slaygirl466

[slaygirl466]

need more of frat!patrick i fear!!!

I DIDN'T THINK IT WOULD BE THIS LONG BUT HERE WE ARE, enjoy some soft frat!patrick

thinking about frat!patrick who's infamous for quick fucks and one night stands so people go to him if they're horny, though he's very strict about it. no kissing, no missionaries, nothing intimate and most definitely no talking about personal life or seeing each other outside of the bedroom– just pure mindblowing, stress relieving sex. that was until he meets you, nervously coming up to him at the library to ask him about something. you're going on your first 'date' this weekend and you're completely clueless about sex. and what better way to learn than from the actual sex god himself, right?

for the moment, he actually considers turning you down– he feels bad about being the person to take your virginity. your first time should be sweet, gentle and intimate– everything he isn't and doesn't want in this type of situation. but he can't lie, the idea of being the one to take your virginity, to corrupt your sweet innocent body and teach you everything. the idea of you thinking about how you sucked his cock while your mouth is on someone else's turned him on. he adjusts his pants from under the table, nodding at your request. "just come by tonight, 8pm. the boys will let you in"

later that night, you're straddling his thighs wearing nothing but your lacy white bra and panties, with little pink ribbons. your lower lip between your teeth and your hands on his chest, feeling his breath get deeper. you're staring at him with such a confused face, eyebrows furrowed and doe eyed. "what do i do?"

he places his hands on your hips, guiding you as you grind yourself on the bulge of his boxers. his precum staining the fabric, sticking to yours. you let out a soft gasp at the friction, he nearly groans from the view. "try moving your hands up and down my body, it's okay you can move. however you like" and you listen so obediently. trailing your soft hands all over his torso, ghosting over his stiff nipples to the trail of hair leading the the waistband of his boxers. you hook your finger over the garter, tugging on it softly. "wanna suck you off" patrick swears he could've cum right then and there. he nods, taking his hands off your skin as he watches you adjust yourself between his legs. tugging his boxers down to free his erection, your eyes wide and mouth watering as you watch it slap against his stomach.

you wrap one hand around it while the other rests on his thigh, your thumb feeling around his tip which was red and leaking. you stare at it nervously which didn't go unnoticed to him, "lick the tip before you put it in, just hollow your cheeks and try not to use your teeth. you don't need to take it all in, use your hands on the rest." you nod, crouching down until you're face to face with it. "oh and the wetter, sloppier the better so don't be afraid to get messy. don't worry about gagging or anything either, it's alright." butterflies flutter in your stomach as you listen to him teach you, his voice low.

you lean down, innocently placing a kiss on the tip while you make eye contact with him, patrick groans quietly. you stick your tongue out, softly swirling it all over and tasting the saltiness of his precum. it takes you a while to get comfortable, jaw slightly aching at how big he is. your hands playing with the lower part of his cock and his balls, you challenge yourself to go deeper, wanting to know your limit. patrick hits the back of your throat, making you gag around him causing your mouth to close around him. "fuck".

patrick releases soft grunts as you work your mouth around him, his hand resting on the back of your head– gently guiding you and pulling your hair out of your face. eyes teary, nose red and saliva all over your chin– he's never seen anyone so beautiful and innocent doing something like this. he pulls you up as soon as he feels his climax building up. this is supposed to be about you, not him. he tells you to lie on your back while he brings himself up to his knees, he positions himself infront of you, sliding off the lace material off your legs before pushing it apart. your glistening cunt on display for him, he swears he can smell the sweetness of it. he looks up to meet your eyes, which were already on him. your chest rising up and down rapidly, you've never had anyone seen or touch you like this. "i'm gonna prep you, alright? need to make sure you're all ready before taking me in"

within seconds, his mouth is on your core. tongue flicking your pulsating clit, sliding between your folds and lapping up your juices. your hand immediately finds its way to his curls, tugging it with the tiniest bit of force. back arched and head thrown back as you moan uncontrollably. he keeps his eyes on you, gauging your reaction. he brings a finger up to your hole, sliding it in ever so slowly. patrick had to stop himself from grinding his cock onto the covers as he feels your tightness, walls squeezing in on his finger. god, he can't wait to feel it around him.

