ll send you home tonight with leftovers.” 

Patrick let the words wash over him, slowly smiling as they did. He took a step towards you, close enough that one tiny shove would have your bodies pressed together. You could smell him, all sweat and cigarettes and woodsy cologne that made your head spin. You’d been wound up all night, and this was absolutely not helping. 

“You gonna write me a check? Use your hard-earned money to get a practical stranger a hotel for a couple nights?” He murmured, heavy on the charm, “What would your husband think?” 

He knew he’d gotten under your skin. He knew what he was doing. He was fucking enjoying this. 

You tried to hold your ground, looking up at him through your lashes, “It’s his money, actually. He makes sure I never have to work unless I want to.” 

“Guess he treats you pretty well. And look how you’re taking advantage of it.” His hand lay on the table next to yours, his fingertips nearly brushing the skin of your wrist. How bad would it be if you closed the gap? 

You bit your lip, “You’re allowed to turn me down.” 

“I don’t think I’d ever turn you down, Mrs. Donaldson.” 

Something about that title, something about the way he said it, made your blood run hot and cold at the same time. It reminded you of the myths of sirens. Beautiful monsters of the sea that used their voices to bring others to their demise. Talking to Patrick had that same type of allure, and the sense of danger. 

“Then tell me what you need.” 

“What do you think I need?” 

Oh, you could think of a few things. But you could also feel a pair of eyes on you, and you knew exactly who they belonged to. Part of you wanted to tempt him, see if you could get another reaction like out on the balcony. However, you quickly shot the idea down. Not right now, not in the middle of a crowded party.

Lips curving into an innocent smile, you pushed yourself a step back from him, “I think you need a nice place to sleep. And a few good meals. And maybe a hug.” 

The sudden switch-up took Patrick by surprise, but he handled it smoothly and responded only a beat later, “You’re offering?” 

“At least for the first two.” You didn’t know what you’d do if you were in his arms. With the way you were feeling now, with two glasses of wine in your system, your boundaries were getting blurrier and blurrier. How humiliating. 

His bottom lip jutted out into a pout. Which unfortunately dragged your gaze right down to his mouth. It took you a moment too long to meet his eyes again. 

“What, we can’t hug? Don’t you consider me a friend?” 

“I do.” You shrugged, tucking loose hair behind your ear, “Maybe I’m just not a touchy person.” 

A lie. You knew it, and you could tell by the look on his face that he knew it too.

“Yeah.” He smirked, sounding the opposite of sincere, “Art’s wife isn’t a touchy person. Sure.” 

You needed a cold shower. Or to go have some one-on-one time with your vibrator. Or maybe move to the seaside and spend your days going mad in a lighthouse. You weren’t sure. All you knew was how increasingly hot you were feeling. 

“Speaking of Art, go talk to him. Try to make amends. Meet some of his friends.” You suggested, glancing over at your husband. He wasn’t watching you anymore, at least not straight on. But he had a radar when it came to you, and he was very diligent in keeping tabs. No matter what.

“You trying to get rid of me?” Patrick asked lightly. No heat behind the words. 

“Oh, yes.” You admitted, placing your hands on his shoulders and pointing him towards Art, “Find me again before you leave and I’ll have your check.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned at you over his shoulder, sending a wink before sauntering off. 

Finally, you felt like you could actually get a breath in your lungs. 

The party had ended. Guests went home, Patrick got his check and headed to a hotel you recommended, and you and your partner left all the cleanup for the morning. You barely gave it a second glance as you went up to bed with him, your hand held tightly in his. 

Art fucked you like a starving man that night. You barely got into the room before his lips were plastered on your skin, his hands unzipping your dress with quick precision. He was usually much more reserved, but something about tonight had made him ravenous. And he wasn’t the only one.

You ended up on his lap; bare chests pressed together, skin sweaty and breaths heavy as you rolled your hips into him. His hands clutched your thighs, keeping you close, fingers pressing into the flesh. You pulled on his hair and his head immediately fell back. As if he were a puppet for you to position and use however you wanted. His eyes looked up at you with a fire in them you’d never seen before, but the adoration, the reverence, was all too familiar. 

Your name fell from his lips over and over again like a prayer. The single word weaved with threads of devotion, possessiveness, desire. A song joined in chorus by whatever nonsensical phrase entered his head. I love you, so perfect, all mine, please, please, please. 

He was claiming you. Marking his territory in his own special way. It didn’t matter that Patrick wasn’t here to see it, or that he probably would never even know. As long as Art could tell himself that you were his, he’d be okay. Jealousy was a good look on him. 

You could feel your core tighten with each and every movement of his hips against you. You weren’t going to last much longer. But by the look in your husband’s eyes, neither was he. 

Parted lips claimed yours in a messy kiss, tongue sliding into your mouth and exploring every open space. Then you were being flipped over; back pressed into the mattress as Art rocked into you with reckless abandon. He intertwined his fingers with yours and pinned your hands above your head without ever breaking the kiss. 

You lasted about thirty seconds. Finally, the tension in you snapped and your orgasm washed over you in waves, leaving you limp and trembling. Art finished only a moment later. You could feel him pulsing inside of you as the aftershocks slowly faded away. The room reeked of sweat and sex and your head was spinning. 

