#Art Donaldson x black female

[lovrre]

Agreement prt1

Art Donaldson x Fem black reader

Warnings: cursing, infidelity(kinda), slight smut (fingering) sub ish Art. Slight he loves her more trope, needy Art and probably some other stuff

Word count: 2k

Summary: Despite being engaged to one of the top and richest tennis players in the US, you feel unfulfilled. But everything changes when you transfer schools and meet Art Donaldson, who just can’t quit you.

Author note: GUYS GUYS, PLEASE DON’T KILL ME. MY WRITERS BLOCK HAS BEEN SO BAD YOU DONT UNDERSTANDDD, But I’m finishing all my requests and unfinished fics soon so stay tuned. 😚

Sitting on the bed in your brand new silk pajamas, you found yourself distracted, just like you had been the day before and the day before that. You played with The edge of the book you were attempting to read,mindlessly repeated the last sentence over and over in your head trying to retain anything. The loud television and the whirring of the ceiling fan only added to the chaos. Plus the freezing cold air conditioning of the hotel room made it impossible to concentrate.

In a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of focus, you clumsily reached for the remote, hoping to silence at least one of the distractions. your eyes falling on your fiancé who was sleeping peacefully, his dark hair all messy, in his crisp white t-shirt that matched perfectly to the expensive hotel sheets, he looked so sweet,so innocent. You thought if he slept more, maybe everything could work out

Mike slept while snuggled into your side. Like he often did when you two shared a bed, You had attempted to remove him several times but every time he ended right back at your side so you gave up, In any other scenario his action would seem romantic but they only made you feel worse than you were already feeling. In an effort to relieve some guilt you liked to reminded yourself your engagement was never out of love but business. But then again the line did blur in the beginning of your relationship. Before you left for Stanford, you and Mike got caught up in the act of pretending be in love.

After that you could never really tell real from fake with him, he didn’t like you talking to other men. He’d shower you with really expensives grift but then leave town and not answer your calls or text for days. But when no one was watching he’d try to hug and kiss you. The whole thing was confusing, You had known idea how he persived your relationship but you knew You Felt guilty, without all the technicallys, you knew that you still lied,

The people ate up the role you and Mike played. occasionally you’d have to leave campus and go out in public holding hands or sharing kisses in the rain. But it was all for show, at least on your end. Your Dad made sure to reminded you That, it was the love sick tennis player in love with his coaches daughter that sold tickets. kept the stands full of women hoping to catch the world win romances in action. Also Brought in a large number of his clientele. He promised It wouldn’t be forever unless you wanted to be. And Really how could you complain? 20 years old engaged to One of the wealthiest and most talented tennis players in the world and he wasn't bad looking either. Before all this, you weren't too keen on love anyway, so what were you really missing out on?

~~~

Ten months before

Patrick serves but Art's attention is elsewhere. The ball zooms past Art for the second time, prompting Patrick to turn around and finally see who's behind him. His gaze lands on you, playing tennis alone on a smaller court. The sun shining off your smooth, glistening skin, and your pink tennis dress gracefully flowing with each jump and run.

"Oh, I get it," Patrick chuckles, glancing back at Art. "She's hot. You should talk to her, maybe offer her a lesson. She could use it," Patrick suggests, looking back at you as you let another tennis ball from the machine fly past you . "I think I've seen her somewhere before," Patrick mutters, tapping his racket against his leg.

Still in a daze, Art jogged over to your court. "Oh, you're serious," Patrick murmured watching as he went over to you following closely behind him. "Hi," Art greets, slightly out of breath walking up to the net. "Hi?" you respond, slightly confused, giving him a small wave.

"Are you new here?"

"To the school or the court?" You ask

"Both."

"I'm new to both” you say a little breathless wiping sweat from your forehead.

“I just transferred," you explain.

"Where did you go before?"

"A small community college in Virginia."

"What about tennis?"

"You have a lot of questions," you laugh, tapping your tennis racket against your leg.

"Im just curious “Art jokes.

"I'm just doing this because my fiancé is a tennis player. I thought I'd try to learn," you reveal.

“Finance?” Art questions.

“Yep”

“ how old are you like 20?”

“ actually 19, I turn twenty in a couple months”

“And you're getting married?” Art asked clearly dumbfounded

“Yes” you laugh at his forwardness

", is he a pro or college?", Art asked, assuming the answer would be college.

“Pro," you replied, letting your curls fall freely from your hair tie. Art couldn't help but admire how beautiful you were,too young to be tied down

"Anyone we would know?" Art asks following you as you walk over to the bench with your tennis bag. "Hmm, maybe," you hum, sitting down to tie your shoe. "Mike Fitts."

"Your fiancé is Mike Fitts!" Patrick exclaims a little too loudly. "Mhmm," you confirm, starting to tie your other shoe. "If Mike Fitts is your fiancé, why are you here?"

"Are you referring to the court or the school?" you ask, looking up at both Art and Patrick.

"Both," Art and Patrick respond in unison.

You chuckled as you stuffed your tennis racket into your bag. "Well, whether I'm engaged or not, I always planned to graduate college. And Mike is too busy right now to teach me, so I'm trying to teach myself."

The two of them nod in understanding as you stand up. "It was really nice meeting both of you, but I have class," you announce, throwing your tennis bag over your shoulder. "By the way, it would be great if you guys could keep the whole fiancé thing on the down low. I'm trying to keep it as quiet as possible for now."

"Yeah, no problem," one of them replies.

"Of course," the other adds.

"Thanks, I really appreciate it," you say giving them a small smile before turning around to leave the court.

just as you're about to walk away, Art calls out after you, "Wait! You said you're trying to learn, right? we could coach you if you want” Patrick gives him a look and Art ignores it waiting for your response.

You pause, considering the offer.

”the both of you?” you asked gesturing between them. Art gives you a nod. at that moment The risk didn't seem too big so you said

. "Sure," with small shrug

"How about tomorrow at 12:30?" you suggest, checking the pink Bvlgari watch Mike got you.

"Perfect," Art responds with a shit eating smile

“Ok see you guys ” you laugh walking out the court

~~~~~~

“Yeah see” Patrick says reading a newspaper. “Olympic coach, Dylan yLn, Daughter engaged to Olympics gold medalist Mike fitts” Patrick reads next to a photo of you and Mike smiling as you showed off your huge

engagement ring. “She wasn’t bull shitting”

“Let me see” Art says grabbing the newspaper. “She didn't have on her engagement ring when we saw her...” Art trails off

“You can't be serious” Patrick laughs

“What?”

“She’s engaged Art, not to anyone either,” Patrick leaned in on the table so only he could hear. “she’s engaged Mike Fitts!”

“I didn't say anything,” Art defends

“ you don't have to” Patrick says stealing a fry off Arts plate plopping it in him mouth.

”I know you,”

~~~~~

After that day, everything seemed to blend together. Art and Patrick dedicated themselves to training you throughout the weekdays for three entire months until you got tired of it and decided on once a week. You told Mike you found a coach but never told him who. Since they were kinda the only people you knew in the entire school, the three of you grew close fast. You started going out to bars and parties together. you had your most memorable college moments with the two of them. And then, your birthday arrived. Patrick had left for some torment and it was just you and Art.

You two were just having so much fun that night. On thing led to another And before you realized it, the two of you were constantly having “fun together”. It didn't matter where - in the dorm, in the shower, or even on the floor. It was bad, but you two couldn't stop

Trying to clear your mind you Let out a sigh. you carefully remove Mike from your side sitting up to taking a sip of you're water on the nightstand. Trying to ignore the ache of your core. This is how you spent every night away from him, needy, uncomfortable. You heard a knock at the door which almost caused you to spill water on yourself. You Quickly put your drink down and run to answer it before the person could knock again careful to be quiet not to wake up Mike.

You swung the door open to find Art standing there, hair slightly damp, with huge smile on his face. "Are you out of your mind?" you whisper, stepping out of the room and shutting the door quietly behind you. You can't help but notice his thin athletic hoodie and gym shorts. Slightly wet clinging to his skin as if he just stepped out of the shower.

"It's past one ,"Art huffed out , his voice filled with urgency and desire as he leaned in for a kiss. his hand gently cradling the side of your face in the process.

When the realization of what was happening washed over you, you pulled away, but still stayed close enough to feel his breath against your skin. "Art," you breathed out, eyes darting down the hall to check if anyone saw. Your hand instinctively found its place on his strong chest, you savored the feeling and the look of your manicured nails there, not knowing when you be able to do it again.

"I like these," Art hummed, playing with the hem of your pajama shorts. He rolled the fabric between his fingers, his big hand gracing you thighs in the process. The little touch sent shivers down your spine. You somehow composed yourself pushing him away gently with your index finger, creating some distance between you two.

He looked at you with sad eyes like a rejected puppy. "Mike’s sleeping inside," you whisper, worried someone could hear. "What does that mean?"

There was a long pause as you carefully choose your next words. Art stared at you intently, trying to decipher your expression. "You slept with him?” Art asks, as if he already knew the answer.

"No, I didn't sleep with him!” You whisper yelled, “He just showered and fell asleep," you explained,

"What's bothering you then?"

"I feel guilty."

"You didn't feel guilty at Stanford."

"Mike wasn't at Stanford."

“You care about Mike's feelings now ?" Art's asks furrows his brow, his voice filled with a mix of confusion and hurt.

" I don’t know… he’s been nicer lately and were supposed to be married in three days”

“You’re actually thinking about going through with it?” Art asked the hurt now evident in his voice.

“There’s nothing I can do now, I signed contracts, this isn’t just about us anymore I’ve told you this”

“What about the private investors?”

"That's just a 'what if,' a perfect 'what if,' but we don't even know if he's seeing someone."

“ If I win tomorrow?”

“Art If you win are lose tomorrow it doesn’t change anything, my Dad expects me at the alter on Sunday regardless, nothings gonna change that”

“But you don’t love him ”

“ I could” your words come out more a question, maybe a hope. “I loved you?”

“You love me” Art corrects

"There's too much at stake now, Art. This is my father's career. We don't come from money, this is all he has."

“You honestly believe this will ruin his career?”

“It could” you reply with a small shrug your voice cracking slightly.

“It won’t” Art response

“You don’t know that”

“ Don’t do this ” Art whispered closing the small space between you. He sounded so tortured, like he was pleading with you.

you hadn't realize it but tears welled in your eyes Threatening to spill any moment. When You blinked an a tear fell down your cheek. Art tenderly brushed it away with his thumb. The stress of the last two weeks had finally caught up to you. “it wasn’t supposed to be this hard” you murmured, your voice barely audible, tears streaming down your face as Art wiped them away.

“Do you love me?” his questions sounded genuine but you knew, he already knew the answer. ”more than i’d like to” you joke, using the back of your hand to dry your eyes.

“Then let me make you feel better,” Art whispered leaning down so he was directly above your ear.

“You’re right about what you said earlier, Mike wasn’t there at Stanford”. He paused for a second moving a piece of your hair out the way, “I was,” he hummed brushing his face against yours “just me and you” he whispered leaving a trail of kisses on the outside of your earlobe down your neck. Causing Your breath catch in your throat .“We had fun right?” Art question, his voice deep and breathy causing you to instinctively press your legs together as you leaned back against the door. “Art” you mumble trying to shake the sexual haze that was swirling inside you.

“I missed you” he whispered his free hand slinking up the side of you short griping your thigh, hiking your leg up slightly. “So bad…All day”

“we can't” you manage to breathe out unconvisingly.

“I’ll beg,”

“Art” you warned

“I’ll do anything baby” he mumbles leaving slowly kisses on your neck. “Anything you want me to” he says kissing under your chin. “ I need you” he hums kissing down your neck, ”don’t you need me?” Art asked kissing below your ear. You don't respond giving small nodd biting the inside of your lip. “Can I hear it?” Art asked, the way his voice sounded so desperate, Damn near whiney had you looking for friction. ”I need you so fucking bad” you basically moan pushing your body against his.

“I love you so much you don't understand” Art said smiling against you cheek. sliding his free hand down the front of your shorts. He rubs his fingers through your folds collecting your wetness on his fingers. You throw your head back with a quiet moan, quickly biting your lip to silence yourself. “Fuck your so wet” Art groans before pulling his hand from your shorts, sucking his fingers clean like it was second nature. You clenched around nothing at the sight.

“I missed that taste” he groans returning his hand to your heat. “Can I make you cum right here” Art huffed out peeping down the hall.

"Yea,” you breathed out, nodding your head feverishly. He could have asked you to drive to the moon in that moment, and you would have said yes. Art slowly pushed two fingers inside of you creating a medium pace before bringing his thumb to rub your clit, you moan lifting your hips to meet his fingers. “Fuck I could eat you out right here” Art groaned watching you Practically fuck yourself on his fingers. “Promise me you won't ever let him see you like this” Art goans leaving kisses on your collar done. “this is mine”

”You can bearly hear a word he's saying the feeling of his thumb on your clit and finger damn near touching you cervix was too much to bear. “I’m gonna cum” you moaned out grabbing Arts shoulder hard in an effort to ground yourself. “I can feel it,” Art breathed pressing his forehead against yours. He presses down harder on your clit causing you to buck into his fingers, letting out a loud moan You cum. his movement don't falter, he continues to pump them in and out while still rubbing your clit until he feels like you've finally had enough.

he removes his fingers from your pussy returning them to his mouth. “I’ll never get tired of that” Art laughs leaning in for a kiss, you return it, taste yourself on his lips. He gently places you leg back on the floor and you stumbled slightly grading his shoulder for balance. He instantly goes to your waist holding you steady. “You ok?” Art ask slight consern on his face. You don't respond afraid of what your voice would sound like after an orgasm like that.

You nod with a smile and Art led you to the hotel room directly next to yours, pulling out a key card from his pocket with a grin.

“You didn't,” you exclaimed as he opened the door.

“I did,” he replied, motioning for you to enter.

“How did you even know our room number?” you ask, stepping inside.

“I have my ways,” he answered, closing the door behind you.

“How did you afford this?” you asked, looking around.

“Are you going to keep ask questioning or are you going to take of your clothes” Art laughs , watching as you sit on the bed.

“You first,” you countered, settling back .

“Yes ma’am,” Art chuckled, starting to undress.

~~~~

Morning arrives and you found yourself back in your original room. Mike was in the bathroom getting ready while you fix your dress in the mirror of the bedroom. As you adjust the straps, you notice a hickey you hadn't seen before, one you forgot to cover up after coming back last night. You laid your hair over it and walk towards the bathroom to retrieve your makeup bag, slightly tripping as your sore legs gave out on you. "You good?" Mike asked, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, I think I'm just sore from tennis practice," you say, reaching past him to get your makeup bag.

"You know no one expects you to play," Mike laughs while drying his hair with a towel. "I'm not doing it for anyone, I want to learn," your words come out more offended than you intended. "I just mean you could spend your time doing something else."

"Like what?" You respond plainly, walking out of the bathroom back to the mirror. "Like calling your dad and asking him what time he'll be here," Mike says from the now open bathroom. "Is your phone not working?" You asked rhetorically, pulling out your concealer . "I don't want to fight today, okay," Mike Replies sternly, looking at you through the reflection of the mirror. "This is a big match," he mumbles while running his toothbrush under the water.

"I thought you said it was going to be 'nothing,'" you chuckle dryly, applying the concealer as his face was turned. "It is, but from what your Dad's been saying, he's been getting good. So I'd like to be on my A-game and not have you trying to start shit."