he brings his other hand up to squeeze your breasts under your bra, fingers rolling around your hard nipples. he adds another finger making you jolt, hand grasping his arm as you yelp in pleasure. he curls his fingers up and down inside, coating it with your thick juices. "mm– fuck, patrick. a-already feel so full" he wonders if the guy you're having sex with would be able to make you feel like this, he doesn't want you to be disappointed when you don't feel as good as you do in this moment.

he pulls his fingers out, moving from his position to hover above you. his other hand beside your head while he brings his wet fingers up to your plump lips, "open" you suck his fingers clean, letting him shove it deeper before pulling it out, a string of saliva connecting your tongue and his fingers. he removes his boxers completely before bringing your knees up, cock brushing lightly against your pussy, making the both of you groan. you're in a missionary position. his head just slightly above yours, his silver chain dangling above your lips. its your first time, surely he can make a few exceptions. he slaps his cock on your core before lining himself up. "you ready? it'll hurt for a while before it starts to feel good. i'll be gentle, just trust me" and you nod, without any hesitation. as if he wasn't already hard enough, the way you look at him and give yourself to him makes him want to combust. he pushes himself in, grunting as he feels your core start to swallow him. watching you shut your eyes in pain as you stretch around him, he's barely even halfway in.

he stays still for a while before starting to thrust his hips, the pain eventually subsides and you feel your abdomen tighten in pleasure. you throw your head back, lips apart as you let out moans of pleasure. you don't have anything to compare him to but you can see why he's titled the sex god on campus. you place your hands on his back, nails clawing at his skin. he snaps his hips a little harder, faster– vulgar noises filling his bedroom. "fuck, you're so tight."

he brings your knees up closer to your chest, leaning back to push himself deeper in until you're taking all of him. seeing the bulge on your stomach as he thrusts in rhythm. you move your legs up to wrap behind him, doing your best to pull him in closer. it doesn't take long for you to reach your climax, back arched, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your muscles tighten around him during your release. he barely even had the time to pull out properly, spilling his warm cum all over your stomach. he leans on his hands to support his body, feeling it go limp after cumming. both of you looking into each other's eyes as you catch your breath. "thank you"

needless to say after that, your date was cancelled and patrick deleted a bunch of numbers from his phone.

[slaygirl466]

18+ !NSFW! Explicit

Day 24: Mirrors

Pair: Artrick

—————————————————————

Patrick’s lying on his bed, feet up against the wall, tossing a tennis ball up and down while Art sips his beer.

“So why didn’t you go with her to the concert?” Art asks.

“I told you, she wanted it to be girls night or something,” Patrick says.

“But you’re going over there when she gets back?”

“Yeah… I mean maybe,” Patrick says. “I love that you guys have co-ed dorms here. Not like in high school,” he rolls over and leans over Art’s shoulder. “I bet that makes it easier for you.”

Art shrugs.

“What? Come on man. We talk about Tashi all the time. What are you up to?” He reaches for the beer and Art hands it to him. It’s his third one and he’s starting to feel it.

“I’m not up to anything… just school and tennis.”

”Okay but how about you pretend I’m not your mom and give me a real answer. Are you still sleeping with… what’s her name?”

“Jessica,” Art straightens his legs.

“Yeah Jessica.”

“No, she’s too blonde… I woke up one morning and had the weirdest feeling she’d roll over and look like my sister.”

“I’d fuck your sister,” Patrick snorts. “Specifically Leigh.”

“I’m sure Tashi would love that,” Art takes the beer can back from him.

“She’d know I’m joking. Besides I could never get in her pants before. I’m sure it wouldn’t be any different now that she’s married.”

Art sighs. “What about you?” He says, getting on his knees and leaning his elbows on the bed as he looks at Patrick. Patrick looks up at him. “Are you really not fucking anyone else on tour? How does it even work waiting for weeks before you can see her? Don’t you get horny?”

”Yeah of course I do.” Patrick grins. “That’s why we talk every night. Sometimes we Skype.”

“And do what?” Art asks.

Patrick smiles. “You know what, Donaldson.” He reaches up and touches Art’s cheek. “Jealous?”

Art forces himself to smile and then he turns and sits back down on the floor before relaxing his face. “No, of course not. But I guess now I know why you don’t call me.”

”I call you,” Patrick says.

“Not that much.”

“Fuck you’re so jealous. I’m getting hard.” Patrick says messing up Art’s hair. “You know I still love you, baby.”

