#&. ART DONALDSON x yn

[ginnysgraffiti]

very random and badly-written, absolutely needy art, submissive art, breeding kink, 18+

&. ART DONALDSON x yn.

"fuck! fuck! please...let me come inside...please-"

art was going insane. and you had never seen him in this state before.

his hip bones were almost breaking, bucking against yours with unbelievable speed as you bounced on his cock.

the mattress had been cracking for a while now, but his speed never switched off. he was moaning like a child and his back never arched like that before. his chest was visibly throbbing, his knuckles turning white as he tortured the sheets.

"fuck-!" his voice cracked and his dick hit your whole g spot, both of you rolling your pupils back and opening your mouths wide.

deep, guttural groans left his lips. your ears perked at how he wasn’t shy to make a sound at every movement you made inside of him, whether it was your wet pussy sliding up his length or your hips meeting his.

"b-...baby...i-...shit." he moaned, and your pussy went incredibly warm he almost came inside you.

art turned suddenly weak, he let loose, jelly.

when you fucked his cock it was as if you were eager to snatch his soul. no fucking around or teasing and being timid, just somehow having the ability to send him into another world, but this time he was losing it with everything he had.

his toes curled and his body began to ache as you moved faster and massaged his balls with one hand. he could only drop his jaw wide open before you took him fully in your mouth. it was all too much.

the loudest moan stung his throat just before his voice could crack again; his curls almost soaked with sweat.

his hips squirmed and the movement hurt, having you almost choking.

there was no point laying a hand on your head and forcing you to keep his dick in your mouth when you were already throat fucking him.

just when he was about to come undone completely into your throat you let your pussy take him again, and his hot liquid melted with yours in half a second.

your body was shaking with pleasure goosebumps as your shoulders went limp and you collapsed on him.

"b-babe..."

"...yeah?" you breathed out, art still inside and your mouth open against his skin.

"i think...i gotta postpone tomorrow's match..."

art's pupils were still rolled back as he kept coming with you, and seeing the way his release leaked out of you afterward had him ready for another round almost immediately.

[shewrites444]

pretty [ art donaldson x babysitter/age gap! reader smut ]

[ Hiii me popping up on here for the first time in forever lmao. I've been on a Challengers kick lately, let me know if I should write more on Art perhaps. :D ]

WC - 3.5k (unedited story, so apologies for any errors)

[ Summary - The reader and Art have been having an affair for the past few months after she became the Donaldsons' occasional babysitter. A lot of porn with a slight plot. ]

[ Warnings - Age gap (reader is college-aged, art is in his like mid-thirties), cursing, cheating/affair, oral (m&f receiving), dirty talk, tiny breeding kink mention, unprotected sex ]

-

It's not like it mattered to Tashi, well, anymore, what her husband did in his free time. A year or so ago, when Art found out about Tashi and Patrick's on-going affair at their challenger, he felt crushed, defeated, sickened, all emotions jumbled into one component, knowing what his wife was doing behind closed doors since they were teenagers. No amount of "I love you's" could make her drawn closer to him, no amount of care, compassion.. nothing. I mean, it would only make sense that an affair that lasted over ten years, especially with his former best friend and teammate, would fundamentally fuck up their marriage.

Tashi tried to fix it, she really did, by cutting off all connections to Patrick, promising Art she'd be better for not only him, but their daughter, Lily, and the careers and finances they shared together. She knew all the logic behind an affair was unjustifiable, and it made sense to fix a marriage with someone who genuinely cared for her and the family, careers, and finances they created together.

Art stopped playing tennis that year, and like they had promised each other months before, decided to work on the foundation full time, and with newer responsibilities, came the need for a sitter that wasn't only one of their parents when Art had a game or two.

That's where you came into the picture.

You were an undergraduate student at NYU, about to graduate in the spring with a heavy need for any sort of finances to help you afford your rent the rest of the semester. Knowing that your niece was in class with Art and Tashi Donaldson's daughter, that set up a fairly easy connection to a potential babysitting gig. They were millionaires, hell, maybe even billionaires at this point, so you'd be bound to get a pretty solid paycheck.

You were in luck. They needed an occasional sitter on the weekends, and a handful of nights during the week, and given that they both knew your sister, you were already trusted. Easy money.

You got along with Lily pretty well, too. Not to mention the Donaldsons were kind to you as well, and the amount of money they gave you for watching their one daughter, who was pretty self-sufficient other than needing to have a bedtime story or two read to her each night, was fucking ridiculous. Not like you were rolling in dough, but they surely overpaid you. Not like that was a problem for either parties, though.

Overtime, you talked more to Art when Tashi was starting to have more meetings, interviews, and other miscellaneous tasks that required her attention as they expanded connections to the foundation. At first, it was a bit awkward, given that when babysitting, usually the dad was a bit more absent, or quiet, but he warmed up to you after a few nights. He'd ask you about how Lily was, even ask you about school, or what you wanted to do after graduation, pay you, and that was really it. It was simple, really, until it wasn't.

And here you were, months later, standing at the small kitchen island in your apartment, which was, frankly, a bit inhumane in size for an inhabitant, but it's New York City, and it's what you could afford, even on the Donaldson's payroll. You had a small salad bowl in front of you, sliding the grape tomatoes off the cutting board in your hand into the mixture, as no other than Art Donaldson stood next to you, the tongs in his hand as you handed him the bowl.

Playing house with a married 35-year-old man wasn't on your list of things to do this year, but it's not like you were complaining.

From an outside perspective, it felt wrong, but to you, it felt just right. It was cliche, and well, bad, being apart of an affair for a multi-millionaire last name, and a man that was married, with a whole family, but you tried not to think about it.

Did you love him? You had never been in love, so you didn't really know, but probably not, at least not yet. Did he love you? You didn't think so, but he definitely favored you more than his own wife, and you weren't even thinking that because of the situation, you genuinely knew he preferred you.

"You want me to put a show on?" Art asked softly, glancing down at you as you walked over to the kitchen, rinsing off the cutting board. His eyes averted to your ass, glancing at the sweat shorts that hugged your figure, before looking up to meet your eyes when you turned around.

You knew he checked you out, it's not like that came to a surprise. Art was sweet, really, but it's not like he wasn't a sexual man because he was older. If anything, that made his sex drive higher. You shrugged, sliding past him to open the fridge and grab the salad dressing. "Eh, I'm good with whatever."

You can hear him set the bowl down, and his free hand travel to the side of your waist, over the thick cotton of your sweatshirt, as you grin to yourself, shaking your head while you set the dressing on the counter. "Shouldn't we eat first?"

"Just missed you today." Art muttered, lightly turning you around to face him before giving your forehead a light peck. "Haven't seen you all week, pretty."

Your cheeks redden, and the familiar pit in your stomach follows directly after. Fuck. Art was older than you, yes, but an emotional man at the fact of it, but he was so fucking needy. He'd come see you, not even two or three days between, and act like it had been two months without contact. He'd lay his head on your chest, play with your fingers, tell you how much he missed you, all because you hadn't seen him in not even a week. From the outside, that probably looked pathetic, a married man, who had a wife and child at home, coming to a college-aged girl's apartment, not even the size of his bedroom, cuddling her like he was a teenager. It was fucking toxic, actually, but again, you tried not to think about that part of it.

"Well, why don't we eat, and then you can show me that you missed me later, hm? That okay?" You step back slightly to look up to him, reaching forward to cup his rose-tinted, pale cheeks. You lean up to kiss him, pulling away to slide out of his embrace, your eyes following the meal you had just made together.

Art was pouting, basically, as he frowned at the corner of his mouth, walking towards the other side of you and gently taking the tongs out of your hand. "I'd rather show you now. You can't tell me you don't want me to fuck you right here, sweetheart."

"Art." You purse your lips together, shooting him a glare. You could pretend to be annoyed all you want, but he knew you weren't aggravated with him. It's not like you didn't enjoy him fucking the shit out of you on your kitchen counter, or anywhere, matter of fact. He'd fuck you right in your car when he walked you out of his house after babysitting, he didn't give a fuck. He liked you a lot, way more than he should, even in the given scenario of an affair.

"What?" He tilted his head, looking down at you with that stupid cheeky-ass grin he'd always give you when he knew you were fibbing. You wanted him, obviously. Sometimes, he didn't know why you even pretended to act like you didn't want it right then and there.

Art really wasn't even the most dominating guy, but if that's what you wanted, he'd put on a fucking show. He'd bend you over and fuck the shit out of you if that's what you wanted him to do. He'd make it hurt, if that's what you wanted him to do. But again, he liked you, so he'd never actually hurt you.

You glance down between you, the obviously erection in his sweatpants pointing right at you. You look back up to him, that look of pure want on his face so obvious. You glance to your bedroom. You don't have to speak, he already knows, and he listens so fucking easily.

The chemistry between the two of you was a fucking pain sometimes. You'd be so wet when he'd do as much as touch your back, it would piss you off sometimes, and you would think that after fucking him for a few months now, that feeling of freshness would go away, but it didn't.

You'd do more than just fuck, too. If he wasn't such a public figure, he'd take you out on real date, probably try to pursue you in some way if he wasn't married, and just a more normal-status guy, but that wasn't the case. He would make efforts though, buy you flowers sometimes when he'd come over, order the two of you something to eat, whether it was Chinese takeout or a 5-star review restaurant steak, he didn't care. He just wanted to please you, the best he could. All the time.

Right now, his definition of pleasing you was gesturing for you to lay down on your twin-sized bed, and plant his face between your legs, eating your pussy until you were begging him to fuck you with something other than his tongue.

