jordiemeow

[jordiemeow]

https://www.tumblr.com/jordiemeow/778945741971439616/was-trying-to-get-a-little-nasty-with-your?source=share

no cause when i was discovering cai and this happened i freaked out it was so fucking scary

RIGHTT LMFAO had me googling if they could see ur responses bc no way a bot is communicating with me like this… freaky!!

[jordiemeow]

was trying to get a little nasty with your coach!art bot and then this happened... needless to say mood ruined LMFAO

omg i hate when they do this it’s so scary 😭😭 im tryna get freaky stop pretending ur human!!!

[jordiemeow]

danny lyon i won’t u

eyes wide shut

words: 2.6k

the idea was inspired by ‘eyes wide shut’, but it has nothing to do with the actual plot of the movie. i guess i just needed to put my thoughts about this movie into something :) it’s messy, but i hope you’ll enjoy </3

m4f, mdni 18+

sex is the least exciting part of the process — that’s why sometimes it’s not as good as you thought it’d be, and expectations appear to be too high, so you stop waiting for it to happen — or, more precisely, you just stop trying. in fact, sex isn’t much different from photography — you can actually take a quick picture of something nice, and it will look good, but would it be meaningful itself? you can briefly capture a sunset on your way home, or you can go to the beach, and walk around with a camera in your hand, trying to catch every single movement of sun rays, every blinding glare of sunlight. you can also have a quick sex with someone who just needs to fuck, or you can meet the person who will take their time to kiss you until your body feels weightless, to touch you like you’re a blessing, a temple of immensity in a white crumpled shirt after lectures in your college.

well, you can afford good photography; that’s what you are being taught in college, but proper sex? it takes two to tango.

and you have something better than sex, actually — your imagination always takes you far away, and it’s even better than cigarettes and alcohol that all your classmates drink in huge quantities during your gatherings at someone's house at weekends; such unholy events, really. photography students always take their fun seriously — all-or-nothing kind of approach. last weeks drinking and hooking up with someone in master bedrooms and toilets with doors that don't close weren’t your priorities; you was seeking something else, distant anticipation of pleasure — silhouette of danny lyon in the crowded living room, that excites you for multiple reasons. so cool, so busy with his life, multiple photoshoots a week, always meeting those bikers; he’s quite older than all of your friends, but not too much — danny had already graduated from college, and now everyone sees him as an experienced guy that knows more than just a thing or two about photography — not like most of the guys you know, who carry a camera to show off to girls, that conveniently pretend that they’re actually interested in the bullshit they’re talking about, when in reality everyone just want to have sex.

were you much different from them? sure, you were nearly obsessed with danny’s works, but you weren’t sure what drew you more — his skills or the way his lips held the cigarette while his fingers were flipping through photographs or holding a fogged beer bottle; maybe it was a good thing that you were introduced to him on the pretext that you wanted to work with him — you should work with him, actually, your friend told him, and he smiled, looking up at you from his seat on the worn sofa, with his legs spread wide in blue jeans.

“i’ve seen your photos,” he said shortly, in such a lazy manner, as if he was too deep in his own head at the moment — when your friend spoke again, danny was clearly half-listening, rubbing his lower lip with the knuckle of his forefinger, then he hummed, as if he’d found answers to his unspoken questions, and the wrinkles around his eyes smoothed out.

the truth is, danny wanted everything you could offer him — in a professional sense, more or less. he appeared on the horizon shortly thereafter, smoking in the college parking lot; he waited for you, and you jumped on his bike without a second thought, wrapping your arms around his narrow waist, perfect for you to hold, while your chest was tightly pressed against his back, wrapped in a denim vest — and that’s how the process of constant anticipation began.

every week danny picks you up after your classes over and over again, knowing your schedule by heart, and you never know where you're gonna go this time — most of the times he just takes you to the vandals’ gatherings, because you’re very helpful, taking pictures while he’s interviewing them, and so very curious — too curious for your own good, actually, never missing your chance to ask him questions. such a good little student, he once called you, and it was enough to shut you up for a while with a tiny little smile on your lips, that mirrored his own — you spoke again only when he took you to the local diner and asked if you wanted milkshake.

but sometimes, he drove you around the outskirts of town, and you two spent hours there, dirtying your shoes while trying to catch the view from the most complementary angle, and danny always took his time towering over your figure from behind, almost touching your shoulder with his chin, while he was adjusting the position of your hands — his fingers wrapped around your wrists, sliding down to your delicate elbows and them up to your shoulders, pulling you by them to make you take a step back; you could swear that danny saw photography more intimately than sex, and that sometimes the process nearly took your breath away, immersing you in a state similar to the slow approach of orgasm; you only communicated by touch and small sounds of approval that were slipping from his lips. after that you usually share a cigarette and he drives you home.

“what were you thinking that night?” you asked one day, before wrapping your lips around the straw to take a sip of your soda — you needed to wash the fries you’d eaten down your throat to speak again. “when you first saw me. it was like you tried to remember something”

“it wasn’t the first time i saw you,” danny chuckled, and this pleasant hoarse sound was enough to make you cross your legs under the table. he wiped his fingers and tossed the crumpled napkin aside. “i’d seen pictures of you. that’s what i was thinking about”

sometimes you happened to be a model for your friends, sure; it’d never been a big deal for you. but was it for him? big enough to remember your face? to think about it when you were standing in front of him at this loud party, so excited to work with him?

“were they good?” you asked with feigned indifference.

“you were good,” his eyes locked with yours, and you could feel him crawling into your very soul through your irises. “but this friend of yours has two left hands”

he would do it better, of course he would — it was such a shameless provocation, such a clear offer of being his muse, as if he was silently asking “has anyone ever pictured you properly? have they seen you the way i can see you?” that it was almost embarrassing to be so eager for him, so willing to be on the other side of the camera, that you practically fidgeted in your seat, waiting for him to speak further — if he asked you to pose for him right at this moment, you’d agree without hesitation.

but of course he didn’t say anything. danny was edging you with his behavior, and he was visibly content with the way things were going between the two of you.

”finish your drink, pretty girl,” he reached for the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans, not even daring to take his eyes off you, reveling in the way you rolled your eyes at him — pretty girl, indeed, and such a gifted student, always up for every single one of his ideas. of course, you thought that you were something like an assistant for him, absorbing his words like a sponge, catching his every movement to engrave it on the inside of your eyelids; but in reality, you were born to be a muse - and he took you out of the hands of your amateur friends, that knew nothing about photography.

and he made sure to see you the way no one ever did before. danny captured you like a deer caught in the middle of dense woods, at times when you were getting distracted and couldn’t focus on your camera, because the bikers were getting too loud, and you could only stare at them with your doe-like eyes, hoping that these predators don’t bite. sometimes you were a graceful cheetah — a predator in its full glory, when your movements were slow and precise, because you had nothing to be afraid of; it was your territory, and you owned it with pure possession in the curve of your eyebrows and the sharpness of your jawline. so different when danny is the only one who could see you — always the only one who can be your rival, your mentor and the only object of your fantasies; your muse himself, in a way.

you’re smoking his cigarettes on the floor of his living room, when he walks out of the darkroom where he’s spent hours, leaving you to your own devices, which isn’t new for you — sometimes he lets you come to his apartment when he’s away, and you eat his food, watch his tv and fall asleep in his bed, knowing that when he comes back, he’ll lay on the cold side of the mattress, right next to you, but none of you’ll speak about it in the morning. now he tosses a fresh stack of photos on the coffee table, for you to see, for you to witness yourself in the frames of his photographs, while his figure was still bathed in red lights from the open door of his darkroom — as if he lets the worlds intertwine, while you’re looking at the results of his long work; your delicate fingers trace the corners of the pictures, and it can be compared with touching his bare skin under the fabric of his shirt, right where his heart was beating.

“do you like them?” danny stands in the doorway, leisurely wiping the lens of his camera with a clean cloth — he was doing it so thoroughly, as if he was polishing a rare gem; corner of his mouth twitches in a half-smile, when he looks down at you — your patent shoes next to the sofa, your legs wrapped in the nylon of your red tights — you owned this place, just like you appropriated everything you ever touched.

”i was good, indeed,” you chuckle, nodding in approval, turning away to put out your cigarette on the edge of the glass ashtray. “or you just conveniently caught me in the act”

danny crouches in front of you, and you pull your knees up to your chest, but he catches them halfway with his hands — his thumbs gently circles your kneecaps, sliding easily over the fabric; danny wishes he could see the world with your eyes, to feel his own hands sliding down your calves, circling your delicate ankles to pull you closer to him, while you’re willingly bending your knees, almost pressing them against his chest — just like you’re doing right now.