"Whatever you want honey" you respond, quietly laughing in disbelief. He had resorted right back to his old ways,How could you ever agree to marry someone like him, someone so vastly different from the man you spent the night with.

~~~~

soon as you and Mike were finished getting ready, your father called you to come downstairs to join him for breakfast. You and Mike both stood in line, slightly overdressed, picking out your favorite breakfast items. Mike only getting French toast, disregarding his strict diet. Suddenly, you heard a familiar laughter and turned around to see Art chatting with your father near the entrance. Your heart sank as your father motioned for you both to come over. After dropping off your plates, you and Mike walked towards them, feeling Mike's hand slip around your waist.

"I'd like you to meet someone," your father announced with a smile, putting his arm around Art's shoulder. "This is Art Donaldson," he introduced, "the man I'm competing against today." Mike stated extending his hand for a handshake, and Art reciprocated. Your stomach churned at the sight. "This is Mike, you know him, he's also my daughter's fiancé." Your father says with a smile.

"Stressful, huh?" Art jokes. "Oh, you have no idea," your Dad replies, laughing. "You're both at the same college, right? Stanford?" your Dad asked, nodding towards you. “maybe you could try your luck at training her because I just can't get through," your dad jokes. Art's eyes rake over you, as if looking at you for the first time. "It be my pleasure" Art smiles, looking directly at you. You to discreetly warn him with your eyes but You notice Mike's grip on your waist tighten, clearly not pleased. "Actually, I've been training y/n already, she's improving every day," Mike says, planting a quick kiss on your head.

"Really?" Art inquires, trying to keep up the act to the best of his abilities. "Monday through Friday," Mike replies with a smug grin. “How do you manage with your Busy schedule?” Art asks tilting his head to the side slightly in the process.

“You find time for the people you love,” Mike says with a fake smile. You had to physically hold back your laugh. But you played it off as wiping your face. He had taken a line straight from media training. Silence filled the air as the two have a silent conversation with their eyes.

“Well I wanted to introduce all of you, as I will officially be coaching Art starting next fall,"

Your Dad says in an attempt to break the tension. But it only makes it worse, Somehow Mike's grip on you tightened even more, now you were concerned he’d leave a bruise . "When did you make this decision?" Mike asked, his face showing no emotion but you could tell he was angry. "two weeks ago, and I've been waiting for the right moment to properly introduce you two. I know the timing is awkward with the match, but it's better to do it now than later."

Mike doesn’t say anything giving an expressionless nod. There was another awkward pause before you decided to speak up. "It was nice meeting you…Art?" you trail off , purposely sounding unsure. He nodded with a knowing smile. "But our food is getting cold," you joked, trying to escape the suffocating tension. "I wouldn't want to keep the couple from their food," Art said, while a smiling again only looking directly at you. You wanted to scream, he was being so obvious and the way Mike was already acting, you knew you wouldn’t hear the end of it. "You two eat, I have to go handle some things, I won’t be long" your father said, gesturing for you and Mike to sit at the table before walking off with Art.

Once the two of you sit back at the table you feel caught. "I don't want you near that guy," Mike says, taking a sip of his coffee. You roll your eyes and stab at your scrambled eggs. “He was basically eye fucking you the whole time, and it doesn’t help that your dress is so tight”

“I think you forget sometimes this isn’t real,” you reply, taking a bite.

"Lower your voice," Mike warns, glancing around to see if anyone heard.

"You didn't care about it being real when you accepted the gifts," he scoffs, "or in Virginia."

"It was once, Mike. And every day, you make me regret it."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. You don't get to control me just because you buy me shit. Anyone can buy me shit."

“I told you i’m not doing this with you today” Mike laughs dryly standing up from the table. "I'll see you later, okay babe?" he says a bit louder, forcing a fake smile as he plants a kiss on your head before walking away. You try your best not to flinch when he touches you. Once he's gone, your phone buzzes, and you glance down to see an unsaved number. It's a text from Art.

“meet me at the restaurant next door in 20, alone.”

Author note : GUYS FEEL FREE TO COMMENT I LOVE READING COMMENTS

[jin0]

TENNIS SUCKS AND SO DO YOU [Tashi Duncan, Patrick Zweig, Art Donaldson]

Summary : You were better off without them, you said for a decade despite seeing them every fucking where, all the fucking time. You were better than them, you said as you did the same shit they did and enjoyed it all the same.

Pairing : Art Donaldson x Patrick Zweig x Tashi Duncan x Reader, Tashi Duncan x Patrick Zweig, Art Donaldson x Tashi Duncan, Patrick Zweig x Art Donaldson

Warning : +18, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !, angst, canon injury, canon conniving, cheating, manipulation, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, tennis mentioned, rude language, cussing, foursome kinda, slight ball worship, pussy worship, vaginal sex (p in v), sadness, rehab mentioned, homelessness, gaslighting, genuinely everyone sucks here, no one is mentally stable and should be trusted.

A/N : enjoy

_________________________________________

As it had turned out, it had been way easier for you to admit the sick pleasure you got out of witnessing the downfall of the people you had loved for so long. Being easy to admit did not make it any less painful if you were being honest. Loving them the way you did, the way only you could since your college days made the situation just as sad as it had been cathartic.

You witnessed from the sidelines how Patrick, Tashi and Art’s old ways returned even after eleven years to tear them apart the way it had initially years prior. You still remembered how you used to be, it wasn’t hard they hadn’t changed a bit. Not even the way they looked at each other.

Outsiders would speculate on the nature of the relationship which had sparked fire in the media, two old best friends meeting again at a random challenger while one’s ‘wife’ cheered louder than she had ever been seen cheering. Some would assume the worst out of Tashi while some would pity her for being the stand in to Art’s internalized homophobia. Maybe other’s would hit the nail right on the head and guess that the three might share deep feelings for each other but the would never go further in the guesses, ironically respectful of the privacy of the three people the would spend weeks speculating on, expecting some form of answer at some point.

In the midst if all of this, you would remain. Alone but never lonely, alone and changed for the better while they simmered in their own toxicity, pulling at each other’s strings to bring the worst out of each other in hopes to come out on top, come out the best at the game of honesty they played in a pathetic attempt at convincing the others that they were the ones to say the truth the two others refused to admit to, while simultaneously keeping a lifetime’s worth of secrets.

You would remain, forever in love with them, enough to leave without a goodbye or a look back while they grew like trees in soiled dirt, intertwined but resentful of one another.

You hadn’t been able to watch the end of the match, content with watching Patrick and Art hug for the first time in about a decade. It was funny to you, really. How they had managed to part for so long when Patrick had loved Art first, loved him the way you had loved Tashi first. You all ended up falling in love, you with Art next. Patrick was a little more difficult to like. He was a cunt. And truth be told, so were you. But in their psyche, you lived as kindness personified, because at the root, you were what they aspired to reach when claiming a false sense of honesty.

You were the good ripped out of them by a forceful departure they could not have done a thing about.

You were kind and overly intelligent, academically and emotionally, doubled with a talent that made you all the more terrifying. To understand you was a struggle because all you said could be taken as exactly what it was. In the world of pompous etiquette and manners, you lived above and below it all. Born in a lower class family, you never feared to admit that your goal had always been to climb you way up until you reached what you wanted to reach. It was unclear to you and to them for a while so coaxing it out of you was useless, you didn’t know much about what you wanted, or at least, verbalizing it would be difficult. You aimed to climb, all on your own, through your own power and possibilities. Fucking Tashi Duncan was just for fun.

She wasn’t meant to be a tool in your machine, and frankly, she would’ve been a useless one too, you weren’t a tennis player. Maybe that was what had made your deep friendship so difficult to understand. People speculated that you used her for her money and status, which would make sense if your natural predator wasn’t a tennis racket and a ball. You just couldn’t play tennis for shit. And at first she would call you an idiot for trying when you clearly sucked. A friendship had blossomed when you had responded by successfully hitting a ball right past her head. You sucked at tennis but you had great aim it seemed.

You had reached Stanford on a scholarship, and artistic scholarship funded by a bunch of wealthy families, counting the Zweig and Donaldson families. You danced ballet initially but the possibilities had evolved so you did more than ballet or than dancing. It didn’t really matter honestly why you were at Stanford, the point is that you were there with them and sometimes only for them.

Again, it had started with Tashi, simple stuff really, hugs here and there turning into hugs everywhere. And hand holding which had also turned into waist holding. And the sleepovers were you started from standing at opposite sides of the room to sitting on each other and sleeping with each other in the same bed. Everything just kept escalating. Came a time were it was normal for you both to be showering together or to kiss each other’s cheeks in public. You were best friends with a little bit more on the side.

The speculation were inevitable really, but then came Patrick and Art. Things had been complicated to explain or understand but it did make sense to you four at least.

The night she had been invited to their hotel room, they hadn’t expected her to bring a friend. You didn’t really understand what she had wanted to prove, if she had wanted to prove anything at all but you knew that you didn’t really mind. A public would never bother you.

You had always been pretty obedient to her words, even more when she had her fingers inside you. When she had called you to sit on her lap while they sat on the floor, you had obeyed, climbing on top of her and zipping down your compressor shirt. You could feel their eyes on you, burning through your skin in hopes to see your breast the way Tashi could. When you two had started to make out, you wanted to laugh, hearing Art’s little gasp loud and clear. He was way easier to get worked up than Patrick. But Patrick was a slut so it made sense.

You had stopped her, pulling away with your tongue lolling out of your mouth as you attempted to regain your composure before pointing at them.

“Shouldn’t they be participating ?” You had said, amusing Tashi who patted the space next to her for you to sit. Again, you obeyed but kept a hand between her thighs while she kissed your forehead. Art and Patrick had stared at each other before Patrick rushed to sit next to you and Art next to her.

The rest was history. A long, tedious and sometimes painful history which at started really, the moment Art asked you out. You expected him to go to Tashi, and he had before asking the two of you. It was easy to love Art, the same as you loved your girl. Patrick though, it had been lust for a long time, a very long time before you accepted that he loved you and that you loved him too. You two couldn’t stop taking shots at one another you at his pathetic love for Art and him at you for being poor. Those were easy and no amount of venom in your voices could ever male you say words you didn’t mean. He was bitter at you for having Art and you at him for having Tashi, you were the same really but you would always say you had bigger balls that him because at least you unequivocally had both in all senses while he struggled to even have one.

You remembered how in a drunken admission he confessed hating you for being the romantic failure to his success, something he couldn’t bear knowing that he wanted to fuck you with all the love and adoration you ignited in his soul. He was glad to have his wish granted, waking up the next morning with you on top of him, sleeping soundly, more silent than you had ever been in your life with him around.

Then began the greatest love story never told, fueled by unyielding passion and love that transcended. Maybe the end could’ve been predicted. You loved too much with too much honesty for three people who convinced themselves that tennis was their only true love. You were okay with that, you knew it was a cover-up, a protection from the unpredictability of human feelings and relationships. You didn’t feel like covering up anything, not when you simply loved.

To you it made sense, to them it was a little more difficult, and the difficulty kept increasing slowly as everything rapidly turned to shit. One day it was all four of you, the next, Art didn’t love you anymore, not enough to share Tashi but enough to still crave your very existence like air. He was done sharing with Patrick too, something about having to admit to himself that he did love the man more than a best friend didn’t work in his mind.

They had all began getting into each other’s minds planting seeds of jealousy and doubt in a vicious cycle where they all made each other worst than worst itself. Then Tashi got hurt, and Patrick wasn’t there but Art was so she blamed the brunette while the blond rejoiced as he finally reached the sense of normalcy he had craved through monogamy. And where were you in all of this ? Left behind. You didn’t play tennis but you loved them so you thought it would be enough, it wasn’t. You couldn’t understand, they said. Tashi would never play like she used to or as she was destined to ever. And since Art was there, he would be the talent that prevailed and lived. Patrick, he couldn’t care less about you when he was loosing the two people who really mattered to him.

You had been disposed of in a matter of weeks, a useless, bothersome artefact found in the dirt and throw back in the dirt when you had stopped being fun. You would’ve never understood what it felt like to lose the very thing that one thought of when thinking of Love, yet you could’ve tried, you would’ve tried for them, for her.

Patrick was the first who should’ve gone, almost forcefully thrown out of the apartment you had all started sharing, ironically owned by his family. He lost the home of his heart and chose to give away his house too. But Patrick being Patrick, he refused to leave, stubborn and smug, he opted to stay and keep trying. He knew tennis and Tashi’s love for tennis. He had felt that love for a certain blond boy he had lost too.

With his stay, he formed a side, his own, while Tashi and Art formed another. They fought, regularly, everyday almost, about the same things and a multitude of little other things that they had never voiced prior to the incident. Because they were too ‘kind’ to speak up, but mean enough to use it as ammunition in petty arguments.

They fought about almost anything frankly and you, you disappeared, left off in the background, dissipating like sand, washed away by the sea and forgotten. You didn’t need to get involved they said. Yet you did, because you loved all three and maybe it was selfish but you still held onto the hope that they loved you too, enough to support you in your own moments.

But that was before the Patrick you had learned to love forced you with the brutal reality of things.

You fell. During a rehearsal, you fell, badly enough to hurt you foot and possibly for a little while. It wasn’t broken nor was it permanently damaged, you would heal quickly, you just had to be taken to the hospital to be given the necessary information on how to recover. You would also need to be taken home, you physically couldn’t walk. You called and called and called, calling about a hundred times with no answer from any of them. You ended up staying at the hospital for two days before deciding that you didn’t want to stay more so you left, on foot, which you shouldn’t have done. You had crutches, you thought, so this would be fine. It was at the end, your foot was fine, your soul though, not so much.

After two days in the hospital, you had returned home to another fight between the three. You were tired so you stayed silent until they took notice of you, standing there in silence. Weirdly enough, that seemed to aggravate them further, leading to sighs of anger and looks of disgust, as if you were the cause of all of this, all their issues and frankly all the issues in the world. Unused the first and last fight you were apart of.

It was about you not being there, you always running when things got hard for Tashi, running away because you couldn’t be the center of attention anymore when Tashi would be the priority. You didn’t really process much if what was thrown your way, too busy trying to defend yourself in vain. It didn’t matter really, whatever you said, it wouldn’t matter not when for the first time in weeks both Fire and Ice agreed on something while Tashi looked at you with the kind of hatred you’d never seen in her eyes before. All three finally agreed on something and it seemed it was on how much they couldn’t stand you.

“It’s fucking pathetic how low you’d go to feel like you matter to us. Let me make this abundantly clear, your presence here is only because of Tashi. The interest we have in you is only because of Tashi. Any amount of interest we have in you is because of Tashi. You don’t even matter to yourself outside of her.” How said Patrick bitterly. He looked disgusted by the very sight of you and his words translated about just as much venom as his gaze.

He walked up to you, still standing at the same spot you had been in since you had entered the room to walk in on them fighting once again. You hadn’t moved and now you were paralyzed by humiliation, as if even breathing would be a stain on their glory. You were going through it again in a matter of seconds. Years of improvement on your self worth all going down the drain because of three people.

You watched him with teary eyes as he stepped up to you, entering your personal space so that you could see properly how much he meant his next words.

“We barely tolerate you without tennis, but how much do you think we’d like you if Tashi hadn’t pulled you in like a necessary condition for her presence around ?”

You said still, to ashamed to cry or to breath, almost heaving from the ball of air stuck in your throat. You said as stoic as you could all while keeping your tears at bay. He chuckled while staring at you, false amusement to hide how annoyed he was with your presence here. You tried to look towards Art, who looked away, face indifferent as he silently agreed to his ex best friend’s words while your own best friend stared blankly at you then at your foot before getting up and leaving.

You weren’t one to stay where you weren’t wanted, so when they left to chase after Tashi, you took that as an opportunity to pack your stuff and leave. All that was left behind were the stuff you wouldn’t outwardly need or could ask a friend, if you had any left, to help you get.

In that moment you felt your luckiest despite the circumstances, your lack of relationship to tennis making it easy to rely on someone who wouldn’t be asking thousands of questions on why you were now excluded from the little group who’d been ruling the minds and hearts of about every student on campus. For the rest of the semester, you moved in with a friend from your dance studio, friend who quickly became your greatest form of support, pushing you to get back up and become the best dancer you’d ever been.

For the first time, you felt what Tashi meant when she said tennis would be her greatest love, you understood her drive to not just be a player among the lot but the player who stood above the masses effortlessly yet with lots of efforts. The rumors quickly spread, your separation from the group raising questions that you were too busy to answer, spending about every second of every hour dancing and improving your artistic skill while slowly letting the three people you had loved turn into distant figures in your rearview mirror.

The longing glances in the lecture halls and silent please turned into quick looks in their direction, acknowledging their presences before going back to what you were doing, before soon, watching it turn into nothing. You stopped looking, feeling their eyes on your before shutting down the instinct which you had lead to you them in crowds of thousands so many times before. Before you knew it, you brushed passed them, your scent burning through their being like the softest of caress and the sharpest of slaps while you simply didn’t notice them. You had stopped trying to ignore them and made them presence part lf everyone, barely noticeable.

Your dancing got better, just like your heart and your other talent. You divested into other areas of artistic expression, soon stepping out of Stanford to be known all over the world for your incredible voice and the amazing performances that went with it. You filled concert halls like one would fill their lungs with air and sold albums like no other. Your passion and devotion for your craft quickly became known all over the world, impossible to miss as your face appeared on Billboards and your voice resonated through radios. You got busy with like and you weren’t the only one.

You knew about Tashi and Art’s wedding, catching wind of it from friends you had made in college. It didn’t surprise you much, she could handle Art better. What had surprised you was for Fire to Part from Ice and vice versa, both disappearing from each other’s life. It wasn’t news that neither really deeply like to share, ironic considering the circumstances. You had found out about their daughter too, Lily, cute name. Art had probably picked it. Tashi would’ve named her ‘Tennis Donaldson’ if she could. Tennis Duncan even. She loved tennis too much, it had started to exasperate you, but inly slightly. You understood. You lived dancing just the same. Just healthily. You could see through the mist, watching her live vicariously through her darling husband he played for her. He lost the passion he had for the sport, but he had lost more.

You didn’t know what had happened to Patrick, or at least you feigned ignorance. You didn’t give a fuck about that little bitch. But watching him die wouldn’t be fun. You knew about the heroin addiction and about the alcoholism. It was known before during college and it had stopped briefly while you dated, keeping only the smoking. He had drifted from them, too busy getting fucked up on whatever he could get his sticky fingers on while fucking whoever he could get to give him shelter for the night. Being a crackhead was expensive and even Patrick Zweig couldn’t afford it, it seemed. You knew he lived in his car and tried to revive his dead tennis career every chance he got. He was embarrassing to be frank, but you couldn’t turn your back on him when you knew he could pick up a handgun any day and write your name in big bold letters out of spite for the amount of time he called and you refused to answer before choosing to block his number. The junky ex boyfriend trope was getting tired and the sex was good back in the days but never enough to entertain his mess of a life. And to be frank, you had grown to be just as spiteful and petty as they were, the wound of the past still fresh in your heart despite the decade of separation.

Over the last years, you had crossed his path about five times and each time you found him in a outer body state, off on whatever he had gotten his hands on but definitely not water. Each time you crossed him, you remembered the words he had said to you, ears prior, noting the irony of how he had turned out now that he was alone. It was sad, honestly, Art had been a beacon to him, Tashi too. But both found mutual benefits in each other, Tashi getting to live through her husband while Art got to live through the fantasy that he didn’t regularly got of on his best friends cock rubbing against his.

You, you were just collateral, too easy to love yet too mysterious to understand. You were like the easiest puzzle never solved to them, an equation on love and lust all packed in one basic formula that was so easy that it felt like a trap. People relying on toxicity to feel alive sabotaged shit like that, the easy shit that wasn’t meant to be overly painful. You’d been too easy, so you could be disposed of ln on the basis of an argument where you just didn’t fit anymore when the truth is that you fit in way to easily with each without having to give anything tangible. You weren’t bringing shit to their worlds but yourself yet you were indispensable.

And being indispensable, surprisingly, wasn’t sufficient to them.

~

The first time Patrick saw you again after the separation was in the street. Which street he can’t say, he’s not even certain he saw you for real seeing as that night he was high on whatever had been sitting in his car and a 4 dollar bottle of vodka from the corner store. His car slash home wasn’t too far, less than ten steps away, yet he couldn’t reach it. First he couldn’t fucking find his keys and on top of that, he had felt in a cheery mood, deciding to down half the bottle right outside the store. He was in a mood to celebrate, the news of Tashi and Art’s divorce plaguing his mind like the sweetest of highs.

In his sick mind, the man still lived the fantasy that he and Art were the same or that they could be, true rivals from the same place, both drastically changed by their circumstances but still and forever Fire and Ice. He wanted to believe that well in his thirties he still had a shot. He could still do this, get to reach the same level of stardom and face off his best friend and lover once again. He was insane, and slightly pathetic like that but the news made the possibility even greater in his mind.

Tashi and Art had been a unit of destruction he could’ve never truly beat, not on his own, yet he still dreamt and rightfully so. Because now, both members of the unit were parting ways and what better way to conquer than to divide ? She had done it, years prior, Art fully participating despite his seemingly innocent demeanor.

In the midst of his celebration, he had, once again, forgotten to exercise restraint and had drunken enough to stumble into an alley all alone, falling face first in a puddle of water. In his inebriated state, even felt the weight of his exhaustion, weirdly falling down all at once on his shoulders.

He was so out of it, he hadn’t noticed your figure almost floating towards his body before seeing you crouched down next to him. You started at him just like he did you, both quiet for a second before he cut the silence with a chuckle, you, on the other hand were less than amused, stoic and silent face dark as you watched him, probably gloating to see him in such a state.

“Are you real ?” Was all he had said, waiting for a response which had never came.

It was almost vicious how he could barely make out the walls around him yet could perfectly distinguish the features of your face. It hadn’t changed, fuck you were so pretty.

The rest was a blur of soft touches and movements he could understand. All he knew was that you had spoken to him, telling him to not drink and to cut the heroin. He had nodded, obedient and shameful as a result of his words from the past.

When he had woken up the next day, he was surprised to be in a bed, comfy and warm covers. Parts of him dreamt it was her house. It wasn’t. It wouldn’t never be, not if she had a say on it at least.

You had driven him to rehab, leaving without a word or a note for him to understand. He didn’t know much other than the fact that you had paid for him to stay there for six months and then maybe he could leave. You had even paid more to make sure that the establishment accepted him despite her not being a relative or anything like that. Top quality facility that would have him bust his ass off trying to get clean, and not just off the drugs but also the alcohol.

He didn’t know anything, he just felt like it was you who had been the generous donator to pay for him to get clean. The lady at the front desks and the doctor in charge of him were only told one thing that had a seemingly smug but actually hopeful grin stretching his lips.

“I don’t want anything really, it’s more for him. Maybe, if he gets better in his head, he’ll actually get to be good at tennis again.”

It was mean, you were mean, mostly to him. But he knew better. You both had a habit of disagreeing so whenever he’d shit on himself, you’d join him and suddenly he was bathed in the confidence of the universe. Ironically, it never worked the other way around.

He stayed, all six months though, per the doctors and therapist, he wouldn’t need to. He could’ve left after the forth month. They had a tennis court to help him work a bit so he chose to stay. Even made friends. But he stayed, the whole time. Out of respect for you in some ways but also because he wanted to see how well he’d do. If he could really stick it out for the whole six months and then more. He did, and he would’ve loved to tell you, but that didn’t happen.

~

The next you saw was Art. If “seeing” was an appropriate term to use in this situation. After retiring, the man couldn’t find it in himself to ever really leave the tennis world, even after he and Tashi had divorced. He was still fully ingrained in the tennis world like the champion who would’ve lost it all, should’ve lost it all. His career been over if he had lost to Patrick that day. It would’ve destroyed him, you knew that. You didn’t need to be there to know, you always could read him. You could read all three down to the nastiest of details they were dirty rotten books passing fungus and parasites to everything they touched.

Art was the prettiest of parasites, seemingly clean and well behaved, but he fucked like a man starved for pussy, real pussy, raw and without conditions or expectations. You knew he hadn’t changed a bit when you saw him at an even for Uniqlo. Your career also had you around these circles and you like these events the best, with big brands but really niche, making it easy to not be overwhelmed as soon as you stepped in the room.

You’d been the center of attention the moment you entered and he was quick to catch you, you both engaging in a stare off that had lasted for about three seconds to you maybe, a lifetime to him. You couldn’t be here, not really, how could you ? He had dreamt of you, screamed your name and moaned it while balls deep in his wife. Ex wife. She’d moan your name too, it was pathetic, both were. He had pleaded the universe for you and yet nothing, but here you were, the one night he wasn’t thinking of you somehow. There you were, ever so beautiful and breathtaking. Like a ghost grappling at his brain.

It was pathetic, to not see you for a decade and yet to have his heart beat out of his chest as soon as he saw you and his cock springing to life like never before when you turned around, allowing him to gawk at the curve of your spine, from your nape to your ass. He was screwed.

For the rest of the night you both engaged in a cat and mouse game, him the cat and you the mouse, but here, you weren’t running from him. You were disappearing into the crowd as soon as he was freed from whatever pointless discussion was taking his time from you.

Then came the end of the night and Art was frantic, aimlessly searching for you, terrified like never before to miss you and this time lose you forever. He could reach you, he could go to one of your concerts and press tour for one of your movies. He could do that, but Art had always been somewhat of a pussy. Enjoying his position off in the shadow while the rest of the world took actions and spoke on their feelings.

That day, he took action, forgetting any sense of pride and decorum when he grabbed you by the jaw and pushed you into the elevator, hands reaching under your dress to hike your legs up around his waist. The elevator had barely opened, luckily leading directly into the suite he had been offered that he and his eager hands dragged your docile body to the nearest flat surface. When he had reached the dinner table, he had laid you up on it, so delicately, as if you were a figment of his imagination, potentially disturbed by any rough movement.

He was almost panicking, fiddling with your dress, torn between savoring the moment and your presence or making you feel the weight of your absence. He chose the later, ripping through the fabric of the expensive dress while you whined at the loss of such a beautiful piece to add to your collection.

You liked clothes, you always did and your mewls of pleasure mixed with the sound of your discontentment at the loss of your new favorite dress had him tensing in his pants, balls tight and full of love and memories from how happy and grateful you used to be when he gave you a present.

His lips dragged along the tense vein in your neck, occasionally biting down on your flesh to mark you in the most visible way possible. If you were to disappear again, you’d be marked, sworn as off limits to anyone else. You’d be his to worship.

You had matched his eagerness, sliding slander manicured fingers into his pants and boxers to stoke his cock, mouth watering at the idea lf having him in you again, girth taking up all the space in her throat and rutting into her hole desperately for even more.

You did, have him fuck your throat. Your saliva coating his balls shamelessly while you choked, almost suffocating on him but whining like the desperate girl you were whenever he even thought of pulling out. He had let you have your fun on him, nasty words to match the nasty rhythm of his hips slamming into your mouth. Plop. Plop. Plop, resonating into the room while he drilled his long cock into you with vigor. He had cum once, in your throat, only one, holding your face still as he pushed the tip of your nose into his nicely trimmed pubic hair. You inhaled his scent, eyes crossing in pleasure while you came untouched. What a good girl you’d always been, cumming at the idea of having him lay his semen in your throat.

He pulled out, holding your jaw still while admiring your fucked out face before kissing your cheeks tenderly like he always did to bring you back. You were easy to overwhelm so making you dumb on pleasure came easy too. But Art was a hard working man and he would never stop at that.

“Already so dumb for me…” He had muttered into your skin, lips dragging across your cheeks, jaw and chest, to finally reach your leaking mound. It was his turn to inhale your scent, mind hazy with pleasure and completely taken by you. No amount of thinking ever mattered, you mattered, all of you. Art had found an altar within the confine of your folds, ready to worship it like he had been deprived off for years.

His tongue had lapped at your juices for hours, pussy drunk after the first orgasm he had pulled out of you and ready to sink into his addiction. His messy tongue hadn’t left you since he had started, essentially hours ago, swallowing your taste, drinking in your pleasure and praying for more. He sucked on your clit messily, movements becoming just as erratic as he was. He wanted more of you, more of this, he needed to live in your skin forever. You were so warm and felt so good and he loved you and he had missed you so fucking much and this was too much, ruining him from the inside and melting him into a puddle of arousal and unexpressed love. He was made to love you and you weren’t there, you had left and he needed to love you now and forever.

“P-Please… Baby please…” He kept starting, to dumb on your pussy to be able to finish his sentence. But finish, that he did. Cumming untouched himself, cock rubbed raw against the fabric of the covers, a wet patch under him, marking the spot he’d been soaking with his pour sensitive cock for hours. He was twitching like never before, moans exiting his mouth because of the air touching his sensitive tip, so red it looked like a popsicle. Lucky him you couldn’t see, or you’d swallow him whole until he was to cum without anything coming out.

For now he rejoiced in the pleasure of having you in this bed, shaking nonstop and coherent words and phrases erases from your vocabulary by his desperate acts on your now swollen cunt. His hands had been gripping on your hips, holding you firmly and relying on your ass cheeks for more grip when his attacks on you became too much and you would attempt to squirm away. You were now but a body, a doll, aimlessly moved by him will. His tongue went deep inside you, so, so deep, almost grazing your most sensitive point but still preparing your walls for his raw dick and the abuse it would lay on your eager pussy. He moved your body back and forth, having you rut your hips into his face. His blue eyes, clouded by pleasure and insanity looked up, faced by your breasts bouncing while you cried and cried, the pleasure too much. He freed one of your ass cheeks to reach a large hand over your tits, grabbing it roughly and toying with your nipple while he sucked on your clit. He had heard the sound of the sheets ripping and wanted to be the next one to be torn into.

He was too much, to passionate on you, slurping and slobbering on your weeping cunt as if it was his last meal. He was entranced by you, feasting on you with all the fervor he had missed out on showing you. As he lapped away, you jerked particularly harshly, too sensitive to handle much more. Your fingers tried to pull him away from you, hair tightly gripped in your hands but he was quick to fight back, sending you a glare before going back to you.

In one desperate motion, strength fueled by your impending orgasm and his own, hip humping the air as his large cock stood tall beads of cum leaking in large drops out of his tip, he flipped you over, you on top of him, seating on his face while he laid under you. The weight of your ass on his chin and your cunt smashed against his face, he could die happy again. His hands found your ass again while yours grabbed onto his growing blond locks and the other holding onto the headboard. You road his tongue like never before, smearing your cum on his face while you cried for your release.