“Oh shut up,” Art says, pushing him off. “I gotta pee.” He says and he pushes himself to his feet and then stumbles a bit to the bathroom. Maybe he’s a little more tipsy than he thought. He turns on the bathroom light and goes to the toilet. Patrick pushes the door open a few moments later as Art’s finishing up.

”What?” Art hiccups.

“I gotta pee too,” Patrick says, “move over.”

“This isn’t high school, you can wait your turn…” Art sighs but he leans against the wall to give him room anyway.

“But I don’t want to wait my turn.” Patrick smirks looking down at Art as he unzips then grinning at him.

Art rolls his eyes and tries not to stare at Patrick or his cock. He finishes before Patrick and goes to wash his hands. A minute later Patrick’s joining him at the sink.

“Come on… you can’t tell me you got rid of Jessica and now you’re not with anybody. You’re really wasting that pretty face day dreaming about my girlfriend?” Patrick says, smirking at him in the mirror.

“I’m not,” Art says.

”You are, you wanna know what she feels like?” Patrick asks, standing behind him, he leans in, trapping Art while rinsing his hands from behind him.

“Tashi?”

”Yeah.”

“What—what does she feel like?” Art asks.

Patrick grins at him in the mirror and shakes his hands so water gets everywhere. “So fucking good, you’d lose it before you’re fully inside,” Patrick whispers in his ear.

Art licks his bottom lip and sucks it into his mouth before taking a breath. His balls are suddenly tight, he feels himself getting hard. Patrick starts kissing on his neck and Art closes his eyes leaning into it. “Do you eat her out?”

“Mmhm,” Patrick hums. He’s sucking on Arts throat now and it tickles in a way that makes Art smile.

”What does she taste like?”

“Delicious,” Patrick whispers against his throat.

Art bites his lip again, he can feel Patrick getting hard behind him. He’s felt it before. It makes him a little crazy, especially when he’s half drunk. There’s so much of him. Patrick messes his fingers through Art’s hair. His other hand, still damp gripping Art’s waist.

“Does she go down on you?” Art asks, quietly.

“Why?” Patrick asks. “You want her to go down on you?”

“Yeah,” Art sighs, breathing heavier. He’s really hard now. His whole body feels like a live wire. “I was gonna ask if she can fit it all in her mouth.”

“Fuck,” Patrick whispers and he laughs, but it’s breathless. “God I still want to fuck the shit out of you. Can you open your eyes?”

Art opens his eyes and is mildly stunned because he barely recognizes himself, his hair’s all over the place and his lips are red and swollen from the way he’s been worrying them, his eyes are dilated, pupils so big the rings of color are barely visible. His cheeks are flushed pink and it’s spreading to his neck and probably further beneath his t-shirt. All while Patrick’s sucking on him, licking at him like a vampire. He looks up and meet’s Art’s eyes. He’s flushed too and so soft.

He moves his hand lower into the waistband of Art’s sweatpants where he’s tenting. “You want to see what I see when I make you come?” Patrick asks, softly.

Art takes a breath and shivers. Patrick kisses his cheek. “Don’t close your eyes.”

It’s an impossible ask because the moment Patrick grips him, Art is breathing heavier, he watches his chest rise and fall. He bites his tongue and licks the inside of his cheek trying not to moan. His mouth feels so wet. Patrick kisses his throat again, Art feels him pressing, grinding his cock against him. “Can I fuck her?” Art groans while he’s fucking into Patrick’s fist.

“Mm… you wouldn’t be able to handle her. You’d have to beg so pretty.”

“Please.” Art moans.

Patrick smiles. “Not me.”

Art gasps as Patrick’s grip tightens. He’s gonna lose it.

”Open,” Patrick whispers, when Art hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes again. “God you’re fucking gorgeous.” Patrick rests against Art’s cheek, gazing at Art in the mirror while Art looks at him . He can barely look at himself. He looks entirely different, needy and debauched. Desperate for release. But watching Patrick work his cock makes it that much hotter. Art feels his whole body beginning to seize. His hands and legs are shaky and Patrick is relentless. Art is gripping Patrick’s arm with one hand and reaches back into Patrick’s hair with the other.