“it’s like i can see you when you’re not watching me. really see you,” his arms are wrapped around your legs, and you could feel feather-like touches of his fingers on the backs of your thighs — your eyes intertwined in this fleeting moment, and your hands reach for his face to outline it with the pads of your soft fingers, because you’re thinking that you have every right to do it — and you’re so right about it. you appropriated him for yourself, too. “if i could, i’d picture you with your eyes shut. when nothing can disturb you” not even him.

you smile, a little bit mischievously — there’s no use closing your eyes, or turning away from him; you can feel his presence with every single bone in your body, feel his breath as if it were your own, because you’re smoking the same cigarettes and breathing the same air in the same rooms — does he think that you can stop feeling him around you? when it’s about danny lyon, you can see him even with your eyes wide shut.

when your eyelids drop, tickling your skin with the lush line of long lashes, danny is watching you like a rare work of art, an image of primal feminine beauty on the canva of your exceptional talent and passion for learning — and when his humid breath touches your parted lips, he can feel you kicking the air out of his lungs for the sake of catching it with your mouth; you hand slides down his neck, encircling his throat in a grip of a person that knows how to hold things that belongs to him — you’re pulling him closer, and he almost wants you to squeeze his throat tighter, so he could show you how much he’s devoted to you when you need it — his unruly muse, trying to tame him.

his hands grip your luscious thighs, making you spread them, so his touches could explode the most hidden parts of you underneath your skirt — it’s a sweet torture, knowing that your skin is soft and pliable underneath these tights, imagining your bare hips wrapped in underwear — he wants to guess the shape of your body without any clothes, the color of your panties, the way you’d slowly take your sweater off, revealing that you don’t wear your bra today — he’s so sure you don’t, because he can feel your nipples hardening under the woolen fabric, when his hands move to your breasts, just barely cupping them to show you that he’s here, that you’re so pretty that he wants to wait for you, to prolong this sweet anticipation. you pull him closer, spreading your thighs for him, so he can press his aching bulge in between your tantalizing legs — your hips are bucking, silently begging for this contact, even though it feels like if he presses harder, sparks will fly between your bodies, and you'll burn his apartment to the ground.

“don’t open your eyes,” he whispers, and you shake your head, because you want to see his face when he touches you — you want to ask him to touch you again, because you know that he’ll feel it through your tights — the dampness on the fabric of your panties. you can imagine him sneaking his hand inside, gathering the wetness with his fingers before easily pushing them inside — you want to know how it feels when he does it himself, because you’ve already tried to imagine him inside of you, when you were touching yourself in his bed.

danny catches your moan with his mouth, and it makes him whimper — it would be pathetic, if it wasn’t a sign of his aching desire for you. you catch these sounds with your tongue, pushing them down his throat again — this endless back and forth, exchanging words, sounds, wills, desires, while sharing the same taste of anticipation.

it’s all about anticipation, right?

when he pulls back, only to rest his forehead in the crook of your neck, you tilt your head back, feeling it hitting the floor — danny soothes the pain with the friction between your thighs. such a shame to come so soon, without even waiting for his fingers. “good girl,” he whispers in your ear “you’ve waited so long for me, right?”

sure, you know a lot about waiting. so it’s okay if you have to wait a little longer — because now you know his taste, and how it feels to have his hands on your body; plenty of material for your imagination — plenty of time to dream about him with your eyes wide shut.

[jordiemeow]

Art it ok I’m Tashi 💜

hey guys its me your favourite post gartic phone poster with more!!!

round 1: with @asheepinfrance @diyasgarden @t1ts-4-donaldson @tacobacoyeet and @cha11engers!

round 2: with talia, hanna, ava, and @jordiemeow!!!

round 3: with talia, hanna, and ava!

[jordiemeow]

MISC BOT DUMP ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

23/03/25

featuring characters from: challengers, outer banks, harry potter and dune

yippee !! thank u so much for the recent love. a little later than anticipated because being a woman threw a wrench in my plans :( but here we are!!

second part of the drop asap. a lot more fem!bots in that one finally!!

gender neutral unless specific otherwise. have fun

enjoy ! <3

CHALLENGERS

BOYFRIENDS

patrick x art x user

Being in a relationship with both Fire and Ice is normally great. The three of you adore each other, but sometimes Patrick gets on your nerves. Especially when you just want to spoil Art after a particularly rough practice and your other boyfriend just seems so intent to push your last button.

JUST A REBOUND

patrick zweig x user

He's been your best friend since the Academy days: just you, Patrick and Art. But with Art and Tashi out of the picture, he doesn't know what to do with himself. It feels like he's grieving a death rather than two relationships. So, in an attempt to distract himself from the loss, Patrick uses the crush you've harboured on him for the last decade to keep himself busy. A rebound, if you will.

FAN CLUB

tashi duncan x user

It's just always about tennis with her. What was initially supposed to be a quickie before her match turns into an argument when your girlfriend won't just focus on you for once. But you're not a pushover like Art. You don't have to deal with this bullshit.

ATLANTA

patrick zweig x user

It's been almost a decade since Atlanta. And yet, for whatever reason, Patrick decides now is the appropriate time to come clean about cheating on you with Tashi in 2011. Well, that's going to make for an incredibly awkward drive to your motel.

OUTER BANKS

WALLET

rafe cameron x user (m4f)

To the outside world, he's a selfish dick. But to you, Rafe Cameron is just your softie of a best friend. All fighting words and swinging fists when he's with his boys, but right now he's dragging you along on your second shopping trip of the week just to spoil you... except he's decided it's totally appropriate and platonic to guide you directly into a lingerie store.

PATCH UP

rafe cameron x user

It's a bit of a regular occurrence at this point: Rafe gets into a fight with the Pogues, and he comes to you, his best friend, to patch him up. A little tiring, but it's better than watching Ward beat his ass for tarnishing their reputation over some childish squabble. So, when he shows up for his weekly patch-up, you're left to put the pieces together again.

DADDY ISSUES

jj maybank x user

JJ has always been stubborn as an ox; too prideful and independent for his own good. But he's been getting into it with his old man more often than not recently, and there's always one person he allows to see him at his absolute worst: you.

NEW IN TOWN

rafe cameron x user

He's seen you around a few times. Hanging around the country club with your parents, or walking down the street with your dog. But it's not until you're brave enough to show up at your first Kildare party at the Boneyard that he gets the chance to introduce himself. And yeah, he's real interested in getting to know you better.

HARRY POTTER

JUST BANTER, INNIT?

sirius black x user

He’s never been the most tactful individual in the world, but Sirius has really taken it to a new level as of late. Always so hot and cold—one moment he’s telling you that your hair looks lovely today, the next he’s insulting you with a disdainful look. But he longs for your attention, and being the absolute prat that he is, he resorts to the own method he knows: bullying.

LUCKY CHARM

james potter x user

Sirius placing a bet on Slytherin winning the Quidditch final is not making him feel any better before his match. Neither of you have any doubt about it being just to get in his head. The worst part is that it works. But, like always, his lucky charm comes in to ease his nerves before his big game.

INVITATIONS

remus lupin x user

Romance isn’t really Remus’ thing. He leaves the pulling girls to James and Sirius, after all. But, well, what are his other options? Taking Peter to the ball? Merlin, he’d rather cut off his left foot. There’s always you… the friend he’s been not-so-secretly infatuated with for the last two years. He’s just too shy to ask.

MISCHIEF MANAGED

sirius x remus x james x peter x user

After spending the last few months tagging along with the Marauders, you've finally garnered their respect enough to earn a place amongst their ranks. Which, of course, means being introduced to their secret little map. But... come on. It's a piece of paper. This has to be a prank, right?

TWO CAN PLAY AT THAT GAME

sirius black x user

The pair of you had never agreed on exclusivity, but a part of you was hoping you were on the same page. Clearly not, given the fact you'd seen Sirius' with his hand up some girl's skirt in between classes. So, instead of simply moving on and being mature about the entire thing, you opt for a blow below the belt: a rebound with one of his brother's best friends.

SECOND PLACE

remus lupin x user

James is good at Quidditch. Sirius is good at existing. Peter is... well, he's Peter. And what does Remus have? His bloody test scores. Top of every class for the last seven years until, miraculously, you start pushing back. He's a sweet boy, truly, but he can't help but blow a fuse when McGonagall announces you scored above him on your last test.

STUDY BUDDY

james potter x user

Academics aren't exactly his strong suit, but he's not hopeless. He just has better things to do than keep his nose in a book all day. As long as he gets his assignments in eventually, what's the harm? Except his mother isn't very pleased with the fact he's failing some of his classes. Sneaking off to go study in the library doesn't go his way when you stumble upon him. Maybe he could use a study buddy?