You wiggled yourself out of your shorts and underwear in one, Art assisting you by pulling them off your ankles and onto the wooden floor. He spread your knees apart, kneeling on the hard ground before his hot breath was planting kisses between your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours.

You gulp, averting your attention to his mouth. You watch him get closer, and you can only gasp when he latches onto your clit. You feel him move his hand onto your thighs, wrapping around them from the back and holding your sides, his pale, calloused hands digging into your skin. It didn't hurt though, not at all.

"Oh my god." Leaves your mouth without a single thought. Art knew exactly how to please you. "Art, you're gonna make me cum before you even fuck me."

He looked up to you, lips still pressed against your pussy, his eyes locked with yours for a moment, before he focused his attention to your body again. He didn't care. Guess that was the point.

You shake your head in disbelief, your back naturally arching as he pressed his tongue harder against you. God, you couldn't even imagine what it was going to be like when his cock was inside you, even though you'd slept together plenty of times before.

His tongue kept pace on your clit, as he moved one of his hands off your thigh and closer to your pussy, gently pushing his middle finger through your folds. Fucking hell, as if he couldn't make you more turned on.

"Art." His name rolled off your tongue. "You're gonna make me cum. I wanna finish with you."

He listened to you, and he obliged, despite how much he wanted you to cum now. Art slowly pulled his finger out of you, and his mouth away from you. He leaned up, motioning himself on top of you, before you moved your hands to lightly push him off.

"What's wrong?" He asked, almost immediately, his eyes dropping, almost disappointed. You knew his cock was aching to be inside you.

You lean up, your hands traveling to rest against the sides of his broad shoulders. "Here. Lay down."

Art wasn't going to fight that. He eagerly nodded at your request, your positions switching in seconds as he laid down on your bed. Your hands began to pull at the waistband on his sweats, and his underwear, sliding them off his body in one.

You weren't one for sucking cock, but with Art, you fucking adored it. You liked to watch him fall apart at just your mouth, knowing that he'd crumble once he fucked your pussy. You liked edging him to the point he was whining, begging, pleading to fuck you, or you to fuck him. Just depended on the day.

"You gonna suck my cock, pretty girl?" Art asked you, softly, a half-smile on his pink lips as he moved one of his hands to cup your cheek, his elbow propping his body up slightly. "Gonna let me fuck your mouth?"

"Mhm." You murmur, nodding as you move down to spit on his cock, wetting the tip before you peck a few kisses against his tip, glancing up at him as you laid on your stomach towards the end of your bed, front of your body aligned with his middle. "Gonna let you fuck my throat, Art."

Art's grin followed the rest of his lips, his cheeks dark red as his mouth hung open. He watched you lean down, his cock enveloped by your mouth. You had pretty, plump lips. Pretty and full lashes you'd bat when he fucked your throat. He could watch you suck him off all day. He could just be with you all day.

"You're so beautiful, [Y/N]. My pretty girl." He praised you, his hand still glued to your cheek, bits of spit against his thumb as you bobbed your head, his cock hard and full in your mouth. "Gonna let me fill your mouth up, hm? Or should I fill your pussy instead? What do you want, baby?"

It's not like you could answer the question. You keep sucking him off, looking up to his blue eyes, before you force him down your throat, muffling any sort of gag that your body desperately wanted to let out. You wanted him to know you could take his cock.

"God." He moaned, his eyes never leaving yours. He rubbed your cheek. "Your mouth feel so good, but I really wanna fuck you. Please, baby. I wanna cum in you. That pretty pussy, please."

It didn't take you much convincing to slide his cock out of your mouth and lay down on your bed. It made you feel embarrassed, desperate even, with how eager you were to have him stuff his cock inside you. Not like he judged you for that at all, just internal thoughts you'd have occasionally.

He sat up, his cock hard and straight, as his knees dug into the mattress. He took his shirt off in one pull, tossing it into the pile of your combined clothes before he moved you more towards the middle of the bed. He aimed his cock at your pussy, your legs spread wide for him, before he leaned forward, slowly pushing himself inside you, the both of you moaning at the raw feeling.

Art could be rough if you wanted him to, and you'd do the same for him, but typically, he savored the moment he entered you each and every time. He'd told you several times, that you were no where near in comparison to any woman he'd been with. No competition. You were it. In every way. Part of him wished he had met you earlier, maybe at Stanford or even grade-school. God, he would've worshipped you back then, all the way to now, and the future. You checked off all his boxes, physically, emotionally, sexually, everything. In a different narrative, he would've married you and had a life with you. Fuck tennis. Fuck everything. He'd rather whatever life he could've had with you.

"You feel so good, pretty. You always do." Art leaned down to press a hard kiss against your lips. He pecked your cheek, his lips moving to your ear. "I'm gonna fill that pussy. Gonna make you mine, baby, my sweet girl.. You want that? You like that?"

You nod, your mouth open as you moan, rather loudly as he picked his pace up the more he talked to you. "Y-Yes, baby, fuck yes, fill me up. You're so fucking sexy.. You fuck me so good, Art."

Art groaned at your response, moving his head back to align above yours, his overgrown curls bouncing with his movements, the bed squeaking underneath you. He'd let his hair grow out a bit more lately since you complemented it awhile back.

"Gonna fill this pussy, pretty girl. Gonna give you my cum." He muttered, almost to himself, as he looked between your bodies at what he could see, watching himself fill your hole. It was obvious you were fucking a former pro-athlete. He could fuck you for hours if he wanted to with the amount of stamina he had, regardless of his age. It was fucking hot, how much, and how long, he could fuck you.

You could feel your orgasm increasing the more he penetrated you, the more he pulled his cock nearly out of you and forcing it back inside you, sending jolts through your body. You were already overstimulated enough from just slower sex, him fucking you like a bunny was almost too much for you to take. Not like that was a bad thing though.

"Come on." You talk to him, watching between the two of you, too. "Make me cum, baby. I wanna finish with you, Art. Please, baby. Fuck me so good."

He nods, his body rocking against yours, your legs moving up to wrap around his hips, keeping him closer, and more inside you. You wanted him to fill all of you, not missing a drop of his cum. You wanted him to make you ache when you woke up tomorrow morning.

"Fuck." He groaned, moaning into your mouth as he kissed you, his tongue sliding against yours as he came inside you.

You felt your body jolt, finishing at the same time, as he filled your pussy up. It felt so good to be on the same level, the same energy, as him. So fucking good.

He gave it a few seconds before he pulled out of you, sitting back up, making sure he fucked your right. He rolled to the side before he pulled you closer to him, his hand running through your frizzy hair, kissing the side of your forehead.

You smirked, looking up to him, a small laugh leaving your lips. "What? You can't be shocked, we've had sex so many times I can't even count it at this point."

"I'm not shocked." Art laughed, playing with your hair as he looked up to the ceiling. "It just feels so different with you. You know how much I like you, [Y/N]. Just feels good is all."

"Hm." You watch him look up. You wanted to bring something else up, more emotional topics, but, as much as you knew he did fancy you, you didn't want to fuck up the moment. "Feels good to me, too." Is all you say in return.

Art looks down at you after a moment. "Yeah?" He grins, moving closer to you as he kisses your lips. "Good."

"Yeah." You return his kiss, slightly leaning up as you look to the door. "You wanna eat now? Got your energy out?"

Art shrugs, sitting up. He pecks your bare shoulder. "Maybe not. Maybe can let the rest of it out later."

"God, you're hornier than me." You scoff, pushing him off with a red face, laughing to yourself at the man before you. "Let's eat. I'm starving."

"Whatever you say." He smirks, clearly teasing you, before stepping out of the bed, grabbing his clothes and tossing yours to you.

And that was what was odd about you and Art. It was casual, but not in a hookup sense. Casual in the way that you could sit down and eat with him, make a meal with him, watch shows and movies together, like a normal couple. It drove you insane sometimes. He felt the same way, but how the hell could he tell you that, when he could never actually be with you? He'd have to mask it some type of way, and usually that was through sex. Not like he didn't enjoy it solely for sexual reasons, because, god, he enjoyed fucking you, but he also enjoyed you.

He watched you finish your plate as you sat on the sofa together. You were gorgeous, the perfect picture of the woman he'd want to be with for more than just this. But that was something you'd have to figure out later.

[aviawrites]

when we were teenagers (challengers)

pairings/relationships: tashi duncan x sister!reader, patrick zweig x fem!reader, art donaldson x fem!reader

summary: Tashi Duncan’s younger sister, Ava Duncan, never gets a chance to be seen past her sister’s shadow. When Ava gets injured and Tashi starts gaining fame, the two become more and more at odds with each other. Tashi juggles Art and Patrick while Ava struggles to keep up. When over a decade passes and a peace isn’t reached, either the Donaldsons or Zweigs, either Tashi or Ava, has to come out on top. (7.2k)

a/n: you know the movie was good when you have to rewatch so you have all the info for the fic🥴 with that being said, the dates and stuff may be a little off but i did my best with what wikipedia had to offer. regardless, im a patrick zweig stan 4L. anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily<3

warnings: description of injury, allusions to sex/almost a smut scene, swearing

in this story, yn is: Ava Duncan

March 16, 2006 //📍home, 9:35pm

The goofy grin on the brunette’s face and the blond’s childish giggle replays over and over in your head. Your mother’s muffled snores mix with Art’s laughs as a smile grows on your face, your eyes closed. 