“Fuck…Patrick,” Art moans. “Patrick can I— can I—“

“What?” Patrick breathes. He’s breathing heavy too. And before Art knows it he’s shooting ribbons and ribbons of pearly white all over the mirror and bathroom sink. While he gasps out a litany of swear words. He leans forward breathless, gripping the counter top and pushing back as Patrick rubs up against him with his swollen cock. He’s so shocked, he didn’t think he had that much in him. He likes it even more watching Patrick lose all semblance of control, chasing his own orgasm all the while not taking his eyes off of Art. Jewel colored eyes and a mop of messy black hair. Literally using him to get off.

“Holy shit,” Patrick breathes when he finishes just from grinding up against him. “I want to fucking do that in you.” He whispers.

“I know you do,” Art’s still catching his breath but he bites his lip grinning at Patrick. He’s been begging for it for years. Art would be lying if he said it didn’t make him happy (or relieved?) or whatever that Patrick was still obsessed with it. But the idea that maybe he’s not just jealous of Patrick isn’t one he needs to examine too closely.

Patrick tastes the strings of jizz on his fingers and then leans in, Art’s still trapped between his arms as he washes it off. He grips Art’s waist when he’s done.

“You’re getting me wet,” Art says.

“Shut up, come here,” Patrick says, turning him around and pulling his face close. Kissing him. Art settles into it. He can hear himself breathing and he eases his tongue into Patrick’s mouth, gripping his hands over Patrick’s to hold him there. His heart’s pounding in his ears, it feels so good, and he steps closer while teasing his own tongue along Patrick’s. Patrick nibbles at his bottom lip and pulls back. They stare at each other. Art still has his mouth open, Patrick’s eyes are heavy lidded.

“I can stay here tonight,” Patrick tells him.

Art nods his head biting his lip.

“We can… keep…doing this.”

Art swallows. “Because you want to fuck me?”

“You know I fucking do.”

Art shrugs. “Okay, stay here.” And it’s not just because he wants to keep them apart though that factors into it.

Patrick grins.

“I don’t know about the other thing though… I have to think about it.” Art adds.

“Uh huh,” Patrick says, pulling him close again for another kiss. “Lets go think.”

[slaygirl466]

JOSH O’CONNOR 78th Annual Golden Globe Awards › February 28, 2021

[slaygirl466]

i love how he censors himself

here’s the video because it makes me giggle

[slaygirl466]

Tom Blyth & Rachel Zegler poses for a portrait to promote “The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes”.

— Photo by (Rebecca Cabage/Invision AP).

[slaygirl466]

MEOWWWW MEOWWWWW MEOWWWWWWWWWWWWW PURRRRR PURR MEOWWWW

[slaygirl466]

Pretty boy

[slaygirl466]

dead poets society is for the people who crave and pine for something more from their life but don’t quite know what it is they want

[slaygirl466]

Jonathan Anderson shares photos behind the scenes of ‘Challengers’.

[slaygirl466]

🫠🫠MIKE FAIST bts interview of The Bikeriders 🥹🥹

🎥 Dir. Jeff Nicholas

[slaygirl466]

haunted

in which spencer reid takes you to a haunted house and you're being very brave about it... sort of.

fluff! warnings/tags: reader wears a skirt, reader is a scaredy cat!!, established relationship, kithing, my favs derek and penelope featured, haunted house stuff, talk about the physical composition of human eyeballs and mentions of harvesting them/eating them but it's not serious, FAKE very fake Halloween gore, I know those tags just escalated so quickly my bad, mention of a spooky clown, just haunted house stuff ok!! but its really not a scary fic I promise!!!! a/n: this is for my bff @gublersg1rl !!!! I hope u all like!!!!! Also yes the title was extremely creative I was feeling divinely inspired and revolutionary let’s not talk abt it

“Okay, no, no—maybe we don’t have to go in. I don’t think it’s gonna be that good.”

As you say it you’re wearily eyeing the crowd of screaming teenagers who are sprinting from the haunted house attraction’s exit, leaving a trail a swirling leaves and candy wrappers in their wake. Spencer laughs, gently hugging you back to him as you subconsciously begin to drift away from the line. 

“I knew this would happen.”

“Nothing’s happening.”

“You’re scared. You want to chicken out.”

“I don’t,” you snap, stepping back and adjusting your sweater. “I’m just… I’m cold. I wanna go back to the car.” Spencer does some adjustments of his own, coming close and reaching around you as if going in for a hug but instead tugging your skirt down slightly in the back. You let him finish and then bat his hand away. “Would you stop that?”