THE BLOODY BARON

sirius black x user

Rivals is a strong word. You aren't fourteen anymore, that would be ridiculous. But, admittedly, there's always been a bit of contention between your own friend group and the Marauders when it comes to playing pranks. When Sirius stumbles upon you somehow worming your way out of a detention for a recent mishap, he just has to grill you about it.

DUNE

THE DUNES

chani kynes x user

On Arrakis, the harsh terrain is defied with every breath, but it always wins in the end. It will claim you, too, one day; you will return to water, and be one with the dunes. Forever with your people. But amidst it all, the treacherous planet you live on, Chani has you.

SAND AND WATER

paul atreides x user

Inexplicably fond is the only way to describe how you feel towards Paul. What started as irritation towards his integration into the Fremen people blossomed into something more; a friendship, perhaps. All you're willing to acknowledge is that you value moments like this far too much—just the two of you, staring out at the dunes.

THE WITCH

chani kynes x user (wlw)

The Fremen have always been Chani's utmost priority, and the arrival (and acceptance) of the foreigners is concerning to her. Paul fits in, yes, but it's his mother that she's worried about. Alas, Stilgar is always so quick to brush off her concerns, leaving you as the only one to listen to her complaints.

[jordiemeow]

bot dump when!!!

t-minus two minutes...

[jordiemeow]

my beautiful beautiful tennis wife

alicent hightower: tennis champion; epitome of grace and beauty; picture of discipline and hard work; quiet, calm, and reserved; manipulative only in the best way possible; unintentional heartbreaker

[jordiemeow]

gonna read sunrise on the reaping this week so i can lock in for hunger games bots in the future 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[jordiemeow]

LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE X2

mysaria my angel <33

mysaria rogare: self-made tennis star; one in life time star; strong and self assured; balance of talent and tact; eye of the storm and deep in your heart

shoutout to @jordiemeow who helped me commit to the vision!!! i love you 🫀

[jordiemeow]

art donaldson drink me DRY

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐ thinking about vampire!art (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

he's always nuzzling at your neck, inhaling your scent, mouthing over that pulse point and groaning when your heartbeat jumps a little, that skittish bunny in your brain reminding you that he's a predator. but he always fights against himself, never wanting to hurt you. he's sure that if he ever sank his teeth into you he'd never be able to pull them back out and he would drink you dry until you were just as pale and lifeless as him.

you can tell when he's hungry, when the animal blood he chooses to feed on just isn't satisfying him. the way he's constantly fidgeting, the way his hands hesitate even more than usual when you get close to him like the temptation is too much.

he is sitting on the edge of the bed when you wake up, leg bouncing and hands fidgeting in his lap as he stares off into some empty corner of the room.

"art?" you call out groggily and his head whips to the side to find you awake. but he doesn't speak, his hands just falling to fist tightly at the sheets. you knew what was happening, how the temptation to rip into you is eating him up inside.

you slide out from under the blankets, walking around the bed to stand in front of him, slotting yourself between his knees as you gently cup his cool face, making him look at you. his eyes meet yours for only a second before they're focused right on your neck, like he can see the blood pumping through your arteries. maybe he can, you've never asked.

"are you hungry?" you ask gently, and it takes a moment for him to respond with a distant hum. you nod slowly, watching the way his adams apple bobs when he swallows drily.

you push him back gently, giving yourself enough room to climb into his lap. your sudden presence on top of him, seems to break him out of his trance a bit and he finally looks up into your eyes like he can actually see you instead of just the red in your veins.

"you shouldn't--" he starts, wanting to push you off, afraid of what he'll do to you as his hands settle hesitantly on your hips.

"shh.." you hush him, running a soothing hand through his curls, soaked with clammy sweat. you didn't even know he did sweat, but clearly he was suffering from this sheer desire. "let me feed you," you offer and his eyes widen like saucers.

"i- i can't, angel, i'd never be able to stop--" he protests, panic seeming to fill him as his eyes flicker from yours to your throat, his hands gripping almost painfully at your hips as he tries to keep himself under control.

"it's okay," you try and soothe him with a gentle hand on his cheek. "i'll stop you. i know you would never hurt me," you whisper. it hurts you to see him like this, trembling and seemingly even paler than usual, his head in a fog of hunger.

"it's okay..." you murmur again, gently guiding his head to your neck with your hand in his hair. you hear the way his breath hitches as he gets so close to what he needs.

you feel his lips ghosting over your pulse point first, followed by a brush of his fangs that makes you shiver. you can tell he wants it more than anything, his hands still squeezing you desperately.

finally, you feel a sharp pinch, the feeling of his fangs sinking into the side of your neck. it makes you gasp softly at the pain, but it quickly gives way to pleasure as he starts eagerly lapping at your neck, gulping down your blood like a man starved.

your eyes flutter shut as he groans and whimpers against your skin. "ohmygod--" he whines, his hips involuntarily bucking up against yours in his lap. "you taste s'good, better than i ever could've imagined," his words are slurring, absolutely drunk on you.

you can only moan softly in response, your hands holding him tightly against you. it's like nothing you've ever felt before. there must be something in his saliva that makes this feel so pleasurable.

its like you can't get enough.

art is only whimpering and whining more as he suckles against your neck, his hips rutting up against yours getting more and more desperate. you feel limp in his hold, your body only being used by him, you were made for what he needs. all you can hear is the sound of him sucking and lapping at your life force and a chorus of quiet moans and grunts and whines, but you can't tell whose throat they're coming from, yours or his.

everything starts to go a little fuzzy, all those noises fading into the background as your vision starts to spot. if it wasn't for that little prey animal buried in your subconscious telling you to tug roughly on his blond curls, you'd let him drink you dry right here and now. he doesn't pull away at first, despite your undoubtedly painful grip on his scalp. he doesn't pull away until you somehow manage to rasp out his name, drawing his attention back to you.

when he pulls back from your neck with a gasp like he was drowning in you, the two of you just stare at each other for a moment, both entranced by the dark mirror of blown pupils. he has your blood coating his chin and dripping down his neck, and it's still oozing from the puncture wounds on the side of your neck, too, getting all over the collar of your shirt.

something suddenly snaps and he collapses against you, going boneless against your chest with a dry sob. "i could've killed you!" he cries into your shirt, but you're still so dazed as the feeling of his teeth in your neck fades and a dull throbbing settles in its place.

"you didn't," you remind him with a hushed voice, smoothing your hand over the back of his hair. "i'm okay," you assure him, gently rocking him back and forth.

you gently shush him as he comes down from the hysteria, gently pulling him back from you to examine his red stained face after he calms down significantly. he already looks fuller, more alive, or as much as he can, really. "do you feel better?" you ask in a soft voice. "all full?"

he nods with a little sniffle, his eyes trained on the wound at the side of your neck with a strange look in his eye. you can't deduct if it's guilt or desire or maybe a mix of both.

"tell me when you're suffering like that, okay?" you gently squeeze his shoulders to get his attention. "you always have me. i'll be your warm little blood bag," you tease gently, cupping his cheek.

his eyes get wide at your words, his lips parting at the sound of that promise. "well now that i've had a taste, i don't think i can go for the rest of eternity without it," he breathes before leaning forward to press a crushing, grateful kiss to your lips.

[jordiemeow]

BEDSHEETS SMELL.

tw: +18, mdni, mention of God, fingering, vague mention of oral s!x, dacryphilia.

notes: i guess i just had something in mind and had to write it down? no idea if this is good but hopefully it’s readable. also if you saw that repost, no you didn’t.

Patrick can smell you on his sheets. It's everywhere, he can't escape it -- the sweet fragrance of citrus and orange, from your perfume; the smell of sweat coming from the bed. It reminds him of sex in the morning, in the afternoon, during the night. Patrick thinks about it a lot, like a common thing, like one thinks about breathing.

He remembers his lips against the skin of your hips as the sun broke through the curtains; his teeth marking every inches, every spot he could taste. Taste; that's what he can also do, taste you -- it's sweeter than he expected, like a fruit he'd want to devour all day long. He wants it all.

Patrick can smell you on his sheets. It's coming from the way you move, how you sound, how you come on his fingers; it's everywhere in his mind, in his heart. When they go in and out, your hands tugging on the sheets like they could save you from his torment; from the stimulation he brings to your body and heart.

When you call for him, choking on your words and begging for him. God, Patrick can't resist the way you pull his heartstrings -- bringing him closer and closer, until you make one for hours.

When he has to look down at you, one hand holding your hair up; gentle and careful. There's no one that makes him feel like you do, burning and pushing all thoughts aside. He can't talk, because all he knows is that you have him right where you want. In his sheets, smelling like sweat and citrus, with all the freckles on your shoulders he count.