You’ve found yourself in this position too many times, imagining what could’ve been if the cute guys were eyeing you rather than your sister. But you’ve experienced it enough times to not even be hurt by it anymore. No guys approach you at volleyball events, especially not hot ones. So if anything, you find some comfort in lying upside down on the corduroy couch making up scenarios in your head. 

The click of the front door forces your eyes open, sitting upright and perking up like a dog as your sister tip toes through the door.  

“So…” You rest your chin on your fist, “Which one was it?”

“Shh,” Tashi smiles, pointing to your mom’s closed door. “Which one was what?”

“Come on,” You continue as she stands in front of you, “Which one did you…Y’know.”

“Oh my- Neither of them, Ava.”

“What!?”

“Shh!”

You lower your tone, “Seriously? You were alone with them both and didn’t make a move?”

“It wasn’t like that.” She laughs, “They’re like…I dunno, they’re weird.”

You scrunch your face up, “What, are they gay?”

She pauses, cocking her head.

“They’re actually gay?”

“No, no they’re not.” She giggles, “I just didn’t do anything with them. I mean we kissed but that’s it.” 

“Did you kiss the blond?” You interrogate, “I really like the blond…”

“His name is Art and I kissed them both.” She smirks.

You roll your eyes, “Whatever.”

Tashi laughs at you, plopping next to you on the couch and resting her legs across yours.

“They did ask for my number again.”

“What’d you tell them?” You stroke her leg.

“I said whoever wins the match tomorrow gets it.”

“God, I wish.” You sigh, throwing your head back. “I’d kill to see Art just one more time…”

———

May 15th, 2006 //📍home, 6:00pm

You wince as your mom tightens the brace, covering your face in frustration.

“It’s okay, baby.” She kisses your head, “You tell me if you need anything, okay?”

You nod as she presses one more kiss onto your hair before walking out, leaving you alone with your thoughts. 

Almost every athlete you know has been injured before, half of the girls on your team are covered in braces and tape all season. A torn ACL seems more like a right of passage than a serious and life changing injury. But when you heard the pop and felt the ligament rip, it was almost immediate; The realization that you very well may never play again. You’re not sure if yours was worse than others or if you’re just weaker, but the trauma of the blistering pain has turned you away from getting back on the court for the last month. 

You already can tell who’s on the other side of the door from the lack of a knock. You internally sigh, wanting to be left alone, as Tashi sits at the foot of your bed. 

“Hey, I was thinking we could go to the courts today. I could practice with you.” 

“Tashi…”

“I know you haven’t been wanting to go but since you just hit a month I was thinking, you know, maybe you’d want to start working again.”

You shake your head, “Tashi, I don’t think I’m ready.”

“When will you be?” She asks, her voice stern.

You stare at her, “I don’t know, Tashi. Why?”

“I’m just saying Ava, it’s not good to stop for this long. Some people never get back out there and you have to at least try.”

“I am trying.” You raise your voice, “My insides tore apart. Sorry if I’m not eager to put pressure on myself again.”

“There’s no pressure I’m just asking you to get up and at least walk on a court again.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Why the fuck not?” 

“Because I’m fucking scared, Tashi!” You shout, tears falling from your eyes. “I’m fucking scared of it happening again! I am not ready!”

She stares at you, a look that you can only describe as disgust on her face.

“…You don’t even want to drive out there just to see-“

“Get out.” You cover your eyes, a headache creeping up on you.

“Ava, I’m not going to let you waste away in here-“

“Get out of my room or I’m calling mom.” You stare back at her, “Go.” 

She stands, giving you one last look of disapproval before leaving, slighting slamming your door behind her.

———

September 18th, 2006 //📍Stanford Tennis Courts, 5:00pm

“Passing…Down the line…Cross…”

Tashi’s grunts echo throughout the court as you throw shots at her, a pile of green tennis balls forming behind you. It took a few weeks but she got you back on the court, just not the volleyball courts. You’ve watched Tashi’s practices long enough to know the game, so when you reluctantly offered to help her train, she jumped at the opportunity.

You zone out, robotically tossing the balls as Tashi dashes across the court. You silently hope for a specific someone show up. Patrick Zweig had your sister in his phone and occasionally in his bed, but Art Donaldson was a free man. The only Duncan in his phone was Ava, an achievement that you pride yourself on even weeks later. 

Sure, the two of you aren’t a thing, not the way Tashi and Patrick are. But you’re happy to be anything with Art, so the talking stage that you seem to be stuck in doesn’t bother you at all. You can only pray that it’ll blossom into something. Something meaning you being Ava Donaldson in the near future.

As if you summoned him, a very familiar blond boy opens the wire door, locking eyes with you. Your heart skips a beat when he waves at you, your hand immediately dropping the ball and waving back.

Your sister turns around to see Art, a smile growing on her face as she walks over to him. She wraps her arms around him, pulling him in for a hug as you watch. They barely pull away before Tashi begins chatting, her face too close to his for your liking. 

Across the court, they’re too far for you to hear their conversation. But judging from Art’s hand draped over her waist and her arm resting on his shoulder, you see enough to be angry. You can only look down, waiting for the conversation, along with your humiliation, to end. 

After an abundance of giggles, Art turns and walks away, giving you another wave. 

“I’ll see you.” He smiles.

You purse your lips, terribly embarrassed as you nod, “Yeah. Good seeing you, Art.”

The door shuts and with it, your smile drops. Tashi gets back into position like nothing happened, waiting with her racquet. Playing along, you throw her the ball. Only, you don’t call the drill. You throw with a little more force and much more unpredictability as the anger in you rises. 

“Ava…” Tashi calls, frantically chasing the ball. 

It’s only when the ball flies past her head, barely missing her, that she stops.

“Ava, what the fuck!?”

She walks toward you, meeting you at the net.

She shrugs, “What’s up, what’s going on?”

“Are you serious?”

She only looks at you, confused.

“Tashi, come on. You were literally all over him.”

“Wh- Art?” She deciphers, “Oh, Ava my bad I didn’t mean- I really didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah, sure you didn’t.”

“Seriously, I didn’t. He’s my friend I was just saying hey.”

“Saying hey with your arms around each other? That’s bullshit, just say you still like him.” You look down, mumbling. “It’s fine, it’s just annoying that you go after every guy I like knowing they’ll choose you.”

“Hey…” Tashi softens her tone, stepping over the net and nearing you. “Ava.”

“What?” You look at the ground.

“I didn’t mean it like that…” She insists, “I’m just stressed with school and stuff, he’s the only one who gets it.”

“Right.” You roll your eyes, not in the mood for ‘I’m stressed,’ to be the excuse for going after your guy. “It’s not like I go to school too or anything.”

“No, I know you do. It’s just…Stanford’s different, you know?”

“Whatever.”

“Ava,” She lifts your chin to look at her, “I’m sorry, okay?”

The two of you ogle at each other as she waits for an answer. She always does this, almost forces you into accepting her apology which you do not.

“We good?” She asks.

“…Yeah, sure.” You shrug, pulling away from her, “It’s whatever.”

Tashi just looks at you once more, seemingly satisfied as she steps back over the net. She gets back into position as you pick up another ball, a look still on your face.

“Down the line.”

———

December 21st, 2006 //📍Stanford Dining Hall, 12:00pm

“How many?” The employee asks.

“Umm, can I have three?” You lean on the counter, “Or four, actually.”

She reaches under the counter before handing you four mayo packets.

“Thanks.”

You start the walk back toward the table, Patrick having picked the one in the far back. He clearly hasn’t returned from the bathroom as you see Art and Tashi still sitting alone. As you near them, you catch a glimpse of their conversation.

“Don’t you think you deserve it?” Art asks, his eyes so focused on your sister that he doesn’t see you walking up. “I mean, who wouldn’t be in love with you?”

Tashi doesn’t respond, only angrily stands and walks away, nearly knocking you over. She passes you, smoke practically coming out of her ears. You watch her go before sitting where she was, handing Art the packets.

“Thanks.” He smiles, “Patrick still in there?”

“I guess so.” You laugh, insecurity lacing your voice as you simultaneously try to decode the conversation they were having.

“I’m so not surprised.” He takes the bun off of his burger and tears open the white packet with his teeth.

You watch him, hesitant to speak. Though, your words spill out before you can stop them.

“Do you ever wish Patrick let you win the match?” You ask.

Art looks up at you, mid squeeze. He cracks an unsure smile.

“What kind of question is that?” He laughs.

“I don’t know,” You do the same, tragically self conscious. “Maybe you wonder what it’d be like to date my sister or something. I don’t know, it’s stupid.” You look down, fiddling with your fingers.

Art pauses, putting his burger down and placing his hands on yours.

“Hey,” He grabs your attention, “I’m here with you today. 

You smile, “No, I know. It’s just…She’s like better than me in every way so I wouldn’t blame you.” You chuckle.

“What? I don’t think so, I think you’re great.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get in to Stanford. Nor do I win all of the tennis tournament or-“

“Ava,” Art stops you, shaking your head. “You’re just as good as Tashi.”

Your eyes tread on each other as you try your hardest to believe him. But you do realize that this is the exact same way he looked at Tashi on the courts. 

The two of you are snapped out of it as Patrick returns, taking his seat next to Art.

“Sorry, they had like no toilet paper.”

“Oh good, thanks for letting us all know you took a shit, bud.” 

“Whatever. Ava doesn’t give a shit, right?”

“No,” You laugh, “You’re all good, Pat.”

———

📍Tashi’s dorm, 2:00pm

“So if he’s seeing other girls I won’t even fucking know now.” Tashi vents, stretching for her match.