“You said you were cold! I’m trying to help you.”

“By making my skirt one inch longer? That’s not going to help.”

He holds his hands up defensively. “Okay. Sorry. I won’t touch.”

Immediately your serrated edge is dulled and you lean against him, barely steering clear of a pout. “No, please. You’re warm. And you’ll protect me.”

He smiles down at you, cheeks and nose nipped sweet pink by the chilly breeze. His hair looks very nice today, his eyes are extra sparkly in the dark, and he’s framed by mostly bare tree branches scattered around the fairground—nothing more than dark palms clawing at the sky, a full white moon cradled in between black branches. The autumnal night is perhaps too cold for the tartan mini skirt you’d chosen, but Spencer told you it looked nice. Of course he doesn’t put up a fight when you slip your arms around his waist under his coat—only wraps his arms around you in return.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to protect you. But between us Derek and Penelope will bear the brunt of the jump scares.”

“Who said my name?”

You look over your shoulder to where Penelope is shivering despite wearing her own and Derek’s coat, and Derek is eyeing the two of you, enjoying a bag of caramel corn like he doesn’t have a care in the world. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Spencer says, and you laugh to yourself, pulling him even closer like you’re trying to leech the warmth from his body. “Okay, you do have to face forward though. I don’t want you to trip.”

“No, Spencer!” You argue, but he’s already unlatching your arms from his middle and turning you in place. 

“You’re fine,” he chuckles, holding onto your hips. “I’m right here. Be brave.”

The line has begun to move forward again, and this time, it’s not stopping. Your heart pounds as at the behest of a teenaged bloody scarecrow you follow Derek and Penelope into the dark mouth of the red clapboard facade—a sort of farmhouse design that had seemed charming from afar and deeply sinister up close. Speakers play a loud creaking sound over spooky music and your eyes slowly adjust to reveal a foggy corridor lined with doors and creepy paintings.

As soon as the first evil little girl pops out of a doorway, you scream right along with Penelope. 

“Oh, my god,” Spencer laughs under his breath as you stop dead in your tracks, holding the group behind you up. When Penelope and Derek move on, you stay stuck, knowing that the threat has disappeared for the moment but still looms. Spencer gently ushers you forward. “Stay close behind Penelope, and it won’t be as scary. Come on, we have to keep going.”

“I hate this so much.”

But he ignores your comment, guiding you forward down the shadowy hallway and whispering the beginnings of a tangent over your shoulder. 

“You know, the first haunted house attraction was in London in 1915 at a fairground just like this. They picked up in America during the Great Depression as an attempt to distract young hooligans from resorting to property damage for fun.”

“Hooligans?” You mutter, teasing him even while terrified, carefully eyes the suspicious staircase leading up to a fenced in landing, shrouded in darkness. “We’re not going up there, are we?”

Just then a man with a sack over his head and bloody axe emerges from the black, launching himself down the stairs. Again, you scream, this time sprinting out of Spencer’s hold and through a cobweb veil into the next room. 

“Jesus fuck!” You gasp, clutching your chest as someone made up to be a sweet old grandma gone mad and soaked in blood and viscera turns around to greet you with a manic grin. 

“Oh, a pretty girl! Is that you, dear? My long lost granddaughter? Or did I put her in a pie?”

The acting is subpar at best, the script even worse, but what really discomforts you are the bloodied rubber limbs swinging from the ceiling and the fog machine in the corner that keeps burping out thick white clouds with a little hiss. You turn around, running directly into Spencer’s chest. He catches you by the waist and you cling to him, digging your feet in to try and stop either of you from proceeding any closer to your new friend. 

“And your lover—so handsome! Mm, what a delicious pairing you two’ll make! Maybe in my specialty cream of eyeball soup?”

She cackles. Spencer pushes you carefully forward as you peer over his lapel, and he actually stops to look into the woman’s pot as she stirs it. 

“Spencer—”

“You know—the human eyeball is by all accounts difficult to harvest without essentially popping the outer wall of muscle and connective tissue and then you’re losing the structure of the sphere—and stop me if you know this—but water constitutes about 98 percent of vitreous and aqueous humor which in turn make up eighty percent of the total volume of the eye so to say your soup would be cream of eyeball is—”

“Buddy, you’re holding up the line!” Someone shouts from behind, and Spencer offers an awkward apology to the grandma who was beginning to look more and more uncomfortable, hurrying you along through the kitchen from hell. 