“A-Art ! Fuck, Art, baby ! S-So good !” was all you could say at the moment, the rest, incomprehensible cries of pleasure and babbling that signified how far gone you were.

Art watched your tits bounce again, saliva dripping out of the corner of his mouth and all over your center as he dreamt of sucking your nipples until the were swollen and sensitive. He made love to your cunt, moaning inside you like he could do so well, grunts and whines of pleasure going heard by the entire floor if his suit wasn’t the only one here. His own eyes filled with tears, balls releasing cum all over his stomach and your back.

You gripped his hair like a rope you held onto at the risk of falling. He admired with desperation and passion, your head thrown back in pleasure as you finally came, crying out his name while drenching his face in your cream. You could barely catch your breath that he had thrown you off of him and onto the mattress. He stood between your legs for a minute, staring.

That was the clearest memory you had of that night, other than the week long ache between your legs and the pulsating of your clit at the sound of his name. You, on the other hand, were etched into his mind like a picture carved in stone to be remembered forever. Everything he looked was a reminder of you, even his daughter, Lily, a great enjoyer of your movies, one where you had played a princess destined to save her kingdom. Ironic how both he and his daughter saw you the same, the princess and the savior.

He marked you into his mind, your hair splayed onto the bed, eyes lidded with pleasure, mouth parted as you stared at his cock. Every piece of you he memorized. In every position too. And, intertwined amongst the sounds of pleasure exiting his throat, muffled by his mouth almost fused to a piece of your skin, pressed to your cheek or to your forehead in one of the most intimate acts he had performed in the last five years, he cried out for you. Desperately crying out your and the anger he had suppressed towards you. Anger or sadness, sorrow so deep it almost felt like grief. His movement became harsher, almost mean but so full of love too. He loved you so much, present tense, he hadn’t stopped ever. He was still angry at you for leaving though, so he told you in a mix of incoherent and inaudible words all mushed together, he voiced his feelings for how you had abandoned him, left him heartbroken, grieving in silence.

“H-How…How could you d-do this to me, huh ?” He’d say angrily, before pleading. “I love you… F-Fuck… I l-love you… Please… I love you…”

Drilling his raw dick inside you felt like life itself, your walls tightly holding him in while he kissed your thoughts away. Open mouth kisses, all tongue and teeth, this was life, made and in the making. He was making life with you that night, creating like he had never before. When you rode his cock, balls slapping against your ass while his lips latched onto your breasts to suck on them, that was life. When you’d been thrown on all fours, taking the nastiest backshots known to man, pussy molded to take him and only him in, that was life. When he laid you on your side, one leg raised up by his muscly arm as you took another load of his cum from the back, that was life. When he fucked you with your thighs pressed to your chest and ankles around his head, his swollen lips kissing you tenderly in contrast with the force of his hips slamming into you, that was life.

Life hadn’t stopped until sunrise, where you had both fallen asleep, you taking in his ‘I love yous’ and your tongue tied with pleasure, the kind you hadn’t felt in decades, to speak up. With each new position came more cum and more words from him, poor Art, fucked dumb by his sweet girl that had finally returned. Years of guilt and love unexpressed had finally been told in loud moans and babbling about how much he loved you and was sorry.

It didn’t matter.

You had both fallen asleep with his cock nestled inside you, sheets tossed to the floor and arms holding your body close. He slept with his face nuzzling into your hair, a scent of vanilla and citrus he had missed like a man lost in the desert missed water. Your fingers held onto his forearm with your back pressed to his chest. You were both molded against one another, peaceful and quiet.

Reality hit the next morning, when he woke up to you getting dressed. You weren’t in a hurry but you weren’t staying, he couldn’t let you leave though.

He was quick to leap out of bed and in front of you, hands holding your cheeks to force you to look into his eyes.

“Please… Look at me, please baby…” He had begged, your empty eyes finding him. “Stay. Stay and let me apologize, make up for what I did-“

“You didn’t do anything Art.” You cut him off, swatting his hands away and going back to the pieces of your dress. “And there is nothing to make up for. You wanted Tashi, I can’t fault you. The sex was good, let’s stop there.”

Tears welled up in his eyes, desperation evident as he tried to hold you in his shaky hands.

He followed you around the bedroom and out of it when you were done, running after you while almost sobbing before dropping to his knees in front of you. You sighed, exhausted by the exchange while he sacrificed his dignity once again, for someone but never himself.

“Please baby, stay with me. Please, I love you.” He was erratic, breathing quickening while you looked around.

“Art…” Your eyes dropped to him, staring into his beautiful blue eyes and holding his face tenderly. “You don’t love me. You’re bored and you love having me in bed, that’s it.” You tried to walk away but he crawled after you, holding onto your leg desperately.

“No !” he exclaimed. “Don’t dismiss me or my feelings, please. I love you, with everything I have-“

“Ironically after Tashi left, thought.”

“I’m a fucking coward, fine ! But I can’t lose you again, not like this !” He was scared, that morning, truly. Even more than when Tashi announced she wanted a divorce.

“You don’t lose someone you don’t have. You can’t have someone you don’t want.”

“Fuck you ! I want you, I need you, baby, please !” He needed to know that you’d be there tomorrow and for the rest of eternity. He couldn’t lose you again, not again. “Look at me and tell me you don’t love me.”

You threw your head around, amused by his desperation and how brazen it made him sometimes. “You’re ruining this Art…”

“I can love you for the both of us if that’s the issue. I want to be yours, I want to marry you, live life with you, be everything you need from me !” He wasn’t listening, never.

Thinking back, it wouldn’t lead to anything, the pleading and all. He could see it now. Hindsight was 20/20. It would’ve been useless and even disrespectful to ask you to love him again after discarding you that way. But to get you back and lose you so quickly had killed him a little more that day. He had needed to hear it though, to understand. And understand he had.

“Art.” Your voice was firm, like a line of cement in the sand and a pause in time, freezing him and his tears in place. “I never needed you. None of you. I just wanted you, and was content with that. You were the ones who discarded me because you didn’t need me.”

He remained frozen in place, giving you the opportunity to leave, your eyes glued to his, his beautiful tearful face as he stared in silence. When the doors of the elevator closed, he collapsed, crying harder than ever before, crying like he should’ve years ago when he had found your stuff gone. He had lost you again. His pretty girl. The love of his life.

He might’ve doubted his love for Patrick or Tashi, but loving you was like breathing air. It was easy, it made sense, before and still now. And you’d been ripped out of his life forcefully. Even now, when his pride managed to supersede his love for Patrick and Tashi, nothing could come above the love he felt for you.

After that night, he had been floating aimlessly around life, drained out of life. You were somewhere, everywhere in his life, but near him and that was punishment, cruelty for choosing Tashi and ruining all four of you. He needed to see this and had refused, now he didn’t have the choice.

~

The next to see you was Tashi, or if you had to be precise, it was Lily, her daughter.

There was a park down your block, you often went there to write and skateboard. Tashi didn’t know that. She didn’t know anything. To know about you was to punish herself for about everything she had done in the recent years. Including getting married. She would never admit that though, to much pride would be sacrificed if after a decade she admitted that she missed you even after the way things had gone. It would also require for her to admit that maybe divorcing Art was not really a good idea. Not when a part of her still loved him, a part you had created, the part that accepted to love and be loved beyond tennis because love, as painful as it could be, was beautiful. Even in the most vile and painful moments.

You’d been sitting for about an hour, head thrown back as you let the spring breeze and the sound of birds communicating through the trees seep into your skin. Your week had been hectic and this was the first real moment of peace you could claim to benefit from, truly, a moment of peace where life let itself float around you while you took a pause.

Your pause, ended brutally, the sound of rushing footsteps and then a little yelp waking you up from your meditation. You opened one eye, looking down in the direction of the sound to find a little girl, laying on the floor with watery eyes and a wobbling bottom lip.

Poor thing had probably tripped. You straightened yourself, leaping off the bench to kneel in front of the little girl. She was distraught, looking around and fiddling with her skirt.

“Don’t worry, there’s not that many people, no one saw.” You’d said to reassure her.

She looked at you timidly before nodding, accepting the assessment you’d made on the situation. You didn’t know if anyone really had seen or not, but you did know that the park was essentially empty at this hour of the day.

“Hurts…” She mumbled, still looking down shyly. You wanted to chuckle, she was adorable, but she could’ve thought that you were mocking her so you refrained.

“Do you mind ?” You asked, pointing at her knee that was visibly turning a little more red by the minute. She shook her head, holding onto your shoulders so that you could lift her up and sit her on the bench. She had grazed her knee, it was bleeding. You looked up at the little girl in silence, this would probably have her panic if you told her. She looked about seven years old max and seemed used to run around freely, she hadn’t called for a parent yet. Luckily, you had everything you needed in your bag. You’d learn to carry around a first aid kit because of how easily you got hurt and out of habit. It reassured Tashi, back in the days, to know that you were okay or at least had something to take care of yourself.

You chuckled, her memory would truly haunt you until death if it could. You’d see her face in a piece on bandaid if you let yourself.

Pulling out your essentials, you pulled out a bottle of water as well as cleaning alcohol. You saw the little girl tense but quickly regain her composure.

“You’re not scared ? That hurts sometimes you know…” That wasn’t the smartest thing to say to a kid, but you said it anyways.

“I-It’s okay… Mommy says bugs could grow in my boo-boo if not cleaned. I hate bugs.”

You grinned, amused by her rationality but also by her tight grip on your shoulders. She was scared, she just knew better.

“And what does your mommy say about you running around alone in a park ?”

She didn’t respond, too focused on your face. Like she’d seen it before, and frankly, looking at her, you felt like you had seen her before. The messy curls on top of her little head and the way her nose scrunched and her eyes narrowed when you dabbed the alcohol on her knee. You wanted to pay more attention, but the memories where ghosts that had to be ignored or they would ruin your life.

“I’ve seen you before…” She said. You hummed, quietly asking for precisions. “In the TV. You were really pretty. You had a sword and all… It was cool…”

She’d seen one of your movies, for children kinda. A little bit violent in some scenes but for children technically. With a princess who wielded the sword better than any knight.

“Did you like it ? I personally did. Loved the sword fights.” You asked, softly placing the bandaid on her leg and giving her a thumbs up.

“Me too, but I have to be careful because they’re dangerou-“

“Lily ?!”

You both were interrupted by a loud voice not too far, rushing quickly towards you. The little girl hopped off the bench with a smile, running in their direction after muttering a soft “mommy”.

You would’ve loved to turn around, but presently you were too annoyed to do so, angry to not have noticed her resemblance to the man you had seen a few weeks prior and the woman you hadn’t seen in years. You exhaled, seating back on the bench and watching as the little girl chatted away, explaining how “the princess from the TV healed her knee”. You watched Tashi search around until her gaze found yours and froze.

If you’d been in her head you would’ve seen it all, the fireworks, the crashing waves of a hurricane, the tornado, the screaming lady who resembled her but simply couldn’t be, Art and her’s wedding day, the fights you found yourself at the center of and all the times she’d have sex with him thinking of you but without feeling guilty because she knew he did too. You’d see that and about a thousand other things because she was going insane at the moment while you looked almost bored to see her.

She stood up, mouth slightly parted and her eyes never really leaving yours while her hands gripped on Lily’s smaller one, like she was afraid that she would run and disappear again, like she had previously done and like you did years ago.

For someone who was paid for her advices and known in the business for how easily she could get in someone’s head through words, Tashi was struggling a great deal at words right now. She was stuck between speechless and too angry to formulate clear words.

“Mommy ?” Was what brought her back. She looked to her daughter, plastering on a fake smile to appease the worried child and caressing her hair.

“How about you go play for a little while I go say thank you to the lady, okay ?” In any other circumstances she would’ve gone home, done with the whole outdoors thing and ready to get back to work but the situation was different with you present here.

When she assessed that Lily was far enough to not hear, she stomped towards you, angry eyes burning through you. She was ready to hand you a slap worthy of movies but was stopped by your less that amused eyes matching her expression. You were politely asking her to refrain with your eyes, an expression she’d almost never been on the receiving end of.

Tashi stood there, watching you attentively, like she expected you to disappear. She took the time to observe you, take you in. Your gaze was some distant point in front of you, possibly Lily, seeing how you smiled while she laughed loudly.

You hadn’t changed much in a decade, looking as young as when you were in college. They’d all felt the mark of time as it was engraved on their features, burnt with painful precision to signify the years of conniving, lies and deceit they’d been put through by each other to maintain the illusion that they were doing better than the next. You looked fine, they didn’t.

Even she, felt like she didn’t look good, worn out by the pretense of perfection of the wife and coach who only sought to bring out the best out of her husband, make him the best. Not that he could ever really become it, not when he was so busy trying to play for two. Ironically she did find respite in her motherly duty, finding bits of herself you had taken with you in her darling little girl. Ball of oxygen like she had never experienced before, the kind of fresh air tennis could bring her.

“She’s cute, your daughter. Looks so much like you, almost feels like Art didn’t have anything to do with it.” You said nonchalantly.

She could’ve carved your eyes out for that comment, slapped you with nasty words about your life and how bitter you were that it wasn’t you. She remembered how you four had planned it. You and Art were supposed to marry because you loved each other the healthy, reciprocated, committed way. Like a couple who wanted to grow old and have plenty of kids together did. Tashi, she loved you as much as she loved tennis, but tennis came first. Patrick loved Art as much as he loved tennis, but he loved Art more. They’d find mutual benefits being together, because they worked and loved each other in a way that worked. Loved each other like two pieces of one tennis driven soul. After one very long and celebration filled night where everyone had won something, you’d made a promise that reeked of love, the kind Tashi had never allowed herself to feel for anything that wasn’t tennis. She loved Patrick really, but you first and Art too. You all made her feel alive the way tennis did. Art wanted children, with you, and you wanted kids with him too. Patrick and Tashi, it was more of an eventuality for after retirement. Adoption maybe, or you. It didn’t matter, but it all worked out for all of you. That night, she felt like she was on top pf the world. She crashed a few months later when she fought with Patrick and Art had started his divisive bullshit. The fall of Tashi Duncan, the one who could’ve but never would again.

“She’s a good kid, more like him than you think. But you wouldn’t know, you’ve been busy.” She responded after a while, both to defend herself but also to spit out her anger towards you. It had to come out.

“Don’t expect me to stick around where I’m not wanted.”

“Oh fuck off !” Your nonchalance was getting to her, anger as evident as the sorrow in her voice. “The victim bullshit about how you weren’t wanted can work for the other two but I knew you first. No one in this world wanted you more than we did.”

“Yeah, maybe, but you treated me like shit.” Your tone wasn’t changing while hers shifted from assured to shaky.

“So what, you leave ? We scream at you once and you leave ?” You turned to her, looking into her eyes as if looking through her while she stared at you, awaiting a response. It was surprising really, how easily she lost her temper and composure when it came to you. You were like gasoline to her fire. She’d never show as much passion than in the moments that had to do with you.

She hated you in that moments, because you left her alone. She lost tennis, her mind then you. She couldn’t do this without you but she didn’t have the choice, she faked it until it felt real and suddenly you appeared again. On her screens, then billboards and then ad’s and commercials. Obviously she knew you shared some brand deals with Art, she’d done it on purpose so that she could feel bits of you in him. She smelled you all over him when he had returned from that trip for a brand she had forgotten. She only remembered the look in his eyes, like Life itself had been ripped out of him. They’d shared a look that day and it was all they had needed to know. She, who had started to doubt whether divorce really was the best choice, she now knew that it was. You hadn’t just been lingering around, you were the constant. The glue.

That night, Art had slept in the guest room, crying himself to sleep for her to listen through the walls as she cried quietly. They were pathetic truly. But at least they knew that they had to separate really. No more fight on his part to keep his family, no more doubt on hers to keep tennis. Neither could stand the other any longer nor could they stand the charade.

“You treated me like shit Tashi. You’re not the only one who knows the other and unlike you and your lapdog, I actually don’t mind the truth, even when it makes me look like shit. You treated me like shit, so I left. Or would you have preferred for me to be like your little white boy and stick around to get a taste of what the Tashi Duncan, never really Donaldson, bullshit, conditional love is ?”

You sounded more animated, brought alive by the commentary on a life you would never regret because you knew it brought you the peace they never could enjoy. She usually enjoyed getting a rise out of the other two, feeling like she was better for remaining collected when they didn’t.

Now, it didn’t feel like a testament of her success over you. She never wanted to win when it came to you, it wasn’t about that, it was simpler. You were like a drug she got addicted to, but the good kind. Like being addicted on life. You made her feel alive independently of tennis. With you around, she actually would’ve been okay losing tennis forever because with you around, the story about how tennis was a relationship where you owed it to someone else to entertain them, to build a relationship and whatnot, it just didn’t work.

She felt healthier, in her mind and body with you, like genuinely be alright no matter where life lead her. And one day it all started crashing. Slowly. She should’ve seen it coming, or at least she could’ve paid attention taken charge to fight this the right way. She didn’t. When things got bad for her she’d focus entirely on tennis and when things got bad between you four, tennis was all that mattered until it wasn’t there anymore. She wouldn’t be choosing tennis had she known that it would take you away.

She had lost tennis too at the end so frankly, it didn’t matter anymore but she refused to lose her right to be mad at you too, because that’s really all she had left of you. Her anger and a daughter who grew to emulate parts of you she didn’t know she had missed.

“She hates bugs.” She said. It surprised you, it was soft, a whisper. Almost like she wanted to hide. You could only chuckle because it made you laugh, thought it didn’t make much sense.

“Everyone should hate bugs.” You responded.

“No…” she sighed, annoyed that she had to clarify. “She hates bugs like you do. Has to take off her clothes to check that they’re not there and take off the invisible veil of their presence on her skin.”

“That’s the best way to free yourself from the bugs.” That was weird, and uncool. She looked at you like you were a freak and for a second she was taken back to college, where you were the cool mysterious girl who everyone wanted to fuck but were too scared to approach. You really were a weirdo who hated bugs and could throw up if a caterpillar crawled your way. You were so cool to everyone but her. Just like now.

If you could’ve described her expression, you could only associate it with the way she looked at Patrick usually. That was the look she gave him when he’d forget himself and talk to her like she was any kind of girl he picked up off the street at a bar to fuck. She looked at you like you had lost your senses and had about five seconds to find them which was funny because she was the one losing it.

She loved you a whole lot, which was insane.

She stood and looked at you from above with disdain and contempt.

“You’re a pussy who runs away at the slightest of issues. I loved you, I list tennis and you left me because I wouldn’t coddle you anymore.” She spat venomously, aiming to hurt.

You looked at her, indeed hurt but also surprised. You were more wounded by what her words meant than what she had said.

“Y-You… You think I left because you weren’t playing anymore ?”

“That’s exactly what you did.”

And for the first time you were affected. This was the first encounter that had really thrown you back in the past.

You felt tears well up on your eyes, the feeling of your eyes trying to soak up the tears to keep you composed, so overpowering your throat was stuck. You didn’t want to cry and she didn’t want to make you cry, but she also did, because then maybe you’d feel exactly like she had for weeks back in the days.

“If… If tennis really had been what had sealed the deal, I would’ve stayed for Art, fucked him and gotten pregnant, Tash…” You chuckled, trying to conceal the pain that came with understanding what her best friend felt. You finally saw her view, all because of a simple phrase from her. “I left… I left because I was useless to all of you, Tashi… Without tennis to make you happy, what good was I around other than to have sex and remind you of how disposable I am ?”

You had cried yourself to sleep countless times, begging for assurance that you were good enough, that you could be loved, that you deserved it and weren’t disposable. Patrick’s words had been etched into your skull like a scar that wouldn’t ever go away. And she didn’t seem to see it correctly because she looked disgusted but really she was angrier than before at you for speaking up after a decade and at everything that had a part to play in her loosing her best friend.

“I never said any of that crap to you, so why would you think that ?”

“Because you hadn’t said the opposite, Tashi. You sunk and pushed me away, made me feel like shit for trying when I could never understand but you wanted them. Even Patrick you wanted him around. I was the waste of air…”

And she would’ve screamed at you that no, you weren’t, she had loved you and still did and would burn herself raw to show it, because she loved passionately and her passion with Art depended on you now, kinda. She would’ve slapped Patrick’s jaw off and had him searching for you to apologize. She would’ve done this a thousand other ways and shown you the years of tear stains and sleepless nights where she could only fall asleep to your voice on the TV, singing your life away as if she didn’t exist and wasn’t watching you. She wanted you to hear it, all of her anger and hatred.

Instead, Lily returned, running happily while you whipped your tears. She could only hear the ‘mommy’ coming out of her daughter before tuning her out to watch you. You knelt, listening to her talk about her rocks and the other kids while she watched or admired. Before she knew it, you had rolled away on your skateboard leaving her again.

~

If you presently took time out of your day to think about your exes, it wasn’t because it felt good to think about them, but because they were all crumbling, Tashi included, the most put together one of them. Patrick, it made sense. But Tashi, it was a surprise, though not so much. After Art had unilaterally decided, to announce his retirement, most likely without consulting his wife and coach, you had expected a shift, a the divorce announcement which had followed a month later was part of that. But to catch the three of them together, yelling at each other in the middle of a school was even more a surprise.

You’d been riding your motorcycle downtown when you passed a school. Stopping at the red light, you almost fell off your vehicle when you heard three more than familiar voices in front of a school gate. You felt them themselves had noticed you when all three stopped to turn in your direction. You were remained still, staring straight at them through your helmet. Tashi, always in the middle would be staring into your eyes if she would and a part of you wished she was, to see how she would react. Didn’t matter though, a part of you knew she had recognized you first, her body shifting from anger to unprecedented sorrow, like seeing a ghost of the person you had lived the most in a stranger passing by. You knew they were gone yet you still saw them and felt all the love you had missed out on giving them.

Lily noticed you next, how, you didn’t know, but she did, waiving her arm so hard it could come off at any second. The rest you tried to ignore feeling slightly, but only slightly, humiliated that you’d been pulled so easily into an impromptu dinner at Art’s apartment where Lily stayed for the week because you had stupidly promised her to recount the tales of your movies and concert adventures all over the world. And obviously, after the dinner from hell where each mention you had made about your past and its relation to your current career was met with a snarky comment, mention about a more than private anecdote or a longing look that made you feel like you had passed away tragically, you had to deal with The Conversation. Years of work, years of you steering clear off these people, all gone down the drain because of one little girl that just so happens to be a little too curious.

You would’ve honestly chosen to have a bullet going through your forehead before you willingly accepted to be in a situation like this one. But you also hated being inconvenienced and Art’s look of desperation was enough of one without dealing with Tashi cussing you out again, so yeah you accepted. Patrick was pretty chill, actually really nice to be around when sober.

And then ensued the longest and lost quiet ten minutes of your life, with Art looking down at you like you could evaporate, Tashi looking at you like you spat in her face and Patrick looking at you with genuine happiness, almost glad that you were here. You, were looking elsewhere, everywhere, analyzing the space and checking for the nearest exit. You would’ve made a run for it if you weren’t so fucking lazy, really. Unlucky you, victim of her own lacks.

Patrick was the first to talk, hesitant but clearly not feeling guilty or ashamed of anything. Or maybe he was but had learned to deal.

“I’m really happy to see you. I get to thank you for rehab.” He said and you almost glared at him, which he noticed, grinning like he used to, the smug fuck.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You spat.

It made him chuckle really, how hard you tried to detach yourself from them but kept yourself in their orbit at almost all times. You were a brat and he was glad to see it hadn't changed.

“Right.” He nodded, complying with amusement. “Well, whoever is responsible in your team for my rehab as well as the apartment I got after, you’ll thank them for me.”

“They’re getting fired.”

You were stubborn, maybe more than him even, and he understood, definitely more than the other two who too busy hating you or loving you unconditionally.

Then began another five minutes of silence, broken once again by Patrick.

“Okay, I feel this is a waste of time.” He had barely started that you were already standing up to leave, quickly stopped by a frantic Art standing up in a hurry to stop you while Tashi’s head snapped in your direction coaxing you into sitting down with her eyes. Patrick enjoyed this greatly, how pathetic you made these two. “I mean, if we’re going to be here, we might as well talk. We need to, we haven’t in a while after all.”

Tashi’s anger changed focus to go to him, glaring at him with disdain.

“Since when did you become a fucking preacher of all things healthy and positive ?”

“Since someone nicely offered me a nice stay at a top tier rehab center that offered solo therapy sessions. The kind we all need.” Every word seemed to be pointed at you and you almost whished you’d left him to rot in the back of his car.

“I go to therapy, you ungrateful fuck, you won’t be teaching me shit about a healthy mental state.”

“Oh, what do you go for ? To learn to be less of a pussy and not run when things don’t go your way ?” Responded Tashi, more than annoyed by your condescension.

“No, I go to learn how to deal with nasty cold-hearted cunts who fail in life and take it out on everyone around them because they lost their lapdog husband to do that. Clearly it’s working because I’m here.”

“Oh look at her, she had a voice and a purpose now.”

“Don’t talk to her like that…” Muttered Art, finally losing it enough to speak up. It was cute, coming from a good intention and making shit worse.

“And look who finally grew a backbone ! Arthur Donaldson, standing up for someone, how nice. Of course it has to be for her, because if you won’t be fucking her behind my back and moaning her name while balls deep in me, you’ll be defending her.”

“Don’t start Tashi. You moaned her name more than I did, you’re mad that I got to see her and you didn’t, so let’s discuss that !” His voice increased in volume, meeting her as she stoop in to get in his face.

“Why the fuck would I need to see her ? She abandoned me ? She’s a fucking traitor !”

“Oh that’s rich coming from you Tashi, because you drilled in my head that after your fucking knee gave up on you I didn’t serve any other purpose than a nice fuck to remind you that there was always someone more useless than you now !”

The voices were coming from everywhere, heated and hurt by the wounds of the past, the kind that couldn’t heal until they were acknowledged.

You were all breathing loudly, looking at each other in pure anger, the anger you had repressed for years, the nasty words and ideas that you had let fester in your minds, desperately trying to move on and to grow into better people. You were all bitter, and in a funny twist of things, the most insane one of you remained sat, smiling at the three of you, enjoying the show.

“Oh, sorry.” He raised his hand, waiving it nonchalantly. “Don’t mind me, I’m just enjoying this. Happy to see you communicate.”

Had it been anyone else, you would’ve punched their teeth in, but Patrick enjoyed this. Sober or not, he remained annoyingly toxic, thriving off of the chaos that follows him.

“You’re enjoying this ? Really ?” You sounded just as surprised as you were amused, balancing between two moods that had you going from hot to cold.

You watched him stand up and get closer to you, close enough for you to smell the mint body wash on his skin. Good Lord, he smelled so good you could fuck him right now.

His hands traveled from your forearms to your cheek, holding your jaw nicely while you tried to act utterly disgusted by his presence and his touch.

When he kissed you, all tongue and drool, it was a little more difficult to act, mostly when you pulled at his hair the way he like and when his hand moved to hold your throat softly.

“What do you need to drop this act ? You know you want us, sweetheart. You need us in your life and it’s really embarrassing that you’re still keeping up the bit after more than a decade.”

You would’ve been bewildered by his audacity had you not been almost fucked mercilessly into dealing with it. It didn’t mean you wouldn’t enjoy putting him in his place, which is what you did when you pulled him away from you by the hair before pushing him back into his chair but not pushing his hand away when it loved to you exposed hip bone.

“I don’t know what fucked up substances had been floating in your system that fried your brain, but you told me to fuck off and die Patrick.”

“You’re being dramatic.” He cut you off with a grin, enjoying the situation even more.

“If I remember correctly, you called me useless. That sounds pretty freaking clear to me. As a matter of facts, the two other’s didn’t even say shit to shut you up so you can choke for all I care. Because yes I left, but you gave me the only reason I needed to.”

And it was funny really, how anger made them all lose their memories because you had really been given a reason, but they still felt like victims.

“So you listen to what my bitch says now ?” Tashi chimed in, angering you further.

“I’m as much your bitch as he was so, yeah, if you’re not defending me, you’re agreeing with him.”

And the perspective wasn’t new to her. It just meant she was wrong all that long and that wasn’t something she could accept. She has thought for years that you’d looked for the exit, when in truth they had opened the doors for you.

And now, it was her turn to kiss you. Nasty and greedy, teeth knocking and pussies leaking as she cussed you out like never before. She wanted you and hated you for making yourself wanted after years. Wanted you so much she pushed you onto the table, swatting the teacups off the table to crash loudly. When her mouth traveled down your neck, biting along the way, as if she was attempting to catch up to years of not marking you as hers, you cried out her name all while pulling at her hair.

Maybe it was the use of the present tense that fucked with her brain on a cellular level. Or it was the way Patrick had kissed you as if he had rights over you when then knew she was the only one who had rights over you. And fuck, you looked so good when you were a bitch, that had her leaking out of her panties like never before.

She refused to take up responsibility but you also refused to admit that you had settled for less, accepting the apologizes hidden in her actions. Mouth mean and piercing when her touch was so soft, like an apology that wouldn’t come out.

When she slid your pants down along with your panties, you expected to get eaten out, instead confronted by a crying Tashi.

“What the fuck ?” You exclaimed, seating up and looking at her.

You tried to raise her hand but were pushed back down instead mouth stuffed with your panties while she hid between your thighs. You would’ve loved to get her tongue deep inside you but with her tears running down your inner thighs, it was hard to not be distracted. She sobbed louder, finally stopping before springing up and storming off.

Art was the one to stop her, worried for the woman he had seen cry maybe twice in his life. His eyes asked a thousand questions wonder and fear traveling through, powered by the fear of failing to rekindle the old flame that kept him alive.

“Why did you have to fuck her ?! Why do I have to deal with her again ?!”

It was harsh but you didn’t take it personally, never with her. She was a loyal person, ironically, and to lose the pillar that you were had killed her inside. Her finger pointed at you while she sobbed, letting go of years of resentment.

“You abandoned me ! You left me but you fucked him and you pay for the other to go to rehab ! He hurt you and you save his life when you should let him burn !”

The mask of assurance and anger was crumbling like a sand castle under a wave, traveling as fast as her tears. You wanted to reach and comfort your girl but now could be the wrong time.

“They get every piece of you, even from afar and I get nothing ! You give me nothing but fucking dust !”

This time you did reach out. Holding out your hands to her and letting her fall into your arms like she usually did. She never fought to reach you, she melted for you more than for anyone. Maybe that was why her marriage to Art had failed, because by default, you were the quickest route to her heart beyond the planning for the perfect tennis related life. You actually touched Tashi.

After a while she stopped crying and marched towards Patrick to slap him because he was a smug bitch and the source of all of this, but he was also a good sport and took it rather easily. He didn’t care about the slaps, not when they were a necessary step to getting you back into this circle, the correct universal order of things. And he was also pretty glad that she’d slapped him if it meant he could watch her lodge herself between your parted legs and stick two digits in your mouth to shut you up when you yelped at the coldness of her breath on you.

“You’re sick, you know that ?” She had chuckled when looking at you dripping center and rubbing her thumb on your clit. “I cry just a little and you actually get wetter. That’s fucked, even for you.”