You scroll on your phone, sitting at her desk. “It sounds like he was just trying to be nice, Tash. He was trying to help you out-“

“No, he’s not nice. Nothing about them is nice, Ava. They’re fucking weirdos, both of them. Art just hides behind this persona that he’s so caring and team Duncan when really he wants the same thing from me as Patrick.”

‘He wants the same thing from me.’

You sigh, tired of hearing the same things and watching her run back to them minutes later.

“Then stop complaining and fucking leave him already.” 

Tashi stops in her lunge, “What?”

“You keep complaining about them.” You grunt, “If you really didn’t want the attention you’d just drop them both.”

“If I didn’t want the attention?”

“Yes.” 

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” You say, irritated.

“Ava…” She stands up, looking down at you. You continue scrolling until your phone is snatched from you. “Hey.”

“What the-“

“Do you have something to say to me?”

“Give me my phone back.” You stand up, reaching for it.

“No, say what you mean.”

“Really?” You grab for your phone once more but she pulls it away from you like a child, “Fuck - Okay, Tashi, all you talk about is how hard your life is. How hard training is for a tournament that you know you're going to win. How hard it is dating a famous and touring athlete. How hard it is being friends with the nicest guy who only wants to help you. How fucking hard it is to have two guys fighting over you. How hard it is to go to an ivy league. How hard it is to live the fucking dream. How about you actually do something about it instead of rubbing it in our faces that you're above us and can play with two guys at once because you're so fucking amazing?"

The two of you stand nose to nose, a stance Tashi used to always initiate in order to intimidate you.

“How long have you felt this way?” She asks, her breath shaking.

“Ever since you became the Tashi Duncan and I was left in the dust. Now give me my phone.”

“Are you fucking serious, Ava? You think I asked for this?”

“Asked for what? A great life where you succeed in fucking everything? No, Tashi, you didn't have to ask for it. We worked so fucking hard and only you survived it. I succumbed to my fate, I quit my dream, I went to a shitty college, had shitty friends, watched shitty games, and watched the boys I liked fight for my sister. But no; Please, continue bitching about your hard situation." 

You snatch your phone from her hands, walking toward the door. "Good luck at your fucking match."

———

2:45pm

You barely look up as you exit the library, occupied with connecting your earbuds to your phone. It’s only when you see a familiar black head of hair sitting in the common area that you stop. 

“Patrick?”

He looks back, taking his feet off of the Stanford branded coffee table.

“Oh, hey Ava.” He makes space for you to sit beside him on the small loveseat. “How’s it goin’?”

“Good, um…” You put your stuff on the floor and sit next to him, “Why aren’t you at the tournament?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” He smiles that same crooked smile from the night you met him.

You curl your legs up, leaving your arm on the back of the seat. “Did y’all fight too?”

Patrick leans back, looking over at you. “Yeah. Yeah, we did.” He laughs.

“What was yours about?” You pry, smiling.

“Uh,” He rubs his eye, “Just…not letting her control me. I’m my own boss kind of shit.”

“Seriously?”

“…Yeah, why?”

“That’s what our fight was about too!” You burst into giggles, “Well, not her controlling me but her controlling you. And Art, him too.”

“Shit, Art too?”

“Yeah, I mean, especially Art. You’re the only one who stands up to her bullshit.”

“Oh yeah?” He asks, “I don’t know, you seem to put up a good fight.”

“Yeah, but I’m her sister. It’s takes a brave man to break free of Tashi Duncan.”

“Oh god, did I break free?”

“You definitely broke free.” The two of you laugh.

“No but I see what you’re saying, she definitely had me whipped.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like I remember one time,” He turns toward you, getting comfy, “The first time her and I, um…”

“Oh, Jesus.” You cover your face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He laughs, “But the first time we did, I remember she said she’d leave me if I told anyone. And I was head over heels, so of course I didn’t want to tell, right?”

“Right.”

“But Art’s my guy, y’know? So instead of being straight up and jeopardizing Tashi’s love, we made this stupid ass signal.” He tells in between laughs, “The way that Art serves - Like, you know how he puts the ball at the neck of his racquet?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You listen intently.

“Well, if I served that way, that meant yes, we did sleep together, And if I served my way, it meant we didn’t.”

“…And?”

“Well, I put that motherfucker right in the middle.”

“Oh my-“

You and Patrick erupt into laughs, covering your mouths as the librarian eyes the two of you. Your stomach starts to ache, not being able to remember the last time you had this kind of belly laugh.

“Well, cheers to breaking free of her.” You put your fist up.

“Oh hell yeah, cheers to that.” He bumps it.

———

3:05pm

The crowd outside thins out as you and Patrick head down the back halls and toward the parking lot. In true honor of breaking free, the two of you decided to not say goodbye. Instead, you’d go home without saying a word to your sister. 

You’re a few doors down from the exit when Patrick stops in his tracks, looking into the nurses office.

“Tashi…” He walks in. 

You enter the doorway, peeking in behind him. Inside, you see Tashi sitting on the table, Art by her side.

“No, out.” Your sister points.

“I’m sorry-“

“Get out!”

“Tashi, listen to me-“

“No, get out!”

“Please-“

“Patrick, get the fuck out!” Art shouts, standing.

Patrick stays for a moment, taken aback as he looks from Tashi to Art. If he has the same vision as you, it’s clear that it’s them against him. It’s no longer Patrick and Tashi, but Art and Tashi. 

He looks back at you before obeying, walking down the hallway. 

Now alone, you come into full view, nearing your sister.

“Tash, what happened-“

“You too.”

You stop, tilting your head. “What?”

“I don’t want you here, leave.”

“Wh- Are you serious?”

“Ava, I think you should just go.” Art says lowly, wary to step in between you too.

You ignore him, “Tashi, I’m your sister.”

You get no answer, she only looks forward. You look at Art as he stands over her like some bodyguard. 

Just as Patrick did, you back away, realizing what this is. You frantically look between the two as you wait for Tashi to change her mind, to see that regardless of what fight you had you’re still sisters. Though, it’s clear that doesn’t mean anything to her, it’s been clear for a while now. 

Now, it’s only Art and Tashi.

———

10:03pm

“Coming in from Stanford; Student and highly lauded tennis player, Tashi Duncan, took a hard hit at her match against Pepperdine this afternoon. Sources say a hard fracture to the knee has Tashi in the care of medical professionals. It is unknown if she’ll ever be able to play again.” 

The blinding fluorescent lights of the cheap fast food place burn your eyes as you and Patrick look up at the TV. 

You bury your head in your hands, groaning.

“Fuck.” 

“She probably thinks she’ll never be able to play again.”

“Please, please don’t say that, Patrick. I’ll feel so guilty.”

“Ava, there’s nothing we could’ve done.”

“We could’ve at least showed up.” You rub a hand over your head.

“Hey,” He forces you to look at him, “None of this is our fault, okay? Injured or not, she still treated us like shit. Art only gets to stay by her side because he’s whipped.”

“I just…” You sigh, “I just wish I had been there.”

The two of you stand up, leaving the restaurant. Outside, a huge Adidas billboard with your sister’s face on it dominates the sky.

The two of you get into Patrick’s car, him cranking it up and turning down the radio.

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay.” He nods, looking at you.

“Like…” You think, “Your tour.”

“Oh, God.”

You laugh, “When are you set to go back?”

“Uh, next week I’m pretty sure. But if I’m being honest, I don’t even want to go. I’ve been getting my ass kicked out there.”

“Patrick, Tashi would lose it if she heard you say that.”

He leans in, resting his arms on the center console as he examines your face. “Let’s not talk about Tashi…” 

“Okay,” You hold the intense eye contact that he began, “What do you want to talk about?”

His nose is almost touching yours as you unconsciously near him, eyes flickering from his eyes to his lips.

“Let’s talk about you.” He grins, rubbing your waist.

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me what you like.” He says, lowering his lips to your neck and softly pressing.

“I, um,” You tilt, holding the back of his head as he gets sloppier, “I loved volleyball. My team was out of California but we travelled for tournaments. We ranked…fuck…we ranked second in the country-“

Patrick cuts you off, his lips ravaging yours as he runs his hands over you. You can’t stop yourself from leaning into him, crawling over to sit on his lap. Both of your hands get more and more heavy as he pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it in the backseat.

“Fuck,” You say in between kisses, “Fuck, wait.”

“What?” He looks up at you, “What, is something wrong?”

“Is this wrong to do?” You ask, out of breath. “Should we stop? What about Tashi and Art?”

“They yelled at us to leave when we tried to help.” He reminds you, “Why should we stop when they treated us like that?”

You look at him, convincing yourself that you’re considering it when all you want to feel is your mouth on his.

And you do, pushing the thoughts of Tashi and Art far from your mind.

———

February 15th, 2011 // 📍Zweig condo, 9:30am

5 years later

At one point in your life, it would take you multiple seconds to figure out how to say the dollar amount that you and your husband had in your bank account. Now, as the number almost falls short of five figures, you feel ashamed just looking at it. 

You switch tabs on the laptop, the light from the ceiling to floor window behind it hurting your eyes. Scrolling through tournament options, the distances only get further and the prize money higher. Years ago, you and Patrick wouldn’t even consider the amount, as Patrick just wanted to play tennis; And that still holds true, only you’ve been stuck in your ways for so long that he’s forgotten how to play to win. 

Nails scratch the hardwood behind you as your golden doodle, Bear, comes barreling down the hall. Right behind him is your husband, chasing the dog around the living room.