Art, your precious, dutiful man, rested his head on your chest as he attempted to catch his breath. You could feel the tickle of his lips kissing your skin, the soft squeeze of his hands on your hips. You ran a hand through his damp hair, fingers massaging his scalp. 

“I love you.” He murmured against your ribs, right over your thundering heart. He said it like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed, like he didn’t believe you were here, that you were his. 

Dark hair and cigarette smoke flashed through your mind. Almost-touching hands and paper checks. 

“I love you.” You responded, kissing his hairline, “Happy Birthday, baby.” 

The only response you got was a tired, happy sound and another kiss to your collarbone. A quick adjustment later and the two of you were tucked under the blankets, your head on Art’s chest and his arm around you. Neither of you cared enough to clean yourselves up or to put pajamas on. Art was already softly snoring next to you, and you could feel your eyelids getting heavy.

As you listened to the baddump of his heart, a strange thought flitted through your mind. You’d just had the best sex of your life, and it was because of Patrick. You weren’t the only one who’d been thinking of him while in the throes of passion. The notion made something strange twinge in your gut. 

And then, like he’d somehow read your mind, your phone lit up with a text. 

Patrick Zweig: You free for lunch tomorrow?

***

Taglist: 

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[gggcherry]

Omg can u write a fic abt Art Donaldson and Patrick trying to hit on foreign exchange student!reader, could end in fluff or smut

no bc this is literally my fantasy i’m an international student at a D1 tennis school IM GONNA GO FERAL. loosely based off of my experience with the cornell men’s tennis team but we’re not talking about that.

warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI, patrick x international student!tennis player!reader, this might be bad i wrote this over the course of like 3 days and changed the plot completely lol, smoking and drinking, oral!male and female receiving, facesitting, technically cheating? vague but everything is morally dubious with these three, unprotected p in v, hair pulling

uh enjoy ig i hope it's not too bad

Tashi? You’d known her since forever. You attended the same tennis camp when you were girls and never lost contact. Having played a few matches during Juniors, you stayed pretty close. So when you saw her on your match schedule for the upcoming month, you shot her a text saying you had to go out together when you were at Stanford for the weekend.

Your match rolled around and you were definitely focused. Winning meant you stayed at the top of your conference, which wasn’t the ATP ranking but it was still important to you. So you trained, and hard. You were a good player, quick on your feet, and the training paid off in your first doubles game that weekend. Before your game, you got to catch a wave and a smile from Tashi sitting in the stands, next to a mousy-looking blonde guy and a very cocky brunette. You noted that the brunette was more your type, but the blonde was cute enough. Must have been Tashi’s friends.

You started your match, extremely harmonious with your partner, and you swiftly caught every ball headed your way. From the stands, Art and Patrick were shamelessly throwing around comments as they saw the ball bounce back and forth.

 “She has an insane serve. I heard she’s like a tennis prodigy in her country.” Art gushes, getting cut off by Patrick quickly with “I don’t know how you’re paying attention to her serve when she has such nice legs. I’d like to have those wrapped around my head soon.” 

Winning the game 4-6, you were happy with the result. 

You watched Tashi play her doubles match, flawlessly annihilating your teammates. When the time came for yours and Tashi’s match, you felt the playfully challenging energy in the air. Patrick and Art were at the edge of their seats, and as the game started they both were practically drooling at the match. They couldn’t decide whether to look at you, or Tashi, or the ball. Both you and Tashi were smoothly tearing each other to shreds, grunting and running around, you always catching the ball just in time. 

“I don’t know how she’s doing it but I think she’s going to beat Tashi” Art mumbles, slumped into his seat as he switched his focus from the ball, to the way you moved, to your figure.

“I call dibs” replies Patrick. He was staring at you too, staring intently and admiring the way your arm smoothly hit the ball with a thwack in a way that threw Tashi off. 

“Don’t do that to Tashi.” mumbled Art again, playfully hitting the brunette next to him. He didn’t even take his eyes off of you. He knew too damn well that Patrick could not care less, and didn’t know whether to feel for you or Tashi. Pat and Tashi had been having a rough time anyways, so it was really a matter of time before either of them caved.

Finishing the match, you and Tashi gave each other a friendly hug. You noticed that the two boys that had been sitting with Tashi were rushing down to congratulate the two of them. 

“Great game, babe.” The brunette said, giving Tashi a small peck. You noticed that she didn’t really appreciate the gesture. The boy turned to you, “And this is?”

Tashi introduced you, explaining that you went to tennis camp together, the whole history. “And these two idiots are Art and Patrick.”

“Nice to meet you too, you guys play tennis?” you ask, intrigued but it was kind of obvious.

Art answers before Patrick can open his mouth— “Yeah, I play here at Stanford too, I’m just injured right now,” he says, pointing to his shoulder, which had muscle tape peeking from the sleeve of his shirt. “Pat’s just… there.”

“Hey! I play too, dipshit. I’m playing the Miami Open in a few weeks.”

Tashi was done with her games of the day, and said she’d be taking a short break. “I’m going to take a shower and heading to bars later, want to come?” She asks.”You can come and get ready in my dorm with me.” You nod in approval, following them as you headed to the locker rooms. Patrick and Tashi were walking together as he was clearly rambling about something that she was unfazed by. 