He pushes his hips in, because he knows you can take it; you are always so good for him; so pretty with him in your mouth. Patrick lets a finger wipe a tear, a second and always a third. It makes him throb and you know it; are you doing that on purpose? He wonders, but too focused on the pretty faces you make to even try and let a word out. How could he? How dare he?

Patrick can smell you on his sheets. It didn't mean much at first, one-night stand turning into two, a week turning into two, a month turning into two before he realized that God; how could he let you go?

There's much more than sex, there's much more than feelings, it's about the sheets smelling like you when he wakes up. About remembering the softness of your skin under his fingers, of the noises you make when he goes down on you.

He can smell you on his sheets, and God, he hates the fact that he has to change them.

[jordiemeow]

LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOOOVE

rhaenyra targaryen: promising tennis player to glorified drifter; the antonym of discipline; loveably entitled and charmingly annoying; absolutely no sense of self control

[jordiemeow]

I Don’t Matter? wanted to give my take on what happened when Patrick found out that Art was going to Stanford. thank you @diyasgarden for your help with this :)

MRTA!Art x MRTA!Patrick

cw: sfw, angst

Junior Year

They had talked about it once. In passing. A very short conversation. It wasn’t meant to be short but that’s just how it ended.

Art was sitting at his desk scrolling through his college applications. He had finished all of them except one, Stanford. He always knew he wanted to go to college. Getting an education was never something he second guessed and to be honest tennis was never something he wanted to do forever. The more games he played the more he realized it didn’t feel the same, he didn’t feel the same.

His passion for it was dying.

It was fun as kid. No pressure. Just about having fun, doesn’t matter if you win or lose. But that’s not how it was at the academy.

Everyone was competing against each other. Him and Patrick included. But it was different with Patrick, it was fun.

Whether they were playing doubles or singles against each other Art always had fun, being good at it was just a side effect.

But they can’t play together forever, it’s not feasible. The US tennis circuit boasts over 300 players, Art would have to play them too if they kept it up. Strangers on the other side of the court who just don’t get him, not like Patrick did anyway.

He didn’t want to be stuck dwelling on his childhood forever. He wanted to see what tennis was like when he’s not always in constant competition with his best friend. But he also wanted to develop an actual career in college, maybe study economics in case this tennis thing didn’t work out. Art was never all-in for tennis.

Patrick got home late. It’s been like that for the past week since he was always seeing Lisa? Liza? Whatever her name was.

He caught a glimpse of Art’s laptop screen with big letters at the top “Collegeboard”.

“You’re not seriously going to play college tennis are you? I thought we were going pro,” Patrick says definitively. No joking manner behind his tone. He’s kidding right?

“And when exactly did you come up with that plan? Don’t think I was there for that conversation,” Art huffs out, keeping his eyes glued to the computer screen.

Art isn’t surprised. Never is when it comes to Patrick. Patrick’s assumption that Art would continue to follow him around like some lost puppy even at the detriment of his own self. Maybe in Patrick’s eyes Art really is that pathetic. Needing his guidance even as they grow into their adult selves.

Patrick scrunches his eyebrows together in confusion, “That was always the plan. Fire and Ice duh. Why wouldn’t we go pro? To spend our prime stuck up in some stuffy college. Stuck playing in NCAA?”

Art lets a half laugh, “You know they offer classes in college right? Don’t want my only skill in life to be hitting a ball with a racket. You can always come with me. College tennis teams tend to consist of more than one person.”

Patrick wouldn’t hear that though. He can’t really hear anything over the sound of his massive ego. As far as he was concerned the MRTA boys team only consisted of one person for singles and that was him. Sure Art was great, but Patrick was better. Art really only coming into play when it was for doubles. And even then Patrick’s erratic style and domination on the court made it feel like sometimes Art wasn’t even there.

He laughs. Patrick laughs and just hopes he wakes up from this fucked up nightmare where the two of you go separate ways in the future. “Sure man, whatever you say.”

Art could tell there was more. So much left unsaid between the two. But he decided to push. Not right now.

Senior Year

Okay so maybe they actually talked about this twice. Once junior year and once senior year. Not a shocker it would come up in conversation again.

Art had officially accepted his offer to Stanford. He was so ecstatic that hitting a ball with a racket got him into one of the best schools in the country. He was being scouted by a few different schools, received multiple offers, but Stanford beat them out by a long shot.

His coach was there when the scout extended the unofficial offer on Friday. He wanted to tell Patrick about it, but he never came home that night. He had been spending a lot more time with Sara? Sadie? lately, almost as if he was trying to push Art away.

So Art didn’t expect Patrick to show up at 8am practice at all. Let alone on time.

“Okay before we start just wanna give a shoutout to Donaldson for accepting his offer from Stanford, let’s clap it up for him,” Their coach says before clapping.

The rest of the team is whooping and hollering. Clapping like crazy, some even clapping Art on the back. Really hyping him up. Everyone except Patrick.

Art can see Patrick. He’s unmoving. Stuck in his place like a statue. His face is neutral but Art can see the hurt behind his eyes. Patrick brings his hands up to start clapping, not wanting to be singled out. And no one else notices, because they never do. Patrick is a master at masking his feelings to the world, except to Art .

Art tries to find Patrick after practice once he’s finished showering in the locker room, but he’s already gone.

He heads back to their dorm hoping to find Patrick there so they can talk about this. He was hoping to be the one that broke the news first but it’s too late for that.

He finds Patrick on his bed. Their beds no longer pushed together which he’s assuming is because Patrick is upset. He’s smoking a cigarette even though he’s not next to a window.

“C’mon man we’re gonna get in trouble if you smoke in here like that,” Art sighs, dropping his stuff on the floor.

Patrick shrugs haphazardly gesturing to the smoke alarm which is covered with a shower cap.

Art walks to stand in front of Patrick’s bed, “Can we at least talk about it?”

“You can fuck right off for all I care. I’ve smoked in here like this before with no issues,” Patrick spits back.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Art says gripping the bed post. He knew this conversation wouldn’t be easy but he’s just hoping they’d both make it out alive.

Patrick sighs, “Oh you mean the part where you decided it’s fuck me and my feelings right?”

“Patrick that’s not—“

“There are a million things I anticipated when coming to this school but finding my best friend wasn’t one of them you know?”

“I know Patrick I—“

“Like for the first time in my life there was someone who actually gave a fuck and didn’t just think I was just this piece of shit person who fucks around playing tennis. Someone who never thought I was too much.”

Art has always been an emotional person but especially when it came to people he cared about. Patrick being second on that list at the moment (second only to Art’s grandma). He could feel his eyes starting to water just thinking about the things Patrick is saying. Art never knew he perceived himself that way.

Patrick has always been confident and outgoing, the loudest in the room. It balanced Art’s wallflower persona perfectly. He never once stopped to think that maybe Patrick’s ego was just for show.

His voice cracks when he tries to say, “Patrick I’m—“

“No I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry. Because you’re not. If you were sorry you never would’ve accepted that offer. Would’ve went pro.” The “with me” part goes unsaid but Art knows. Of course he knows.

“I can’t keep hitting a ball with a racket forever, we have to grow up Patrick,” Art says wiping the unspilled tears from his eyes. Hoping he also wouldn’t be such a crybaby when he grew up.

“Says who?” He retorts taking another drag of his cigarette, “Stop treating me like I’m some fucking child. At least have the balls to tell me the truth. It was never about that. You never loved tennis.” Patrick has seen Art play tennis against other people and sure he’d win, but it wasn’t the same as when they played together.

Art doesn’t dispute that because Patrick is right. He never loved tennis and he never would.

You never loved tennis, you loved me so why are you leaving me is what Patrick should’ve said.

And why am I not enough to make you stay is what Patrick was really thinking to himself.

tagging: @tacobacoyeet @newrochellechallenger2019 @antxnxlla mel actually make a tagging list and use it challenge extreme difficulty

[jordiemeow]

is pretty when you cry Art boy still up? I haven’t been able to use it recently. I love your bots btw!!

it should still be up!! link here anyways !! thank u <333

[jordiemeow]

ughh prob release in the morning bc i'm cramping up a storm rn. it's like niagara falls down there

[jordiemeow]

thinking about how lonely patrick would've been all those years. #feelingnormal #notbothered

[jordiemeow]

beautifully written. dynamics were so perfect in both parts,, i love this so much

nothing (but love) for you | t.d., p.z., a.d. | part 2

part 1 | part 2

a/n: welcome to the end! thank you for all of the love on part 1, my heart is *so* warm. you probably won't feel the same after this one, but don't worry. i still love you. life isn't all happy endings, after all.

warnings: SMUT 18+, cursing, smoking, drinking, cheting, a lot of anger, unspoken feelings, manipulation, hastily proofread, tashi mfing duncan

-----

3 months until the 2011 US Open Final

The stadium hums with a restless energy, the kind that builds before something inevitable. The air is thick with heat and expectation, the crowd shifting in their seats, murmuring, waiting.