Yeah you were weak to her tears and yeah it did make your insides throb but not because you liked to see her cry. It was because a very twisted part of you knew that only you could get her to act like that, only you could get her to lose that ego and be human for a second. And when she looked up at you with reddened eyes and lashes still a little covered in tears, you did moan because fuck she was hot. She was insane but she was hot and you’d missed having her tongue on you so you took it like the good girl she had trained you to be.

“See how easily things go when you stop being dramatic ?” Had scoffed Patrick, still grinning as he walked towards Art.

“Fuck y- Aah !” You couldn’t finish that sentence, nor when she sucked your clit in like she loved to do whenever you got mouthy. It trained you to be polite.

Patrick watched you slowly lose your resolve, twisted into a submissive little thing, the sweet girl he used to fuck into oblivion, not the egotistical pop star that refused to fucking talk to him.

While Tashi had her fun between your thighs, slid behind Art who evidently couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Oh, how he had missed you, all of you. To watch Tashi devour you like she did ignited a fire in him he hadn’t felt in about a decade, or six months if we went back to the last time he saw you. Here you were, laid on top of his kitchen like a godly offering meant for him to devour. He looked down at you core, watching your cunt throb in desire, never really satisfied until you were filled up properly.

He watched you with glossy eyes and a line of drool picking out of the corner of his mouth, he wanted his mouth of your tits, so nicely presented, bare under your top. Was that what you wanted ? For him to see you and think of your night together, like he had done for the last weeks ? Were you trying to get him to lose it ? He was going insane, more than usual. He could still see him jerk off in the shower, his bed or his TV whenever something about you came up in his head or his screen. He saw you and would cry at the loss of you all while cumming all over himself repeatedly.

“Look at this, pretty girl…” Muttered Patrick, running his nose down Art’s neck. “Look at your sweet boy, Art. Look at how hard you get him when you start acting nice with us ?”

His large hands slid under the blond man’s joggers, pushing the tiny briefs he wore to the side, to let his large cock be freed. You saw him sigh in relief, his long girth and thick balls finally freed from the piece of fabric barely covering them. You could salivate at the thought of him, how his pore dick just could never fully fit in the tiny underwear Tashi had him buy. He’d get aroused and need to push them to the side to breathe. Obviously, all that before you offered to get on your knees and relieve him from the itch.

And you were already getting crosseyed, losing your resolve quickly and forgetting why you were angry at them for all these years. You couldn’t remember, but you knew that you were ready to be used by every single one of them. Starting with your poor baby boy who tried his best not to jump you, respecting Tashi’s time with you all while leaking cum through his joggers. He tried to be so respectful that was the one to drop his pants and tug at his balls to give him a little friction.

A little always went a long way for Art, so when you saw him cum all over Patrick’s hand and not down your throat you were a little disappointed.

Tashi barely spared anyone a glance, to busy exploring your insides with her tongue. When your legs closed in around her, she knew you were close, enough to satiate a decade long thirst for your sweet juices. She sucked in your clit again and you tried to crawl away, too sensitive for the double sucking and penetration, her fingers sliding inside you to part you open properly.

You were so close, whining and moaning her name while rubbing your pussy on her face. But then she stood up, leaving you to cry out while you watched your orgasm die on her tongue.

“You really think I’d let you cum after you ghosted me for a fucking decade ?” She said, looking at you with a mix of disgust and amusement.

You wanted to scream and cuss her out for leaving you so high and letting you crash down, but you knew better and you knew she would do worst if you didn’t watch your mouth.

Patrick was the one to make a move, kissing forehead with another fucking grin. Was that the only thing he did ?

“Be nice to our girl, Tashi… She was certain that we hated her guts.”

“Yeah, well that’s not my problem. You fuck her if you want but she’s not cumming until I say she does.” Her gaze was decisive and you knew that was an order for the two men in the room as well as a threat to you.

You tried to plead with your eyes, pulling at her heartstrings to no avail, you’d need to make yourself be forgiven. But it was also easier to plead with Art who was still staring at you, desperately waiting for his moment. Patrick stared at you both, amused at your fickle attempt at restraint.

He'd always be the one to let himself be driven by his dick so really, he could salute Art for the attempt, had it been him, he would’ve fucked you stupid already. And he would, eventually, he wanted to, his throbbing cock a proof of that. But he wanted to deal with this shit first.

“How about we calm down and let all the anger go, huh Tash ? Look at our sweet girl, look how much she’s missed you ? How about we let her show us, huh ?”

For a few seconds, both looked into each other before she rolled her eyes, agreeing in silence. In mere seconds you were lifted up by Patrick, his hands holding onto your bare ass cheeks while toying with your pussy lips. His nose ran along your nose, inhaling your scent and the aroma of you on his tongue.

“You’ll get to put on a show for us, princess.” He said, nipping on your collarbone all the way down to your nipples. You closed your legs around his waist, throwing your head back in pleasure when his lips ran around your nipple, sucking it in vigorously.

He stopped in his track, turning towards a frozen Art, unmoving and red all over, from the tip of his ears to the tip of his cock. He watched the way you swallowed, eagerly waiting to get to suck him dry. He liked it, when you became just a little bit insane over Art’s cock, salivating at the idea of him drilling his cock down your throat.

Tashi had been watching you this whole time and the way you looked at the blond man. She liked how much you craved Art too, enjoyed watching you two fuck for hours, until you couldn’t think or form a coherent sentence. She stood up, walking in his direction and running a finger over the slit of his tip. He was shaking at the touch, almost ready to cum on the spot.

Tashi took his hand and followed after Patrick and you, dragging the man behind. She pushed him to the bed and Patrick threw you on top of him, Art’s arms wrapping around your waist protectively. He didn’t know what he was protecting you off but he wanted to be in his skin at the moment deep in every crevice of your being.

“Show us what you did together and I’ll forgive you.” She said, taking a seat right in from of the bed next to Patrick.

You could’ve refused, acted like you were better than that, had changed and grown out of that phase of your life and didn’t need her forgiveness. You could’ve been the mentally stable being you claimed to be, but you didn’t. Because you weren’t. You missed being used by all three of the people in the room, watched and admired as a vessel of their pleasure. You missed Tashi being mean to you in bed, so mean that you would cry for hours until she was done and cuddled you afterwards. You missed being used as a cum dumpster by Patrick and his disgusting ways of having sex, thick hairy balls rubbing over your face when he’d make you suck him off. And you missed Art taking you until you were left shaking in his arms, so roughly that neither of you could think a single rational, logical thought.

You missed the messiness of life with them, not prim proper and rational but genuinely sick and twisted, toxic filled bullshit that had you feeling passion like never before. You missed actually being better than them and rubbing it in their faces by always being the first to do the right thing.

You were just as twisted as them, calculated and conniving as the next. Birds of a feather, that was all you, all four of you insane and desperately in love, even if it hurt sometimes.

You didn’t talk shit out that night or the day after. You fucked all night, finally forgiven around 4AM, just in time for Tashi to sit on your face while Art and Patrick battled each other to eat the cum out of you. The weren’t sure whose it was but they wanted a taste. And that went along for the next day because while Patrick and Tashi could actually control themselves, Art never could, not with you. He kept going until his balls hurt and he’d been shooting blanks inside you.

Patrick wouldn’t apologize, not with words but with actions, because he was still an ego drive piece of shit and he refused to admit being wrong when it came to you. But he loved you so he became nicer and watched his words around you, because he refused to go insane again at the loss of you. Tashi would move on as if nothing happened, her girlfriend was back and she’d eventually get married with Patrick because she actually worked with Patrick and loved him the way she couldn’t Art, but never the way she loved you. Art would pamper you like you were heaven on Earth, worshipping the very ground you walked on and feeding off of your love for him just like you fed on his love for you, because you actually loved Art, loved him enough to get married and have that baby you talked about.

The dynamic was weird but it worked and it was all planned also. Nothing had really changed, except you, you became worse. Just as unstable as them.

[melancholymetropolis]

“Please don’t walk away— Y/N! Please!”

“No, Art! I said no!” My voice bounced off of every wall in the small dressing room and slammed right into Art. His face, once reddened with anger, quickly drained itself of the color and became a stark white. His eyes were wide and his mouth agape. He searched my face with quick glances before dropping his gaze down to my clenched fists. My entire being was shaking and I could feel the tips of my ears grow hot with a rage I hadn’t felt since I was a teenager. A rage that appeared the last time we shared a space together. A rage that drew us apart for the last decade. 

Art Donaldson was a lot of things to everyone. An inspiration. An icon. A loving father. Doting husband to my former childhood best friend. The man that almost ruined my life. 

We were an unstoppable group; Patrick, Art, Tashi and I. Inseparable. It was hard seeing any individual member alone, since we spent every single moment attached at the hip. At least, when Patrick was back from his tour. 

Since the two lovebirds were often “reuniting” when Patrick came back to town. Art and I organically began hanging out together. I’d help him study for his math exams and he’d basically shove me out of my room to eat. He was someone I could call to kill a spider in my shower. I was someone that could fix whatever problem he had with his computer. He was someone I could depend on. . . when Tashi wasn’t in the picture. 

“I will not have this conversation,” I choked as tears burned the corners of my eyes. “Not now, not ever.”

“Listen, I know I fucked up,” he pleaded, taking small steps toward me. “I shouldn’t have acted like that. But I was a kid—.”

“Art, get the fuck out of my face with that bullshit!” I sneered. “You were nineteen years old! Not some sniffling toddler who just learned to walk. You knew what you were do— wait.” I forced myself to stop in mid sentence. “I just said I wouldn’t have this conversation with you. So why the fuck are we still having it?”

“Because I am worried about you!” He argued back. “You disappeared without a fucking trace—” 

“You don’t get to worry about me when you’re the reason why fucking I left!” The words poured out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop them. 

“Y/N. . . ”

“You got what you wanted,” I replied, staring directly into his eyes. “Dozens of trophies, a mansion bigger than your parent’s and Tashi fucking Duncan as your spouse. You should be over the goddamn moon right now. But, instead,  you are berating me about my choice to leave a toxic situation almost a decade ago.” I released a long sigh and shook my head. “What do you want from me, Donaldson?”

“You,” he said in a low voice. “I just want. . . you.”

-------------------

I'm baaaaaack!!! With an drabble no one asked for!!!!!!!!!! But I do have a something cooking up that a follower did request.

Stay tuned for that.

Also, how do we feel about angst drabbles? Yay or Nay?

[cloveroctobers]

THE STRANGERS: SINNERS ON COURT

A/N: the point? I’m highly disappointed with the new release of the strangers and the summer is the perfect time for the horrors and THAT was just not it for me. I’ve also been strongly debating if I even want to dip into writing for challengers since it’s very layered but also MESSY and who wants to flop if you drop something but you don’t know unless you try right? So here’s me serving something since chapter 1 gave us…not much? I’m blaming the writers and not the actors ofc so they need to hire me for chapter 2 ASAP. So this is for my horror and challengers lovers I guess! I might have to do a trilogy myself depending how this turns out.

In short: Challengers meet The Strangers.

WARNINGS: mostly oc x art pairing with a hint of Tashi x oc! Language, slow burn/slow start? Slight graphic violence + animal brutality?—Not overly described but hinted + a LENGTHY read!

SYNOPSIS: Andromeda, “Andra,” Cove has always been the secret double to Tashi’s game even when Andra claims that is far from true. Although their friendship has been on and off since Andra transferred out of Stanford…everything always comes back to the court. Andra seeks out Art’s company to attend her grandfather’s birthday party back in her hometown in Virginia Beach not expecting Tashi and Patrick to show up as well considering the confirmed secrets the three have recently spilled. After the events at Andra’s grandfather’s birthday party, the four decide to take a trip up to Andra’s cottage to get reacquainted but soon find three more guests at the door who release nothing but terror that surely ruins the weekend.

.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *

“I just remember the knife plunging into him and the amount of blood that spluttered from his mouth as they flung his body to the floor…” Andra hears the intake of her breath before she continued, “his eyes still locked on me as if—as if he was imagining during his last moments what our life as a married couple could be like and I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t stop them from hurting the man I wanted forever with. They took that from me and I still feel that knife, shoving its way through my body every time I think of him. My forever husband.”

The host of the podcast speaks now, “Not long after Maya honored us with this virtual interview, she was found brutally murdered in her shared home with her late fiancé, Ryan. The case of the road-trip lovers still remains unsolved till this day.”

A nudge to Andra’s bare upper arm makes her flinch, bringing her back to reality as she glances to her right to see her good friend, Art Donaldson staring at her, freshly awakened from his nap. Andra allowed him to be her passenger princess since he had to take two flights to get here, which she was thankful for.

After he received more frustrating than devastating news: that Lily was biologically Patrick’s, Art fled to London to take a much needed break from his two opponents. Art held Lily so tight and even thought of taking her with him but had no energy to fight Tashi who made little noise at his departure. She knew he would be back. Andra received a text from Tashi before Art ended up calling her and it was so laughable that Tashi acted like she had everything so figured out.

[~From: Tashi Duncan.

I fucked up and it’s finally caught up…you’ll probably be hearing from Art soon. I know you’ll do me a solid and watch over him for me, won’t you Meda?

Purposely leaving Tashi on read, Andra didn’t engage in a conversation because not even three minutes later, Art was in fact calling her phone—which led to a two hour call.

“What the hell are you listening to?” Art stretched his arms back around the headrest, a frown in between his brows.

Andra glances at him while rolling her stiff neck around in the driver’s seat, “A true crime podcast…about this couple that ends up having to stay in an airbnb and they basically get slaughtered by three sociopaths in creepy masks.”

Art squints, “and you feel that’s appropriate for us who are currently on the road alone surrounded by nothing but trees in this hillbilly state?”

“Hey! You wanted to see the cottage. I was—

Art interrupts his old friend, “Don’t say perfectly fine staying with your mom and step-dad because you and I both know you can’t stand those bastards.”

Which was not untrue…

Andra’s mother was big on living up to “the Cove,” name and felt that her daughter was the biggest disappointment (compared to her older brother Ahmed) although she kept a tight smile on her cheeks when speaking about Andra to family members. Andra’s mother’s side of the family came from a lineage of historians and archaeologists and Andra’s grandfather was also a well known tennis player in Ethiopia. Half of Andra’s mother’s siblings were also in the athletic field, her mother was once a gymnast and even made it to the Olympics multiple times until she suffered a severe neck injury on her third attendance ultimately ending her career—you can just guess how well she bonded with Tashi more than she ever did with her own daughter—later becoming a athletic sponsorship director.

Andra laughs with a nod of her head, “yeah, you’re right.”

Art hums already being aware, reaching for Andra’s phone pausing the podcast to search for a playlist for this late night morning drive. “This is a mood killer…no pun intended so I’m switching this but rest in peace to Maya and Ryan.”

You’re resting your head back against the headrest, eyes focused on the road, “You’re lucky I’m getting tired and don’t want to argue with you since there are rules such as: Driver always gets to pick the soundtrack.”

“So you were listening to this to scare the shit out of you and keep you awake?” Art states with a curious glance at the braided haired woman, “pull over and let me drive the rest of the way then.”

Andra twists her lips around, ready to debate on that since she loved her “little,” coupe and actually loved being the designated driver. When she transferred out of Stanford, she may or may not have gotten into illegally racing a few cars for extra cash, after her mother put a hold on her card until she declared a new major that was satisfactory enough to her. If anybody needed a ride and fast then Andra was your girl…just try to keep that on the low, although it was public record.

A yawn ripped through her lips before she can even stop it. She didn’t even want to dare a glimpse at Art who now sat up with a fold of his arms. He was being such a dad and Andra found this funny, laughing to herself while Art patiently waited for her to say something.

“You’re too cute, Art.” Andra tells him, lolling her head to peek over at the now dark haired blond, “looking like a scolding parent as if I didn’t get enough of that at the beach.”

Art sighs at that.

For as long as Art’s known Andra, she’s always been this humorous vibrant personality but it only ever shined when she stood on her own. It dimmed a bit whenever Tashi took over and Andra made herself small enough so her own mother wouldn’t find something to pick at but that never did her any good. Andra only came out here to celebrate her grandfather, since she was never sure how many more years the old man had left in him and he was much softer on her than the way he treated her mother, which was a cycle for what Andra endured. Her step-father refused to see it, comfortable in his rose colored lenses while she also often had a bickering relationship with her brother, Ahmed who claimed she played the victim game whenever their mother said something that basically teared her down.

It was a tale as old as time.

Andra thought inviting Art out here was to mainly help him wrap his head around what he was going to do and it would be good to see each other face to face after all this time but turns out it was him being by her side that made things a little easier.

“What do you need?” Art decided to ask, keeping his eyes trained only on her.

Andra chewed down on her bottom lip as she whispered, “…for you to drive.”

Art dipped his head at this, waiting for Andra to pull over to the side. They unbuckled their seatbelts and Art was out into the night while Andra climbed over to the passenger side with her fallen over zip up hoodie. Shutting the door behind him, Art adjusted the seat with a small teasing smile at the bronze skinned woman who scoffed at him in return.

Before he switched gears he says, “for what it’s worth…I think you’re brilliant at whatever you do and the only thing that matters is what you’re comfortable with when you look in the mirror. Be proud of that.”

A watery smile goes his way and Andra lightly reaches over to shove his shoulder, “you’re disgustingly sweet and I’m glad you’re in my life.”

“I love you, you know that?” Art sends a lopsided grin back.

Andra breathes, “I love you too.”

And that keeps Art warm in the sixty-five degree summer night. He runs his fingers over the door and cracks the window open, allowing the air to brush against the side of his new do, loving to hear the sound of that. It felt good to hear sentiments being reciprocated verbally and Andra never had a problem letting it be known. The pair connected in that kind of way, the whole words of affirmation was huge in the way they wanted to be loved and can always count on each other to be so reassuring.

“Now how many more hours do we have to go?”

Andra who’s balled up on her side, peeks at her glowing phone that was plugged into her car informs, “just a hour and nine minutes.”

Art puffed out some air as he switched gears, then checked over his shoulder before pulling back onto the road, “It’ll be sunrise by then so…hopefully a gas station will grant us with it’s presence and we can fill up, grab some shitty coffee or energy drinks and be on our way to your fancy cottage.”

Andra rolled her eyes, “it’s nothing compared to your California barbie dream house.”

“Please,” Art snorted, “it’s far from that and just a place to lay our heads and raise Lily in…” He clears his throat, “it’s just a house.”

Andra knew Art was still coming to terms with it all. He already went off about it and what he thought marriage should be despite spending years in one. Art claimed he wanted a divorce but the next thing Andra knew, Tashi and Patrick were showing up without her invite. Art didn’t invite them necessarily but he did let it slip to Patrick where he was over texts and that he didn’t know when he was coming back. Art needed some time and he always felt like there was never enough in this world.

The next few moments consisted of Andra dozing off, her phone buzzing with notifications as Art got off the next exit after driving nine miles and headed to the gas station. Art grabbed his own phone, tempted to wake Andra but she looked so at peace with some much needed sleep. He quietly exits the car and makes his way to the dingy gas station, greeting the grunting old man with the Santa Claus beard at the counter before searching their inventory. Art decides against the coffee that has a few dead flies floating at the top and circled back to the fridges.

Once he finds the little that he wanted, he slides the objects onto the counter at the man with the unkept beard. A small smile graces Art’s lips in a attempt to be friendly but the man doesn’t budge.

“That’ll be it, thanks.” Art urges as he holds open his wallet, also hoping to get the strange man to get a move on so he can get out of here quickly.

The man grunts, reaching forward from his spot on the stool to bring the few items closer to his view before he slowly starts punching them into the register. Art’s patient as the man takes his time and before he can start looking around his gruff tone comes out, “that’s a pretty one you got out there, don’t ya?”

Art blinks, easily picking up at what the man is hinting at and chooses to ignore him, “I’ll need some gas too. $25 on pump three.”

The man hums to himself, reaching over some more to punch his dirt stained fingers into the buttons although his eyes keep darting out the window. This time Art follows the old man’s stare but only to check on Andra to see that she is still in fact asleep on the passenger side.

“Y’all not from around these parts are ya? Headin’ north might not be the best choice ‘round this time of year.” The man tells Art who feels his brows coming together in a frown.

He wasn’t concerned about how the man can figure out if he was from here or not. It was the same as visiting any place and Art’s been to many considering his status. It was what the man, Walter (according to his also grimy looking name tag) said afterwards.

“It’s a week before the holiday, I think we’ll be okay but thanks for caring.” Art keeps his calm, small smile still on his lips as he pulls out two twenty bills, noticing the: CASH ONLY sign, “keep the change and you have a nice upcoming morning.”

Art doesn’t bother engaging in more conversation, shoving his wallet back into his jogger pocket, and scoops the items into his arms; not asking for a bag either. Art half expected the man to latch onto his wrist and deliver another unsettling line. This time Walter just goes back to being silent and Art’s not sure which one was worse, as he steps away and exits the store.

The pinging of his own phone, doesn’t stop Art in his tracks as he continues back to the coupe. Opening the door, he dumps everything into the driver’s seat for now before moving quickly to the nozzle. The minutes feel long as Art darts his gaze from the changing numbers on the pump, to Walter’s stare from the store, and back to Andra whose body gently rises and falls with each breath.

With a click, Art brings his attention to the nozzle to place in its original space, then moves the drinks into the holders and tossing the few snacks onto the floor by Andra’s sneakers on the floor. He searches the glove box for some sanitizer, but no amount of alcohol can erase the internal feeling of something going wrong.

Art laughs to himself as Walter holds up a hand in their departure, feeling that he was just being paranoid since his nerves were already out of whack way before he got to this state. Art shrugs it off once the gas station is no longer in sight and feels his phone ping some more.

“Not now, Patrick.” Art bites with a scratch to the back of his head.

He doesn’t have to look at his phone to know that it’s Patrick. He’s been the main one sending texts at all sorts of times since Art left the country. Art was already irked before but now that he brought Tashi to impose on his time with Andra was just another thing to tick off the list. Andra was great at distancing herself from the two and was always vocal on her distaste for Patrick but this was still a process for Art.

You can only be on the court by yourself for so long according to Art Donaldson.

Andra Cove strongly felt different.

“Hey,” Andra’s raspy voice is followed with a grasp to Art’s shoulder, catching him off guard which makes her widen her half lidded eyes at his flinching, “…everything good?”

Art scoffs, “what? Oh yeah! I just thought southern people would have the best manners.”

Andra clenches the tiredness from her eyes, trying to comprehend what the blond was saying to her, “…what happened?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Art says, “take a look in the holder, I got your favorite.”

Peeking at him with one eye, Andra glances down at the yellow bottle and reaches for it with a smile that splits over her lips. “Pina colada Fanta? I can’t believe you remember that.”

“How can I forget? You talked about it all the damn time back at Stanford and would throw a fit every time the campus never had it.” Art briefly looks at the woman from the driver’s side.

Andra laughs as she squeezes it to her chest before placing it back in the holder, “appreciate you, bub.”

“Sure,” art replies, “try not to chug it all down for breakfast later and then complain about a tummy ache afterwards.”

“Are you this bossy with Lily?” Andra questions while getting ready to roll her body to face away from Art again.

She freezes a bit, wondering if it’s a sore subject to even mention the child’s name but Art just shakes his head with a snort, “I’m actually the fun parent, believe it or not.”

“Oh I do.” Andra’s turned back to the window again, reaching a hand back to squeeze Art’s thigh in comfort.

He watches Andra’s hand: her gel nails a combination of a summer orange sunset and magenta. Her pretty fingers are inked with delicate designs and Art finds that her touch radiates a warmth that he’s not used to. A touch that is gentle but firm enough that lets him know that perhaps this gloom season doesn’t have to last forever.

There’s some instrumentals playing throughout the car now but Art doesn’t seem to mind it. Andra’s hand is now back to her own lap as she catches up on another round of a nap and Art is left to his own thoughts and this horrible energy drink that tastes like battery acid.

“Jesus,” Art mutters to himself as he feels himself gag balling a fist up to his mouth, in hopes of settling his stomach on his own.

He glares down at the drink momentarily before his eyes connect with something in the road, which makes him tap on the brakes. They squeal some, which makes Andra pop up in bewilderment, hood to her hoodie sliding right off.

“Damn,” Art comments as Andra grips onto the dash, leaning forward to get a good look at what’s in the road.

Andra sighs, “it’s a deer.”

“Yeah but…it doesn’t just look like roadkill.”

The way its head is bent back is unnatural along with the amount of blood that stains the gravel. There’s traces of glass the decorate the ground which indicates it could have been hit, which was not uncommon. It was the way that both sets of eyes locked on the deer with squints in their eyes that they noticed multiple wounds on its backside that appeared blunt and not accidental.

Andra exhales, her side eye going to the sides of the car before her hands went to check that the doors were locked, “nope. Art, if you don’t float this shit, then I will.”

The glance Art shoots Andra’s way, confirms that twisting feeling he felt back at the gas station. He crosses his hands over the steering wheel, turning the car to go around the deer and picks up the speed just as the navigation system speaks telling the two which direction to continue in.

That was enough to keep Andra awake for the rest of the drive.

6:46AM

The old friends are pulling up to the Olive green and white cottage. Equally they both rest their heads against the seats, just measuring the amount of energy it was going to take to collect their things and bring them into the home.

“It’s nice.” Art compliments while Andra who rolls her head to meet his tired stare with her blank one, “what? I’m not bullshitting you, honest.”

“Uh huh,” Andra answers as she grabs her Fanta staring at it a bit with a smile, “c’mon Ken, let’s get inside before the bugs start chomping.”

Art teases with his own nickname, “can we check our surroundings first, Belle? I’m getting some red flags?”

It was the way he actually had a rose by one of his own personalized nicknames for Andra in his phone—the only one with a emoji by her name truly—that reminded Art of how much he missed their friendship.

“Is this more about the Santa Claus cashier or the stabbed up deer?” Andra asks with her hand on the door.

Art scratches at his brow as Andra’s phone dings, “uh…both?” He muttered while she deeply inhales, eyes going to the phone she was about to leave behind in the holder. Pulling it free, she unlocks the phone and reads the message with a scowl.

Holding the mic on the bottom right of the device, she speaks into it, “thanks for letting me know last minute, dumbass. Send.”

Shoving the phone into her hoodie pocket, she meets Art’s eyes, “Ahmed gladly let me know that the front porch light is still broken from the last time he snuck up here to use my place for who knows what.”

“I’ll take a look at it, just set a reminder.”

Andra nods, quickly doing so before pushing the door open followed by Art. He breathes in the fresh air which smells of pine and salt from near by water. It’s quiet besides the light chirping from some birds and there’s not many cars near by at Andra’s neighbor to their left.

“The Triplett’s come here in the winter months, they’re Minnesota natives if you can believe it.” Andra informs as she swings the strap of her duffle bag against her shoulder and moves the seat back into place.

Art nods, “so what you’re saying is…we’re actually alone?”

Andra shrugs, “that’s kinda what the cottage life is all about, babe. Don’t worry though, that’ll be ruined once your two favs decides to grant us with their presence.”

Art watches as Andra slams the door, leaving Art behind as she crosses the pathway towards the front porch. He’s scrambling a bit now, grabbing his own bag and locking the car. He jogs up the steps just as Andra is unlocking the door. “Did I mention that I’m sorry about that?”

Andra fans her hand as Art steps into the home, being met with the grand view of the water out back. She’s locking the door behind him and then responds, “you sure did but nothings changed.”

She hoist the bag on her shoulder as she breezes by that, “alright little house tour since it’s still early and we could both use some more sleep. Dining table is here, kitchen in the corner, sitting area to a pretty great view is up ahead with the best deck in this sleepy town right beyond those doors, bathroom is right by the last set of sliding doors leading out to the deck, and your room is right around that wall. Around from there is the actual living room and my room is upstairs. Please keep your shoes by the door.”

Art breathes out a laugh, “if I didn’t know that you were once a careless tennis athlete who chose cross country instead—out of all things—then went on to sports journalism later turned kinesiologist, I’d say real estate might be your true calling.”

Andra rolls her eyes with a laugh, “thanks for the whole run down of my résumé, you’re a great guest so far.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet.” He winks as he moves to start unlacing his sneakers while Andra shakes her head, moving towards the couch with her back to the sliding doors.

She jokes, “I’m not on your salary so I don’t have a personalized chef or anything—

“Shut up, Andie.” Art playfully aims his shoe at the braided woman who grins at him with a wink, “I don’t need that special treatment shit, especially when it’s going to be over by next year anyway. I already know I’m gonna be taken care of by you.”

Since Art got his friendship with Patrick back, he seems to believe that he’ll be retiring soon and he wasn’t anywhere near forty just yet.

She shrugs her shoulders, “…all depends on how good of a guest you are.”

“I think I’m the best you’re gonna get…compared to your brother anyway.”

“Don’t even get me started on his bobble head!” Andra yells before continuing, “Now I have to check the house to make sure he didn’t ruin anything and try to hide it but at least he was honest about the light. The bare minimum! Please let me know if anything seems off in your room?”

Art laughs a little, knowing just how much Andra went at it with the older guy. Art never had any issues with Ahmed, he had an award winning smile and was definitely a charmer. The only thing Art didn’t get was why he didn’t have his sister’s back when it came to their mother? Probably because he got all the credit of being the “good” kid and didn’t want to ruin that but that was selfish. Art didn’t know what it meant to be a sibling but he figured it should be some sort of union, even if you had to Duke it out from time to time.

Blood was supposed to be thicker than water is what they say.

Art was an only child so he’s always been on his own but he felt like his late nana was the closest thing he’s had as true family.

Art zones back in on Andra stepping back into his view, “…what I was meaning to say before my mind goes all over the place is the kitchen should be pretty stacked although we’re only going to be here for a day or two. I had someone make sure of it so we don’t have to make any special trips but if you want to later—

“Andie,” art calls out to her making her blink and realize that she’s talking a lot, something she does when she’s stressing or needing some rest, “we’re good, get out of here.”

Her hands are on her hips now, “Are you trying to bully me, Donaldson?”

“No?” Art blinks.

“That’s what I thought. See you in a few hours and holler if you need anything.” She starts to walk off but Art follows her.

“…you do have weapons here right?”

She glances at him over her shoulder, “duh, who the hell do you think I am? Oblivious?”

“…what’s your middle name again?”

“Good night, art!” She waved her fingers in the air while Art is smirking.

“It’s morning!”

“Then tweet, tweet, bitch!” She calls back over the wall before she disappears and heads up the stairs.

Art can’t help but to let the bubbled laughter fly past his lips, heading to the right where the bedroom is waiting behind the sliding barn doors. Dumping his bags on a near by chair, he plops down on the side of the bed, resting his hands on his knees as he soaks in the stillness.

Flinging his body sideways to lay down, after staring out at the view for some time, he pulls out his phone to see a few texts from no other than Patrick.

The most recent says that Art’ll be seeing him and Tashi by the early or mid-afternoon at the latest, depending on when Tashi was ready to go. All Art did was like the message, placing his phone back on his belly before he closed his eyes.

Art is awakened by the stench of food and the goosebumps that decorate his skin. Rubbing at the new texture on his skin, he pushes himself up into a sitting position and peeks through his slumber eyes to get a sense for what time it is.

11:52AM

He gets to his feet, rubbing at his eyes and leaves his phone behind face down on the bed. Leaning in the doorway he looks both ways before stepping out onto the dark wood floor and heads back towards the front of the cottage. He spots Andra immediately facing his direction in the kitchen, leftovers of a sandwich in her hand while she’s sipping at some sort of smoothie.

“Morning sunshine, how did you sleep?”

Art leans against the counter from the opposite side and grins, “like a baby.”

“See the magic of this place yet?”

“I still need some convincing…maybe the last bite of that sandwich will help?”

“Oh you mean this one? That’s full of grease and has the potential to clog arteries? Aren’t you an athlete?”