“I’m gonna getcha, I’m gonna getcha!” He says, the dog running desperately from him. 

You chuckle, “Good morning.”

You hear Patrick give Bear a smooch before walking over to you, wrapping his arms around your neck.

“Good morning, baby.” He kisses your neck, looking at the screen. “Found anything good?”

“Not really,” You groan, frustrated. “I don’t know when these matches got so fucking far.”

“It’s okay,” He strokes your head, “I’m sure there’s one we can make it to.”

You continue scrolling, the qualifier maximum getting smaller and smaller.

“What about this one?” He points.

“Atlanta? Patrick, that’s on the other side of the country.”

“I know, I know. But we can make the trip, no? I hear some of our friends may be there.”

You turn your head, furrowing your brows at him. A sly smile plasters over his face, one that makes you realize all too quickly.

“They’re going to be there?” 

He nods.

“God, why would you want to be anywhere near them?” 

“We probably won’t even see them, baby. But if they’re there we’ll have a big crowd.” 

You think on it, the thought of seeing Tashi making your stomach turn in knots.

“…And look at that winner’s reward money.” He says convincingly.

A sigh escapes you before clicking submit, Patrick’s entry automatically being sent.

“Mm,” He kisses your wedding ring finger, “Thank you, baby.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You jokingly roll your eyes, pecking him on the cheek.

——

February 24th, 2011 //📍Atlanta, 7:40pm

Nausea consumes you as Patrick’s smell fills your senses. The aroma of the city is one thing, the aroma of your husband another, but the scent of your sister’s old perfume radiates off of him like a cancer.

You watch as he sets his coat down, coming behind the couch to kiss you. 

“Did you-“ You pull your face away, not able to let him touch you, “Did you see anyone we know?”

Patrick is taken aback, looking at you with a confused smile.

“No…Why?”

His eyes bore into yours as you search for any answer than the one you’re imagining. Though, as he hands you the chinese takeout bag and takes a seat next to you, you find yourself voiding the conclusion entirely; Your mind not willing to believe the man you love would be meeting her. 

He wraps his arms around you, watching the TV. As the smell seems to corrupt every sense you have, a tear sneaks into your cheek, the possibility still piercing your gut. Even so, you wrap your arms back around him.

As of this moment, the comfort of hiding in his arms trumps the possibilities of the truth.

——

June 3rd, 2013 // 📍Zweig Condo, 3:00pm

2 Years Later

‘Hey, I know it’s been a while. But if you’re willing, I’d love to come out and see you and the baby. - A ♡’

The ‘Read’ under your message seems to taunt you the longer you stare. Your phone screen is interrupted by a call, ‘Mom,’ at the top of the screen. You answer.

A small gasp escapes you as you’re immediately met with the smallest human you’ve ever seen. You’d know she was Tashi’s in a sea of babies. You wave your husband over, eyes staying on the baby.

“Oh my goodness.” You whisper, “Hi, baby.”

Her eyes stay closed, her hands in small fists.

“Oh, Ava, she’s so beautiful.” Your mom lowly says down the phone.

“Is…” You wipe away a stray tear, “Is Tashi okay?”

The camera flips from the baby to your mother.

“You know you could always ask her yourself, honey.”

“No, I know. But- Just tell them we said congratulations. She’s precious.”

Your mom lets out a sigh as she looks from you to behind the camera.

“Mom, who is that?” You hear your sister’s voice in the background. 

Your hands turn clammy, your heart beating faster and faster as she begins to turn the phone to Tashi.

“Um, Mom we gotta go, we’re breaking up. I love you-“

“Wait, Ava-“

“Love you, mom.” You spit out, hanging up and turning your phone face down.

You stare out for a minute, shocked at your body’s response to your sister’s voice. Sobs escape your mouth before you can stop them. You shove your face in your hands.

“Oh, baby.” Patrick holds you, rubbing your back.

“It’s been too long.” You cry, “She fucking hates me.”

“You don’t know that.” He reassures you, “She may come around. You did good.”

———

May 1st, 2019 // 📍New Rochelle, 10:00am

6 Years later

Making it to New York from home took up the rest of Patrick’s savings. The house that you downsized to is completely funded by you and your remote sales salary. Patrick continues to fight a losing battle with tennis, barely able to pay for food for himself every week. Straining your marriage was the last consequence of his money struggles. Though, it has the biggest impact on your day to day. Nonetheless, you remain by his side. In all honesty, you’re not completely sure how to continue anywhere else. 

“I’m going to see Art today.” Patrick tells you, downing a handful of trail mix.

“Art?” You ask, holding Bear’s paws on your

thighs, “Why would you do that? It’s been years.”

“I think it’s been long enough, we’re already here.” He shrugs, “I think it might be good for me.”

You focus on Bear, still not seeing a clear reason as to why he’d want to speak to Art after a decade.

“Maybe you should go see Tashi.”

Your eyes snap to him, her name barely being spoken in your house for the last six years.

“…And do what?”

He shrugs, “Might be good for you…”

…

1:00pm

Your stomach seems to twist in a thousand ways as you continuously fix your hair and outfit on the way into the far too fancy hotel. As you pass the lobby, you almost turn around and throw up. But as your sister heads for the elevator, you know this is your one chance to speak to her.

Your shoes thump against the marble floor as you jog after her.

“T- Tashi!” You whisper shout, reaching her just in time.

She turns around. Taking one look at you, she looks to your left and right, utterly confused.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, tone laced with disgust.

It’s been so long. She looks so different, her voice has such a maturity to it. But that dominating energy that she brings everywhere hasn’t changed a bit.

“Well I…” You fumble, all of your practice going out the window. “ I heard you were here, I wanted to say hello.”

“Say hello?” She looks you up and down, turning her full attention to you as she steps forward. “Honestly, I don’t want your fucking hello, Ava. Really, I don’t.”

You shake your head, “Tashi-“

"I can't believe you have the balls to be here. After what you fucking did to me."

"What I-“ You compose yourself, remembering exactly how arguments with your sister always go. “Tashi, what the fuck did I do to you?"

"Are you serious?" She asks, "You're joking, yes?"

"No, I'm really not."

"You left me for 13 years by my fucking self." She raises her voice, "I had a wedding, I had a baby, and where were you? My sister was too stuck on a grudge to ever come back into my life, you're a waste of my fucking time." She begins to walk away.

“Hey.” You follow her, grabbing her arm and spinning her back around.

“Get off.”

"Not one of those events was I invited to, Tash. Not one. If you wanted me back, if you gave a shit, you would've acted like it. But you're not going to sit here and act like I was in the wrong and I should've reached out to you. Hell, I did fucking reach out to you.”

“In the wrong?” She snatches her arm from you. “Ava, are you clinically fucking stupid? You're hung up on a situation from 13 years ago-"

"No, but it's not from 13 years ago, Tashi.” You cut her off, getting in her face. “Because you're doing the same thing right now that you did when you were 18. You're sitting here blaming the world for your life decisions. You're blaming me for being angry that you were and are a narcissist who wants someone else to be the athlete that you never were. Every time I thought of coming back l'd imagine what my sister would say and I couldn't do it. But guess what Tashi, now I see through you. I fucking see it, Patrick sees it, and when Art finally opens his eyes you'll finally see yourself for what you are."

She stares at you, a chuckle escaping her. "Ava, this is pathetic. Genuinely. Because at the end of the day, it's not my fucking fault that you gave up. Now l'm in a position where I don't have to be here. I have a life, a pretty fucking good one, outside of this. Outside of you. This Final, it's practice. It's fucking child's play for us, whereas for the Zweigs...This is it for you. Your last fucking loss.”

“Yeah. Okay Tash.” You roll your eyes, "Keep throwing insults at me to distract from the fact that you're a shitty person."

"I'm a shitty pers- You fucking abandoned your family for 13 fucking years!"

"Because my sister is an insufferable egomaniac who can't accept the fact that her husband doesn't want to do this shit anymore and her tennis life is over!” You shout back, your voices echoing throughout the hotel. “It's fucking over Tashi, give it up. That's why I left you, because you're fucking dreadful! You're dreadful and everyone knows it."

Tashi slowly nods, the hotel staff looking at the two of you.

"...Ava, do you know what your husband does late at night?"

Your eyes widen, your heart skipping a beat as she addresses the unspoken.

"Fuck you." You spit.

"I'm really asking, because from what I experienced...You're a lucky woman."

Now you’re the one with disgust in your eyes, the urge to spit in her face stronger than ever before.

“…Say hi to mom for me, Tashi." You say, your hands balling into fists.

“Happy to.” She utters, walking toward the elevator. “Tell Patrick I’m wishing him good luck.”

…

3:00pm

You only tell your husband bits a pieces of your encounter, not daring to remind him of the man he was in Atlanta.

“I don’t even know why I tried.”

“Both of them are assholes.” He agrees, “At least now we’re sure of it.”

“I guess.” You bite your nails, stroking Bear’s ears. “Patrick you have to beat him in the Final. We can’t let them win.”

“I know, baby.” He nods, on your wavelength. “I know.”

——

May 4th, 2019 // Night Before the Final, 11:25pm

“Pat, it’s really coming down out there.” You look out of the hotel window, tarps flying into the street. “What if they cancel the match?”

“They’d never do that.” He watches the TV, “It should lighten up by morning.” 

You hum, snuggling next to him as the bright screen flashes through an action sequence. Patrick’s phone vibrates, his phone brightness lighting the rest of the room.

“Oh, baby.” He shifts his body, making you sit up. “I gotta go.”