You tighten your fingers around the handle of your racket, the weight of it familiar, grounding. The fabric of the wrap is already worn down from the last two hours of play, threads pulling loose under your fingertips. Across the net, your opponent lingers near the baseline, adjusting her wristbands, rolling out her shoulders. She’s been doing that a lot more in the last few games. A tell.

You exhale slowly. You can feel the match tilting. You’ve clawed your way back into it after dropping the first set, grinding through point after point, willing your body to push past exhaustion. Your legs ache, your grip burns, but none of that matters. Not now.

Your opponent is ranked higher, more established, a staple of the tour. You? You’re still a wild card, technically. A question mark on the bracket. But no one watching believes that anymore.

Art is somewhere in the stands. You know without looking. He’s been at every match that he can, just like you’ve been at his. A steady presence, an anchor in the chaos of it all.

You settle into position, weight balanced on the balls of your feet. Across the net, your opponent sets up for her serve, bouncing the ball, eyes locked on the opposite service box. You know her game, know her tells, the way her grip tightens a fraction of a second before she commits to a shot. You see it now, the moment before she serves—a flicker of hesitation.

She’s tired. You both are. But she’s starting to break first.

You can feel it. And more than anything, you want to win.

The serve comes fast, but you’re faster. You return it deep, pinning her to the baseline. She grits her teeth, sends it back with pace, but you’re already moving. The rally builds—hard, punishing shots, both of you pushing the other to the limit. The stadium is electric, the crowd murmuring with each strike of the ball.

Then she hesitates.

It’s small, nearly imperceptible—a fraction of a second where her balance is off, where her shot doesn’t have the same bite. And that’s all you need.

You step into it, shifting your weight, and drive a forehand down the line, clean and precise, past your opponent’s desperate lunge. The ball rockets down the court, past her outstretched racket.

Winner.

Match.

The stadium erupts. The roar is deafening, the sound crashing over you in waves. You don’t celebrate right away. You drop your racket, chest heaving, hands on your knees as reality sinks in. You won. You fucking won.

Somewhere in the stands, Art is on his feet.

Later that night, the hotel room door swings shut, the latch clicking into place, but you barely register it before Art is on you.

It’s immediate, like neither of you had another choice. His hands are firm, one gripping your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck as he kisses you like he’s the one that’s breathless from the match. The adrenaline is still there, thrumming beneath your skin, mixing with something deeper, something hungrier.

You meet him with the same intensity, hands fisting into his shirt, yanking him closer like you need to feel every inch of him pressed against you.

He backs you toward the bed, but it’s messy, frantic—your heel catches against the carpet, and you both stumble, laughing into each other’s mouths before collapsing onto the mattress. His fingers tighten on your waist, his breath hot against your skin. "You played out of your mind today."

You shiver as his teeth scrape along your pulse. "Yeah?"

Art leans back just enough to meet your eyes, his own dark, unfocused. "I mean it. You were fucking incredible."

Then he kisses you again, deeper, like he’s trying to burn every ridge of your lips into his own. You pull his shorts down, and he breaks from your face for a moment so he can take his shirt off before removing all of your clothes as well, tossing them around haphazardly. 

“I know they gave you a trophy already…” he murmurs, his lips leaving a wet, sloppy trail of kisses down your body. “But, I just don’t think that’s enough.” 

You grin down at him, your breath catching in your throat as you feel him bury his tongue inside of you. He knows you. Every part of you, inside, out and sideways. Your head, your heart, every crevice that makes you who you are. 3 years of having nobody but each other would do that to a couple, after all.

He works you right up to the edge, pulling his mouth away from you just before you can crash over. The protest that escapes you dies on your tongue, though, as he replaces his tongue with his cock, plowing into you. 

He’s made a habit of only marking you along your breasts and below—he knows better than to leave marks where they can be visible, as much as he wants to, so he has to settle for leaving them where only he can see them. He doesn’t really mind anymore, though. 

The room is full of noise, a symphony of moans and whines and I-love-you’s mingling within the air. Each thrust of his hips brings you closer and closer—another gasp of his name falling from your lips, your back arching harder. He swallows every noise you make as you come, his lips pressed against yours, both of you sparkling with the afterglow of your favorite post-match tradition.

Later, the room is quiet except for the steady rise and fall of your breath. The adrenaline has finally ebbed, leaving behind something softer, heavier. Art is lying beside you, one arm slung over his forehead, staring at the ceiling like he’s still coming down from it all.

You shift, stretching out a little as you flip to your side, your back to him. the ache in your limbs a reminder of everything—of the match, of this, of him.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Somewhere across the country, Patrick is lounging against the plush sheets of the hotel room him and Tashi are in, his eyes on her, stress and... something that isn't quite anger radiating off of her.

“It’s just a wild card,” Patrick murmurs to Tashi, playing with his phone as he lounges back on the bed they’re sharing. “You only ever study worthy opponents. He wrinkles his nose slightly as he repeats the statement she’s said a million times over, but she’s too focused on the screen before her to even notice.

“I am. I’m watching for Anna. Y/N just happens to be there,” Tashi replies, her voice steady. 

“You could just admit that you miss her, you know. Send a text.”

“I don’t miss her,” she quickly counters. A fat lie. She’s thought about you every single day since she left. “I’m trying to focus, Patrick.”

He doesn’t push any further. He knows better to bug his girlfriend when she’s got her mind made up on something. Instead, he quietly snaps a picture of Tashi, her back to him as she frowns at the TV, and sends it to Art as his weekly update text. ‘See you soon.’

2 months until the 2011 US Open Final

The morning air is still cool, the sun barely beginning to stretch over the horizon, hours before his opening match in the Canadian Open. Art moves across the court in quiet repetition, the rhythmic sound of the ball meeting the strings the only thing filling the empty space. He’s been here for over an hour already, sweat clinging to his skin, muscles burning in that way that keeps him grounded.

He doesn’t hear Patrick walk in, but he knows the moment he’s there.

Patrick doesn’t announce himself, just leans against the fence, watching. The familiarity of it is unsettling—how many times had this happened back at Stanford? Patrick showing up unannounced, standing there like he belonged, like Art should’ve expected him.

Art exhales sharply, tossing the ball up, sending a clean forehand down the line. “Didn’t think you’d be up this early.”

Patrick smirks. “Didn’t think you’d still be playing like you’ve got something to prove.”

Art ignores that. Hits another ball, harder this time.

Patrick lets the silence stretch before stepping onto the court. He doesn’t ask permission. He never does. “You gonna feed me a ball, or you just gonna keep pretending I’m not here?”

Art hesitates, just for a second. Then he bounces a ball, sends it Patrick’s way. A test.

Patrick swings, the ball cracking against his racket, shooting back over the net with ease.

And just like that, they’re rallying.

The first few strokes are controlled, careful. Feeling each other out. But it escalates fast, the way it always does. Art angles a sharp crosscourt shot, Patrick stretches for it, sending it back deep. They move like they used to—like instinct, like muscle memory, like something neither of them forgot.

When the ball finally dies in the net, Patrick’s breathing hard, sweat clinging to his collar. He grins. “Still got it.”

Art shakes his head, trying not to smile. “Asshole,” he mutters under his breath, rolling the damp grip of his racket between his palms before finally speaking up. "How’s Tashi?"

Patrick's smirk falters for just a second before he scoffs. "Don’t make small talk with me like we don’t talk all the time."

Art shrugs, gaze fixed on a loose ball rolling near the net. "It's only ever weekly updates on our girlfriends. I'm rusty on conversation topics."

Patrick tilts his head, considering that. "Who’s fault is that?"

Art doesn't answer. He knows Patrick won’t push for one. It’s not like it’s either of their faults.

Instead, Patrick steps closer, tossing his racket to the ground with a careless thud. "You know, you still move the same."

Art huffs. "And you still play lazy."

Patrick grins. "And yet, somehow, I still win."

Art rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to fire something back, but Patrick is right there, close enough that Art can smell the sweat on his skin, the familiar warmth of him. The silence between them is thick, charged, stretching just long enough for Patrick’s smirk to fade into something else entirely.

"We still do this," Art murmurs, almost to himself.

Patrick watches him, unreadable. "Yeah. We do." He holds Art’s gaze, something unreadable in his expression. Then—

The space between them disappears in a breath.

Patrick’s mouth is on Art’s, hot and urgent, fingers curling into the back of his shirt. Art fists his hand in Patrick’s hoodie, dragging him in, the kiss deepening, something raw crackling between them as they stumble back against the brick wall.