“I cannot believe you just did that,” you hiss, still clinging to him. “That poor woman probably thinks you’re a serial killer now.”

“I was trying to humanize her for your benefit—”

Another scream from someone else, another cheap jump scare, cuts him off, and by this point you have your eyes squeezed shut, squeaking at every noise, and Spencer is damn near carrying you through the haunted house, walking you awkwardly backward through the various rooms. 

He cradles the back of your head and presses his lips to your ear as a chainsaw revs somewhere nearby and you hear Derek and Penelope yelping just ahead. “You’re being so brave,” Spencer murmurs, though you don���t miss the smile in his voice. "If I was a malevolent spectre I would definitely steer clear of you. I'd be too intimidated."

“Shut up. Ah!”

“Baby, that was a plant. You know the actors can’t touch you, right? You’re not in any danger.”

“I don’t like being scared, Spencer.”

“Then why did you suggest the haunted house? I said we should do the maze.”

“I don’t know! I—” another man popping out of the wall, another roar that you only hear, sequestered safely against your boyfriend’s coat. “Oh my god, are we almost done? I can’t do this anymore.”

“Yeah, the entrance is right ahead. No more actors, okay? I can see the whole room, it’s totally empty.”

“I bet that's what they want you to think, they lull you into a false sense of security and then—”

Cold air kisses the back of your legs as Spencer walks you toward the door, and the stifled soundscape widens again as you exit the house breathing air that doesn’t smell like sawdust and fog machine juice and fake blood. 

“Nope. We're really all done, see?”

“You survived! Oh my god, I survived!” Penelope calls, and you lift your head from Spencer’s chest, looking up at him. He’s grinning, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks. 

“You honestly handled that better than I thought you would. I actually think I saw the guy dressed as a clown jump when you screamed.”

“If I ever say I wanna do something scary again please don’t listen to me. I hated that so much.”

He examines your face for a moment before determining that despite your rattled nerves, you’ll be okay, and comforts you with a quick peck. “Do you wanna go get caramel apples now?”

“Yes, please. And then can we do the maze, and just like—I don’t know, sit there and… meditate for a little while?”

He chuckles. “Yeah. Just… don’t think about what could be lurking in the corn.”

You give him a little shove. “You know, I only did that haunted house thing because I know how much you love Halloween. I’m being a good girlfriend and what do I get?”

He pulls you close again and kisses your hand. 

“You get a caramel apple,” he says, like it’s obvious, and more than that—worth every trouble in the world. “Come on.”

You give him a begrudging smile and allow him to lead you, hand in hand. Maybe it is. 

[slaygirl466]

fake idgafer!!! i saw the yearning in your eyes!!!!!

[slaygirl466]

HEY MUSTACHE LOVERSSSSS

GOD PLEASE PLEAE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LLEASE PLEASE

[slaygirl466]

The Patrick article

Time to Breathe.

Years after his retirement announcement and barely being seen by the public, ex-pro tennis player Art Donaldson opens up about what he's been up to with his newfound free time in the first interview he's participated in since 2019. By Grimson Clover PUBLISHED: MAY 28, 2024

The drive here was almost therapeutic. The new Donaldson residence is far into the green of Ohio's rural landscape, a change from the hustle and bustle and concrete of New York where he last lived. Trees and grass stretch around the house like something from an impressionist painting from the nineteenth century. I can hear birdsong, for crying out loud. I have to pinch myself before I ring the doorbell.

It was shocking when I got an email a few weeks ago inviting me to his home, asking if I'm still interested in an interview. I'd asked him last in 2019, retirement announcement still fresh, and was met with a cordial decline from him and his now ex-wife.

Art is happily co-parenting his daughter Lily with aforementioned ex-wife Tashi Duncan. The walls of his living room are filled with Lily. Her birth and following birthdays, first days of school, picnics at the park, holding a racket in tiny hands for the first time. Like a sweet shrine to her.

He offers me a drink while smiling at a particular frame. "That's from a couple months ago; it was her first concert, Beyonce. She was buzzing like a live wire that night."