“So they’re a thing huh?” you ask Art, who was walking next to you.

“Yeah I mean, he comes to visit every once in a while but I don’t think that they’ve quite put a label on it yet.” He answers quite honestly, “She’s a very focused person.”

“I know, that’s why it was strange to me that she was with somebody.”

Art nodded in understanding, “I know, I say the same thing and they’re surprisingly sticking it out.”

“Honestly I don’t know how she does it.” you admit. The few times you had been involved with someone it went to shit because of your schedule.

“What do you mean? I thought Tashi said you were dating someone.” Art asks, furrowing his brow.

“Oh no, I broke up with him forever ago, he was on my team before he had to stop playing because of an injury. He’s a full-on NARP now and that really got in the way.” You scoff slightly, laughing to yourself and shaking your head. “Doesn’t seem strange to me that Tash wouldn’t check my Facebook, I’ve deleted all my posts with him since.”

“Yeah she’s like that,” muses Art. “Lives in her own world and we’re all moons revolving around it.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

After changing in the locker rooms and staying to watch the rest of the singles games, you headed to your hotel to freshen up a little to head to Tashi’s and get ready. 

Walking over to the dorm, you run into Patrick, already wearing what you assumed to be his bar clothes — some jeans, nikes, and a gray shirt that says ‘I told ya’. 

“Hey Patrick, you heading to Tashi’s?” you say amicably, trying to strike conversation with your friend’s…? You don’t know what he was.

“Yeah, you?” he asks, pulling out a carton of cigarettes and lighting one. Pat sends the pack your way as an offering “Want one?”

“Yes please, and yeah, I’m getting ready at Tashi’s for tonight. She’d said we would go to bars?”

Patrick goes to light your cigarette and you two continue your walk towards the dorm. “I think you look gorgeous just like that, but to each their own.”

You roll your eyes and fill the rest of the walk with small talk, which to your relief was a relatively short walk so it didn’t get too awkward. As you headed into the elevator, you went to press the button and couldn’t remember what floor Tashi had mentioned. “On what floor does she live?” You ask, as the elevator comes to a close. You could feel his eyes on you. Looking back at him, you catch him staring and give him a questioning look. 

“Patrick?”

“6th floor”

A moment of silence passes between you two. He, of course, breaks it. “Your accent is cute. I don’t know, it fits you.” Patrick is very clearly snaking his eyes up and down your figure, and you didn’t know whether you wanted to stop yourself. “You’re not from around here are y-”

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Patrick, but you’re with my friend and that is not something I want to intrude in.” You snap. It felt a little mean but it’s not something you’d want to do to Tashi. 

He snorts, laughing to himself and furrowing his brow, “I’m not with Tashi, if you haven’t noticed. She barely gives me the time of day unless she wants me to fuck her.”

You’re surprised at his statement, a little less so at his crass choice of words, but you realized that that’s the kind of person he was. Extremely conflicted with how to react, you noticed the lustful look in his eye and the little bite he gave the inside of his cheek. You couldn’t. You turned away and looked at the numbers of the floors go up excruciatingly slow. Pat hesitated, but at this point he had nothing to lose. 

“If it raises the chances of you being interested in me, then no. For all intents and purposes I am not with Tashi.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Later that night, at some dingy college bar, both Patrick and Art were inquisitively leaning towards you and Tashi. You'd all had your fair share of drinks and there was something in the air, you didn't know what it was but it made you feel magnetic, especically towards Art and Patrick. You liked Art and everything, but you couldn’t help but notice how he would always be catching a look at Tash and sweeping in to mediate when she and Pat would begin a harmless spat. Patrick, on the other hand, had very much caught your eye. Something about him made you curious, maybe it was his nonchalance and light cockiness towards everything. But from your previous conversation, you now knew that he was clearly intrigued by you, leaning his head to the side like a confused puppy as he listened to you explain that you were an international student.

“Oh so you’re far far from home” He comments, “And you’re not from the US?”

“Don’t act too surprised Pat, a lot of international students come to US universities to play tennis.” you reply, “And yes, I’m pretty far from home”

He nods in understanding. “That’s cool, honestly. I’d love to visit and see what your country’s like.”

You smile back, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes and the liquid confidence taking over, “You can come anytime.”

Eventually, you and Patrick keep up the conversation, drinks flowing, and notice that Art and Tashi had disappeared, God knows where.

“Did they really leave us here?” Patrick asks, bewildered when he noticed that Art and Tashi were nowhere to be seen. You shrugged. “I mean, I don’t mind it to be honest. I had to head to my hotel so I would have been going back alone anyways.”

“I can’t let you do that, that’s dangerous.” Patrick said, quickly inserting himself as the hero of the situation. “I’ll take you to your hotel. Where are you staying?”

“Oh just at a Holiday Inn down the street.”

“No way! I’m staying in that one too,” he says. “C’mon I’ll walk you back.”

You don’t know if it was the drinks or the tension you still had from today’s game but somehow, you ended up making out with Patrick in the elevator on your way up to your room. Patrick’s lips clashed against yours, bringing you closely into his embrace as you two killed the time before getting to your room. You separated the kiss for a moment, looking Pat dead in the eye.