“Now? Why?” You try to look on his phone but he pulls it away, scrolling.

“I have to, um,” He rubs his head, looking stressed. “My racquet, I have to pick it up.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“They just messaged reminding me that we have to have this certain racquet to compete tomorrow.” He stands up, rushing toward the door.

“What- Patrick,” You follow him, “It’s like a fucking flash flood out there, can you not do this tomorrow?”

“Baby, they close at midnight, I gotta go,” He kisses you, “I love you.”

“Patrick, wait-“

“I love you, I have to go!” He shuts the door behind him.

…

12:30am

You have a strange urge to cry as you scroll through Art Donaldson’s instagram. Photos of him and his seemingly perfect family are plastered all over, an ‘@Tashidonaldson ♡’ at the top of his bio.

Patrick never wanted kids, said they’d cost too much and you couldn’t care for them. He was correct about the former, but care for children, you are willing and able to do. But when you married him, he did a lot of the decision making for you. 

Now, as he’s blown all of your savings, lost his tennis touch, and been out of the damn hotel room for an hour doing god knows what , you wish you could shout at past you to get a grip. 

Though, looking at these picture now, you wish you could do the same to past Art Donaldson too. 

———

May 5th, 2019 // 📍New Rochelle Courts, 1:00pm

Final Day

The crowd’s heads robotically turned side to side as Art and Patrick dog it out in a vicious match. You sit in your assigned seat next to your sister, the endless stream of slander not ceasing, not even today.

“Is he retiring after this?” You ask, your head still going between the men.

Tashi shrugs, her expression hidden behind her sunglasses. “Maybe.”

"...I don't think Patrick will ever retire. I think tennis is all he has."

She hums, "If only he'd start winning his matches."

"He doesn't always play for the wins, Tashi."

"Yeah, he plays for the participation money."

"Maybe he does." You say, "At least he does it by choice."

She looks to you, her attention no longer on her husband’s tie breaker. "Art does it by choice."

“Like hell he does.” You scoff, “He wouldn't be retiring after becoming a Career Grand Slam if he wanted to be doing this.”

“Art is an adult, he does what he wants.” She looks back to the court.

“Art is your slave, he does what you want.”

Tashi continues trying to get to you. As Patrick sets for his next serve, he looks in your direction. Only, he isn’t looking at you, he’s looking at your sister. He returns his gaze to Art, placing his ball in the neck of his racquet.

Both you and Art freeze, staring at your husband. The men seem to be in their own world, but Patrick must’ve forgotten that you know too. The word seems to muffle around you as you stare at your husband’s evil grin at Art.

You stand on shaky legs, grasping your stomach as bile threatens to come up. 

“Hey…” Tashi calls after you, “Ava, what the fuck are you doing?”

You run to the nearest exit, Patrick’s blatant disrespect and repulsiveness making you want to genuinely die where you stand.

It’s only as you stumble to your car that it truly hits you who the man you married really is, and how he really sees you. 

Like everyone else, he thinks you’re a pawn in Tashi’s game. A piece that can be battered and bruised but will never go away, as it’s crucial to the game of Tashi. You want to vomit as you sit in your car, Patrick’s scent sending you into a violent sick.

———

May 14th, 2019 // 📍Zweig home, 12:00pm

9 Days Later

Three knocks at the door echo through your almost empty house. You pause your show, unlatching the chain and opening it. 

Patrick stands in front of you, a hysterical attempt of a sad expression on his face.

“Everything’s here.” You walk him in, pointing to the boxes full of his stuff in the kitchen. “The only things that aren’t are your racquets, trophies, cups, stuff like that. Those are in the closet so they wouldn’t get mixed up.”

“Thanks.” He says, feeling like an alien in this house.

“Yeah.” You give him a thumbs up, returning to the couch next to Bear.

He spends an hour loudly moving his things from the kitchen to his car, the sound almost drowning out your show. Regardless, you stay put, wanting him to be done as fast as he can.

“Ava…” He calls over the reality TV. You ignore him, popping another veggie straw into your mouth. 

Suddenly, his arm comes from behind you, grabbing the remote and muting it.

“Hey.” You turn around.

“I’m talking to you.”

“Okay, well I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Ava, I’m sorry-“

“Pat,” You chuckle, not being able to keep it in. “Don’t even.”

“Baby, listen to me, okay? I fucked up-“

“Patrick, Patrick!” You stand up, “Just stop, okay? Leave me be, finish getting your shit, and I’ll have the papers served to you by the end of the week.”

“Baby, no. Please.”

“Honey, there’s nothing you can say.” You shake your head, having prepared for his begging days ago. “Go beg to your mistress, yeah?”

He continues rambling, stumbling over his words. “Ava, it was such a bad mistake. I told myself it was strategy and- And because me and her have a complicated past I couldn’t see straight-“

“But nothing about us is complicated, right? We are married, we’re supposed to be a team. But you betrayed me, plain and simple.” You lay it out for him, “You’re a cheater and we’re done, now go.”

“It was a mistake-“

“Patrick…” You inhale, “I’m trying not to lose it, you need to get the fuck out.”

“Just hear me out-“

“Get out of the house, Patrick.” 

“We can come back from this, Ava. We can.”

Your jaw hangs agape in genuine disbelief. He seems to notice he fucked up again as he stops speaking. You walk around the couch, getting in his face the same way Tashi used to get in yours.

“Patrick,” You begin, “I gave everything for you. I gave up my life, I gave up my family, I gave up Art, I left it all for you. I abandoned so much to be in your corner because I was in love with you, I really was. Whether you felt the same about me, I’ll never actually know-“

“I loved you, baby. I still love you-“

“But I thought you were the one who understood me, Patrick. But somehow every time I gave you a chance to correct yourself you threw it away to be with Tashi. Over and over. She’s constantly being picked over me, her feelings over mine, her body over mine, her opinion over mine…You’re just another one of her fans. You’re just like Art- Honestly, you’re fucking worse. At least  he pretended to like me all those years ago. Now, as my husband, you just don’t give a shit. Just publicly showing that you slept with my sister.”

“…Why do you keep bringing up Art?” He looks down at you, “Do you- Do you feel something for him still?”

“Oh my fucking-“ You cover your face, composing yourself once again before continuing. “Pat, it’s been a long, long time since this all started. And if I could go back I’d change many things. But at the end of it all, I’m here because I worked for it and I endured it. You and Art can stay stuck under Tashi’s finger, that’s fine. But I know that life is bigger than that. Bigger than this weird threesome love triangle shit that you circle back to every few years. I am a grown woman who is in control of her own life so if you don’t have anymore comments, you need to get out and sign the papers when they’re served to you, Patrick.”

“…Baby, please,” He cries, his lip quivering. “You love me, we love each other. Please just think about it.”

You tilt your head, “Do you want me to be honest?”

Patrick nods, hiccuping on his tears.

“…All of this is really really beneath me.” You quietly tell him.

He lowers his head, his hands covering his eyes.

“When I was 18 I might have been broken over stuff like this but…” You shrug, “Things are very very different from when we were teenagers.” 

[orbitariums]

christopher moltisanti x black! reader (snippet) as promised literally LAST YEAR... i know my people are still waiting on it i'm so sorry for leaving yall hanging, gays can u ever forgive me?

this is a SNIPPET of the shit i literally started last week... there's room for improvement and hopefully this will force me to finish this. also if any of y'all are also into challengers, i've got some patrick zweig and art donaldson (x black reader) fic posted and more incoming ehehehe.

anyway. set in like s3/s4, when christopher was working in an office (completely blanking on when that actually was but you'll have to forgive me i literally started this last summer (and still haven't finished the sopranos because i am notoriously slow at finishing tv shows))

cappuccino w/ extra cream | christopher moltisanti x black!reader

contains: smut, mentions of racial tension, christopher is NOT an abusive racist in this sopranosverse <3

You and Christopher Moltisanti were not a predictable match. It was only by chance that you met, while he was ordering lunch at the bodega you worked at after he had scored a hit in your neighborhood. He knew better than to come back, especially just for you, but he did. Over and over he came in, ordering a turkey and cheese on a roll with extra relish, shoving an inappropriately large tip in the tip jar just for you— just enough times until you caved in and let him take you out to dinner.

Of course, your family had a fit, and you didn’t even want to think about what Christopher went through with his crew when it came time to finally tell them about his forbidden love life. But all of the ruckus had died down, and now between the two of your crews was this unspoken, stifled agreement that they would let this union exist in peace. It was the 90s for god’s sake, and Christopher was a stubborn mule. 

Once he knew what he wanted, there was no backing down, even if it made him look like an idiot to those whom he served. And by god, did he want you. He was obsessed with you. Always wining and dining you, showing you off without shame. Of course, you two had been through your ups and downs, but Christopher treated you right. You were probably the first woman he’d treated right, the first he cared for unconditionally. No pains in sight except those he took to spoil you and cherish you beyond the diamonds and Versace pumps he gifted you. Even Paulie could respect it, along with the rest. It’s partially why they left it alone, and even smiled and shook your hand when you showed up on his arm. He thought about you every waking moment, he was positively lovestruck. 

It was a slow day at the office. Already Christopher had to reprimand Thing One and Thing Two for trying to intimidate the new guy. He was secluded now in his office, scrolling aimlessly on his chunky desktop computer when he heard a knock at the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, baby!” came your voice, tinkling like bells in his ear and positively soaring through the room from the other side of the door. 