Art Donaldson, 36 and now five years into retirement, is lounging on his living room sofa before me. He looks good, like he never quit tennis-- but he also looks at ease. Peaceful. He's in a gray sweatshirt and jeans. He's ditched his shoes by the couch for socks, simple and white as he sits cross-legged on his couch. Arm up on the cushion behind him.

"You wanted to interview me, here I am." He smiles.

Clover Grimson Sweatshirt from Cassie Mercantile; jeans from Levi's; socks from Loewe; shoes from The Row

I could ask him just about a trillion questions in that moment. Why'd he retire? Why choose Ohio? Is he done with tennis for good? It's almost overwhelming, so I start somewhere simpler. "What's it like now, being retired?"

The sigh he lets out at the question, like years of pressure released from his back, is telling. "God, it's... fantastic. You know, the day after I announced my retirement I went out and ate the first cheeseburger in almost a decade. I have one, like, every week now. People take them for granted, I'm telling you." He shakes his head. "I sleep in," is added like a secret being told at a sleepover, "to, like, ten in the morning. I'm picking up new hobbies, I'm reading. I haven't had time to pick up a book since I went pro, and now I'm always in the corner of the house, hunched over like a grandpa, actually reading. It's the best."

Clearly, it's everything he's wanted. Art tells me about winning the US Open in 2019, the last professional tournament he'd ever play. "I went because I promised I would. Had no real hope I'd win, but it's cool that I did. Went out with a bang, I guess you could say."

You could say that indeed. That win got him a Grand Slam. Nothing small to shrug about, but he seems to. "It was never a real priority of mine-- at least not then. I know twenty-year-old me would've gone crazy if he found out."

I take that as my chance to ask the question we've all been thinking: "Do you plan on going back to tennis?"

He nods almost instantly. "Oh, yeah. Very much so."

Art takes me outside to the back of his house. To no one's surprise but my own, apparently, there's a small tennis court. "I teach Lily. She's been showing a growing interest. My little girl's not so little anymore. I might get into coaching younger kids once she outgrows me."

I make an honest attempt at hitting the ball when he serves it to me, but the first three misses and an almost twisted ankle reaffirm to me that I prefer writing about the pros instead of imitating them.

"What's it like being a dad now that you're retired?"

He smiles, looking off as he thinks about his daughter. "She's getting to the age where boys suddenly exist beyond her peripherals. Now I get to be there to help her, you know? Be a dad. I wake up, and the first thought isn't 'What time is practice?', but instead, 'How long 'till Lily's here?'. She's been my world since the day she was born, and now I can truly focus on that."

There's a small garden near the court, a variety of different flowers and plants blooming in the spring sun. I'm about to ask about his green thumb, but Art clarifies that it's not his doing. "I've got a gardener." He confesses almost sheepishly. "Lily likes working with him, she learns a lot."

"What's Lily's favorite flower?"

"Begonias."

"And yours?" I ask, already assuming the answer. He doesn't hesitate to answer. He picks his flower of choice and hands it to me, a small gift that almost has me swooning.

"Lilies."

Smooth, Donaldson. Smooth.

It's later on in the interview I decide to approach a more sensitive topic. One filled with rumors and stories from old tennis academy classmates, Stanford alumni, or people who've shared a locker room once or twice with the players. "Have you spoken to Patrick Zweig since your infamous challenger against him in 2019?"

Art's a very private person. Anyone will tell you that. The only detail of his personal life he ever willingly discloses is his love for his daughter. I know it would probably be easier to ask him to strip naked in front of me than to divulge his personal relationships (Which he once did. I know you've seen the Calvin Klein shoot he did a few years ago), but come on-- I have to ask.

He laughs, wags a playful but accusatory finger at me like he caught me trying to get the last cookie from the cookie jar. "Nice try. I saw your interview with him."

His next comment is what's really interesting, though. "But, yes, I have. He's a dear friend of mine, and I'm proud of his career-- Tashi and him make an amazing team. That's all I'll say on that."

I was told before the interview that the T-word was off-limits, so, sorry readers. I let him lead me back to the house, back to the couch, back to tennis. I ask him what first drew him to tennis, and he brings me home-roasted coffee-- a new hobby of his. It's incredible.

"My grandmother, mostly. She loved the sport when she was growing up, especially since back then it was even more prestigious than it is now. Her father, my great-grandfather, was a tennis player. I guess she passed that love on to me."