“Not a word to Tashi about this.”

“No worries baby, she wouldn’t even care. She’s probably busy doing Art right now. She prefers him.” he admits, shrugging unconcerned and leaning back in to kiss you.

Luckily, your room was one of the first ones accessible as you got out of the elevator, so you reached into your pocket as you both stumbled towards the door. You fumbled with the key for a moment as Pat left some kisses on your throat, lost in you and your every move.

Finally being able to open the door, you two connected in a kiss once more and clumsily moved towards the bed, clothes coming off sloppily. Bumping against the end of the bed, you and Patrick fall onto the soft and fluffy duvet, heavenly on your tired muscles, heightening the pleasurable sensations of Pat’s lips on yours. 

His kisses were desperate, frantic, rushed, matching all the possible descriptive words for the way he was reaching at all of the grippable parts of you as he sloppily kissed you, teeth clashing. He was panting, and you were also desperately clawing at his t-shirt, moving your tongue against his and travelling your hands back into his hair. There was something about how the two of you just melded together, maybe fuelled by the underlying guilt of what you were doing, but also the insatiable need to blow off some fuckin’ steam.

You could feel how he was starting to grow hard in his jeans, starting to kiss your jaw and neck.

“Let me get on top, Patrick” you gasp, out of breath, pulling him back into the kiss and rolling over so you’re straddling him. He’s reaching up to you, grabbing your ass as you wrap your arms around his neck in order to keep him close. You start rolling your hips, bringing yourself to hit that sweet spot, easily accessible through under your skirt, and moaning into his mouth at the feeling. Gripping the edges of his shirt, he follows your lead of taking it off as you remove your top as well. For a moment he stops, slowly leaning back into his elbows, taking the sight of you squirming on top of him.

“Suck my dick.” He says, something so gluttonous yet pleading in his eyes. “Please.”

You look down at him, licking your bottom lip at the mere though of hearing his moans with your mouth on him. Nodding, slowly, you start kissing at his body, making your way down and occasionally looking back up at him. He’s got his head thrown back taking in the tenderness of your touch. You get to his jeans, tented up by his hard cock and start unbuckling his belt. Making your way through his layers, you reach into his jeans and start palming him, feeling how hard you had made him feel. You hear him moan shamelessly at this, saying your name and encouraging you to continue. 

He starts pulling his jeans and underwear down, barely enough for you to be able to access his cock, which you grab in your hand and spit on, beginning to pleasure him. His moans are loud as you continue, licking his tip and sending him into a spiral, moaning a load of curses and your name. As you keep going, he starts tangling his hands in your hair and trying his best to get it out of your face. 

“God, baby you look so good like that sucking my cock, fuck.” He groans, throwing his head back. You look up at him, and his blissed out expression just fuels you even more, his stomach muscles contracting and his eyes scrunching closed giving you more of a reason to keep bobbing your head up and down on his cock. You gag around him, your mouth already salivating and sloppy, and you went up to take a breath.

“Want to return the favor, Pat?” you ask, looking up at him through half-lidded, pleading eyes while you kept languidly stroking his cock. He took a single look at you and nodded. 

“Yeah, of course baby,” he says as you sit up. “C’mon, get on me.”

You furrow your brow— “You want me to sit on your face?” You reply with a smirk, climbing up his body

He smirks back, “How else would I return the favor?” Pat leans in to give you one, long hard kiss, the taste of himself in your mouth making his dick twitch. “Can’t wait to taste ya, babe”

You giggle, straddling him as he moves backwards a little in order to reach under you. At the first contact his lips have with your throbbing pussy, you let out a surprised moan and you grip his hair. He grabs your hips, a strong grip pulling you down towards him and making you have to find support against the headboard. 

“Fuck, Patrick that feels so good.” You moan, throwing your head back and leaning into his grip. You didn’t care if he suffocated right now, at this point what was of utmost importance was the pressure in your stomach building as he continued to run his tongue along your folds, taking his time to kiss at your sensitive clit. He really did know what he was doing. 

“Patrick please, shit you’re gonna make me come.” He doesn’t budge, just pulls you closer and nods his head against you, speeding up his movements and making you a moaning mess, gripping at his hair and rocking your hips against his mouth to keep that momentum and buildup in your belly. Patrick clearly senses this, moving his tongue faster and more intensely.

“Cum, baby” you feel him mumble. Immediately at his words, you feel yourself snap and a rush of energy archs your back and makes you gush all over his face. He comes up, making you straddle him, and he smiles at you with his mouth still glistening with your release, looking voraciouslt at you. 

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

Patrick brings you into a passionate kiss, once again sloppily coming together with him manouvering himself to be on top of you. All of your clothes had come off at some point, all of the contact had been so frantic, truly taking your mind off of everything else as you felt him on you. He was rock hard, still aroused from your blowjob, and he started nudging the tip of his cock on your entrance. You come back to your senses, pushing him away for a moment and giving him a look, which he quickly realized what it meant.

“Fuck I— I’ll just buy you a pill tomorrow.”

This was enough for you to give him a nod and make him start sliding inside you, letting out a heavy groan as he bottomed out. You let out a tense moan, grabbing at the bedsheets next to your head, and bringing your arms around his back as he began his thrusts, breathing hard into your neck, kissing it erratically between moans. 