Art gives a straight face, “doesn’t mean I can’t have cheat days and when did you become my trainer exactly?”

Andra pops her lips at the taste, leaning forward to mockingly toss the rest of the sandwich into her mouth.

Art leans away from the counter, “alright, okay. Your hospitality actually sucks and I rate this establishment zero stars.”

“You can’t chop me.”

“I just did.” Art states matter of factly as he starts making his way into the kitchen.

Andra scrunches up her nose, “always such a little baby! There’s one waiting for you in the toaster oven and I’ll be reporting this to the blogs.”

Art argues, “And you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

“Classic answer,” Andra circles around Art now in her flowy white skirt to plop on the couch dramatically with a hand tossed against her forehead, “I thought you said you loved me, Arthur?”

“Oh c’mon, not the whole government name drop, Andromeda!” Art drags out her name around stuffing his face while Andra laughs laid out on the couch.

He preferred “Art,” over his full name any day and that’s what everyone’s known him as before he even made it big. That of course didn’t apply to his own parents who felt it was foolish to call their son by a nickname rather than what they gave to him at birth. They were less hard asses than Patrick’s parents but when it came to titles that’s where he and Andromeda related.

“I’ve been added to the group chat thanks to your side piece.” Andromeda waves her phone in the air.

Art takes her leftover smoothie and plops down beside her, sipping at and ignoring her raised brows, “what side piece?”

“Mickey mouse.” Andromeda tells as she shows the dark blond her phone, “Patrick says him and Tashi are now on the road so we should see them around 2 at the latest.”

Art slowly finishes chewing, elbows on his knees as he’s in thought, nodding at this information. He can’t exactly say he’s thrilled to have them here—as bad as it sounds considering 1/2 of the pair consists of his wife but he’ll keep that to himself.

Andra sits up then, shuffling to sit thigh to thigh with Art as she nudged his shoulder, “Take a minute and get ready, I’ll be outside enjoying the sun until I give you the rest of the tour.”

He questions with a lopsided grin, “there’s more?”

“Always.” She flashes her teeth at him, leaving Art to peer down at her lips briefly before she turns her head to look at the waterfront for a bit, leaving Art to analyze the profile of Andra’s face. The little chocolate chip mole by her hairline of her straight backs is something he always found cute no matter which way she wore her hair. Just like her finding the spec of honey brown on the side of his dark blue hues in his right eye.

She gets up, using his shoulder for leverage before she breezes by him smelling like caramel, peonies, and pink pepper—a mixture of many scents that matched her body chemistry quite well. Art lets out a long sigh, leaning back against the couch after she slides the door closed but that doesn’t stop him from watching her walk across the deck to sit pretty on the wicker egg chair.

Some time later Art makes his way out to the deck, freshly changed and dressed for the remainder of the day. He meets Andra out on the deck, leaning over it just as she’s getting off the phone.

“I don’t care when you bring it, Ahmed. All I know is that it better be back here by the time I come out here again. Yeah, yeah. Bye!” Andra ends the call while there’s amusement on Art’s face while he takes a spot right next to her.

He glances at her before looking back at the view, “are you out here tearing your big brother a new one?”

“Nooo, what gave you that idea?” She’s sarcastic although her smile is as sweet as can be.

She spins to rest her elbows on the banister, eyeing Art’s appearance. He meets her stare, raising his brows in question as she says, “The facial hair is a good look on you. What’s next? Growing your hair back out?”

Art snorts, “nah, I think that’s over for me. Too much maintenance.”

Andra hums as she waves him along, “let’s see the dock…wait did you put your sunscreen or bug spray on?”

“Uh no?”

“Not on my watch, Donaldson.” She charges right by him to the egg chair, coming back with a dropper, “hold out your wrists.”

“What is it?” He asks but complies as the oil is dropped right on his skin.

“Now pat it against your neck and ankles then finish with your wrists.” She instructs, “the mosquitoes are devils by the water and hate lemongrass.”

Art shakes his head with a smile, “whatever you say, mom.”

“That’s okay, clown me all you want but you’ll be thanking me by the time we’re inside for the night, free from bites.” She pats his waist on her way by to put the dropper back.

Together the friends make their way down the set of stairs to the lower level. They walk across the grass where Andra points to their left, showing where the shed is full of equipment for water activities.

“Paddle boarding?” Art quizzes as he caressed his facial hair, “I can’t picture it.”

“What? I can’t have other hobbies?” Andra asked, hands on her hips while staring at the man underneath her eyelashes.

Art shrugged, “course you can. I just remember a certain lake party where you were lounging by the lake instead of being in it.”

Andra shields her eyes from the sun as she turns up her glossed lips at the memory, “I’m surprised you remember that when you had your tongue down Divinia Alonto’s throat.”

“Did I?” Art inquires, “I was honestly so worried about my new friend not having a good time.”

“And keeping Patrick from getting his ass beat by one of those guys that’s probably a linebacker now.” Andra chuckles as she leads the way up the small hill towards the dock.

The air is warm just as the light breeze while the two travel some more together. It was funny thinking about it all, how Andra became acquainted with the pair, first watching them at the US open since she was visiting Ahmed who recently moved out to Queens, New York. She would later end up at Tashi’s match a week later, sitting on the bleachers not far from Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson. She ended up introducing herself to the two prior and congratulated them on their win just for Patrick to invite her to a lake party they were attending that night.

Andra said she would think about it just as her pink LG chocolate phone was ringing. It was Tashi. Art even took it further to round off a number Andra can reach them at, leaving her to just stare at them in amusement.

“Aren’t you gonna type that in? Or do you need me to do it for you?” Patrick attempts to flirt but Andra just peers at him from underneath her oval purple and black glasses.

Andra laughs, “I’ve got it but if I need someone to lift a finger for me, I know just who to call. Later.”

“Later.” The boys echo as they watch her walk away.

“She wants me, dude.” Patrick leans back into Art’s shoulder as they both watch her hips sway, doing a signature spin while answering the phone.

“Yeah right, in your dreams!

“Hey,” Art speaks, his eyes were off to the right, “you never mentioned a court.”

Andra deeply exhaled as they both face it now, “that’s because I try to forget it every time I’m out here. After I purchased this property, my mom made it her mission to have one put out here as some sort of gift to me? Honestly it feels like torture porn to me but I shut my mouth and never use it.”

Art turned his eyes into slits, “if you don’t use it then somebody definitely does. What do you get up to out there in Alaska?”

It still shocked Art to hear that Andra settled out in Alaska these past few years. Of course she still traveled all over working with the most popular athletes, this he knew because he seemed to get the runaround whenever he mentioned her but Tashi deemed it as Andra still holding a grudge with her cutting Andra off after she transferred.

Art believed it was possible but eventually they reconnected instead.

“Lots of things,” Andra answers, “but you’d have to come out there and see.”

Art hums, “that another invitation?”

“As if you need anymore.” Andra looks at him and he holds her stare.

“…I think,” he starts as he leans towards her a bit, “I’d like to see if you still got it.”

Andra scoffs, “I don’t need to prove a damn thing.”

A smile twitches onto his lips, “sure you don’t but we’ve got nothing but time?”

“And we can enjoy that time by the dock underneath the sun. I know you like to get a little tan for the summer.” Andra argues with a cross of her arms.

Art rolls his eyes, “if you’re a chicken shit just say that.”

“If you wanna see me in a skort just say that.” Andra fired back, standing on her toes a bit to match his height.

Art presses his tongue into his cheek, looking off to think about it, “fine, you caught me! I’d love to.”

And the way he’s speaking to her makes Andra bite her bottom lip and Art knows he’s got her. He’s smirking as he tries to reach for her folded arms in attempt to hug her but she playfully slaps his hands away and points at him in warning.

They’ve worked up a good enough sweat on the indigo blue court. Art’s serving with the ball at the neck of the racket before he sends the ball over. Andra has no issue matching Art’s rhythm, he’s found his spark again but Andra knows he’s been tired of professional tennis. It just took him much longer than it did Andra. She knew right from the beginning that it wasn’t her sport although she was phenomenal at it.

It was a shame really because it seemed effortless. So causal she swung but it was always fast, her brows remained turned inward while the rest of her face remained calm despite the usual routine of pulling her bottom lip underneath her teeth. Art is so lost in the swing of things, picking up on Andra’s own tics that he tries to go for the ball at the last minute. Andra pulled another one of her moves, almost like a ballet twirl spinning just as she smacks the ball back to Art.

Stretching his arm just too far, Art hisses as he feels his shoulder sting almost like static radiating down his arm followed by a burning sensation. Andra sharply inhaled, eyes widening as she tosses the racket to the side. Moving around the net she’s down on her knees as Art lays on his back panting.

“Hey,” she speaks touching his shoulder which he lightly grips, “Let me.”

Carefully he moves his fingertips out the way, choosing to stare up at the sky for a while as Andra feels around. Art groans as she touches just at the crease of his armpit, surrounding by his old wounds.

“It’s a muscle spasm,” Andra informs as she digs her fingers along his skin, “breathe through it, Art.”

He pinches at the bridge of his nose, doing as instructed and croaks out, “my shoulder stood no chance, I should have known, you still got it and do that famous spin of yours.”

“Whatever,” Andra dismisses, “now look at you, all messed up, old man.”

Art huffs, “well I wouldn’t pick anybody else to look after me.”

Andra shakes her head with a small smile as she raises Art’s shoulder while still pushing back at the stubborn spasm. When Andra shakes his shoulder out to help relax it, she goes to raise it again but he’s sitting up now with a wince. With one hand he slips against the small of Andra’s back, making her inhale as she looks over at him.

“Am I hurting you?” She softly inquired, quickly checking in but Art shakes his head.

He’s pushing her to his lap and whispers into the summer air, “Never that.”

Before his lips are placed right on her’s.

Their noses are smashed together as their lips work together. Andra makes the move to grip Art’s jaw, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. He rubs at her back and squeezes her hips, matching her speed as if time is all they had.

Abruptly she pulls back, holding her lips while Art peers at her in alert. His eyes are even darker now but the spec of gold in that one eye is bright.

It’s such a pretty sight with his lips pink and panting.

“Art…what was that?” She questions behind her hands.

His hands don’t leave her frame as he breathes, “that was something I wanted to do since I hugged you for the first time in years at your grandpop’s party.”

She tilts her head at this news and moves to sit beside him against the hot court, “You’re married, Art.”

“I don’t think Tashi knows that.” Art mutters while Andra sighs.

“So this is about revenge?”

Art shakes his head, “no. It’s about finding what’s missing and you’re it.”

They both lock eyes and Andra doesn’t realize she’s leaning in until Art is kissing her again, pushing her back onto the court which burns her bare back in more ways than one. She hisses and Art pulls away and sits her up immediately as he cups her face, “…can we go inside?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Their grins are wide as they scramble to their feet like two old friends secretly up to no good. The excitement was real, doing something that most would frown upon but the pair were not the only two that moved to their own drums.

Andra’s helping Art remove his shirt, he playfully whines more than needed as she pulls it over his aching shoulder but reveals he’s just messing with her and it’s not anything he can’t handle. His hands find comfort right on her ass, pulling her lips right back to his as he lays back against the couch. It’s when he starts bucking his hips against her’s after she slips her tongue into his mouth that Art knows he’s in trouble.

“I’ve missed you, Andie.” He tells her as she presses kisses down his neck.

She pulls back, “how much?”

He managed to flip the two over, sliding his hand up her leg brushing her white skirt all the way up as he presses his front against the only cloth that’s left covering her. “That much.”

“Then I think we need to fix that, don’t you?” She quizzes, holding his face in her hands again.

His lips are pressed to her’s and she nips at his bottom one and just as he’s reaching to shove down his own pants, there’s knocks at the door.

Both of their gazes turn to the door and Art sits up.

“Special delivery!” A familiar voice screams behind the door.

Art clenched his eyes shut while Andra sits up on her elbows to pull her skirt back down.

“Sorry,” Art kisses her cheek while Andra just secured the satin pearl colored tie around her braids before handing him his shirt back.

Art can already see Andra closing up and he hates to see it. She waits for him to fix his shirt again, this time with the tag in the right place, and wipes the gloss from his lips before making her way to the front door.

Yanking the door open to stop the pounding at it, she spots a grinning Patrick with shades on leaning against the door. “Mickey! You don’t have to kick my door in to announce your arrival, we can hear you from up the street.”

“You sure? Didn’t want to startle your quality time, sweetheart.” Patrick clicks his teeth with a wink as he leans forward to smack a kiss to her cheek before squeezing his way by.

Andra yanks Patrick by his backpack and scowls at the back of his neck, “Take your shoes off in my house, asswipe.”

“Yeah, whatever you want. Got it.”

Andra steps onto the porch now, spotting Tashi with her phone pressed to her ear pacing back and forth. Patrick snickers as he makes his way over to Art, arms held out ready for an embrace but Art just gives him a side eye before choosing to move into the kitchen.

Tashi lifts her head just to meet Andra’s eyes on the porch. They watch each other, Tashi half expecting Andra to send her a Princess wave like old times but she doesn’t. Once Tashi starts crossing the lawn towards the steps is when Andra turns her body to lean her back against the front door. She sees Tashi’s mountain of bags resting on the porch and raises her brow at them.

“Hey,” Tashi greets shortly as her heels click against the porch.

Andra dips her head, “Hi, Tash. Have a nice ride up here?”

“I never would have picked this hick town for you even if it’s part time, what were you thinking?” Tash asked as she begins moving her bags into Andra’s home herself.

Once Art comes over, he silently grabs the last bag to bring in before putting space between him, Tashi and Patrick.

“I was thinking, my money, my choice.” Andra replies as she closes the door.

Patrick lets out a low whistle, arm stretched along the back of the couch, “easy with the claws ladies.”

Tashi glares, “Shut the fuck up, will you?”

“Don’t start.” Andra warns the dark haired man who just shrugs, peeking over at Art with his tongue out in silent laughter who’s shaking his head at him.

Tashi surveys the cottage, heading to the waterfront view while looking left and right. “So what’s the sleeping arrangements?”

“Art’s on this level, I’m upstairs, Pat and you can have the couches.”

Patrick bounces on the one he’s sitting on now, “cool.”

“Right,” Tashi snorts, “So the room with the barn doors? Got it.”

Andra sends a look to Art who just moves the tension from his jaw. Tashi picks up on this and says, “what have you two been up to?”

“Yeah! It’s a nice set up you got here, Andra! I’m sure there’s plenty and nothing to do.” Patrick’s fishing but they’re not taking the bait.

Art decides to change the subject, “have you two eaten?”

“We stopped at that one place for breakfast before we left but I’m always down to decide what’s for dinner.” Patrick admits while Tashi rolls her eyes.

The now blonde haired woman brushes by Andra, “I’m going to bring my things into the room while you guys figure out how to entertain yourselves.”

Andra follows after Tashi as she’s going back and forth, bringing her things and arranging them and Art’s things. Andra sits on the edge of the bed waiting for Tashi who raises a brow at her. Art lets out a long exhale as he listens to the door slide closed and Patrick gets to his feet to place his backpack on the floor. Stretching his arms above his head, he moves towards the wall where the front door is to mess with the record player.

“Just make yourself at home, why don’t you?” Art mutters to Patrick as he flicks through some records and picks a random one to place down.

Patrick shrugs, “what am I supposed to do? Just sit around and wait for you to talk to me?”

“You’re lucky that Andra even opened the door.”

“What is this? You finding a new team member to replace me? Don’t forget that I’m always your number one.” Patrick leaves the needle off as he burns his stare into Art who’s resting his hands on the counter.

“Are you fucken serious right now? No way are you saying that to me when you did what did behind my back, again.”

Patrick rests his hand on his chest, “you’re acting as if I knew, which I didn’t, and what we’ve been over already! I would never try to take Lily away in the first place, I’m fine being uncle Patrick and I’ll still love her regardless.”

“Well shit, thanks for your permission!”

In the room, Tashi has now taken a space on the bed, arms crossed while Andra stands in front of her. “…Do you really think being here smothering him is the best choice?”

“Smothering?” Tashi scoffs, “Art fucked off for two weeks and he folded right into your arms. Whether you like it or not, I’m his wife and he’ll always need me.”

“Tashi…you had him believing that lily was his—

“She is!” Tashi exclaimed, “you honestly think Patrick would be a good father and god forbid a husband? They’re not children, they’re men and should start acting like it. Those white boys wouldn’t be shit without me and you know it, which is why you walked away.”

Andra frowned, “I don’t have anything to do with your relationships with Pat and Art so I don’t appreciate you trying to wrap me into your bullshit. I’ve been out the mix, sis. You’re already in my house, which takes a lot of balls from the both of you after you did Art dirty.”

“Art, art, art, art, art! Jesus! Did you fuck him already? Was it even better now than back when you were nineteen?”

One thing about Tashi, she knew how to be so disrespectful. However it had no effect on Andra as a smile split over her lips at the blunt short haired woman. It wasn’t a secret that Art was Andra’s first before he decided to start going after Tashi. They were each other’s flings and that was good enough for Andra as long as he wasn’t screwing anybody else that didn’t deserve him. It was her mistake then and maybe it would have been her mistake now if they had more time on that couch.

She didn’t need Tashi picking at scabs.

“Would that make you feel better?” Andra asked with a tilt of her head, “voluntarily giving us a pass for what exactly? To even the score?”

Tashi smirks, “You were always my greatest weapon and I don’t get even, I win.”

Patrick stands on the other side of the counter, taking Art’s glare, “I don’t know what you want from me, man. We were back to normal, great even! I’m at my best and you’re going out with a bang, don’t let this ruin how far we’ve come.”

Art huffs, “I’ll decide.”

“Fine, whatever you want but don’t make it another thirteen years.” Patrick snaps, “…where’s the booze?”

Andra pats at her scalp in frustration, “if you have any respect for me as a past friend, you’ll do right.”

“What’s your definition of right?” Tashi rolls her hands around trying to understand, “Leaving when it gets tough and having unrequited love?”

“What’s yours?” Andra debates stepping to Tashi who gets up in her face, “Cheating on your husband, having a baby on him, lying to him for years, and still walking around like the mean girl you are? Let me tell you something Ms. bob, we’re grown now and it’s tired.”

Tashi sizes Andra up, “it’s cute that you think you have a back bone now. Took you long enough.”

“Keep trying me and you’ll see just how that back bone works.”

Tashi kisses her lips at Andra who steps back, “great talk.”

“You haven’t changed and I don’t think you ever will. I’m glad I walked away from this friendship years ago, you make me sick.” Andra snips over her shoulder as she reaches for the handles.

Tashi fans her hand, “oh fuck you and your excuses. You’re just looking to point the finger at every bad guy to make yourself feel better about your lack of drive for anything.”

“What?” Andra whips around, “You’re the only miserable one I see here. At first I thought it was ambition but that turned into greed and then control. You’re just mad that I would no longer let you diminish my voice. I’ve had enough of that with my own mother! I’m not tennis, I’m more than that, which you’re not and that bothers you so maybe you’re the one that’s really sick.”

Tashi claps it up while Andra stares up at the ceiling, “glad you finally found your voice and told me how you really feel in person, instead of laying it out to the public like you should have. Only took you forever.”

Andra shrugs her shoulders, “if I have something to say, I’ll say it to your face.”

Tashi hums as she steps to Andra this time, brown eyes scanning over her features,“Tell me more.”

“I don’t want to do this with you anymore, Tash.” Andra’s hands are up in the air, “I removed myself from the situation long ago and after this weekend here, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. We just don’t mesh and that’s okay, I have boundaries and you have crazy standards that you expect everybody to follow. Art and I were cool before you came into the picture—

“Aht, don’t do that. We were high school friends before Art. Why should some man come between us?”

This was true, Andra and Tashi were the best of friends anyone can have as teenagers starting from their junior year. This wasn’t their first fight and wouldn’t be their last. They were in different groups by the time Andra came along since she was from Virginia but her family moved out to California when she was fourteen. They knew of each other since they had gym class together but didn’t get the chance to form a friendship until they were sixteen.

“You don’t get it,” Andra sighs, “it wasn’t just Art. It was everything for me and it would have killed me so I chose a different path. If you wanna be mad at me still over that, fine. We can’t change each other.”

“You honestly think that’s what our relationship was?” Tashi pries, “it was about challenging each other and shaping each other into the best of the best.”

Andra tightens her stare, “So tell me Tash, do you like the result?”

Tashi inhales, thoughts wandering as there’s more harsh knocks at the door. Andra deeply frowns figuring it’s Patrick who locked himself out as she looks away from Tashi, sliding the doors back to peek out. She can’t see from the doorway but she also doesn’t hear Patrick or Art talking.

The knocking sounds again and Andra steps out, followed by Tashi. Andra sees Art walking over to the door while Patrick brings his attention away from tinder on his phone.

“I thought it was you,” Andra tells Patrick, shoving his shoulder, making him lift his head to peek up at her.

Patrick snorts, “nah. My serve is more baseline.”

Tashi walks along the path between the couch and sliding doors, peering at the view of the afternoon sky turning lightly yellow against the blue. There’s birds in the sky but they’re flying further away. All of their heads turn back to the knocking, leaving Art to unlock it before Andra tells him to ask who it is.

Her attention is pulled away as Patrick starts carrying a conversation about dinner but she’s curious to who’s at the door. She see’s Art standing up straight before closing the door, locking it while holding a piece of paper.

“Who was it?” Patrick examines as Art makes his way over to the three still holding onto a fallen paper.

The blond shrugs, “some girl looking for some other girl.”

“God, I hope it didn’t slip to the paps that we’re out here.” Tashi actually seems uneasy about that, perhaps this news was more damaging than she was letting on.

Art replies, “Yeah that would not be great.”

“I mean…would it be the worst?” Patrick sits up on his elbows, “The press is hot right now and I’m the hottest topic—which I should be.”

“Yeah mainly for having a kid with your coach, who happens to be my wife.��� Art retorts, “You should be so proud.” He flicks the paper into the air, leaving Patrick to reach up and snatch it.

Patrick turns his attention to Andra who’s sitting on the other side of the lounging shaven man, “…you never told us this was some religious town.”

“What?” Andra frowns, trying to not dissociate.

Patrick holds the paper up in the air as if it’s show and tell, “Latter-day saints? Don’t tell us you invited us here to join a cult?”

“I didn’t invite you!” Andra declared while Patrick flicks the paper to the ground and raised his hands in surrender.

Tashi asks Art, “what’s the name of the girl she said she was looking for?”

“It wasn’t Tashi.” Art notifies, “don’t worry.”

Tashi breathed out a laugh, “me? Never.”

Art moves to sit at the dining table glancing at the three in the room. Andra’s gone quiet, Patrick’s humming a tune while he’s messing around with his phone again, and Tashi is burning her stare into him. He knows they’re going to have to talk at some point during this trip but for now?

“Andie and I ate not too long ago but nows a good as time as any to decide what to eat for dinner. So…any suggestions?” Art questions, eyes moving around the sitting room.

Tashi mumbles that it doesn’t matter, arms crossed as she also seems to have a lot on her mind. Patrick is sitting up against the arm of the couch now, blabbing about many options that most likely wasn’t in the fridge or freezer. Art’s eyes are on Andra as she moves to pull the large curtain over the sliding doors, which makes Tashi eye Art watching her as well.

Andra moves back to the kitchen, pulling out some already prepared items from her assistant to rest on the counter. Patrick’s back at the record player and Tashi has now taken Patrick’s spot on the couch.

The braided woman flinches as she feels hands lightly grip her hips. “Hey, are you okay?”

Andra nods, “yeah…I think so. You?”

“Ask me tomorrow,” Art whispers into her ear.

Andra utters, “just need to get through tonight.”

“Yup. Perhaps slow and steady wins this race?” Art guesses as he swiftly presses a kiss to Andra’s hairline by her personalized chocolate chip.

When he leaves her side, Art catches Patrick’s eyes who has his brows raised at that exchange, waiting for Art to tell him something with Art’s own eyes. Art just shifts his blues, leaving the main area to take a minute to himself. That doesn’t last as Patrick shortly follows after Art, seeking answers about what his plan was with Andromeda.

Tashi turns to Andra as Patrick disappears into her shared room with her husband.

“Guess it’s our turn to be fucking housewives, huh?”

Andra leans her elbows along the counter, feeling a cramp in her stomach while she breathed through it, “the real ones just exited the scene.”

Tashi laughs at this as she pushes to her feet looking for a drink. She wouldn’t exactly call this, “happy hour,” but it’ll do for now. Andra knows it’s bad luck not to cheers and Tashi Duncan was one of the last people she wanted to do so with but Andra had a feeling that she didn’t want anymore bad luck.

So the glasses clinked while Patrick and Art hashed it out behind the barn doors. Outside of the cottage by the water, stands a darkened silhouette underneath the slight shade of a dogwood tree, just lurking and waiting for the right time to rally.

Dollface would soon be ready for the next task once the hours passed with some friends to bring to the match.

.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *

Continue with my summer anthology writings & prompts here.

[flemuer]

I needddd inspo! If there’s any other suggestions I’m so open but these are my mains 🤭

[chlmtsdoll]

I’VE ALWAYS DREAMED OF…

౨ৎ Pairing: Art Donaldson/Tashi Duncan x female reader, Art Donaldson x reader, Art x Tashi

౨ৎ Summary: after being dismissed from your ballet academy and your dreams of being a dancer come crashing down, you decide to take on a new accomplishment — becoming a tennis protege to Tashi and Art.

౨ৎ Word count: 2.4k

౨ৎ Warnings: no use of y/n, inexperienced!reader, age gap (reader in early 20’s) dilf/milf age Art & Tashi, talk of oral (F reviving), fingering, size kink ? corruption (ish), mention of masterbation, brief mention of ED, pinning Art, needy reader, I have literally 0 knowledge of sports//tennis so if everything is inaccurate I’m sorry. I’m simply just a romantic smut addict who loves these characters 🤍

౨ৎ part two | three | four

You wouldn’t have wished that full body shock sensation of that day on your worst enemy. Never in a million years would you think all that discipline, bloody feet and overextension on your body to the point of black outs and collapse would have lead to that moment — the day you got dismissed from your ballet academy.

It had been your dream since a little girl to form a stable career as a traveling ballerina. To dance on European stages and tour around different countries doing what you loved. What set your heart on fire. But when you started to grow out of your bodies potential form, now in your early twenties, the instructors had to make the final decision to cut you from your class. You could no longer dance.

No one told you that after you turned around seventeen you’d no longer be the ‘correct’ body shape to be a ballerina. Not any doctors, not your parents — it was all fine up until your twenty first birthday. But even after you got the news that you were entering a red zone, you starved, and you looked into surgeons that would make you look like the ideal ballerina, but nothing was up to the terms of the academies you had qualified for.

The depression of your once life long dream had taken a complete toll over you for a year until you had to pick yourself up again.

Somewhere at least

You tried out other hobbies that took just your hands, baking, sewing, painting. But none of it made your soul feel like it had a real purpose. You needed to compete — you needed to move, your feet needed to glide quickly but delicately all at once. You needed that power and center of stage. You wanted all eyes on you while you made your body flex with determination and a fire light in your eyes.

And that’s when you started searching for tennis coaches.

You figured with your years worth of forming around good discipline and structure in ballet, tennis was a close second to the kind of agility you needed as an athlete of some sort, you knew you were no pro. Nor maybe ever going to be. But you had to do this, it was now tennis or nothing — and you were too young and too ambitious to give up just yet.

So you found them. Her first. Tashi Donaldson.

You knew of her, being in this Industry especially with being around so many wealthier kinds of sports enthusiasts, her name was gonna come around sometimes — and her husband of course plenty, Art Donaldson.

With some friends of friends, and many emails and more emails you were able to officially meet them after a couple days of searching and applying for tennis coaching nonstop. And when that day finally came, If it weren’t for their outshining talent at what they do for the tennis world, you would of figured they were models or at least assumed they should be.

They were both beautiful in an otherworldly sense — jaws that to you could cut like knives and bodies of literal gods.

You were shorter, and more petite as most ballerinas were, so when Tashi towered over you your first meet, all the confidence and sophistication you had previously practiced for this exact moment before hand, dissolved almost immediately — you were so intimidated by the powerful essence that poured off of her, the way her short waves flowed when she turned and her shirt dresses were left unbuttoned at just the perfect degree. Not too much on display, but just the right amount of cleavage and skin showing to leave her inferior curious for more, yearning for that bit of softness to Tashi that was merely her skin.

Speaking of softness, Art on the other hand had total power to his presence, with his name in grand letters everywhere. A full Olympic gold medalist tennis superstar. You’d think it all would go to his head, but that day you first shook hands with the mesmerizing man, you felt only warmth as he took your delicate into his bigger yet soft hands. You were left to find nothing but gentle kindness behind his eyes — you even noticed a bit of brown in his perfect blue irises.

And from that moment you had already known you’d become completely and utterly obsessed with him.

Yet that was six months ago now. Quickly you moved from your once apartment in New York City that you referred to as your ‘struggling ballerina habitat’ to the Donaldson estate — it was best you’d be as hands on with your tennis as possible, according to Tashi. But nothing could of prepared you for as hands on as it would get.

It had been two weeks into your training that the couple had come to you with a proposal. Art and Tashi would make a deal, that you’d be their play thing. But mainly for Art. His wife stated it would help up his game if he had something young, girlish and sweet to distract him in the meanwhile when he got too caught up in 40 loves, and wanting to do justice to Tashi’s failed tennis career. Sometimes it got all too much, and by that, most of the time. He needed you.

And how did you need him.

Within the first month you and Art had gotten feverishly close. With all the admiring you did of him and how he came to have the sports world in the palm of his hand, his rise to fame and all the while having a wife and daughter. Your smiles and soft blushes when he caressed your cheek — how you poked fun at him for not understanding your pop culture references or slang. It all gave him a nolstagia for his youth that made his heart pump a little faster and his racket hit a little harder on the court.

He was so so beyond sweet with you, helping you with your back hands, his fingers drifting your frame from behind as he positioned your body to his liking, and his grins when your mini tennis skirts (that Tashi ordered you to wear) would rise against his clothed thigh to only reveal the bit of lace panties you had on underneath.

With all the overwhelming feelings you didn’t deny the pleasure of touching yourself at night to the thought of his short strawberry blonde waves between your fingers as his lips made out with your pussy for hours. His tongue making you let out unimaginable noises to then kiss the taste of yourself off his lips.

So you couldn’t have been more down when Tashi made you sign for your little agreement.

You didn’t care if you were nothing but a fuck to get Art’s name permanently on the forums of different Tennis courts across the country. You’d do anything for just a glimpse of him. It was all you had really. Anything for Tashi to say you did well.

Anything for them.

It all had been in return of a place for you to stay as well. With your background coming from being a young ballerina from a big city — you hardly got paid anything manageable in the slightest. So it was nothing for Tashi and Art to shower you in their riches — the best maids, cooks, dietary plans, luxury hotels with new designer sports attire waiting for your arrival on top of your own beautifully decorated room in their home and a promised bright career ahead of you.

You’d just never bother to complain for also getting to receive the kind of affection and intimacy from the two who just needed a little bit of something. You, to make them feel alive again.

Now, you were settled into your silk pajama set that was personally picked out for you by Tashi, in a dusty pink rose color — the color she kept her nails because she mentioned it drove Art crazy. Giggles and soft laughter could be heard from the grand living room as you sat across from Art before bed. Watching his grin behind folded knuckles to his face, you bit your lip softly. “I haven’t been able to do it again since.”

“You can. And you will, you just need a little motivation.” you tittered softly with a smile. Taking in the sight of the man sitting so close yet too far from you.

You two had been watching highlights of some of Arts best matches from over the years.

You loved this. Sitting and listening to him talk about his career for however long he wanted, asking questions about how it felt to be so good at a craft — it made him feel assured telling you, teaching you. His confidence raised by the easy flow of conversation you had to offer. Because that’s what you were for, keeping him in that space of authority to at least something in his life and an escape from the tough business world that had broken down a man like him too many times before. So if you were keeping him up, Tashi was keeping you in.

Motivation

You could practically hear Art murmur the word to himself in his head and he looked at you with a sly grin on his face to which you only blushed and inched closer to his presence just a few pillows away from you.

“Yeah ? You gonna serve just like I showed you on the court tomorrow, ballerina ?”

Your lips immediately perked into a silly wide smile and you giggled like a school girl at the former accusation that was now Arts little nickname for you. Your chin resting in the crease of your elbow shyly as you nodded.

“It’ll be perfect. I promise.”

Art leaned in to leave a soft and delicately placed kiss to your neck. You shivered at the sweet somberness between the two of you, eyes almost fluttering closed as time stopped for a moment — but it was all cut short when Tashi came in from tucking Lily to bed. A demeanor on her face and body language like something had been not so lovely with her at that moment.