It's when the sun starts to set that the interview concludes. He thanks me for my time, and I have to remind him he's the one who set aside his day for me. Art's just that kind of guy.

"I bet you'll be back here in a few years," Art Donaldson gives me one of his signature half-smiles, the one that makes men and women alike trip over their feet, helping me pack up my things to go, "Interviewing the Lily Donaldson about her own Grand Slams. Or whatever she chooses to do."

"Whenever that is, I'll be the first to buy the issue."

[slaygirl466]

Mike as Roger Sharpe in Pinball: The Man Who Saved the Game.

[slaygirl466]

⋆.ೃ࿔ 𝐜���𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐛𝐮 𝐝𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐢 *:･༄ᡣ𐭩

ˋ°•*⁀➷ an event to celebrate the last 6 races of the 2024 season. a new fic with racer!billy every race weekend and will be posted once the race is over! dedicated to the amazing safi for loving racer!billy just as much as i do @lucysgraybird <3

🏁 𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝐭𝐡 - with the roar of the fire, my heart rose to its feet

it's lights out and away we go!

🏁 𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟕𝐭𝐡 - i slithered here from eden, just to sit outside your door

there are some extra benefits to home races.

🏁 𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝐫𝐝 - it's like i lived my whole life before the first light

the sun beaming down on his face is the best sight you've ever seen.

🏁 𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟒𝐭𝐡 - screaming the name, of a foreigner’s god (the purest expression of grief)

every race could go south. billy learns that quicker than you hoped.

🏁 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝐬𝐭 - i’ve got some colour back, she thinks so too

there is still a championship to win, scars or not.

🏁 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟖𝐭𝐡 - if i could hold you for a minute, i'd go through it again

everything's led up to this.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[slaygirl466]

daddy cat i have thoughts about newly divorced art and a girl who takes her time getting him hard :( and he feels so loved because he doesn’t have to focus on getting it done as fast as possible to please someone

exactlyyyy exactly mhmm

Thinking that he had a string of failed hookups out at bars where he was trying to fuck in bathrooms or in his car and it just didn't happen because he wanted it but his body wasn't cooperating. He was on the wrong side of drunk or the nerves and pressure was too high, and he ended up getting laughed off by the pretty girl beneath him.

So I think he gets away from hookups he finds in a bar or club for a while. Maybe he meets you at a wedding— one of his young cousins is finally tying the knot, and you're a friend of the bride. Sweet, friendly, gorgeous. He probably looks like a creep, the way he stares at you because he's too nervous to actually say something.

Which is stupid. He won seven slams in his career. He's a tennis superstar, a household name. He bumps into you at the dessert table after they've cut and served the wedding cake— the layer he gets is white cake with raspberry filling. You get a slice of the groom's cake— chocolate with espresso cream.

"Hey... you're Art Donaldson, right?" You ask as you take a tiny bite of the cake. When he nods, you smile. "I thought so, but Kayla— that's my friend from high school— well, she swore you were just some guy. So I googled you, and I was like, no that's definitely him. Anyways, do you want a drink?"

You both have a glass of the bride's signature cocktail (vodka cran), then another, before you're on the dance floor together. It starts off innocent enough, but then there's more drinks flowing, and guests start leaving, and the music gets weirdly better as the night goes on. You're both a little handsy and it's not long before you're stumbling back to his Jeep in the parking lot.

It was a post-divorce impulse buy. An impulse buy with a nice, roomy back seat. Plenty of space to tug you onto his lap, pull down your dress, and mouth at your tits in the backseat.

You reach down, palming him through his fancy suit pants. You pause, blinking a few times, and work the buttons of his pants so you can actually take him into your hands. You try to coax him to full hardness, but he's already flagging. He groans in frustration as his body just won't. fucking. cooperate. He wants you, he knows he wants you, he's just... fuck.

"Sorry," he pants, meeting your gaze with a look that can only be read as sheer mortification. "Shit, it's just... this is... sorry—"

"It's okay," you whisper against his mouth, so his stammered apologies are silenced. You spit into your palm and wrap your hand around his cock again, holding eye contact as you slowly stroke him. "Just relax. We have all night."

You mouth at his throat, his jaw. You trail your lips over the shell of his ear and he melts. He's like putty in your hands as you give him all of your attention— give him the chance to relax and work his way up to it. He moans against your ear and you smile. "That's it," you praise, working your hand faster. "I've got you."