“You’re so tight, oh my God” He groans, picking up his pace, making you a moaning mess and pulling him closer to you. He was hitting a spot inside you that was bringing your orgasm back, the pressure in your belly building again as he roughly grabbed your hips. Patrick brought his lips back to yours, sloppily kissing you with tongue to shut your high-pitched whines up. “Don’t be too loud baby, your neighbors are going to complain.”

A solution clearly comes into his mind as he sits back and turns you around to be on all fours, the sudden force on you making you yelp as he pushed you down against the pillow. He teases his cockhead against your folds, then reaches down to speak wantonly into your ear. “Now you can be as loud as you want baby.”

At that, you melt in his touch and let out a long, languid moan at the feeling of him slipping into your cunt, sopping with your arousal and absorbing his hard thrusts. You scream into the pillow as the pressure in your core keeps building and his thrusts hit the right spot that send you into a delirium. Patrick is a moaning mess behind you, the obscene combination of sounds, skin against skin and pleasurable moans making him even more aroused. He’s harsh, pulling your hips to match his pace and you feel him reach up and pull your hair back, revealing your fucked out face to him. “Make me cum again, please Patrick.” you groan, rolling your eyes backwards in pleasure as he speeds up his thrusts, bringing you closer to your orgasm. 

“Fuck, I’m going to come baby—” he moans, his thrusts made more erratic at the sensation of your cunt around him. You begin to feel yourself let go as he thrusts sloppily one, two, three more times and pulls out of you, coming all over your back.  You collapse under him, and he kneels back to admire your gorgeous ass painted by his work. “Patrick, you better not tell Tashi about this.” He hears, mumbled tiredly from under your messed up hair. Shaking his head and rolling his eyes (because really, you were thinking about that now?), he gets off the bed, walking into your bathroom to grab a towel for your spent, cum-stained body.

a/n: hope u enjoyed ig !! took me forever lol but if you liked this would like to request some ideas you are more than welcome to !!

[gggcherry]

𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter one

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and you’re forced to embrace a life in the sport you’ve been too afraid to claim for yourself. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, descriptions of anxiety, swearing, allusions to controlling mother, use of y/n 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: y/i means your initial of your first name. i hope you enjoy the first chapter!! 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒’ 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 – 𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟗, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟔

Waiting in the entrance corridor that led to the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, you nervously fiddled with the homemade friendship bracelet on your wrist, an anxious habit you picked up over the years. The snapping of the elastic band on your skin distracted you from your spiralling thoughts.

You were a whirlwind of nerves and compulsive overthinking.

Even though you knew with certainty how the match would go that day, you couldn’t shake the anxiety that pulsed through your body before every game.

MOTHER: Duncan’s backhand is going to win her the whole damn Championship if you don’t get your act together.

DAD 🩵: I love you, win or lose. Have fun with Tashi and call me when it’s over! Best of luck. Hugs, Dad.

Making friendship bracelets before big tournaments was a tradition your dad started when you were eleven. It let you relax before nerve-wracking events and allowed you to spend time with your dad amidst your busy schedules. Surprisingly, it ended up being a fun, creative outlet as well. You enjoyed focusing on the details of something other than tennis, and sharing it with your dad only made it more special. Given how many years you had to practise, you were good at creating intricate patterns and now had a vast collection of bracelets. Most of them had your name, Tashi’s name, “Dad,” and the year and location of your favourite tournaments and memories on them. 

The bracelets were your good luck charms, and you were comforted by the weight of the beads on your wrist. 

The one you wore that day had a T and Y/I interwoven amongst pretty beads, creating deep pink and white flower shapes. They represented the stargazer lily, your favourite flower. You made the same bracelet for Tashi to wear during the US Open Junior Championships, and her beads were light and dark purple to represent her favourite flower, the sword lily. The meanings behind your favourite flowers were accurate for your roles in the friendship, given that Tashi’s sword lily – technically not a lily at all but an iris – represented strength, victory, and pride. Your stargazer lily represented innocence, purity, and prosperity. She was the heated tennis champion, while you were her gentle, equally successful friend.

The two of you thought it was perfect. Having your favourite flowers be lilies was just one of the many invisible strings that tied the two of you together.

Your father used to say that you and Tashi were the sun and the moon, and you had to agree. Tashi was fiery and outgoing, dominating the tennis world, just as the sun dominated the sky. Passionate and intense. You strived out of the spotlight and were introspective in a way that added serenity to your friendship. Warm-hearted and gentle. “The most important part is the balance,” your father would say when you grumbled how Tashi’s attributes sounded better. “The sun and the moon represent harmony. Together, they are day and night. Work and rest, visibility and mystery, rationality and emotion. Beginnings and endings.”

Perhaps that was why your life felt bookended by meeting and falling out with Tashi. It was the beginning and end of your adolescent life and the reason you made such drastic changes when your friendship ended. You couldn’t be the same person without her.

In the corridor, you could hear the crowd getting restless. Each shallow breath you took caught in your throat, and your anxious thoughts swirled like a tornado in your mind. The spectators were rightfully excited for the beautiful game of tennis they were promised if Tashi Duncan was playing. The fact that you, her talented best friend, were playing in the finals against her had them lapping up the match like they were starved for entertainment. In many ways, you supposed they were. The Junior Championships were dull without you and Tashi bringing the heat, and your matches turned the traditional game into a glittering spectacle of excellence.