In her pajama slip, she had grabbed the remote from the table in front of the two of you and turned the tv off.

“Say goodnight.” She spoke with a soft assertiveness and Art had stood, he left a quick kiss to your cheek that didn’t leave you satisfied but wanting to whine his name to stay. Just for a little longer. But instead you let out a quite “night” as he made his way to Tashi.

Their lips pressed in a deep and slower smooch, you watched as some saliva collected in your mouth and you swallowed almost a little too loudly.

The way Art had softened into her made your stomach churn with want. Tashi had a gentle hand to his cheek as he pecked her one last time before disappearing through the hallway and you stood as well. Tashi’s eyes were locked on yours, and something gave you the notion that you weren’t allowed to leave just yet.

It had gone quite for a second as she focused on you, and you wanted to start picking your nails right there.

“I don’t like to end the night unsure, so do you want to tell me why you were slacking off on the court today ?”

Her words were crisp and landed on you like a paper cut you hadn’t seen coming. Your throat already tightening. You knew the chances of this night ending with her giving you that same kind of kiss she gave Art, was now looking too slim. And you feared for everything.

“I-I just haven’t been feeling too good on my feet lately,” your words already weakening under the woman’s gaze. “I’ve been trying to keep my lounges quick, steady, but the arch is hard to get rid of after-“

“Look. And listen to me.” Your eyes shot up from your feet as Tashi cut you and she began, “You’re not dancing in a recital and you’re not a fucking ballerina.”

She scorned you cold and straight forward. You immediately felt merely pushed back by force at her words.

“I don’t care if you’ll need to spend extra time with your physical therapist, I want you on your feet completely and ready to go tomorrow. This is tennis. That’s your life now, so start playing it because I don’t care for wasting my time, Understood ?”

Tashi knew how the ballerina facade went — the presenting as sweet, innocent, as fragile as a tea cup to the world, yet being built up to be an absolute machine. Being able to withstand even the harshest of hits to the ground or the lashing out of choreographers and instructors till gods end. It’s why she was never soft with you when it came to tennis, just like she wasn’t with Art.

You had nodded rather quickly and you were not going to let the readied tears resting on your ducts fall. You were gonna take the taunt like a big girl and get it together — because the truth is, you had been distracted during practice today.

But not by your poor aching feet, but by the way Art watched your perfectly toned legs as you leaped and glided across that court like some well, ballerina.

How when just the sight of your hair braided in two knots with ribbons on the end just became all too much for him to bare. He pulled you aside, the chill down your spine was maddening as he whispered in your ear the kinds of things you did to him. The way you made him feel. The things you made him want to do to with your little body.

His tender and wondrous fingers had ended up clean beneath your skirt without hesitation. Brushing against the lining of your panties and you were up against Gatorade bottles and protein mix before you could form a real thought. He leaned into you, standing tall there above you. Having to raise to the tips of your toes for him to tuck his fingers were you needed him most. You could see the rare excitement of dominance take over a darker tone in his eyes as his fingers sold into your sweet aching cunt, too tight for more than a finger.

The pulse of your heat and the beat of your heart racing at an embarrassing rate. His strawberry blonde locks brushed your desperate expression with eas that you’d fall apart in his arms at any moment knowing how fragile a young thing like you had been when it was just the two of you and your defenses were at their weakest. “Mmh, Art.” You breathed out in a whine, grabbing his muscular arm rather quickly as you nearly lost balance.

“Say it. Tell me you weren’t thinking about anything other than my hand up your skirt on that court.” He slowed into your ear and you whimpered softly as another finger, long and coated with your wetness entered you at once. “I see right through you. The thoughts that wind up in that innocent little head. So desperate. So willing to give up your cunt to me…. Or Tashi.”

Playing shy and dumb up front, though he had been right.

You would bend over and take the moment they said — You had to fight back strangled moans as you felt yourself being stretched by just his two fingers. It was known to both him and Tashi that you were untouched. With strict ballet schedules, school, and endless nights staying up till two am doing chassé after chassé till your toes were sore, you hardly ever had the time for pleasure. It had been anything if kept hidden and burried deep for a ballerina of your training to be caught up exploring her sexual desires — so as of current Art still hadn’t taken you there fully. But warming you up easily with his glorious mouth and apposing fingers inside of you would start you off heavenly.

“Need it… n-need you.” you huffed as Arts hand slipped under your sports bra to squeeze your breast, quick to rub your sensitive bud under his touch as his lips passed yours. His fingers working at a rough pace at this point that you felt your stomach tighten and he reached a spot you didn’t even know had existed. A high pitched groan had left your lips and he locked with yours to keep you fairly quiet. Then just as you would feel that gracious rush of relief soon to be yours, hitting you like a flow off a mountain — that sly smile of mischief had grown on Arts lips, before pulling his hand out from your skirt, and pressing a kiss to your jaw.

“Alright.. good to know.” Is all he uttered before walking away. Walking back out on that court and leaving you there, practically soaked and needing more.

Fuck

You’ve never found yourself so sexually frustrated that it was a different kind of rush you weren’t exactly prepared for. You knew Tashi was the one who loved a good game, and Art came off so easy going to the get up, not needing much for the win — till it was time to touch you or Tashi. Then it had just been all game. All teasing. All begging for more. He craved it, lived for it.

“I asked if you understood.” Tashi’s voice had you coming back to your senses and into the present. Standing in front of the woman already bored of the entire conversation.

You did know that her taking you in at all even with your background being in a completely different kind of wave from her world, was a huge risk to her career and her name. You really were almost too fucking lucky enough to be standing in the home of star athletes like she and Art. To be more intertwined with them than anyone out there. Skin to skin and an intimacy that was almost spiritual.

So with that knowledge, you truly didn’t see it being beneath Tashi to send you back right where you came from. To which that made a burn in your chest.

You couldn’t lose what you had worked so hard for, you couldn’t lose her attention and so much care even if seemed distant. You couldn’t lose Art, not when you were this close to being finally one with him this time. They believed in you enough, and they’d know when you were ready. It’s not like you had any direction before you were chosen by them anyways.

Tashi was completely right, you were no longer just some ballerina trying to make it. You were gonna be theirs to keep — they were gonna love you, and everything you did, every step and hit on that court till it hurt. You were gonna make them proud. You were going to play some good fucking tennis.

You had looked up at Tashi, doe eyed yet tired with a nod, “I understand. Completely.”

A/N: this is the first time I haven’t done full on p in v smut since I wanted to keep it short and sweet bc I plan on turning this fic into a series hopefully :) I rly loved this idea and thought it was a unique spin on the challengers uv — also want to bring in some Patrick action asp so lmk what you think or where it can go from here !! I love feedback it’s sooo appreciated <3 xoxo

[pugh-bug]

Marooned

Art Donaldson x ex wife reader

Part: 1 of 2

Word count: 2,488

This was supposed to just be a one shot but I got carried away! If you want to be added to my permanent taglist for all Art Donaldson x reader works please let me know 🫶🏻

——————————————————————

A seagull flew over your head, narrowly missing your ear with its wing as it passed. What were you doing here out at sea alone? It was reckless and you hadn’t done reckless for quite some time. You thought a boat ride alone might clear your head after the argument. He meant well, your boyfriend, but he could be a naively hurtful prick when the mood was ripe for it.

The engine moaned and groaned as you got further out to sea, the waves rising and falling gracelessly. Night had fallen and you had no signal and no way of knowing the way back to shore. It hadn’t seemed so far away moments ago but now every edge of the world seemed to be filled in with ocean. You tried to steady your heart rate as a large wave approached your modest boat and the engine whirred and creaked with fear. Just as you braced yourself for the wave a loud horn announced itself nearby. When you opened your eyes you were looking at his.

——————————————————————

‘Art?’ Your voice was hoarse as you looked up at the man pulling you up. The wooden, glossy floorboards told you you were no longer on your own boat. The man tried to explain to you what had happened and where you were but all you could focus on was the icy water dripping down your skin.

‘Let’s get you inside Y/N.’

You followed him into a lavishly decorated, wood panelled room. If it weren’t for the rocking beneath you you’d swear you were on land in some hotel. The lamps were Tiffany and the tables were mahogany, as expected your ex husband had done disgustingly well for himself. Even the scent in the air was rich.

Art fetched you a wool blanket and a towel before guiding you to sit on the inviting leather armchair opposite him. You shivered as he poured you both what appeared to be whisky, no doubt some 100 year old stuff no one had access to but him.

‘Do you need anything else?’ He asked as he sat down, his voice steady. You could hardly believe your eyes, 10 years it had been since Art Donaldson had been in your presence. 10 years since the divorce. Life had been kind to him, he looked older yes but he still had a youthfulness to his face. He was still handsome, still no doubt the tennis player most young female fans had posters of in their bedrooms.

‘I’m okay,’ you breathe, gathering yourself. ‘Thanks for pulling me out.’ In truth your memory of the night was already hazy and cloudy, almost in black and white. You remembered the gurgling of your engine dying and the size of the wave coming for you but nothing more. A familiar voice?

‘I couldn’t believe it was you when I saw your face. What the fuck were you doing in that out here on your own?’

Art was equally appalled as he was amused. Perhaps he was impressed with your attempt at independence and bravery, something he hadn’t got to see much of throughout your marriage.

‘To clear my head.’ It came out as more of a question. You needed alcohol to settle your nerves, a few more drinks would satisfy.

——————————————————————

‘Are you still writing?’

‘About tennis?’

Art pulled a face to say about anything, as if he didn’t believe you had the guts to write at all anymore. He wasn’t wrong.

‘No, didn’t have much opportunity after the divorce.’

Art raised an eyebrow at your comment, and the casual way you sipped your whisky afterwards. He watched you fade from view, metaphorically of course as you were in fact only inches away from him, as you remembered something. A memory from long ago that you’d tried to forget but couldn’t. It lived in the line between your eyebrows, the downturned smile you gave when you were concealing a lingering sadness and the constant sipping of your drink.

‘That day,’ you suddenly weren’t looking at Art across from you, you were looking at the memory of him ten years younger. ‘I was waiting for a call before you came home from Aidan - my agent - about the new book,’ Art nodded, remembering the man in the Prada suit who insisted on interrupting his time alone with you with phone calls about blurbs and font sizes. ‘And he picked up, must have rang him twelve times before he did, but when he did he told me he didn’t want me as a client - that my writing was average and he wanted better representation.’

‘Isn’t that supposed to be your line?’

You shrugged, still looking through your ex husband not at him, and sipped once again. ‘He got angry when I asked him why, started ripping apart my last articles and my last book. I think the word that came up,’ you pursed your lips at the memory. ‘The most was disappointing.’ As the boat bobbed, you pictured your old desk in yours and Art’s home where you’d received that call and you pictured Art arriving quite suddenly finding you staring at it.

After a long pause Art sighed a simple: ‘I never knew.’ because he didn’t. Of course he didn’t, why should he? That day had been painful enough without your failures as a writer coming into play. ‘Well, it’s not what stands out the most from that day anyway.’ You smiled, your down turned smile, at Art’s pensive face.

‘No, I think the toaster you smashed still wins.’ Art chuckled and you let yourself laugh at the absurdity. How were you on his boat? You didn’t believe in fate, it was all too simple an idea for you to take seriously, but something about it being almost ten years exactly since that day was alarming. Perhaps satisfying too, if you’d admit it to yourself.

Art stood up to fetch himself his jumper. ‘For what it’s worth, I always liked your writing.’ This you had to hear.

‘Really?’ It had come out even drier than you’d intended. ‘Because I seem to remember you selling any copies I gave you.’ That was only partially true. Twelve years ago Art had been spotted outside a hotel the two of you had been staying at by a desperately excited kid. Art had had nothing on him to give the poor fan but a copy of your latest book he’d planned to read in bed that night. Being the sweetheart he pretends not to be Art gave it away - only for the kid to pass him his last note and hightail it down the street smiling. Maybe sold wasn’t the right word afterall.

Art sat back down. ‘Adrian was a miserable agent and clearly stupid to have fired you.’ The whisky had started to have an affect because his words warmed your heart more than they had the right to.

‘You just never liked him because he didn’t find you funny.’ A playful smile edged itself onto your face, mirroring Art’s. He placed his glass down on the mahogany table, his eyes gleaming and not leaving your own, before scoffing. ‘He was alone in thinking that.’ Arrogant bastard.

‘I think, if you refreshed your memory you’d remember that I was the funny one.’ You couldn’t pass up the opportunity to swill your glass like a Bond villain to add some flourish to your comment. The atmosphere on the boat had shifted completely. You were starting to feel ten years younger and if it weren’t for logic you’d swear Art was looking ten years younger too.

‘You looked pretty funny flailing around in the ocean.’ Art quipped, enjoying himself a bit too much. You had to disagree. ‘You’d have felt bad if I’d have drowned!’ A giggle threatened to escape your chest.

He considered that for a moment, how bad he would feel if his ex wife was nothing more than a memory. Would he be allowed at the funeral? He didn’t know how badly the divorce had affected your scathing parents. The only thing your Mother had said to him on the day of the wedding was ‘Take care of her’ and that had felt more akin to a threat than advice. ‘Not sure your parents would have forgiven me.’

You scoffed, taking another rather large sip of whisky. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, my Mother thought a lot of you. She’d probably bail you out of prison.’

‘I didn’t mean her.’

The insecurity and guilt was evident on your ex husbands face, even through the slight haziness of your whisky lenses. You knew what he was remembering and it wasn’t just the offhand snide comments your Father would make at family meals or New Year’s parties, no. He was remembering that day.

‘Well…it doesn’t really matter now does it.’

Art adjusted in his seat, not ignoring your frown. He wanted to ask you something while he had you to himself for the first time in a decade. He might regret it. He might wish not to hear the answer, if you’d even be gracious enough to allow him one, but he had to know.

‘Can I ask you something?’

You shot him a just go ahead look.

‘I was always confused about - I mean about why you married me.’

‘Hmm.’

It took you a moment to figure out the right answer, an answer that was a mix of honesty and restraint. You’d already had a shitty, stressful day but something about him even daring to ask that after such a long time of no contact made you curious. Perhaps you needed closure for the ending and he needed closure for the beginning. You had to allow him that, he had saved your life after all.

‘We were twenty two I mean, doesnt everything seem like a good idea at that age?’ But giving closure was harder than you thought as that was a bullshit answer and you both knew it. You didn’t think you’d ever see Art again, let alone be trapped on a boat with him in the middle of the ocean discussing your marriage. All of your feelings, strong as they were, had been buried with the divorce papers and the box of his stuff he’d never come back for.

You had another sip, a nervous one, feeling Art’s eyes on you growing increasingly frustrated. He wasn’t going to let you change the subject that much was clear. If you were staying the night on his boat you were going to have to open up about this.

‘Okay,’ you sighed. ‘When I first met you you were the only boy who even tried to understand me, in any capacity. You didn’t want me to be your cheerleader and you didn’t treat me like a sexual exploit. I actually,’ this was harder than you thought. ‘Laughed harder around you than any of my friends. You made me feel great pretty much all the time and you listened to me. I didn’t have to fake anything with you. When you asked me to marry you I didn’t have any doubts.’ You looked at his eyes pointedly. ‘Did you?’

Art was stunned but he knew he believed you. He’d never forget your face when he proposed, not if he lived a thousand lifetimes. ‘No.’ Without question the answer was no.

‘Then-‘

‘Then why’d I do it?’

You’d never asked so he’d never told. He wasn’t sure he had a proper answer. No answer would rid him of the decade long guilt that festered its way through his veins like a cancer.

‘It was only once, I know that. Just tell me why.’ You kept your voice calm but the hurt revealed itself anyway. Even after all the promises, all the if I ever see him agains here you were showing your decade long pain to the man responsible for it.

‘I think the ‘forever’ part of marriage had started to feel like pressure. More pressure I couldn’t fucking handle.’

He’d lost the U.S Open the week he went to her flat behind your back. While you were watching the results on tv in the family room, shedding tears for your beloved husband and all the work he’d put in, he was with her.

‘It just sort of happened when-‘

You raised your hand, almost like a lawyer. You suddenly didn’t want to know, didn’t want to picture that woman - that girl really - writhing while she road your husband into the bed.

‘I’m good.’

Art was relieved at your gesture. He didn’t want to relive that life changing mistake. The mistake that lost him you.

After a long and cold silence, you let Art off the hook with a quip about her. About if they were still together - which of course they weren’t and you knew anyway. As much as you’d tried to avoid Art like any other ex, Art was no ordinary ex. His face was plastered on magazines, your television and your phone. You’d know if he sneezed, what time and whom he was with.

‘No,’ Art smiled at you knowingly. ‘We didn’t really gel as it happens.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘She wasn’t-‘

‘Tennis?’ You raised an eyebrow at him, knowing the only real threat to your marriage had been sport not another woman.

‘You.’

He let you sit with that for a moment, looking pensive as he drank more. You took a large swig of your whisky yourself, as a way to fill time more than anything else. Art’s eyes were fixated on your face and on your features, comparing and contrasting them with your younger self you imagined.

‘You haven’t changed much.’

‘Is that a compliment or an insult?’

In your marriage it had gotten increasingly difficult to decipher the two. When he referred to you as ‘Mrs Donaldson’ it was once clear that he found you particularly alluring that day but the honorific had become sour. Patronising on occasion towards the end.

‘Compliment.’

…and yet you missed being Mrs Donaldson.

‘Is this where I tell you whether I’m single or not?’ You sat back in your chair, analysing his reaction. Wanting information. Wanting him to give a shit who was with you, touching you - holding you at night. Art’s eyes flickered at the subject you’d brought into question, feeling your daring nature come into play.

‘Are you?’

‘No.’

His jaw clenched as you smiled sweetly, as if you’d just informed him you were now a nun and only had eyes for the Lord. ‘Why wasn’t he with you on that boat?’ Art questioned, leaning forward slightly.

‘Argument.’

‘Who won?’

‘We never finished it.’

That seemed to amuse Art even more.

‘We always finished ours didn’t we?’

You smiled at his wistfulness and the strange pride he seemed to take in that fact. Suddenly you felt very far from your boyfriend and new life indeed.

‘I won almost all of them.’

———————————————————————

Taglist: @amorisxx

Part 2

Masterlist

[myladybelle]

𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter fifteen

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and you’re forced to embrace a life in the sport you’ve been too afraid to claim for yourself. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.6k 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, swearing, alcohol consumption, description of a panic attack, reader wears a dress and heels at one point, use of y/n 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: wow, i can’t believe it’s been almost two months since i last updated this!! as always, i appreciate your patience so much. life has been pretty wacky crazy recently and it’s been hard to find the time to unwind and write. enjoy xx 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒, 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 – 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝟓, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟔. 𝟖:𝟎𝟎𝐏𝐌.

The cocktail party buzzed with conversation, the soft clink of glasses blending with the low hum of music from a corner of the room. People milled about in elegant but understated outfits—cocktail dresses, tailored blazers—their laughter and chatter filling the air, a symphony of mingling voices that seemed to stretch and echo in the lavish space. You had been to countless events like this since you started competing on the professional circuit, but tonight felt different. Tonight, you were sharing the spotlight with Art.

Your ex-boyfriend, first love, and the person you admired most.

It had been surprisingly easy to avoid Art since college. You saw each other at major events and tournaments, but there was always a distance between you; just enough to make the possibility of confrontation seem too painful to entertain. At this point in your career, you had fourteen Grand Slam wins under your belt, but you had never won in the same year as Art. That day, you had earned your second French Open title, but it was Art’s first.

And what better way to celebrate than by parading the winners around together for the cameras?

Avoiding him was somewhat impossible. You saw him as you walked in, standing by the bar with a beer in hand, his broad shoulders tense under a perfectly cut jacket. His dark blonde hair was a little shorter than you remembered, a few strands brushing his forehead in a way that made your chest tighten, like the string of a violin pulled too taut.

And then there was Tashi.

Your breath hitched—not in a romantic, heart-skipping way, but in a way that felt like you stumbled and caught yourself just before falling into the chasm of old wounds. You smoothed your dress—a fitted black Oscar de la Renta dress with delicate spaghetti straps, a tulle-panelled bodice adorned with soft ruffles, and a figure-hugging skirt that fell just below the knee, chosen to make you feel confident—and stepped further into the room. Your heart beat a little faster, the pulse thrumming painfully against your ribcage. The photographers were already circling, their lenses clicking like clockwork, their flashes staccato bursts of light that made your nerves tangle.

“Y/N! Over here! Smile for us!”

You managed a polite smile, forcing yourself to stay steady in your black heels, the sharp click of each step an echo of your unease, and let the people working the event usher you to the photo area. This was nothing new for you, but nothing could have prepared you for when Art joined you. He stood so close that you caught a faint trace of his cologne—the same one he used to wear in college. It was a delicate, familiar scent, wrapping around you like a storm cloud, pulling at the edges of your thoughts. You drew in a shaky breath, willing yourself to keep grinning at the cameras and not blink every time the flash went off.

“Congratulations,” Art said softly, his voice barely audible over the chaos. His words were like a weight landing on your chest, slow and inevitable.

“Congratulations to you too,” you replied, keeping your tone polite but distant, a mask carefully constructed over the trembling chaos inside. Even as you saw Art try to meet your gaze in your periphery, you kept your eyes on the cameras, focusing on nothing but the flashing lights, desperate to avoid that blue gaze.

“Closer! Let’s get the champions side by side!” one of the photographers called.

You felt Art’s arm brush your back as he shifted closer. The contact was brief but enough to send a shiver down your spine, a twinge of sensation that prickled your skin like a live wire. Dread filled you when you realised Art had probably felt the tremor. The heat from his proximity wrapped around you like the suffocating press of too many hands, and you couldn’t escape it.

“How have you been?” Art asked, his voice low and measured like a question long withheld.

You finally turned your head, catching his icy blue eyes. That was dangerous, you scolded yourself, hurriedly looking away, but not before you felt the sharp stab of nostalgia pierce through you, making your throat tighten.

“Busy. You know how it is,” came your aloof response.

His lips curved into a small smile. “Well, not really. This is only my second time winning a slam,” Art pointed out, his voice lingering in the space between you like an invitation for something more. He looked like he wanted to say more, but the photographers were shouting again, directing you into different poses.

You felt his gaze linger on you, the heat of it sinking into your skin, and you forced yourself to ignore it. Art still had that effortless charm, the kind that had drawn you to him in college. His presence was magnetic, tugging at the air between you. If you ignored all the ways he had changed physically—putting on more muscle, cutting his hair, and dressing differently—you could close your eyes and transport yourself back to your old Stanford dorm. Though you tried to ignore it, a small part of you ached. The part that remembered late-night conversations and how he used to make you laugh.

Tashi’s voice broke the moment. “Y/N, you look stunning.”

You turned to her, plastering on another smile, the effort of it making your jaw ache. “Thank you, so do you.” You hated pretending that the sight of Tashi didn’t make your skin crawl, but you endured it. The last thing you wanted was for the press coverage to be about petty drama instead of Art’s first French Open title.

Tashi did, of course, look stunning. Her deep orange dress matched the colour of the Roland-Garros clay court perfectly, the fabric gliding over her skin like liquid bronze, and her dark hair swept back in a way that accentuated her sharp cheekbones. But her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

You wondered, briefly, what she saw when she looked at you. Did she see you as the girl who used to share her secrets? Or the one who had walked away from it all?

Unlike your conversation with Art, it brought you physical pain to be nice to Tashi in public. The words felt like needles, sharp and unwelcome, threading into the fabric of your politeness. What she and Patrick had done the night he proposed to you was unforgivable, and—unless she contacted you stating that it was an emergency—you would never answer her calls willingly.

The evening passed in a blur of interviews, handshakes, and obligatory small talk. Art was always nearby, his laugh carrying over the noise, his presence impossible to ignore, like the weight of the air had changed. At dinner, he was seated beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours when you reached for your glass.

“Sorry,” he murmured, pulling back, and the softness of his voice made your chest tighten like a hand gently pressing down on the raw edges of a wound.

You shook your head quickly, avoiding his gaze. Tashi, seated on Art’s other side, noticed. She always noticed. Her eyes flicked between the two of you, her expression unreadable. When she leaned in to whisper something to Art, he nodded absently, his attention already back on you, as if the air between the two of you still held a charge, something neither of you could shake.

The tension was suffocating. You could feel the pulsing weight of it in your chest, the heat that rose in your cheeks, the way your breath seemed to falter when you were near him. It was all too much, and yet, nothing at all had changed.

As soon as dinner ended, you excused yourself, weaving through the crowd toward the quieter edges of the venue. A waiter passed by with a tray of champagne, and you took a glass, sipping it slowly as you tried to collect yourself. The party was vibrant, the room filled with laughter and music, but all you could focus on was the lingering warmth of Art’s presence. It seemed to follow you like a shadow that never quite left.

When you glanced back, you found him watching you again. Tashi stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, but his eyes were locked on you.

Tashi saw everything. She always had. It was one of the things that made you such close friends back in college—her uncanny ability to read people, to pick up on things left unsaid. Even now, as she stood beside Art, she could see how his gaze drifted toward you. She’d always known part of him still belonged to you, no matter how many years passed. And she couldn’t even blame him.

You’d been careful, distant. You’d kept your distance for years, and yet tonight, here you were, glowing under the lights, every bit the woman Art had fallen for all those years ago and so much more. Tashi wasn’t angry, not really. If anything, she felt tired. Tired of the distance between her and Art, tired of the slow erosion of their marriage. She’d thought it would be easier by now—especially after they’d had Lily—but it was like covering a bullet wound with a bandaid. It was enough to ensure Tashi and Art would always be family and have a place in each other’s lives, but it wouldn’t save their romance.

Seeing you tonight—seeing how Art looked at you—brought it all rushing back. She excused herself, slipping away to the restroom to collect her thoughts. When she returned, Art was gone.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been wandering the estate grounds. The party continued in the distance, laughter and music drifting through the cool night air. Your feet ached, but the night was still young, and as you looked out over the glittering lights of Paris, you felt a strange sense of calm descend over you.

You found yourself drawn to a small fountain tucked away behind a hedge, its waters glowing under soft golden lights. The scene was quiet and peaceful—a welcome reprieve from the chaos inside. You set your champagne glass on the fountain edge and sat down, letting the cool night air soothe your nerves.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

The voice startled you, but you recognised it instantly. You turned, finding Art standing a few feet away, his tie loosened and his jacket draped over one arm. He looked as uneasy as you felt.

“Shouldn’t you be inside?” you asked, your voice carefully neutral. Please go back inside, you begged below your polite words. 

“Probably,” he admitted, stepping closer. “But so should you.”

You didn’t respond, turning back to the fountain. Art hesitated before sitting beside you, leaving a few inches of space between you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The gentle trickle of the fountain filled the silence.

“It’s been a long time,” he said, his voice soft.

“Five years,” you replied. Your tone was quieter than you intended.

You both knew exactly how long it had been. Five years since Patrick’s disastrous proposal. Five years since Art had found you, heartbroken and vulnerable, on that tear-soaked night. Neither of you said it, but the memory hung in the air between you, heavy and unspoken.

“How’s Tashi?” you asked after a moment, breaking the silence.

He hesitated. “She’s… good. She’s great.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “That convincing, huh?”

Art let out a quiet laugh, but it lacked real humour. When he looked at you, his expression softened. And for a moment, it felt like no time had passed at all.

𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 – 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟒, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟏. 𝟏𝟐:𝟏𝟗𝐀𝐌.

Your eyes widened as you stared at Patrick, your heart pounding. The words hung in the air between you, almost tangible. You blinked, half-expecting the moment to dissolve into a dream. But there he was, standing before you, his face—previously full of hope and excitement—reduced to absolute terror by the question he had asked.

“So?” Patrick prompted, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. “Will you marry me?”

The world tilted. It was as if the axis of your life had shifted without warning, throwing you into uncharted territory. The room was the same as it had been a moment ago. But everything felt unfamiliar now—the weight of Patrick’s gaze, the quiet hum of the air conditioning, the distant chatter from the street outside. Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve, and you realised you hadn’t breathed since he first spoke.

Was he serious? He couldn’t be serious. Not now, not like this.

Patrick reached into his duffel bag by the door and retrieved a small velvet ring box. You covered your mouth with your hand when he opened it, revealing a delicate ring, the light catching on its surface. The diamonds sparkled, each facet glinting like a shard of frost on a winter morning.

Your heart stuttered, and a wave of panic surged through you. The pressure of the question pressed down harder, and your thoughts began to race, colliding in a chaotic mess. You loved him—you knew you loved him—but things had been hard recently. Patrick had been struggling, his insecurities bubbling to the surface more often.

What if this was his way of trying to hold onto you? What if this was about proving something to himself? Or proving to the tennis world that he could be a suitable partner for you even if he was less successful than you? Or to… anyone but the two of you?

“Y/N?” Patrick’s voice pulled you out of your spiralling thoughts. His face broke into a wide grin, misreading your silence. “I knew it! You’re so happy you’re speechless.” He shifted closer, holding the ring toward your finger. “Here, let me put it on you.”

“Wait,” you snapped out of your haze. You instinctively stepped aside, feeling a wave of claustrophobia with your back to the wall, and staggered toward the centre of the room. Your left hand was clutched in your right as if to shield your ring finger from the weight of Patrick’s question. “Just… wait.”

Patrick froze, confusion clouding his expression. “Wait? For what?”

You hesitated, fumbling for the right words. “Can I think about it?”

Patrick stared at you as if you’d suddenly spoken another language. “Think about it?” he repeated, his voice low with disbelief. “What… what is there to think about?”

You swallowed hard, guilt twisting in your stomach. “I don’t know if I’m ready to get married,” you stammered. The words felt foreign as they left your mouth, almost as shocking to you as they clearly were to him. 

Patrick’s face shifted, his joy giving way to an uneasy smile as he tried to brush your concern off. “We’re not eloping tomorrow or anything,” he said, a nervous laugh breaking the tension. “We can be engaged for as long as you want. I’m not in a rush. You can set the timeline. We’ll get married whenever you’re ready.”

You bit your lip, your mind still racing. Patrick was trying to keep things light, but your heart urged you to step back and process. “I know, but it’s not just that.” You winced. The way you worded it made it seem like there were a string of issues, which there were, but the last thing you wanted to do was hurt your boyfriend. “I wasn’t expecting this. I need time to settle into it.”

Patrick’s smile faltered, and you saw a flicker of hurt in his eyes. “Y/N,” he said slowly, his voice dipping lower. “Is this about Art and Tashi?”

The mention of your ex-boyfriend and ex-best friend caught you off guard. “What?”

“Is this because they got engaged?” Patrick pressed, his tone sharpening. “Because if it is, that’s–”

“No. Well, a little. But not because of me, because of you,” you explained. “I mean… you’ve been bringing them up almost every day for months. You mentioned them getting engaged again this morning. It’s not crazy that I’d think–”

“Oh, come on,” Patrick snapped, the hurt giving way to irritation. “Why would you even go there? This has nothing to do with them.”

“It’s not that far-fetched,” you shot back. Your voice rose despite yourself, the tension pulling at your every word. “You’ve been comparing us to them nonstop. How could I not think about it?”

Patrick sighed, dragging a hand through his dark curly hair. “Y/N, I’m not saying this because of them. I’m saying it because I love you,” he insisted. “Because I want to spend my life with you. You’ve always said you wanted that too.”

You nodded, your throat tight. “I do. I–” You stopped yourself, the weight of your words bearing down on you. “I just need time to process this. I’m not saying no, Patrick. I just… I wasn’t ready for this right now.”