Christopher stood up, standing straight as if he’d just downed a shot of espresso, and he had to physically resist flinging himself at the door for the sake of the guys outside who were watching him. He opened it, first looking past you and glaring at the guys who had frozen on their phones and computers, gaping at the sight of you being let into Christopher’s office. Like they’d never seen anybody before. 

“What are you jerkoffs looking at?” Christopher barked. “Get back to work!”

Immediately resumed the punching sounds of typing and the drawls of the sleazy salesmen on the phone with their poor customers. As if it were nothing, Christopher retreated back, facing you with a broad, charming smile.

“YN, baby… what are you doin’ here?” he asked, that dopey lover boy tinkle sneaking into his voice, which always did anytime he talked to you. He sounded like a completely different person— like the Chris he might have been if he weren’t born into the family he was born into. He took your arms into his hands, caressing them gently, softly smiling. “Here, come in.”

He opened the door wide enough for you to come in, glared at everyone once again when you walked past, and then closed it, clicking the door locked. Not that anyone would try to come in unannounced anyway.   

“Wanted to see you, that’s all,” you smiled, plush lips pressed against one another. “Got off work early, got you a capp and chocolate biscotti. Extra creamy, just how you like it.”

You sat down at the chair opposite his desk, setting down two coffee cups and a crinkly paper bag. Christopher felt like he was dreaming. His discontent seemed to fade away now that you were here— bright colors replaced the dull dram palette of his lonely office and he only had eyes for you. The smell of creamy espresso wafted towards him, mingling with the praline swirls of perfume that glided off of your pressure points. He was in Heaven— he was sure of it. All of his senses were overwhelmed by beauty when he was around you. 

“My girl. Always so sweet,” Christopher picked up a cup and sat down in his desk chair across from you. He pried open the lid and took a deep sniff, all the while maintaining the most tantalizing eye contact with you, both of you staring at each other with smirking smiles painted on your lips. 

“Go on, drink it,” you prompted him, unable to hide the smile from your voice. 

“What, I can’t look at you instead?” Christopher crooned back. “C’mere. Come, sit on my lap. Sitting across from me, what are you, a client?”

You shook your head, laughing at Christopher’s incessant demands to always be close to you, always be looking at you. He was always touchy-feely and lovey-dovey. His affinity for physical touch lurked not so far beyond the cold mobster exterior. You got up anyway, slinked over to him, and sat. One leg crossed over the other, the skin of one thigh sinking into the other. He wrapped his arms around you and nuzzled his chin into your shoulder, gazing up at you. 

“Your hair looks nice,” Christopher commented, gently grabbing a handful of your fresh auburn-colored braids and stroking his hand through the gaps.

“Oh, thank you,” you snaked a hand through your hair, tilting your head so you could see Christopher better. 

“You go to that salon? Put it on my card?”

“Of course, baby. Thank you,” you smiled coyly, kissing his cheek with a loud smack.

“You just tell me anytime you need to get your hair done. With you, it’s every two weeks, but I can’t complain.”

You snickered,

“Yeah, until I make you sit there and wait for me for six hours to get some braids.”

“I dunno how you do it. You’ve got patience like nobody else,” Christopher replied, pushing some of your braids to the other side.

“We have patience like no other.”

Christopher looked down at your skirt— a tight pencil skirt that matched the brown hues of your skin and hugged your curves nicely. You matched it with a blazer and a white blouse. You looked so sexy and professional, and elegant.

“And this skirt,” Christopher continued, layering on the compliments with a renewed curiosity, the kind of curiosity that wanted to know what was under the skirt. His hands, rough and large, found their way onto your lap and your thigh. His hands, marred and toughened from his profession, felt nothing like your buttery smooth skin, but still, you found yourself melting into his touch. Your wispy lashes brushed against your cheek as your eyes fluttered slightly closed. 

“Burberry. You like it?” you bit down on your lip, giving him doe eyes as you craned your neck to coo at him. 

A deep smirk set on Christopher’s lips and his thick brows rose slightly. His hands left your body for only a moment to raise up in the air as if considering the question, then they were right back where they belonged, 

“Do I like it? I wanna fuck you with it on.”

Your mouth dropped.

“Christopher!” you enunciated each syllable, glaring back at him with twinkling, faux scandalized wide eyes. 

“What? I can’t be honest anymore?” Christopher asked, his words beginning to sound muffled as he pressed his lips against your neck ever-so-gently, but enough so that you could feel it. “I’m Catholic. Lying is a sin.”

“What’re you doing, Chris?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes amusedly. You wouldn’t keep up this facade for long, but he would play along and break down your walls. 

“You smell so fucking good,” Christopher practically inhaled your scent, his big nose pressed against the nape of your neck. “You got more of this stuff?”

You frowned slightly, remembering that you were savoring the last of it,

“I’m almost out.”

“I’ll get you more,” Christopher replied immediately. “Make that your signature scent.”

You chuckled at Christopher’s insistence, his matter-of-fact way of speaking about certain things. Not controlling, but honest about what he wanted. 

“Okay, I will,” you grinned. 

Christopher pushed away your braids so that one side of your neck was completely bare for him to continue peppering kisses upon. It was clear to you that he wanted more than just this, as sweet as it was. And you wanted it too, but not without teasing him first. 

“I want you right now,” Christopher said, a certain desperation tinged in his voice that only you could provoke. He knew he’d have you, and could have you… but still, every time, he seemed to rescind into this character of the enthralled lover boy who didn’t quite have the girl. Like he was still ordering sandwiches from the other side of the counter and telling you to keep the change. 

“Christopher! You’re at work. What if someone hears?”

Christopher snorted through his nose, 

“I don’t give a fuck. ‘Sides, only thing those jerkoffs can hear is the sound of their own 

mouth-breathing.”

You giggled, but half-heartedly, trying to catch your breath. Christopher wasn’t the only one who was defenseless in this relationship. You wouldn’t be able to guess it right away, but he had you wrapped around his finger too, right along with his Cuban ring. Everything he did positively enraptured you, even if it made him dangerous. But when you were with him, everything was swathed in the softest fabrics, and the air smelled of fresh linen and fields of flowers. None of the blood and tears that his work consisted of. 

You crumpled under his touch, easily. He knew you, mind, soul, and more presently, body. The room was silent, bar for the slightest sounds of lips against your neck and fabric swishing against itself as he eased his hand further up your thigh, pushing underneath your skirt. By now his kisses against your neck had you tilting your head back in pleasure, your lips slightly parted. You could feel the outline of his cock against your ass and wanted nothing more than to get closer. Each time you saw each other it was like you hadn’t seen each other in years, would never see each other again. The passion never dissipated. 

His hand crept further and further until it reached the side of your panties, lifting the elastic band and then letting it slap against your skin. His kisses against your neck grew deeper and traveled up to your chin, his other hand wrapped around your waist tightly. You gasped slightly at Chris’ suggestive touch.

“Christopher…” you whispered, your voice reduced to a weak shiver, lids becoming heavy. 

“What?” he responded, his breath heavy. 

“Please, I need you to touch me.”

“Where?” Christopher asked, fighting the smile that was pulling at his lips. 

“Here!” you exclaimed with desperation, grabbing his hand and pressing it against the center of your panties where there was a wet mark. 

“Oh, there,” Christopher replied, fingers pressing into you over the delicate fabric. 

“Yes, please,” you whimpered, your whole body beginning to tense up as if preparing for sweet impact. 

You were relieved when you felt him push your panties to the side and you could finally feel his fingers against your flesh, prodding at your folds as if collecting your wetness along his fingertips. 

“You’re always so wet,” he shuddered, wasting no time and pushing a thick finger into your hole, making you nearly jump out of your seat on his lap. Instead, though, you simply arched your hips up against his finger, letting out a deep exhale. “And so warm.”

“Oh!” you yelped out in pleasant shock when Christopher added another finger, fully stretching you out now and sending a buzzing vibration up your spine. 

“Thought you didn’t want anybody to hear us?” Christopher taunted you, lips hot against your ear. 

“Ugh,” you moaned, rolling your eyes. “Just—please.”

“Please what?” Christopher asked, all while quickening the pace of his fingers inside you, switching from slow, scissoring motions to a fast slam that caused you to collapse against his chest, your legs pried open. Christopher moaned to himself at the feeling of your wet slick against his fingers, the way he could feel you getting wetter as he pushed his fingers in and out of your hot entrance. 

“Please fuck me,” you whined, your voice taking on an entirely new high pitch as you jolted into the pleasure and the change of pace. 

“‘M gonna fuck you, don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Christopher kept pushing his learned fingers into you, hitting your g-spot with ease. “Gonna make you take my cock.”

“M-mhm,” you gasped out. Chris wanted to see this through, but the way he was straining against his pants was killing him. It was painful not to be able to be inside of you. 

“Fuck, I’m taking this off,” he announced, and you both fumbled together to unzip your skirt and toss it onto the floor. His pants and boxers came next, along with your panties. All thrown carelessly around the room. Then he lifted you and turned you around so you were facing him, straddling him on his desk chair. You were already desperately grinding against the base of his cock, your arousal trailing up his shaft. 

“You’re such a fucking slut,” Christopher’s voice seemed to grind into a growl as he watched you roll your hips desperately against his cock. 

“Please,” you pouted, his words passing through you like a gust of wind— you hardly registered them. You were too busy grabbing at his cock and trying to 

“Why’d you really come here, huh? To get fucked?”

You hated and loved how easy it was for him to turn you into putty. 

more soon i promithhh <3 keep me on my toes yall

[ginnysgraffiti]

coach as reader, nervous and attention-deprived art.