Somewhere in the stands, Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig nursed disposable soda cups and waited for the match to start.

“Don’t you want to meet Tashi Duncan and Y/N Y/L/N?” Patrick wondered, shocked by Art’s indifference to attending the Adidas party that evening. While Art went to the Junior Girls’ Final to see fresh talent in their sport, Patrick knew something far more exceptional awaited them. Art burped, and Patrick stared in disbelief. “You don’t get it, man. You’ve never seen them in person. They’re in another league,” he insisted.

Art glanced down at where Patrick’s knee pressed against his thigh. “You mean their game?” he asked sarcastically. Knowing Patrick as well as he did, Art was aware of the reason for his best friend’s obsession with Tashi Duncan and Y/N Y/L/N.

“No, I mean they’re the hottest women I’ve ever seen,” Patrick proclaimed. He was buzzing with an excitement Art rarely saw; Patrick was glowing. A devilish grin painted his lips, and his eyes darted across the court regularly in hopes of catching a glimpse of you and Tashi.

Answering your nervous prayers, Tashi finally joined you in the entrance corridor. “Hey!” She smiled, carefree and confident, like you weren’t about to play in the Junior Championship Final. The sun, you thought. She’s the sun. You wondered what it was like to shine so brightly and effortlessly. “Are you ready?” Tashi wondered, linking hands with you. Your friendship bracelets touched.

You sighed, squeezing her hand as you calmed your nerves. The crowd’s cheers faded in and out, interrupted by intermittent ringing in your ears. Your heart pounded, and you tried not to hyperventilate. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied reluctantly. Your doubts and fears were a suppressive weight, glueing you to the spot.

Tashi nodded encouragingly at you. She knew you weren’t as scared about playing the match as incurring your mother’s wrath afterwards. Her eyes scanned your expression as if it were the map to the inner workings of your mind. She had a sixth sense when it came to reading your emotions. “You’ve got this, Y/I. You’re a fucking tennis player, and you’re going to kill it,” Tashi declared, squeezing your hand back. “Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.” 

She inhaled deeply, motioning for you to follow her with her free hand. You complied, following Tashi as she exhaled slowly. “I’m a fucking tennis player,” you agreed when you caught your breath, trying to keep your voice from wavering. For now, a voice in the back of your head reminded you. It’ll all be over soon.

“And we’re going to play some fucking tennis,” Tashi added. 

You chuckled. “Thanks, T.”

“Let’s go.”

As you entered the court, the umpire introduced the two of you, “Winner of the Junior Australian Open, Tashi Duncan!” The crowd cheered as you and Tashi stepped onto the blue hard court with intertwined hands. “Local star and runner up of the Junior Australian Open, Y/N Y/L/N!” 

You let the adrenaline rush take over and smiled, waving at your audience as you approached the benches. The applause for you wasn’t quite as blaring as for Tashi, but your home base of New Yorkers was pleased and proud to have you representing them.

From his seat, Art watched with wide eyes as his breath hitched. He watched your lips curve into a grin and felt his cheeks and ears heat up. Seeing you had ignited an insatiable fire in his chest, spreading south quickly. You were like a masterpiece come to life, sending a jolt of electricity through his veins and his senses into overdrive. Patrick glanced sideways at him, empathising with the lovestruck expression on his face.

“See you out there,” you told Tashi, grinning before parting ways and setting your bag down. She pointed two fingers at her eyes before turning her hand and pointing to you, reminding you to stay focused on the game and not let anyone ruin it for you. 

It was an appreciated gesture. Tashi had known you long enough to notice when your mind wandered anxiously. You were reminded that your mother was in the crowd examining your every move; each step you made was deliberately catered to appease her. As long as you did what she said and got through the tournament, you could breathe easy. You took a few sips of electrolyte water, stretched your body, took deep breaths, and practised the visualisation methods your dad taught you. 

Art leaned forward in his seat, eyes trained on you and periodically flickering to Tashi as you both stretched. “Holy shit,” he murmured appreciatively as the flouncy skirt of your white Nike tennis dress revealed the curve of your ass when you bent over to touch your toes. Forget a moth to the flame. Art was like a starving, panting dog waiting for his next meal. He and Patrick had been silent since you and Tashi walked out, blatantly staring with parted lips, too entranced to clap with the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this final round match will be the best of three tie-break sets,” the umpire declared for the audience to hear. “To the left of the chair, from the United States, Y/N Y/L/N. To the right of the chair, also from the United States, Tashi Duncan. Duncan won the toss and elected to serve.”

At the umpire’s cue, you grabbed your racket and walked behind the baseline. Art’s eyes trailed you, admiring how your hips moved as you sauntered across the court. “Fuck,” he remarked. He didn’t think he’d ever looked at someone and thought they had a sexy walk, yet there he was, helplessly looking to Patrick for an explanation. What was it about you that made you so perfectly captivating? “Patrick…” Art trailed off, powerless to your elegant charisma.

His best friend only laughed. “Just wait until you see them play,” Patrick warned Art eagerly.