The tension in the room grew unbearable. 

His shoulders slumped, and his free hand clenched into a fist. “You weren’t ready?” Patrick repeated, his voice trembling now, edged with frustration. His cheeks flushed, and his jaw tightened as he struggled to maintain his composure. “I don’t get it. You always talk about wanting to marry me, about having a family with me. And now, when I’m finally asking you, you’re not ready?”

You could feel tears threatening to surface. “I don’t know why,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I’m just not. I wasn’t expecting it. I need time, Patrick. Please.”

Patrick’s breath hitched, his eyes glistening. He turned his head away, clearly trying to stop the tears from falling, but his voice cracked when he spoke again. “I’m not gonna sit here hoping I’ll be good enough for you one day. If you don’t want to marry me, then just say it. Because I can’t–” He swallowed hard, his breath unsteady. “I can’t wait around for you. What am I supposed to do? Sit here and wonder if you want to marry me until you finally decide that you probably don’t?”

“That’s not fair,” you cried. “Patrick, please,” you said, stepping closer, your hands trembling as you reached for him. “I’m not saying no. I just need time to think. We both need to calm down and process this.”

Patrick whirled around and shouted, “You aren’t being fair! If it’s not a yes–” he said sharply, turning to you with a tear-streaked face– “then I’m done. This is it. You either want this or you don’t. Either you want me or you don’t.”

“Don’t say that,” you pleaded, your voice breaking. “Please don’t do this. Don’t make this an ultimatum. I’m not saying no. I’m just asking for time.” You reached out to him, your hands trembling. “You know I love you. I–”

“Do you?” Patrick cut you off, his voice rising now, pain in every syllable. “Because it sure doesn’t feel like it right now.” He was shaking as he tried to stop crying. His eyes were red and a deep, dark blue-green you had never seen before. “I’m done waiting around hoping that I can be good enough for you one day–” Patrick said, his chest heaving with each breath, “I won’t be your fallback. You either say yes, now, or it’s over.”

Your heart sank as the finality of his words hit you like a tidal wave. The room seemed to close in on you. You opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Patrick stood there, giving you one last chance, his eyes searching your face for a response.

Shaking your head, tears streamed down your face. Patrick stared at you, his expression hardening as if the vulnerability had been carved away, replaced with something cold and distant.

“I can’t,” you sobbed, your voice trembling. “I can’t say yes right now, I’m sorry. Please, don’t–”

But he didn’t give you the chance to finish. Patrick turned away from you, wiping his face with his hand, trying to control the tears threatening to spill. He was angry; so angry, but there was so much pain in his eyes that you couldn’t breathe.

“You know what?” Patrick said, his voice shaking with fury. “Maybe you should just go back to your mother’s house. You want time? Take all the time you need. But I won’t be there waiting around for you to win another Grand Slam. I’m done.”

You froze. The words hit you like a slap. Your mother’s house. The place the two of you had made your home base for the last few years—had referred to as your shared home. Hearing Patrick rebrand your safe space as a house where every room was haunted by the ghost of your mother’s neglect and resentment hurt almost as much as Patrick’s ultimatum. 

Your whole body trembled as the old wounds reopened, raw and painful. You reached for Patrick, but he was already storming out—the ring box still clutched tightly in his hand. As the door slammed behind him, you sank to your knees, the weight of the moment crashing over you, leaving you broken and alone. For the first time, you truly understood the depth of what was at stake. But even as your heart screamed at you to fix it, to say something, you couldn’t find the words to make it right.

You felt the cracks in your chest deepen as you stayed on the floor, your body shaking like the last leaves on a tree caught in autumn’s final gust. Your hotel room felt distant, as though you weren’t in it. Your palms were flat against the floor, fingers splayed out on the carpet to hold yourself steady, but the tremors only intensified.

You didn’t know how long it had been since Patrick left, but the silence that followed his absence was suffocating. It pressed against your ribs like the weight of a thousand unspoken words, a thousand apologies you never thought you’d need to say.

Your breath hitched again, catching in the back of your throat. Panic rose like a wave, and the world tilted dangerously on its axis. The walls seemed to close in, each inhale feeling tighter, colder, more impossible. Your chest was tight with something raw, something dangerous—this feeling of being unmoored. Of not having a place to land. Of not knowing if you’d ever stop falling. The room tilted again, but this time, it wasn’t the room; it was you.

Your hands shook so badly that you barely noticed the tears until they stung your skin. They were hot and angry, but they didn’t belong to any one thing. They didn’t belong to the breakup—not entirely. They belonged to the feeling of losing control, of losing everything at once, and most of all, to the gaping emptiness threatening to swallow you whole.

The silence was deafening. All you could hear was your own rapid breathing, the frantic beat of your heart, and the staccato sound of your shallow gasps for air. You could feel your pulse pounding in your neck, a rhythmic reminder of how fragile everything was. How everything could shatter in the span of a few words.

You want time? Take all the time you need. But I won’t be there waiting around for you to win another Grand Slam. I’m done.

The words echoed in your mind, repeated like a drumbeat, over and over until they lost meaning. Until all you heard was a blur of syllables and your heart thudding in your ears.

Your fingers pressed harder into the carpet, your nails digging into the plush fabric as if somehow this would ground you. As if somehow this would keep you from floating off into the ether. You had to breathe. You had to stop this. You knew this was a panic attack—the kind that built from something small and spiralled until it felt like you were drowning in your own mind—but it had been so many years since you’d last had one that it caught you off guard.

The tightness in your chest pulled deeper. The weight of it was unbearable. It felt like a boulder sitting on your lungs. No matter how much you tried to push it off, it stayed. You tried to inhale, to hold it steady, but your breath came out in short, stuttering bursts. It was too much. It was all too much.

The air felt thick and heavy. It was thick with the absence of Patrick, with the sting of the finality in his words. And there was nothing you could do to stop it. You couldn’t pull him back. You couldn’t change the past few hours. The finality was there, like a door slammed shut with too much force, leaving you standing on the other side, wondering if you ever had the key. After everything you and Patrick had been through, he ended it like it meant nothing to him.

You forced yourself to take a breath, but the air felt thick in your throat. It burned. It wasn’t enough, and your hands began to tremble more violently, your legs aching as they tried to hold you, to keep you from crumbling.

But then, slowly, you managed to take another breath. And another. And another. Each one was shaky at first, like the tentative steps of someone who’d just learned to walk. But the fog started to lift, even if just a little, the sharp edges of your panic beginning to dull as your breath steadied. Your hands stopped trembling.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. And in that moment, something was enough.

You reached for your phone, the screen glowing in the dim room, and typed a quick message to your dad. You needed to go. You couldn’t stay in that house anymore. You couldn’t go back to the place where ghosts of the past haunted every corner, every creaking floorboard. It had been a place of refuge for a time, and it was easy with Patrick by your side, but now it was just a tomb. 

You sent the text, feeling the weight of it settle into your bones like a quiet resignation. The words were a decision. A choice. It was time to leave.

But even as you pressed send, your mind raced back to Patrick. To the way his voice cracked when he told you he was done. To the way he walked out, leaving behind a vacuum where he had once stood. You didn’t want the night to end this way, and you definitely didn’t want your relationship to be over. Not like this.

You gathered your courage, your breath still shaky, and you called him. Patrick’s phone rang somewhere in the hotel room; he hadn’t taken it with him. Of course, he didn’t. All he was holding when he walked out was the ring box. 

He was probably already miles away by now, distancing himself from whatever just happened between you two. Your fingers trembled again as you ended the call, but your eyes caught the gleam of his car keys on the nightstand, his wallet next to it. He’d left his things there. He was gone, but he hadn’t gone far.

Your heart beat faster as a strange sense of urgency rose inside you. You needed to find him. He couldn’t be out there alone, not after everything. The night was dark, and he was vulnerable, just like you. And if something happened to him, you’d never forgive yourself.

You grabbed Patrick’s wallet and keys, sliding them into your bag, but your body protested. It ached, exhausted, and yet you pushed yourself out the door and into the night, your feet carrying you through the empty streets. The world around you felt cold, too cold for comfort, but you pressed on. You couldn’t stop now.

You turned the corner, walking faster, your breath quickening as you scanned the streets, asking every passerby if they’d seen a man with dark curly hair wearing a grey t-shirt. But no one had seen him. No one knew where he’d gone. The night stretched out before you like an endless maze. With every passing moment, your panic returned, hotter this time, suffocating.

You pulled out your phone again, eyes blurry with the beginnings of a panic attack. The tears threatened to fall, but you couldn’t afford to let them. You couldn’t afford to break down out there, not like this, not alone.

Your thumb hovered over Patrick’s name in your contacts, but then you stopped.

Your breath caught as you thought of Art. You hadn’t talked to him in months. Not since your birthday, and even then, it had been only a brief conversation, polite but distant. You didn’t know why you reached for him now. Maybe it was because he was part of your past, someone familiar who still knew you. Maybe it was because he was close—he was playing in the Atlanta Open finals tomorrow.

You pressed the call button before you could second-guess yourself.

His voice was immediate, calm and steady, like the anchor you didn’t know you needed. “Y/N?” Art asked, his tone surprised. You shut your eyes, nearly weeping at the familiar timbre of his voice. It was like a weighted blanket, pushing down on your chest and reminding you that it would be okay. “What’s wrong?”

The panic rose again, sharper this time, and you choked on your words as you explained between sobs, between breaths. You told him you didn’t know what was happening, that Patrick was gone, and you didn’t know where he went, that you were scared. You were scared of everything.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Art said, his voice never wavering, never questioning. “Where are you?”

You told him that you were near a hotel, walking around, asking people if they’d seen Patrick, but it was no use.

“That’s where I’m staying. I’ll meet you in the lobby. Stay on the phone,” Art instructed firmly. “Keep breathing.”

His voice, steady and unwavering, was a balm to your raw nerves, a lifeline thrown out into the sea of your panic. Art was here. Art was going to fix it. Art was safe. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to breathe, to feel the fragile comfort of knowing you didn’t have to face this alone.

Art arrived at the hotel lobby, his heart still thumping erratically from his conversation with you. He glanced around, eyes scanning the space for a familiar face. But a fleeting glimpse of something else caught his attention first: Tashi.

She was sitting at the lobby bar, her dark hair shimmering under the low lights, the soft curve of her cheek reflecting the warmth of her drink. Across from her sat Patrick with his familiar curly hair, with his hand wrapped around Tashi’s hand. It was clear they were in the middle of an intimate conversation across the small table, but Art couldn’t make out Patrick’s expression.

Art froze, his body tensing. He was rooted to the spot, struggling to piece together the sight before him. Tashi, his fiancée, and Patrick, your boyfriend. What was she doing with him? Especially after you were in such a panic about Patrick’s whereabouts. It didn’t add up.

“Art? Mr. Donaldson?” Art turned around to see a fan smiling widely at him. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe my luck that I would run into you so late at night,” she expressed. Digging through her bag for a marker, the fan asked, “Um, would you, uh–” She handed him her boyfriend’s cap to sign.

“Sure, yeah,” Art readily agreed. He tried to sound cheerful despite the confusing sight of Tashi and Patrick lingering in the background. Art took the pen, offering a polite smile, and scribbled his signature across the brim of the cap. “There you go.”

“Thank you,” the fan said warmly.

“Thank you,” Art echoed. 

He turned back to the corner of the bar to find Tashi and Patrick’s seats vacant. Art looked around quizzically, trying to figure out where they went. He stood for a moment, disoriented, the sight of them together stirring something deep within him. But before he could lose himself further in his thoughts, a burst of energy and warmth rushed through the lobby. 

It was you.

Your face was still streaked with tears, but you looked beautiful. It had been a few months since he last saw you at a tournament, and he hadn’t expected to see you at the male-only Atlanta Open. Like always, you were a breath of fresh air. It was like Art had been slowly suffocating and you were the oxygen that filled his lungs once more.

Without hesitation, you rushed through the lobby and threw yourself into his arms, wrapping him in a tight hug. “Oh my God, Art!” you exclaimed, your voice full of relief. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Art’s chest tightened as he held you. His arms wrapped around you tightly, instinctively trying to offer you comfort, his mind still whirring over the strange encounter with Tashi and Patrick. But for now, all that mattered was you and how your body shook in his arms, the weight of everything crashing down on you.

“I’ve got you,” Art whispered, brushing a strand of your hair out of your face as you pulled back, your tear-filled eyes locking with his.

You moved to the couches in the lobby, settling into a corner with a drink in hand. Art watched you as you wiped your eyes, trying to steady your breath.

“Where do I even start?” you murmured, shaking your head, eyes darting around the room. “I’m such a mess, Art. Everything is… everything’s broken and wrong.”

Art took your hand gently, squeezing it in reassurance. “Tell me what happened,” he said softly, his voice steady.

Your breath caught as you exhaled slowly, beginning to explain what had happened between you and Patrick that evening. Your voice trembled with each word as you recounted how Patrick had told you he was done if you didn’t agree to marry him, how everything had spiralled into a confrontation you couldn’t escape.

“I just don’t understand,” you whispered, your voice raw. “I thought we were okay. We were so happy, Art. But then… then it just fell apart. It all just fell apart.”

Art’s mind wandered back to the strange scene he had witnessed moments ago, Tashi and Patrick in the bar, their proximity oddly intimate. His stomach churned. He wanted to believe that your heartbreak had nothing to do with Tashi, that Patrick wouldn’t do something like that. But a part of him couldn’t shake the suspicion.

Your words began to blur, your pain seeping through in every syllable. Art kept his gaze fixed on you, trying to stay focused, but the more you spoke, the more he felt a sinking dread in his chest.

“I don’t want to believe it,” Art said quietly, more to himself than to you. “But I think… I think Patrick and Tashi are together right now.”

Your face fell, brows knitting in confusion. “No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “No, I—I don’t believe that. I don’t.”

Art felt a painful ache in his chest, a knot forming in his stomach. He knew it was hard to accept, but the pieces were falling into place.

“I don’t think Patrick would cheat on you,” he said carefully. “But he’s going through so much right now. I think… I think he might have pushed you away, Y/N, but maybe not because he didn’t care. It’s like he’s trying to protect himself from getting hurt again. And–” Art hesitated, trying to find the words that didn’t feel like betrayal. “And maybe the way he would try to heal, to deal with everything, is to have a one-night stand with Tashi.”

Your lips widened in horror. You shook your head again, trying to push the thought away. But the way your lips trembled told Art that deep down, you understood. “I… I don’t think so. It’s not possible. Tashi and Patrick?” your voice wavered with disbelief. “That doesn’t make any sense. He wouldn’t do that.”

Art lowered his gaze, his voice quiet. “I don’t know… I saw them sitting together in the bar. I don’t know what that means, but I don’t think it’s good. You don’t know how things have been since Tashi and I got engaged. I thought everything was fine, and then she... she just couldn’t handle it. Especially with how you’ve been dominating in tennis. She couldn’t stand seeing you succeed, not after everything. Things have been hard for us, and maybe she needs this. We never really understood their relationship when they started seeing each other all those years ago. They were never… together, but they had a way of comforting each other that I could never replicate.”

You recoiled slightly. “No,” you said again, shaking your head more frantically now. “I don’t want to believe it. Not Tashi. Not Patrick. They wouldn’t do this to me, they know that this–” You inhaled sharply. “This would destroy me.”

Art sighed deeply, his heart heavy. He wished there was another explanation, but he knew deep down that his instincts were rarely wrong. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I just think that if you’re right, and Patrick really is done, then he knows he has to hurt you. Because you’re the kind of person who fights for what they want until it’s no longer an option. I don’t think Patrick wants you to fight for him anymore. He wants you to hate him, and I think this is how he’s going to do it.”

You looked away, your face filled with tragic sadness as you fought to keep yourself together. Art could see it in your eyes—you were trying to hold everything in, to protect yourself from the truth.

“I need to leave,” you murmured after a long pause, your voice thick with emotion. You stood up, clutching your bag tightly in your hand. “I can’t stay here. I can’t be around this anymore. I need to get out.”

Art stood, his hand instinctively reaching out to you.

“Don’t go,” he said gently. “Please. I don’t want you to be alone right now.”

“I need space. I just… I need space,” you whispered, your voice breaking. Without another word, you turned and walked toward the door, your steps slow but determined.

Art watched you go, his chest heavy with the weight of everything he had said, everything you were feeling. He couldn’t stop you.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that this night was just the beginning.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒, 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 – 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝟓, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟔. 𝟏𝟎:𝟏𝟓𝐏𝐌.

You looked at Art, your heart thudding in your chest as the years between you two melted away in the quiet, charged space around the water fountain. There was something unspoken. Something in his light blue eyes that reminded you of the days when things had felt simpler. You had both been so much younger in college, so much more naive about what would come, about where you would end up. The lives you had now—separate but somehow still linked in the quietest ways—felt like they belonged to someone else.

Ever the gentleman, Art slipped his jacket around your shoulders, and you closed your eyes, relishing his familiar scent. His comforting action was so natural that it sent you back nearly ten years when you first fell in love with him. You settled beside him, the faint rush of water the only sound for a moment before he broke the silence.

“So, how’s it going?” Art asked, his voice soft, trying to sound casual though there was an undercurrent of concern. “All the success, everything... how are you really doing?”

You chuckled, a hollow sound that didn’t express joy or amusement. “Oh, I’m good. Really good,” you said, though the words felt strange, foreign on your tongue. “Just... lonely, you know?”

Art’s brow furrowed, a flicker of sympathy crossing his face. “Lonely? With everything you’ve built?” he asked, incredulous.

You nodded, the weight of his question pressing down on you. “Yeah. I don’t really have anyone except my dad. No partner. No friends.” You paused, swallowing thickly, unsure whether you wanted to say the next part. But you did, anyway. “Everyone’s always using me, Art. Like... like some accessory to parade around, not a person. And the few people who could have been close, the ones I thought would be–” You sighed, rubbing your forehead, trying to keep the bitter edge from your voice. “My closest friend, Elora, she’s too busy being my manager, too busy planning my life to actually be my best friend. I know she loves me and sees me as more than her client, but the little free time she has is spent with her wife and kid, so I don’t really fit into her life like I used to.”

Art’s expression softened, his eyes locking with yours as if searching for the deeper meaning behind your words. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” he said quietly. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” you admitted, staring down at the water, feeling your chest tighten. “I thought I could handle it, you know? But sometimes I wonder if I’ve just become this... this shell of what I wanted to be.”

He exhaled slowly, his gaze far away for a moment before he spoke again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry you’re going through that. I know you wanted more. You deserve more.”

You felt your heartbeat quicken at his words, a rush of something unexpected—something raw—coursing through you. But before you could let it settle, Art turned to you, his eyes heavy with something unsaid; something darker than you expected.

“I’m... I’m not doing too well, either,” he confessed, his voice laced with a sadness you hadn’t noticed before. “Tashi and I are separating.” Art let the words hang in the air, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause.

You blinked at him, your breath catching in your throat. “What? But... I thought everything was good. You two have a daughter.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you saw the way Art’s eyes clouded, a mixture of regret and something else flickering beneath the surface.

“We do,” he confirmed, the words heavy, each weighed down by something painful. “But... we haven’t been in love for a long time. Our daughter, she was... well, we wanted kids. Not because we were so madly in love we had to procreate. We just... wanted kids.” He paused as if trying to explain the hollow truth of it. “The love went away, Y/N. It left years ago. I don’t know if it was ever really there, or if we both just wanted to be close to you somehow.”

You didn’t know what to say. The reality of it was too much, too sudden. The image of Art—always so solid, so strong—shaken, cracked in a way you didn’t know was possible, made something inside you ache. You wanted to reach out, to fix it, but you knew there was nothing you could say. Not now.

The silence that followed felt too long, stretching between you both like a gap too wide to cross. The water bubbled in the background, the only sound now, filling the empty spaces around your words.

“I never knew,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “I always thought that the love was always there, even when you and I… Anyway, I guess I thought I was in the way. That you finally found happiness together. I’m sorry that wasn’t the case.”

Art smiled wryly, though there was no humour in it. “Yeah. We’re keeping it under wraps. It was easier that way, I guess. Easier to pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t. Especially with Tashi being my coach.”

You shifted beside him, your heart racing in your chest, and for a brief moment, everything felt so impossibly tangled. For so long, you’d been feeling like nobody in the world understood how you felt. But Art did. Art always understood you. Just as his relationship with Tashi had been relegated to a professional one, your friendship with Elora had done the same. 

You wanted to ask him more; wanted to understand what had happened, but there was something more pressing in the air between you—something unsaid. The space between you, the physical distance that had always felt safe before, now felt too wide, like a canyon you couldn’t cross. You were both standing on the edge of something, not quite ready to leap, but afraid of falling into it. And yet, there it was: the undeniable pull, like gravity, drawing you closer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. “I’m sorry about everything.”

Art didn’t respond right away. His gaze locked on you, his lips pressing together in a way that made his jaw tighten. For a moment, neither of you spoke, and then, as if pulled by some unseen force, he leaned in slightly. Just enough to make you feel the shift in the air.

Your heart skipped. Your breath hitched.

And in that moment, neither of you moved. Your lips were close. So close that you could feel the heat from his skin, the warmth of his breath, but you both stopped. Just a whisper away from something you didn’t know if you should want. You closed your eyes instinctively, letting your pulse race, the ache in your chest growing sharper. You wanted it. You wanted him. More than you could admit to yourself.

You both leaned in again, drawn to each other with a magnetic pull that neither could resist. The air between you was thick with the things left unsaid, the years of longing and unresolved feelings flooding back. You could feel his warmth, the faint tremor in his breath as his lips moved closer to yours. For a second, you could have sworn everything in the world had narrowed down to this moment, this breath, this longing.

Your heart raced in your chest, and everything about this felt like it was meant to happen. The rush of emotion was so intense it hurt, and for one fleeting moment, you thought, Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment where everything changes.

And then—as his lips hovered so close, barely brushing yours—your voice broke the silence, barely a whisper in the still air. “You’re married.”

The silence between you was suffocating now, and you fought against the tightness that had formed in your chest. You pulled away. It wasn’t fast, but it was firm. A sudden, painful decision. You took a sharp breath, heart hammering in your chest as you stood, your legs shaking beneath you.

“Art…” Your voice broke. A jagged edge of regret cut through you. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. Not clearly, at least.

He stood beside you, his gaze locked on you, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Y/N?” His voice was soft and uncertain, but there was hope there too. Hope that you both knew couldn’t come to fruition, not like this.

“You’re married,” you said again, the words like acid on your tongue. You swallowed the lump in your throat, your pulse pounding in your ears. “You’re married, Art. And I can’t... I can’t do this to someone else.”

Art blinked, the shock in his eyes growing as you spoke. “I–”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head, your eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I can’t. I can’t be the other woman. Not after everything with Tashi, and the night Patrick proposed, I just can’t do it.” Your eyes and nose stung with the onset of tears. 

The memories of that night—of seeing Patrick leave the hotel when you went to get some air and realising Art had been right; of realising your trust had been shattered, your heart broken, all because of their betrayal; of realising Patrick and Tashi would rather hurt you than set aside their pride and try to make things right with you—rushed back in full force.

You had loved Art, so deeply, once. And to see him like this now, so close, so familiar, and yet so far away, it was unbearable. But what was worse was knowing that, at this moment, you couldn’t be the reason he hurt someone else. You couldn’t be the one to cause pain the way you’d felt it.

Art’s expression shifted, like the weight of your words finally registered, and the hurt in his eyes was a mirror of the pain you felt. He reached out as if he wanted to bridge the distance, but his hand faltered in the air.

“Y/N…” he said delicately, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m not... I’m not happy, Y/N. I’m not in love with Tashi. I haven’t been for years. I don’t know if I ever actually– But she’s my wife. And I haven’t figured out how to end it... not yet. I don’t have the courage."

The words hit you harder than you expected. You knew this. Deep down, you’d known. Art was always the kind of person who would stay until the other person told him to leave. It was why you had to be the first one to say your relationship wasn’t working anymore in college. Art would have stayed with you, even through the pain. And now, Tashi was who he would stay with. Hearing him say it out loud made the reality all the more painful. 

“I don’t know if I’ll ever have the courage,” he added, his voice low and raw. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I never wanted to hurt you, Y/N. But I’m stuck. I’m stuck between what I want and what I’m supposed to do.”

You closed your eyes, the ache in your chest intensifying. You wanted to scream, to tell him to leave Tashi, to choose you. But the reality was crueller than that. He hadn’t left her, not truly, and maybe, just maybe, he never would. Inhaling shakily, you tried to steady yourself.

“You’re still married.” You tried to keep your voice steady, but the pain was so raw it broke through. “You haven’t ended it. You haven’t set yourself free.” A tear slipped down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away, embarrassed by the display of emotion. “You have a family, and I respect that. But I can’t be the reason someone else gets hurt. Not even Tashi.”

A painful silence followed. You both stood there, inches apart, each feeling the pull of what could be and the harshness of what already was. You wanted to kiss him, to give in to the desire that burned between you, but you knew you couldn’t. Not while he was still tethered to Tashi, even in this broken state.

“I need to go,” you whispered, your voice faltering. The words were hollow, but they were all you had left.

He didn’t stop you. He couldn’t. Not when he knew the truth of what he was holding onto, and what he had already lost. “I’m sorry,” Art murmured, his voice strained with the weight of everything unsaid.

You shook your head, trying to hold yourself together. “No, it’s not your fault,” you said, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. “It’s mine too. I’m sorry too. For the record…” you paused, wondering if you had the courage to confess something you’d only told yourself on your darkest, saddest days. “You’re the guy I wish I had fought harder to be with.”

And as you walked, you knew you had done the right thing. But it didn’t make it any easier.

[lovrre]

Agreement Prt2

I wrote half of this to Need by pinegrove ♫

Art Donaldson x fem black reader

Prt1 here

Word count: 3k

Warnings: smuttt,unprotected sex, creampie,slight breeding kink if you squint. cursing (ofc) slightly domestic relationship (not with Art)and probably some other stuff.

Summary: Despite being engaged to one of the top and richest tennis players in the US, you feel unfulfilled. But everything changes when you transfer schools and meet Art Donaldson, who just can’t quit you.

Author note: I’m so glad I finished I was scared I wasn’t, but your comments gave gave me motivation. Thank you pookies 🫦 I like this one a lot more than the first one. Arts also very obsessed and in love in this one.

After twenty minutes, you finish your meal, alone. You decide to leave through a back exit to avoid the paparazzi waiting outside the hotel entrance. You stumble upon a narrow hallway and carefully make your way out, trying not to attract any attention. When you reach the entrance of the restaurant, you open the door and are greeted by a charming and seemingly empty establishment. The cozy yellow lighting, old pictures, and paintings on the walls, along with the white tablecloths and wooden woven chairs, remind you of an old Italian restaurant you and Art used to go to. You see moving in your peripheral and catch a glimpse of familiar golden locks.

You walk closer to see Art and Patrick sitting at a small square table with a vacant seat, you assume is reserved for you. Patrick with a full plate of food and Art without. "Patrick?" You question, your voice filled with suspicion as you creep towards the table. He looks back at the sound of your In voice, a smile forming on his face as he stands up, “What the hell are you doing here?” You ask, taken aback going in for a hug. Patrick returns it with a laugh before releasing from the hug slightly to look at Art.

“Ask him” You look between them confused. “I asked him to come here” Art states, adjusting in his seat. “Why?“ you ask clearly confused with the situation, “someone could see” you add your gripping the back of your chair almost afraid to sit down. “I bought the place out for an hour, it’s just us” Art reveals looking up at you. “You what?” you exclaim, a bit louder than you intended.

“I’ll explain everything in a minute, just sit” Art laughs, gesturing for you to sit down. You let out a sigh, reluctantly pulling out your chair. “Ok tell me what is going on” you say, slightly impatient. “We’ve got a plan for your marriage situation”, Patrick says, mixing his ice tea with his straw. “A plan?” you repeat, still confused. "Yes, a plan," Art confirms with a nod. Patrick takes a quick sip of his tea before opening a tan folder that he hadn't noticed before. “The private investigator dropped these off at the dorm the other day”, Patrick says, pushing the open folder towards you.

Inside were pictures of your fiancée , kissing all types of women. The worst part is, it was so obvious, he didn’t have a care in the world, every photo taken on different days in different settings. Outside, inside in the morning and at night, all different women.

You knew you shouldn't be upset, but you were, not because he was seeing other people behind your back, shit you were doing that same with Art, but it was the fact he acted holier than thou. That he continued to try and control you while actively putting your agreement at risk. “Wow…” you mutter.

Shuffling through the photos. “That’s not even all of them” Art says.

“Yeah… I accidentally left the other ones, but these are the most important ones. There’s also some paperwork underneath with names, time stamps and dates on stuff” Patrick ads. “How isn’t this everywhere?” You ask, furrowing your brow. “The investigator thinks he’s been paying them off,” Patrick says, taking a sip of his drink.

"Not that I don't want you here, but couldn't you just have faxed these over?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, yeah... but then I'd miss the match," Patrick says with a grin, taking a bite of his food. "Plus, I would never miss an opportunity to help my best buds."

"Okay, so what are we doing with these?" you ask, holding up the pictures in confusion.

"We're going to spin it," Patrick replies, still chewing his food. "My plan," Art reminds him, "my bad," Patrick laughs, still chewing his food. You couldn’t help but smile, you’d missed the three of you together.

"We're going to spin it," Art repeats, making you smile wider. "Is this why you're training with my father?" you interject . Art nods in response. "Why didn't you tell me any of this last night?"

Art didn't say anything, a knowing smile spread across his face. Patrick looks between the two of you "freaks," he jokes, "Anyway... how do you plan on spinning it?" You ask, ignoring his comment.

“We lean into the infidelity, take a couple of photos of you crying, the two of you arguing, or something like that release them”, Art explains confidently.

“But… I don’t see how this stops us from getting married, it’ll just look like I got cheated on,” you say, scrunching your brow.

“We’re hoping this, plus me winning today, will be enough to persuade the media against him?”

“You believe you can win?”

“I do,” he nodded.

“Okay… I’m down.”

“Told you,” Patrick added, still drinking his tea.

“Are you especially thirsty or something today?” you ask, tilting your head slightly watching him slurp down his tea. A second one untouched, waiting for him.

“I am actually, thank you for noticing,” Patrick says with a big smile before taking another sip.
You notice Art's eyes drop to Patrick’s plate for a second time while you two are talking.

“You should eat.”

“What?” Patrick says, looking between the two of you who seemed to be having your own conversation. 

“No, I’m okay,” Art says, shaking his head.

“Mike had French toast for breakfast, I think you could have-“ you cut yourself off, looking down at Patrick’s plate. “Egg and sausage.”

“You guys aren’t talking about my food?” Patrick asks, slightly disturbed by your conversation.

“Patrick, I can buy you some more damn eggs,” you assure him as Art pulls the plate from under him.

“What just happened?” Patrick asked, looking around confused with no food in front of him.

Your phone rings, and you look down to see who it is. “It’s my Dad,” you inform, excusing yourself you answering the phone as you walk out of earshot.

The two of them watch your backside as you walk away. “She still looks good”, Patrick bites his lip, leaning over to Art.


“Careful, ” Art warns.


“What? you guys can joke about but I can’t?”


“Exactly”, Art laughs, plucking him on the head.