&. ART DONALDSON x yn.

you could sense that art was nervous just by witnessing his presence.

you could see it in the way his muscles kept tensing, in the way he kept chewing the same gum for half an hour and it would have certainly lost its taste by now, and in the way his tennis shoes kept tapping on the slippery floor of the locker room as if he was in the throes of a nervous tic.

you had been his personal coach for a while now -he begged for it- and his progress was surprisingly evident during the season's tournament.

there was to say that you were also his girlfriend, even if, lately, you refused to believe it was right to call yourself so.

despite everything, you were a coach who was paid by other high or inspiring tennis players at the foundations of the profession, and this meant that you had to show up at their tournaments and at their awards ceremonies as well.

a set of events and organizations that were meticulous or complicated to fit together, so you weren't surprised if you rarely saw art or if you barely managed to train him.

that day, he had prepared for a very important match, and unfortunately you hadn't been able to train him.

you had entrusted your boyfriend to another coach on campus, who was nevertheless capable and well informed on the work points that art had to satisfy.

at the same time, you couldn't know if during training he had kept his feet fast, his wrists down, or if he had made sure to not pull back too far before he hit the drop volley; and that made you feel horrible.

"baby...it'll be okay. you'll play amazingly." you put up a smile, sitting in front of him.

"oh yeah? that coach didn't even manage to improve my serve, to not talk about the return."

"c'on art...he's very good."

"not for me. i wanted you..." he pouted childishly, looking down.

"you know well i train other players."

"but...you had been barely around me..." he complained again, still looking at his soles nervously wearing themselves against the floor.

you got up just to put the last two rackets inside his bag and give it to him.

his expression didn't change one inch, he still looked exhausted and worn out.

you could perfectly tell that days without you had him limp and feeble.

"babe...hey, look at me."

you kneeled in front of his seat, kissing his bare knee as you waited for him to meet your gaze.

"mh?"

"you'll do amazing today. i'll be there watching and cheering for my talented boyfriend. i promise, after today's match we'll go to the hotel and spend time together. we can cuddle and watch films, and i won't go anywhere."

he seemed to hesitate a little.

"promised...?"

"promised."

your lips met in a soft and eager kiss.

as you pulled back, you fixed his blonde hair and rested one hand on his cheek.

you made sure he would spit his gum in your palm, before kissing him again and walking towards the stands to wait for the match.

[ginnysgraffiti]

i didn't see any posts about art or patrick playing so i decided to write it myself :)

(forgive me if something's wrong, i haven't played tennis for a long time.)

this is just something random i've been keeping in my drafts, but don't worry i'll write some smut about art too.

also, tysm for all your requests, i swear i'm trying to keep up :,)

coach as reader, tennis obsessed art, determined art.

ART DONALDSON x yn.

that morning you were in a white tennis skirt and polo shirt, a cream-colored cardigan on top. a pair of new socks and a brand-new blindingly white pair of tennis shoes on your feet.

art was wearing his usual white uniqlo playing t-shirt with the blue collar, matching the sweat cuffs and shorts.

"okay baby, let's go over it again. patrick is taller, stronger, broad shoulders and definitely more confident. how will this affect your calculated and sharp strategy?" you asked, making sure he had perfectly locked his eyes into yours and was listening carefully.

"if he's stronger than me, i need to get him up to the net as much as i can, use perfect angles and always land properly. and he's probably feeling pretty confident, so i need to shake him, right at the beginning. if i can get patrick zweig worrying about whether his best friend is gonna beat him, then his best friend is gonna beat him."

"good answer." you smirked satisfied, resting your hands on your hips. you kissed him softly and caressed his cheek as he got ready and left the locker room.

when you walked towards the stands and took your seat, patrick won the toss and elected to serve first. you could visibly notice how tense your boyfriend was, but only an experienced coach could see how tense his muscles were.

art stood at the baseline and bounced the taut strings of his racket against his palm. he held the grip and turned it over in his hand.

patrick was standing across the court, in a black impatto branded sleeveless tennis t-shirt with red decorations on the right side and some checked grey shorts. as he stood up, you could see just how broad and tall she was, his cocky smirk playing on his lips as always as he searched for you in the crowd before turning around to art.

love serving love.

patrick tossed the ball up in the air and then cut across it with his racket. as art rushed for the ball, he calculated perfectly and thought that his best bet was to take it out of the air quick as you instructed him. but as he got in position, he saw his opponent approach the net. he was assuming art didn't have the power to hit a passing shot. and so, at the last minute, he hit a deep ground- stroke. zweig had to rush his return and hit it into the net.

the first point was art's.

love serving 15.

he looked at you as he made his way back to the baseline, and you smiled proudly.

your boyfriend crouched and waited for patrick's next serve. patrick's face was tight now. no more smirks.

suddenly, the ball came across the net, fast as a whip. art couldn't return it.

15-all.

serve after serve stunned both you and art, and you found yourself torturing the fabric of your skirt intensely.

30-15.

40-15.

and just like that, patrick zweig had won the first game.

art glanced over at your seat and saw your brows furrowed. tho, you couldn't tell what he was thinking.

now it was his serve. he landed each one exactly where he wanted it to go. he was setting up his shots a few strokes ahead. he kept him running all over the court. but every time, patrick returned it. their long rallies would inevitably end in patrick's favor.

art stayed alert. he met the ball each time, but regardless of how smooth and calculated his shots were, it just didn't matter. zweig took the first set 7-5.

you could tell art was exhausted already. during the break he wiped his sweat off with a towel, not even looking at you. you breathed in deeply. your boyfriend could not lose; it was not an option.

art thought that by getting that first point off him, he would have thrown him off. but he had actually awakened his opponent. art had given him a reason to play his fucking damn best.

art started to go for aces, each and every serve. it was risky; he knew he could double-fault and you had warned him about it, but it felt like his only shot. when the first one went well he looked at you, and you nodded with a serious look.

having your permission, he did it again.

his point.

his first serve was hard and bounced high. zweig dove for it and hit it out.

30-love.

your boyfriend glanced over at you as he went to pick up the ball, and you saw a smile creep over his face.

art hit another flat serve, whizzed past patrick.

40-love.

your boyfriend had him. just by looking at him from your seat, you could feel the tingle in the top of his head and down his back. you could feel the space in between his joints, the fluidity of hid muscles. you felt a hum in your bones.

art served the ball, low and fast. he returned it with spin that art understood innately, he knew where it would go, how it would bounce. art hit it back with the full force of his shoulder. pat's return went long and art went on to win the set. the score was now good for both, and it would come down to who won the next set.

zweig's first serve on the next game had art rallying back and forth for the point but ended in patrick hitting a low groundstroke that whizzed past him. you wanted to scream as you saw the ball bounce past art's racket. but you knew a coach like you wouldn't stand for that.

patrick zweig took control of the court. he broke art's serve, and he held him own. art showed up to the ball. he ran like hell. but it wasn't enough. when pat scored the last point, art fell to his knees. he held on to the ground for a moment and closed his eyes.

you stood up and focused your gaze on art as he approached patrick to shake his hand and pose for the photographers.

(...)

you and art made your way towards the locker room. as soon as he stepped in he immediately packed up his stuff and zipped his racket in its cover.

when he collapsed on the seat, you sat in front of him and looked at him closely.

"he said i played fucking amazing. amazing! he only said that because at the end i'm the one who fucking lost..." art said, his voice catching and breaking.

you shook your head. "you're wrong."

art raised his eyes and raised one eyebrow, annoyed.

"that was not the lesson you should take from this. try again." you continued.

"i hate tennis." he said, and then kicked his racket on the floor.

"no."

"i fucking hate patrick zweig." another kick.

"no."

at your word, he looked down at his worn out shoes. he was nervously playing with his fingers, and could not look at you.

that was the moment where he would think he had finally failed you, that he had proven himself unworthy of all the faith you had in him.

"are you done? -you said as he turned to look at you- with the hysterics?"

"i've never been prouder of being your girlfriend and your coach today than i have ever been in my life." you finished.

"how is that possible?" his lazy voice cracked before he could even finish.

"i know you're upset because you lost." you said, taking his racket so he wouldn't kick it again.

"i lost. which makes me a loser."

you shook your head with a smile on your face.

"i have been so focused on teaching you how to win that i have not taught you that everybody loses matches."

"i'm supposed to be the greatest, not everybody. art donaldson, the greatest player."

you nodded. "and you will be. today you proved that. you played the best you've ever played in your life today."

he looked up at you.

"have you ever hit that many groundstrokes that bounced just in front of the baseline?" you asked.

"no."

"have you ever served three aces in a row like you did today?"

he started tapping his foot as he listened to you. "no. but...m-my first serve was great today." he said, and it sounded more of a question than a fact.

"you were on fire, baby. you ran down the ball almost every shot."

"yeah, but then i hit it into the net half the time."

"because you are not yet who you will be one day."

he started tearing a bit, his guarded heart opening ever so slightly.

"every match you play, you are one match closer to becoming the greatest tennis player the world has ever seen. you were not born that person. you were born to become that fucking legend. and that is why you must best yourself every time you get on the court. not so that you beat the other person, or patrick, or-"

"but so that i become more myself." he finished.

"so...you're not gonna stop coaching me?" he breathed in a low whisper.

"never wonder again, baby. never."

"...we'll start again with training?" he asked shyly.

"we'll start again with training."

"and i'll beat patrick's ass?"

"and you'll beat patrick's fucking ass."

"...love you baby."

"love you too art."

"can we go for churros at the bar?"

"sure we can. the heart shaped ones."