It’s not careful. It’s not slow. It never is.

And maybe, Art thinks distantly, it never will be.

---

Tashi sits at the press room table, fingers laced in front of her, posture poised and composed as the A/C blows off some of the lingering sweat from her earlier match. The bright lights reflect off the polished surface, cameras flashing as reporters lean forward, waiting for their turn.

A moderator gestures to the next question. A reporter in the second row stands. “Tashi, congratulations on your win today. You’ve dominated the tour this season, and now with the US Open around the corner, there’s been a lot of discussion about a potential final against Y/N Y/L/N. Given your history together—junior doubles champions, facing off in the juniors final—how do you feel about the possibility of playing her again on such a big stage?”

Tashi doesn’t react right away. She reaches for the water bottle in front of her, unscrews the cap, and takes a measured sip. When she sets it down, she finally looks at the reporter.

“I think she still has a lot to prove.”

A murmur ripples through the room. The reporter presses on. “Do you think she’s capable of beating you?”

Tashi’s expression doesn’t flicker. “I think a lot of players think they can beat me.”

Another flash of cameras. More murmurs. The moderator moves to the next question, but Tashi doesn’t hear it. She already knows the headlines this will make.

And she doesn’t care.

Hundreds of miles away, the sun hangs low in the Cincinnati sky, casting long shadows across the empty practice court. You’re mid-drill, frustration tightening in your chest with every strike of the ball. The rhythm is off. Your grip feels wrong. The stress of the approaching WTA Western & Southern Open presses down on you, and no matter how hard you try to shake it off, it lingers. Art lounges on the sidelines, lazily tossing a tennis ball in the air, letting it fall back into his palm.

"So what are we thinking?" Art muses, tracking the arc of the ball. "Dinner at that sushi place near the marina, or are we feeling something greasy and tragic?"

You exhale sharply as you send the ball into the net. "Greasy and tragic sounds about right."

Art smirks, tossing the tennis ball in the air lazily. "So, burgers the size of your head and fries that’ll shorten our lifespan?"

You huff, stepping back to reset. "Basically."

"Figured. Though if you lose this match, I reserve the right to pick a salad place just to watch you suffer."

You glare at him over your shoulder. "I hate you."

"You love me,” he replies. You don’t have to say anything for him to know you reciprocate. 

You grit your teeth and serve again—too much power, the ball sailing long. You curse under your breath, rolling out your shoulders. Art’s eyes are trained on you, now, your movements growing tenser, harsher.

"You’re rushing it," he offers. "Take a breath."

"I know what I’m doing," you mutter, bouncing the ball hard against the court.

You serve again—another miss. Too long. Too strong. Too much. You breathe out with the sharpness of a throwing knife sailing to a bullseye, bouncing on your heels, your frustration creeping in. Art tilts his head, watching you closer now. You know what he's thinking. You’re pushing too hard, your agitation clouding your technique. But before he can say anything, his phone buzzes, breaking the moment.

He barely glances at it at first, but when his eyes catch the words on the screen, his smirk fades. His fingers tighten around the phone. He hesitates, then swipes to open it.

He doesn’t say anything.

You can’t miss the silence. "What?"

Art doesn’t respond right away, his expression shifting into something unreadable. He finally looks up, and after a beat, he turns the phone toward you. A Google Alert. Tashi Duncan dismisses Y/N L/N’s US Open threat: ‘She still has a lot to prove.’

Your heartbeat spikes. You snatch the phone from his hand, scanning the article. The words blur together, heat surging up your spine. When you look up, your grip is white-knuckled around Art’s phone.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you breathe.

Art sits up. "Y/N—"

But you’re already smashing your racket against the court, the frame bending on impact, the sound echoing across the empty practice court, each statement punctuated with the metal thud of the rim hitting the ground. "It’s been four years! Four fucking years! And still, the moment I might be a threat to her, she’s running a smear campaign! God, why can’t she just get off my dick?!"

Art rises to his feet, hands raised in a vague attempt to calm you down. "Come on, Y/N, you know how Tashi is. She’s just—"

"No, Art," she snaps, whipping around to face him. "It’s not just Tashi. It’s the way she’s always been. The moment I get too close, she shoves me back down. Every. Single. Time."

Art exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s never seen you like this before—not over Tashi, not over... anything. Not like this. "So what are you gonna do about it?"

You stop pacing. Your breath is still uneven, chest still rising and falling too fast. Your jaw clenches, the weight of four years crashing over you, pressing into your ribs, curling into your fists.

Then, finally, you exhale. The anger doesn’t leave, but it changes. Sharpens into something dangerous.

You’re going to make her eat her words.

---

Over the next several weeks, you’re unstoppable. You’re not just winning—you’re dominating. Match after match, opponent after opponent, you storm through the draw like you’re owed something. Like every point is a statement. The first few rounds are routine, your opponents barely managing to hold serve before you break them down, physically and mentally. By the time you reach the quarterfinals, the press has stopped calling you a dark horse, a questionable debutante. Now, you’re a certainty. Commentators dissect your footwork, your blistering groundstrokes, the way you barely react after each win, like you’re already thinking about the next one. You haven’t dropped a set. You haven’t even been pushed to a tiebreak. And when asked about your chances at the Open, you only ever give the same answer: "One match at a time."

Tashi, of course, is just as ruthless. But there’s a weight to the way she plays now. A sharpness in her movements that wasn’t there before. She breezes through her side of the draw, each match a masterclass in control. But her shots seem just a little heavier. Her serves a little faster. The commentators call it peak performance, but anyone who’s paying attention knows better. She’s making a point. She knows exactly who’s waiting for her at the end of this.

The narrative is already written. The world is waiting for the two of you to collide.

Art and Patrick watch it unfold from opposite sides of the world, but it may as well be happening in slow motion. They don’t need to talk about it—not really. They’ve seen this before. But one night, after another highlight reel of your and Tashi’s latest victories playing on ESPN, Art calls Patrick anyway.

Patrick picks up on the second ring. "Let me guess. You’re watching, too?"

Art exhales sharply. "Hard not to."

There’s a beat of silence. Then Patrick mutters, "This is bad."

Art lets out a humorless laugh. "This is inevitable."

Patrick groans. "So what do we do?"

"Hope they don’t kill each other before the final."

Patrick snorts, but there’s no real humor behind it. "And if they do?"

Art leans back, rubbing a hand over his face. "Then we were probably always fucked anyway."

US Open Semifinals – Y/N’s Match

The stadium is electric, the crowd thrumming with anticipation. This isn’t just another match. This is the one that decides it. This is the match that will confirm what everyone already knows—that Y/N Y/L/N and Tashi Duncan are destined to meet under the lights of Arthur Ashe Stadium.

You stand at the baseline, bouncing the ball twice before your serve. Your opponent—ranked inside the top five, a veteran of the tour—adjusts her stance, waiting. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve steamrolled through this tournament, and tonight is no different.

You toss the ball high, swing, and the serve lands like a gunshot. Ace. The crowd erupts, but you barely react. You’re already walking to the other side of the baseline, resetting. One point at a time. One game at a time.

You take the first set in twenty-nine minutes. 6-1. Dominant. Your opponent tries to adjust, throwing in drop shots, slicing the ball low, anything to disrupt your rhythm. But you’re locked in. Footwork precise, groundstrokes heavy, relentless. The second set is tighter, but only barely. Your opponent holds serve twice before you break her down, sealing the match with a forehand winner down the line. 6-1, 6-3.

It’s over.

You don’t celebrate. You barely acknowledge the roar of the crowd. You walk to the net, shake hands, and then look up at the scoreboard, eyes flicking over the confirmation of what’s next.

Tashi Duncan is waiting.

Somewhere above the stands, Art exhales, pressing his hands together in front of his mouth. Patrick, seated a few rows down, sighs, rubbing his thumb over the edge of a cigarette pack in his pocket. He doesn’t pull one out—not yet. Instead, he shifts forward, elbows on his knees, eyes flicking upward. He doesn’t text. Instead, he looks up toward the box where Art is sitting and catches his eye. Then, without looking away, he jerks his chin toward the exit. A quiet invitation.

Art watches him for a moment, then pushes himself to his feet.

Outside the stadium, the air is thick with summer humidity, the sounds of the city muffled beneath the weight of what’s coming. Patrick leans against the railing, pulling a cigarette from the pack with his teeth before offering the pack to Art. He hesitates, then takes one.

Patrick lights his own first, inhaling deep before flicking the lighter toward Art’s. "So. It’s happening."

Art exhales slowly, watching the end of his cigarette burn. "Yeah."