~~~~

With a dig, the elevator door opens, releasing you to your floor. You walk to your room, opening the door with your key card. Mike is packing stuff away in his duffle bag, getting ready to see your father. You don’t acknowledge him walking past him into the bedroom,leaving the door open. You sit on the edge of the bed carefully taking off your heals, you stand up and unzip the back of your dress with ease. The dress gracefully falls into a pile at your feet leaving you in only your underwear. You step over your dress and begin looking through your suitcase located in the closet. The sound of footsteps causes you to look up to see Mike in the doorway watching you.


“Where are you going?” Mike asked, leaning on the door frame slightly. You don’t answer right away looking for your dress under your neatly folded clothes. “There’s a press meeting with Art Donaldson's team, My Dad thought it’d look good if I’d came ” you say, moving more clothes around. “You didn’t come to mine” Mike states still watching you search.

“You didn’t ask me to” you responded, pulling out a light pink dress from your suitcase. There’s a beat of silence as Mike watches your actions "and you need to change for this press meeting?” Mike asks, raising an eyebrow. "No, but I want to” you say, standing up. When you see mike's eyes roaming up and down your body, you suddenly remembered you were only in your underwear. 


“Can you turn around or something” you ask, scrunching your face up in disgust. “I’ve seen more than this” Mike chuckles before obliging and turning around. You roll your eyes by stepping into your dress. “I’m sorry for how I acted this morning, I’m just stressed,” he admits.

" Really?," you hum, pulling up the straps of your dress.

"I don't want to be that guy," Mike responds, still facing away.

"But you are constantly being that guy..." you mumble, but Mike hears you. 

"I won't anymore. I want this marriage to work y/n, I.”


You release a heavy sigh at his word. “You can turn around now ” You announce zipping up the side of your dress. Mike turns around and watches as you sit back on the edge of the bed putting on your heels. “You’re still going to that thing?” Mike asks with a confused expression. “What about that conversation gave off the vibe that I was no longer going?” You say pulling your stiletto over your heel.


Mike goes silently for a moment watching you walk toward the bathroom. “Like you need more makeup?” Mike scoffs. “Be honest with me are you fucking him?” He asks from behind you in the doorway while you remove a bit of smudged lipstick. “are you serious right now?” You ask staring at him through the reflection in the mirror. “I’m not a fucking idiot, I saw the way you looked at each other, and I get the feeling that’s wasn’t your first time meeting” 


“Only god knows what you’re doing at that college” you can’t stop your self from laughing. “I think you’re projecting” you say walking past him towards the door, picking up your purse on the way. “Where the fuck are you going?” Mike calls out, following you. 

You swing the door open and step out into the hallway. Mike trails behind and tries to grab your arm to pull you back inside. “DONT TOUCH ME!” You yell yanking your arm back. “C’mon Don’t make a scene” Mike says looking around. 


“You have some fucking nerve, you know that? Your friend Isabel came up here earlier looking for you, I’m guessing you guys have a lot of fun In Detroit” you say with a smile. “When were you in Detroit again…my birthday? You ask rhetorically, Mike goes silent for a moment before responding.
 "I don't know what you're talking about," he says, trying to keep his voice down. "You don't?" you question. "What about Sarah, Kim, Kate, Alex? Do you not know them either?" Mike opens his mouth, then closes it. "Yeah…" you drawl, 


"they meant nothing to me... I just needed to get it out of my system before fully committing. I want this to work, I want this to be real, y/n," Mike says, trying to corner against the door in a situation similar to the one you were in with Art last night.

"That's the dumbest shit I've ever heard," you respond, attempting to push past him. He grabs you again using his strength. You had forgotten how strong he actually was. “Last warning” you say looking up at Mike. he can tell by the look in your eyes you’re serious, he doesn’t know exactly what you’re going to do but something in his gut said don’t test it. “Let. Go” you repeat one more time before a voice interrupts you.

“Is everything ok?” Patrick asked from the end of the hallway. "Yeah, everything's fine," Mike reassured with a smile, gently releasing his grip on him. "We'll continue this conversation later," Mike says, forcing a tight-lipped smile as he presses the elevator button. "No, we won't," you smile back with a wave, as the elevator door chimes and he leaves. "Are you okay?" Patrick asks, walking up to you. "Yeah, he wasn’t going to hit me, he knows better," you laugh. "I was actually more concerned about you hitting him," Patrick jokes.

“I got the picture though” he smiles, showing you a camera and clicking through the images of your altercation with Mike.”These are good, you should take them now, I’ll call Art and tell him I’m on the way” you say, pulling out your phone.

“I’ll miss the game” Patrick states with a slight pout.

“Not if you hurry.”

~~~~~

"I won't keep you much longer, just a few more questions," the female interviewer says, holding the microphone up to Art. "Was the training for this upcoming match particularly challenging?" Before the interviewer could finish her sentence, Art was shaking his head. "Not necessarily, different for sure, but not harder."

"As of now, can you confirm or deny the rumor that you have started working with Olympic Coach Dylan Y\L\N?" the interviewer asked, lifting the mic slightly closer to his mouth. "Ummm," Art hesitates, accompanied by a smile. "I think I can. Yes, Dylan is my new coach."

"So you and your opponent today have trained under the same coach?" the interviewer asks, scrunching her brow. "Yes, we have," Art nods. "One more question, is there any special woman in Art Donaldson's life right now?" the interviewer asks with a smile. The sound of camera clicking intensifies, catching Art's attention. Intrigued, the interviewer turns around as well. "She is beautiful," Art says absentmindedly, staring in the direction where you're coming from. You give small waves to friends as you walk in. "That's your opponent's fiancé... and I guess also your trainer's daughter?" the interviewer says, looking confused and turning back to face Art.

"Really?" Art asks, faking shock with a dazed expression. "Yes," the interviewer nods. "I mean.. I meant what I said, She is beautiful," Art said with a laugh, causing the interviewer to join in. His eyes never leaving you. "Does your coach know you have a crush on his daughter?" the interviewer joked, chuckling. "He might now," Art says with a laugh before giving a quiet , "Nice meeting you," as he walks away out of frame.

A short while later, you find yourself reaching for a bottle of water from a nearby table, inserting one of those adorable green straws they had. Just as you're about to take a sip, a voice catches you off guard from behind. "There you are," Art says, a smile lighting up his face as he jogs towards you. As he approaches, you can't help but notice how close he gets, almost too close.

"You're not exactly great at keeping secrets, huh?" you chuckle, taking a step back. Art smirks, "Can't two friends have a conversation?" Peeking over your shoulder at the ongoing interviews, you reply with a straw in your mouth, "We're not even supposed to be friends. You're supposed to be my Dad's client, or from what I heard your crush." You laugh, recalling a question from one of the interviewers. "You're going to get us caught," you whisper quietly into the straw.

"I understand. I can't stand next to my trainer's daughter," Art nods, "Orrr, my opponents, fiancé, but maybe can I stand close to my crush?" Art asks.

 “I think you could, yeah” you nod trying to keep the smile on your face. “Crush it is,” Art says with a smile taking a step forward, yet still maintaining a slight distance. “Did you get the pictures?” Art asks his eyes falling down to your lips. “Yeah, we got them," you confirm with a nod, unable to hide your smile when you notice his lingering gaze. “So we’re in the clear?” his eyes still fixated on your lips, as if he's ready to pounce. "Not yet," you laugh, taking a step back. "We have to wait for them to go to press." Art throws his head back with a strained laugh, and you can't help but watch his Adam's apple bobs up and down. You hadn’t realized until that moment how much you wanted him, it was an all consuming need.

“Just one day," you murmur, unsure if you're speaking to Art or yourself. "Just one day," Art echoes, his eyes now fixed on your neck, his finger brushing your curls away. You watch as he exhales shakily, looking at the fading hickeys on your shoulder, barely hidden by makeup. "Just one day," you remind, removing his hand from your chest. "Just one day," Art repeats, tearing his gaze away to look back up at you. "Your car is here, Mr. Donaldson," a man in black approaches and announces.

“One minute” Art says, gesturing for another second. The man nods in acknowledgment and walks away. “Come with me?” Art asked. “I don’t think that’ll look good.” You alluded to the countless people with cameras surrounding you.

“I couldn’t care less” Art says, shaking his head slightly. “I’d kiss you right here, if you’d let me ” Arts words catch you off guard, and you take a deep breath to try to steady your heart beat. 

“This planning stuff is more for you than me, so you can feel more comfortable. And I’m perfectly fine doing it,’s just …” he trails of his eyes falling back down to your lip. "Alright, I'll come," you rush out, convincing yourself it's to prevent him from kissing you right then. But deep down you knew you just wanted to be near him. You follow closely behind.

Art swiftly enters the car before you lean up, capturing you with a kiss. Before you could even fully step inside, his hand gently grasped your cheek, drawing you closer to his lips as he guided you into the vehicle. Lost in the intensity of the moment, you surrender to the kiss. practically falling inside. The sound of the car door closing behind you brings you back to reality, but the kiss continues to deepen. Suddenly, the driver rolls up the partition, creating a sense of privacy.

A sense of responsibility tugs at you, and you reluctantly break the kiss when Art's hand starts to wander up your bare leg. "We can't," you whisper, "We don't even have a condom," you add, hoping the driver couldn’t overhear.


“You’re right” Art mumbles, sitting back against the seat trying to catch his breath. “ I lost myself for a second” Art laughs, attempting to slow his heartbreak. ”After the game I’ll come to your room” you nod, looking forward trying to gather yourself. “Don’t talk about that, talk about something else” Art says his voice coming out more strained. “Like what?” You turn around and ask. Your eyes landing on the strained erection in his pants. “Oh!” You say, snapping your head back forward. The familiar ache of your core comes back, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek in an attempt to control yourself.


Against your better judgment, you take another peak. His hard shaft still straining against the fabric, you could damn near see the veins on his dick. “Can I?” You ask in a voice barely above a whisper. “Y-yeah” Art replies with a nod agjusting in his seat. You rub your hand back and forth against the Arts bulge while listen as his breath becomes more and more ragged.


Art makes a low moan and that’s enough for you to begin unzipping his pants. Against his better judgment he stops you. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah” you nod breathlessly, fumbling with his pants, pulling them down until his dick springs free. When you begin pumping his shaft, he takes in a sharp breath which causes you to smile. You savor the feeling of his heavy dick in your hand, trying to combat the thoughts of his thick long length inside you. When Art's hips buck into your hand, you fold. “I need you inside of me”, Art opens his mouth to protest and then closes, watching as you bunch up your dress around your waist, pull your panties to the side and straddle him. He grabs your waist with one hand and lines himself up with your entrance with the other. 


You sink onto him with a little too loudly of a moan and Art does the same. Opening his mouth for a sloppy kiss, he doesn’t wait for you to adjust to his size, moving you up and down his dick by your waist. ”shit I-“ Art groans out a wave of pleasure hitting him.
“-I can’t go back to condoms” he moaned, scrunching his brow in pleasure. You laugh and Art quickly retaliates by slamming you hard down on him. You let out a loud moan reflexively using your hand, trying to pull off slightly.

Art moves your hand out of the way, holding you down on him by your waist. “I’m serious”, Art grows leaning forward for another kiss while returning to his previous, rhythm. His words cause you to squeeze around him, and he lets out another low ground throwing his head back, breaking the kiss.



“I’m not going to last much longer” Art says breathlessly. “Just a little longer baby” you coo, leaving kisses on his Adam’s apple down his neck. “You drive me crazy, you know that” you moan feeling his pace fastest. “I do?” you feel Art smile against your cheek. You nod, falling into the crook of his neck enjoying the feeling of him fucking into you. “I want you to cum in me” you whisper, kissing the crook of his neck. “Fuck” Art groans, throwing his head back again. “You’re going to kill me” he states with a strained laugh.


You feel your release building so you decide to taunt him. ”you don’t want to fill me up?” You ask innocently, removing your head from the crook of his shoulder. Look down at him with lust, filled eyes. “Don’t” Art warns, his grip on your waist tightening, “you don’t want to give me a baby?” You huff out trying to keep your voice steady literally feeling him in your stomach. “Fuc- shit shit shitttt” Art moans holding you down onto him filling you up with his cum. His moans echoed through the car, the poor driver. 


“Fuck,” Art states after a minute. “Yea fuck,” you laugh, leaving a kiss on his cheek. “I think I might have a breeding kink”. Art laughs, “Me too,” you say with a smile, leaving another kiss on his head. You feel him twitch inside you, and knowing Art, you knew he would be ready for round two in a minute. You try to get off, but he holds you tighter, keeping you stationary. 

“I want it to stick” he smiles. Oh his smile, you rolled your eyes. You loved him, you knew it now, and you had a feeling he did too. You had been lying to yourself pretending you liked you didn’t care as much as he did. But at that moment you knew you never wanted anyone but him.



You glance out the window to see you were seconds away from the stadium, and then you notice your father standing on the sidewalk. “Oh my god! MY DAD HERE” you say, scurrying out of Art's lap. Art looks out the window, seeing your father standing on the sidewalk expectingly. “Shit” Art huffs, sitting up slightly, pulling up his pants, you take a wet rag next to the champagne and quickly wipe the inside of your leg. You quickly fix yourself before rushing to wipe off any remains of your lipstick off his mouth with your hand.

"Oh no, do I have lipstick on my mouth?" you ask frantically. "Nope, all clear," Art replies with a grin, planting a quick kiss on your lips. "Art," you warn, settling back in your seat. "My bad," Art chuckles, getting ready to exit the car. The car come to stop and your dad Yanks open the door.

"Hurry up, we're late. Mike's already inside," your Dad urges, When he sees you, his expression turns puzzled.

"We were heading in the same direction, so we decided to ride together," you explain before he can say anything. Your dad eyed you both suspiciously. "Alright, let's go," he says, ushering Art into the building. You wanted to say goodbye or wish him luck, and you could sense Art wanted to as well but it would be just too obvious.

You step out of the car, rummaging through your wallet. You tap on the driver's window, and he rolls it down. "Sorry about that," you apologize, handing him a 100 dollar bill before heading into the building.

Once inside the stadium you sit next to your Dad’s team which was now also partially Arts team and somehow also Mikes. Your phone buzzes and look down to see a familiar unsaved number.

“I think your Dad on to us”

“What did he say?” you text back anxiously your fingers moving fast on the keys.

“Nothing really, but i think he knows”

“Did he seem mad?”

“Not really”

“That’s good” you send, letting out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding in.

“Good luck :)” you add before stuffing your phone in your purse . Almost immediately your phone dings and you pull it back out.

“You gave me enough of that in the car ; )” you can’t help but smile at his corniness.

“You’re nasty.”

“Not as nasty as you” you’re about to laugh at his message when you hear a voice directly behind you. “You guys are actually freaks” Patrick says with a laugh jumping over the seat so he was directly next to you. “I applaud you guys for staying consistent at least” Patrick says lightly hitting you on the shoulder. “Can you mind your business” you say rolling your eyes, stuffing your phone in your purse.

“Actually I’ve been minding you two’s business all day with no pay by the way” Patrick adds. “So I think I’ve earned the right to be a little nosy” Patrick says making a pinching gesture.

“So you delivered the pictures?”

“Yes” he responded with a nod

“Thank you” you express your appreciation, turning your attention back to the court.

“Do you think he’s gonna win” Patrick asks leaning in slightly, curious to your answer.

"I hope so, but I don't know. I haven't seen him play in a while," you admit with a weak smile, the reality of the situation sinking in. "I really hope he does win," you mumble.

Author note : GUYS FEEL FREE TO COMMENT I LOVE READING COMMENTS

[lovrre]