Behind the baseline, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You envisioned yourself flawlessly executing aces and volleys, being deliberate with your movements and not getting hurt. Positive visualisation was something you started doing recently when your anxiety got the best of you, but you never pictured yourself winning. Not when you played against Tashi.

For a moment, right before the match started, it was just you and your best friend smiling at each other from across the court with an unspoken understanding. No matter how it went, you had unwavering love and support for each other. You were beyond rivalry, and tennis connected you rather than drawing a line between you. This was one of your favourite moments in tennis: the calm before the storm, the moment of anticipation when nobody knew how the match would play out. 

Not you, though. You always knew. 

“First set, Duncan to serve.” The umpire motioned to Tashi. “Ready? Play.”

Nothing could have prepared Art and Patrick for the match they were about to watch. 

You crouched, waiting for your best friend to serve. Just as it had the day you first met Tashi, her backhand was like a sledgehammer strike each time she vaulted the ball over the net.

“Look at that fucking backhand,” Art groaned appreciatively at Tashi’s powerful two-handed backhand. Patrick merely shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.

At one point in the rally you hit wide, and the ball flew out. The umpire called, “15–love, Duncan.” Everyone applauded the point. 

You gained the next point when Tashi hit the net. 15–all. Even though Tashi had that lightning-fast backhand, your rallies were thrilling and beautiful. Tashi took the first game, and then it was your turn to serve.

This was where you thrived.

You bounced the ball on the ground a few times before taking a deep breath, tossing it in the air, and firing it over the net so quickly that Tashi and the audience barely saw it coming. Your serve was quick as a whip, and Tashi couldn’t return it. An ace. A murmur rang through the crowd as the monitor displayed the speed of your serve: 120 miles per hour.

Art nearly whimpered, “Holy fuck!” He’d never seen a girl his age fire a serve that powerful, precise, and fast. Art shifted in his seat.

Patrick sighed reverently. “I think I just came,” he quipped. 

You took the first set, 6-4 in your favour. Tashi took the next. The final set had everyone in the stands on the edge of their seats, waiting to see how things went. You and Tashi were stuck in a 6-6 tiebreaker, and this next point would decide the game. If you won this point, you would play another set to determine the winner of the match. If Tashi won, she would win the US Open Junior Girls’ Singles Championship Final.

There was an electric energy in the air, and Art and Patrick could hear their heartbeats hammering in their ears. The game unfolded remarkably. Everyone held their breaths in anticipation as Tashi served. You returned each stroke with precision and power, allowing the thud of the ball to echo through the court intermixed with your grunts. 

It was a moment of pure bliss.

For once, you weren’t thinking of your mother or her overbearing expectations of you. All you could focus on was you, Tashi, and the ball floating between you. The tension was palpable and thick; nobody in the audience knew how they wanted it to go. Tashi was the clear fan favourite, but her losing this point would mean at least another half-hour of watching the two of you play. Nobody could deny that would be a gripping end to the match.

As if ignited by a rush of raw determination, Tashi struck the ball and sent it soaring across the court, kissing your baseline and winning her the entire match.

With a primal, reverberating roar of passion, Tashi crouched, clenched her fists, and screamed, “Come on!” Her voice echoed through the court, thundering above the crowd cheering for her.

Everyone present knew they’d seen something phenomenal, and they weren’t sure what to do now that it was over.

"Game, set, and match, Duncan. Seven games to six in the final tie break,” the umpire said over the clamour.

You laughed, dropped your racket, and shrieked when Tashi leapt over the tennis court to pull you into a hug. Breathless and sweaty, you wrapped your arms around your best friend and giggled deliriously. All your matches with Tashi were fantastic, but this was one of the most riveting. You pulled away enough to exchange bright smiles, heart pounding with exhilaration from the intense match. Your spirits were high, mirroring Tashi’s excitement and revelling in the knowledge that you had fun and entertained the crowd. For you, that transcended the outcome of the game.

“Now that’s tennis,” Patrick commented, giggling giddily. 

Art got to his feet and clapped, speechless.

“Congrats, T! You just won the goddamn Junior US Open,” you exclaimed, lightheaded from the adrenaline rush. After the gruelling match, you felt your muscles twitching from the exertion. Your body was drenched in sweat, physically and emotionally exhausted by the demands of the sport you and Tashi dedicated your lives to.

Tashi chuckled, beads of sweat dripping from her temples. “Who cares? You just showed me that you’re not ready to give up on tennis yet,” she retorted, smirking triumphantly. You opened your mouth to argue, but Tashi shook her head. “I know you think you want to quit but you haven’t even given yourself a chance yet! Think about it, your mom isn’t going to be riding your ass when we’re at Stanford. You might just fall back in love with it,” she pointed out.

You rolled your eyes and smiled fondly at her. She meant well by encouraging you to keep up with tennis, but nobody could convince you to keep going.

When you and Tashi turned to bow and wave at the crowd, Patrick stood beside Art. “What time did you say the Adidas party was?” Art asked, wonderstruck. 

Patrick’s lips curled into a brazen smirk, like a cat that had just caught the canary, and his eyes sparkled with a knowing gleam. “I knew you’d come around.”

𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍, 𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐀 – 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟕, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗

“We need to get you some more match time, then,” Tashi decided. She and Art were sitting in their hotel room in Atlanta after his crushing defeat by a French teenager. Grabbing her phone, she checked what other tournaments were happening before the US Open.

“I can play Cincinnati,” Art protested, not wanting Tashi to pull him out. 

“No. No, you cannot. Not like this,” Tashi disagreed. It wasn’t that she would be embarrassed if Art lost; she loved and respected him more than his wins. It was the fact that she knew he had more in him. More fight and more passion. Tashi just needed to find a way to reignite the flames. “Okay, how about--” she paused. New Rochelle, New York. Around the corner from where Y/N Y/L/N grew up and currently resided. Speaking of reigniting old flames… “How about New Rochelle?” Tashi proposed. 

Art’s shoulders tensed. He exhaled shakily, mind immediately going to you. Tashi wasn’t oblivious to how her husband had a visceral, physical reaction whenever you were brought up. The last time either of them saw you – really saw you up close – was three years ago at the French Open, the year you and Art took home the Singles titles. Art and Tashi were invited to the Nike afterparty celebrating your second French Open Singles win in 2016. Tashi thought Art would faint at the rate he held his breath each time he saw you. His hands clutched the table whenever you laughed; it was like his hands itched to reach for you, like a bee drawn to the sweetest flower.

“That’s a Challenger,” Art stammered, trying to change the subject.

Even though he tried to keep his mind off you, his thumb subconsciously traced the friendship bracelet on Tashi’s wrist. It was one of the many bracelets Lily made for her, a skill their daughter learned from her father.

Tashi recalled when you were teenagers, and you tried to get her to make bracelets with you. You must have convinced her to do it a handful of times, but she never had the patience to focus on anything except tennis and gave up every time. 

The only person who ever took the time and care to make you a bracelet was Art Donaldson.

Tashi ignored his obvious shift in topic. “Yeah, I know that. It’s in a couple of days. Maybe we can get you a wildcard,” she suggested. Art scoffed quietly, averting his eyes and fiddling with the colourful beads on her bracelet. “Art?” He hummed nonchalantly. “You need to start winning,” Tashi told him firmly. Moments like these made it hard to walk the line between spouse and coach. “Right now, you’re getting crushed by guys like Du Maurier. So we need to go somewhere, where there’s absolutely nobody on the other side of the net who can shake your fucking confidence. Okay?” Tashi underscored the importance of the Challenger. “That’s why we’re going to--” she glanced at her phone-- “Phil’s Tire Town Challenger.”

Art chuckled. Even when he first started in the professional tennis world, he’d never gone to a Challenger with a name like that. “That’s the only reason we’re going to New Rochelle?” Art asked, smiling knowingly at Tashi. 

She didn’t care that he’d caught on to her scheme. “You’re telling me you don’t want to see her?” Tashi retorted, raising an eyebrow at her husband. “If she was right in front of you, you’d just turn around and walk away?” Their silent exchange of glances spoke volumes, acknowledging the unspoken truth that he loved you. Amidst the tension, there was a quiet understanding between them. Tashi knew what it was like to have loved and lost you. Perhaps not in the same way as Art, but in your friendship that once meant everything to her. “Because I think you’d hold on and never let go of her again,” Tashi argued.

Art couldn’t disagree with her. After all, a man never forgets his first love. 

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: how are we feeling after this chapter?? i hope you enjoyed the way i incorporated the friendship bracelets and lilies (yes art and tashi named their daughter after the fact that your favourite flower is a lily asdfghjhkhl) thank you for reading xx

[gggcherry]

FIRESIDE: 9

[ART x OC x PATRICK]

extract

"Touch yourself."

Isadora gave him a dead look, pointing at his fully clothed body, Patrick quickly got rid of his t-shirt and pants, strong thighs side by side, straddling her knees; it may have been the drugs, but he could almost feel her flesh intertwined with his, as if they were one.

Rough hands opened her legs wider, he looked over her body, holding one her hands towards her thong, gently cupping her pussy, and moving circles with her fingers on her clit.

Isadora let out a soft whine, biting her lower lip, she tugged her thong away, small hand trailing towards her center, and playing with her small bud. Patrick let out a loud moan, hand inside his boxers, slowly tugging and groping his dick as he watched her twist in pleasure, lewd sounds coming out of her open mouth.

His other hand trailing over her chest, softly pinching a nipple, and massaging her breast in circular motions.

"Put one inside." He instructed her, watching as she obediently did it.

A slow moan leaving her mouth, as she fucked herself, and watched Patrick tugging almost aggressively his dick, blue and brown eyes holding eye contact, for them it felt like an eternity as they interchanged longing looks, barely blinking when they reached their high.

Patrick crawled over her body, coming over boobs, loud grunts leaving his mouth, as he grinded against her body.

He laid down beside her, arms lacing over her chest and legs intertwining with hers, in a tight grip, like a boy hugging his favorite teddy bear. Isadora let out a complaining sound, with a dazed look on her face, her body felt so sensitive to touch, like it was on fire.

Patrick softly bite and kissed her jaw, as his hands traced softly over breasts, all messy with his cum.

"This was better than jerking off, over your pictures." He whispered, as he gazed at her.