Patrick lets out a humorless chuckle. "Think they’ll survive it?"

Art tilts his head, considering. "You asking if they’ll kill each other, or if we’ll survive watching them do it?"

Patrick huffs, shaking his head. "Little of both. Kinda hot, though."

Art shoots him a look, unimpressed. "Jesus, Patrick. You could find a way to be horny at a funeral."

Patrick grins around his cigarette. "Grief is a powerful aphrodisiac."

“Big word for someone who never finished college,” Art retorts. 

Silence stretches between them, the weight of years pressing down. Art takes another drag, lets the smoke curl in the air. "You ever think about how we got here?"

Patrick doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter. "All the time."

Art hums. "Me too."

Patrick nudges his shoulder, smirking. "Guess we’ll see how it all plays out. But if they start throwing punches, I’m putting money on Y/N. There’s something about an angry woman that just does it for me."

Art rolls his eyes as he taps ash off the end of his cigarette. "Yeah. We will."

1 day until the 2011 US Open Final

The city hums with nervous energy. The anticipation is everywhere—headlines flashing across screens, analysts debating matchups, fans buzzing outside the venue. This final isn’t just another match. It’s history waiting to be written.

You barely sleep the night before. You spend most of it staring at the ceiling, the weight of everything pressing against your ribs as Art snores beside you. When you finally give up on rest, you lace up your shoes and run. Through the quiet streets, past billboards with your own face on them, past bars playing reruns of your matches. No matter where you look, there’s no escaping it. Y/L/N vs. Duncan. The rematch the world has been waiting for.

You practice alone that morning, shutting everything out. Every serve, every groundstroke, every breath is meant to steady you. But your hands still shake when you grip your racket. You know what’s coming. Who’s waiting.

And you hate that a part of you is still waiting for Tashi, too.

The afternoon drags. Media obligations, a last-minute strategy meeting with your coach, stretching, ice baths—you go through the motions, but your mind is elsewhere. You catch glimpses of Tashi in press clips playing in the background, her name looped endlessly in tournament coverage. Every word, every highlight reel, feels like a countdown to impact.

By the evening, the weight of it all is unbearable.

Somewhere across the city, Patrick and Art sit at the dimly lit bar of your hotel, half-watching the TV above the counter. The broadcast is running through the tournament’s biggest storylines, and your semifinal highlights are on repeat.

Patrick swirls the drink in his glass, watching as your final shot lands cleanly on the baseline. "She looks good."

Art barely glances up. "She’s been good."

Patrick exhales, tapping his fingers against the rim of his glass. "Think she’s nervous?"

Art finally looks at him. "Why do you care?"

Patrick smirks, but there’s something underneath it. "Because if she’s nervous, I know where she is right now. And if she’s where I think she is, I should probably go find her."

Art doesn’t argue. He just watches as Patrick downs the rest of his drink, grabs his jacket, and heads for the door.

Because he knows exactly where you are, too. And it’s not his turn anymore.

The practice courts are empty this late at night, but you don’t care. You need to be here. Need to hit something, need to feel the burn in your muscles, need to exhaust yourself enough that your mind will finally shut up.

But it’s not working.

Your shots are erratic. Some too long, some slamming into the net. You growl under your breath, reset, and try again. But you’re not locked in. You’re not you. Your body feels too tight, your head too loud, and it pisses you off.

The sound of footsteps behind you barely registers at first—until a voice cuts through the night.

"Jesus. You keep hitting like that, and I might have to switch my bet."

You freeze, your grip tightening around your racket. "Go away, Patrick."

He ignores you, of course. Saunters closer, hands in his pockets, watching you like you’re the most entertaining thing he’s seen all day. "What, no warm welcome? I trekked all the way out here just to check on you."

"You went almost four years without checking on me, Patrick. Don't start now."

Patrick tilts his head. "Of course, you’re still too much of a saint to ever read Art’s texts," he chuckles a little. "You look like you’re about five seconds from either smashing another racket or collapsing."

You exhale sharply, tossing the ball up for another serve. It hits the net. Again.

Patrick snorts. "Yikes."

You whip around, glare sharp enough to cut. "Leave."

Patrick just leans against the fence, perfectly relaxed. "No."

Your breath hitches, frustration clawing up your throat. "Patrick."

"Y/N."

"I’m serious."

"So am I."

Your pulse is pounding. Your vision blurs. The rage, the pressure, the sheer weight of it all swells too fast, too violently—until it explodes.

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

Your voice cracks, echoing into the night. Your chest heaves. Your throat is tight. And before you can stop it, your vision is blurry, wet.

Patrick watches you for a long moment, the smirk gone, the teasing edge in his voice fading into something quieter.

You throw your racket down, the clatter of it loud against the court. Your shoulders shake, breaths uneven, and Patrick doesn't hesitate—he crosses the court in a few strides, pulling you against him. You don’t fight it. Instead, you fist your hands into his hoodie, pressing your face into his chest, and let the sobs come.

He rubs a hand down your back, his voice low. "She’s nervous too, you know."

You lets out a sharp breath, half-laugh, half-scoff. "Bullshit."

Patrick shrugs, his grip on you steady. "She wouldn’t have said all that about you if she wasn’t scared of you."

You stiffens slightly, pulling back just enough to look at him. "You’re just saying that to make me feel better." 

Patrick meets her gaze, uncharacteristically serious. "I don’t do that, and you know it."

You swallow, blinking up at him. Your chest is still heaving, your fingers still curled tight in the fabric of his hoodie. The anger has drained from you, but something else lingers, something hollow and aching.

"Do you regret it?" you ask suddenly, your voice quieter now.

Patrick frowns. "Regret what?"

"Leaving," you clarify. "Going pro."

Patrick exhales through his nose, considering it. "No."

You nod once, jaw tightening as you start to pull away, but Patrick doesn’t let you go. "But I regret how it happened."

You still.

His fingers flex against your waist, grounding, like he’s trying to make sure you’re really listening. "I regret what it did to us. To all of us."

You exhale sharply, something unreadable flickering across your face. "You and Art still talk."

Patrick nods. "Yeah."

"But not like before."

Patrick hesitates, then shakes his head. "No. Not like before."

Your throat tightens. "And me?"

Patrick doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s softer. "I should’ve called."

You huff a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. "Me too."

Patrick’s fingers trail up your arm, barely there, just enough to send a shiver down your spine. "I’m here now."

You meet his gaze, something fragile and dangerous thrumming between them. "Yeah," you murmur. "You are."

And then you kiss him.

Your lips never leave his as he pushes you up against the wall, sliding his hand past the waistband of your shorts, his calloused fingers immediately finding the soaking wet expanse of your cunt. 

“4 years and I can still do this to you, huh?” he remarks against your lips, working his fingers into you. 

“Art’s going to be upset,” you pant, your eyes squeezing shut for a moment at Patrick’s touch. 

Patrick chuckles. “He won’t. He already knows.”

Your eyes pop open again, locking on his. “You hooked up with him? In Canada?”

Patrick doesn’t say anything. His signature smirk is the only confirmation you need before you smash your lips to his again. You swear you can taste Tashi on him, but it doesn’t change a thing for you. It might even make it better. 

He tugs your shorts down around your knees, lifting you up against the brick wall before he replaces his fingers with his dick. Each thrust of his hips feels like a different statement. An ‘I love you,’ an ‘I’m sorry,’ a ‘please come back.’ It may have been almost 4 years, but he still fucks you like it was just yesterday that you two were lounging on your twin XL bed, making out as you waited for Art and Tashi to join you. 

“Art isn’t the only one who loves you, you know?” Patrick pants against your neck, face buried there as he licks the sweat off of you.

“I know,” you reply. “I love you too, Pat.”

“Not just me, either. You know she d—”

“I know, Patrick.”

US Open Final – Match Day

The city is electric. The energy in the air is thick, buzzing with the weight of anticipation. Every headline, every interview, every whispered conversation has led to this moment. Y/L/N vs. Duncan. The rematch the world has been waiting for.

You wake up before your alarm. Not that you slept much anyway. The hotel room is quiet, the morning light bleeding in through the cracks in the curtains. You stare at the ceiling, feeling the pressure settle deep in her bones. Art just watches you—he knows better than to say anything. You can’t hear anything other than the pounding of your heart, anyway.

Somewhere across the city, Tashi is waking up too. Maybe she slept fine. Maybe she didn’t. But if you know anything, it’s that Tashi will walk onto that court like she owns it.

By the time you get to the venue, the buzz is deafening. Reporters, cameras, fans pressed against barriers. Tashi’s name is everywhere. Both of your names are everywhere.

You walk through the tunnels, headphones on, gum smacking, blocking it all out. Your grip tightens around the strap of your bag. You've been here before. Big matches, big expectations. But this—this is something else.

In the locker room, you change in silence. Tape your fingers, stretch, breath. Inhale. Exhale. The ritual of it all is familiar, grounding.

A knock at the door.

You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

"You ready for this?" Art’s voice is calm, steady.

You let out a slow breath before looking over at him. "Yeah. I am."

Art nods, studying you for a second. He walks over to you, meeting your lips in a soft kiss, slipping his tongue past to swipe the spearmint gum from your mouth. Then, with a small smirk, "Make her eat those words."

Your lips twitch. "That’s the plan."

In another part of the stadium, Tashi sits in front of her locker, tying the laces on her shoes. She doesn’t look up when Patrick leans against the doorway, arms crossed.

"She’s ready," he says simply.

Tashi pulls the knot tight. "Did she tell you that when you fucked her last night?"

Patrick barely reacts, just exhales slowly, watching her. "You gonna be like this all day?"

Tashi finally looks up, gaze sharp. "That depends. You gonna keep pretending like none of this matters?"

Patrick tilts his head. "I never was. You're the one that's been lying to yourself."

Tashi doesn’t answer right away. Then, quieter, "I should've taken Art pro with me instead of you."

The call comes. It’s time.

Two players. One final. No more words.

Only the game.

The stadium is packed, the energy a living, breathing thing. The crowd roars as you and Tashi step onto the court, your names echoing through the air like a war cry. You don’t acknowledge each other. Not yet.

The warm-up is clinical. Measured. Tashi moves like she always does—effortless, fluid, composed. You keep your eyes down, focusing on each stretch, each motion, blocking out the weight of the moment.

The umpire calls you both to the net.

Finally, your eyes meet.

Tashi’s expression is unreadable, but there’s something in the way her grip tightens on her racket. You don’t let yourself react. Not to that. Not to anything.

The coin is tossed. You win, electing to serve first.

Play.

The first point is brutal.

Your serve is fast, precise, forcing Tashi to scramble on the return. You rally—baseline to baseline, blistering shots traded back and forth, neither of you willing to break first. The ball clips the net. Tashi adjusts. You slam a forehand down the line.

Winner.

The crowd erupts.

You don’t celebrate. You turn, walk back to the baseline, and ready yourself for the next point.

Tashi smirks, rolling her shoulders out. "Alright then."

In the stands, Patrick and Art feel like they’re 17 years old in the stands at the juniors all over again. Hands gripping each other’s thighs, eyes whizzing back and forth between you and Tashi. They already have both of your Facebooks. What are they vying for this time?

The game stretches long, deuce after deuce, both of you holding their ground. Tashi fights off break points with razor-sharp precision. You don’t flinch. Neither of you do.

It’s war.

Games slip by in a blur of power and precision, neither of you willing to give an inch. The tension thickens with each hold of serve, the rallies getting longer, more punishing.

6-5, Y/L/N.

Tashi steps up to serve, unshaken, and fires an ace straight down the T. You don’t move.

6-6. Tiebreak.

This is what it always was going to be. A fight to the last point. A battle neither of you can afford to lose.

Tashi bounces the ball once. Twice. Eyes locked on you.

You shift on your feet, exhaling slow.

One of you is about to break.

The tiebreak is brutal. Every point, every shot, every breath is weighted with years of history, of near-misses and buried feelings. You trade blows, neither willing to surrender. You hit a forehand winner; Tashi answers with an impossible crosscourt volley. Tashi slams an ace; You absorb it and send back a return that skims the baseline.

The rally stretches long, punishing. Your lungs burn, your legs ache, but you refuse to stop moving. Tashi is relentless, pushing you deeper, wider, testing every angle.

Then, the opening.

Tashi sends a forehand too high, too safe.

You step into it. No hesitation. No second-guessing. You coil your body, racket whipping forward.

A killer backhand—Tashi’s signature shot, the one she built her career on. But this time, it’s yours. And it’s perfect.

The ball rockets down the line, past Tashi’s desperate lunge.

Winner.

Match.

The stadium explodes.

You drop to your knees, chest heaving. The roar of the crowd is deafening, a blur of sound and light and disbelief. You did it. You fucking did it.

Across the net, Tashi is still. Her racket dangles at her side, fingers clenched around the grip. Her expression is unreadable, but you know her well enough to see the tension in her jaw, the way her shoulders tighten.

You meet at the net.

For a second, neither of you speak. Your pulse is still racing, your breath shallow. Tashi stares at you, something flickering behind her eyes.

Then, barely audible over the noise, Tashi exhales. "Took you long enough."

You let out a breathless laugh, but before you can answer, Tashi reaches up—her fingers brushing against your wrist, fleeting, brief.

Then she’s gone.

You watch her walk away, the weight of victory pressing down on her ribs, heavier than she expected.

That night, the championship party is in full swing, and Art is really enjoying himself. He had spent the first hour of it with you never straying from his arms, all kisses and dances and sweet words being whispered in your ear. A little later, He keeps you in his periphery, watching as you move through the crowd, stopping to laugh with tournament officials, coaches, fans. You look good—radiant, victorious.

He’s mid-conversation with one of the event sponsors when he catches a familiar figure lingering near the balcony.

"You came."

Tashi raises her champagne glass slightly in response, eyes twinkling. "Did you think I wouldn’t?"

Art tilts his head, considering her. "Wasn’t sure."

She steps closer, the glow of the city lights catching the sharpness in her gaze. "Had to see it for myself. You celebrating her."

Art doesn’t flinch. "She's my girlfriend. We love each other." He means it. You truly do.

Tashi hums, noncommittal, swirling the champagne in her glass. "I know."

Art exhales through his nose. "What are you doing, Tash?"

Tashi smirks, tipping her head toward the elevators. "Come upstairs with me."

Art hesitates. He should say no. But when Tashi takes his hand and tugs him toward the elevators, he doesn’t resist.

Later, You and Patrick take the hotel elevator up together, your championship trophy in one hand, heels dangling from the other. You’re exhausted, but still humming with adrenaline and something else you can't quite place. You have a feeling you know exactly what’s waiting for you behind your hotel room door. 

The moment you step in, you don’t hesitate. Crossing the room in a few strides, you gently pull Art away from Tashi’s face and smash your lips down onto hers. Tashi grins into the kiss, slow and satisfied as she pulls you onto her. Patrick’s making quick work of his own clothes smirking at Art as he pulls yours off of you. 

Without wasting much time, your bed becomes a vessel for 4 sets of limbs tangled together. Tashi eating you out like you’re the best meal she’s had in 4 years. You are. Your mouth wrapped around Patrick’s dick while Art fucks into Tashi from behind. It’s almost impossible to figure out which body starts and ends where, which voice is making what noise to fill the cacophony in the room. All you know is that Tashi’s mouth on you feels so good, and that the four of you are not sleeping tonight, nor are you walking tomorrow. 

Every kiss, every touch, every breath feels like you’re making up for lost time. It’s not like the four of you haven’t been together before. What was Stanford for, if not that? Something about this, though, feels like so much more. It is. It’s love, and it’s sex, and it’s apologies, and all sorts of things that don’t need to be said out loud for all of you to understand them. More than anything, though? It’s right. It’s all four of you, exactly where you’re meant to be. Together.

364 days until the 2012 US Open Final

The morning sun is peeking past the curtains of your hotel room by the time the four of you are finally sated, bare arms and legs jumbled together like spaghetti. Your head rests on Art’s chest, his legs tangled with Tashi’s. Patrick’s fingers are absentmindedly rubbing up and down her arm, her head resting on your stomach as she gazes up at you. 

Patrick is the first one to break the silence, the sunlight catching across his raven curls as he turns his head to grin at you and Tashi. “You know, I think I finally get it.”

You raise an eyebrow, an amused frown gracing your features. 

“Dude, what?” Art replies, picking his arm up from where it’s laid across you to smack him. He’s more confused about how Patrick seems to have a natural talent for ruining the moment, but he’s not going to say that right now.

“You know, what you guys used to say?” Patrick replies, lifting his hand to flick a finger between you and Tashi. “It’s not tennis, it’s a relationship, or whatever the fuck. That’s what you guys did yesterday.” He misquotes in a high pitched voice, an abysmal attempt at an impression of you and Tashi.

You snort, looking down at Tashi. She’s glowing. You probably all are, but something about the way the sun is enveloping her is making your heart skip a beat. Your eyes lock with hers. “Something like that.”

“Yesterday was tennis.” Tashi replies. “Good fucking tennis.” She smirks at you for a moment before she stands, detaching herself from all of you to pull her clothes on before she walks toward the door.

"Don’t forget," she says, locking eyes with you over shoulder. "Court time at 6."

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