#Stanfords Bay

[mother-ofthe-universedraws]

Die in a Fire AU; some brief facts about the twins.

[collegemascothell]

Tree miscarriage

[rabbitcruiser]

August 4, 1693 is the date traditionally ascribed to Dom Perignon’s invention of champagne; it is not clear whether he actually invented champagne, however he has been credited as an innovator who developed the techniques used to perfect sparkling wine.  

[gayverlyearp]

YOU KNOW THAT’S RIGHT

[screechingcheesecakecheesecake]

They had it coming~

They had it coming~

They had themselves to blame~

If you'd been there~

If you had heard it~

I bet you would've done the same~

[t-is-for]

All the best, catherinep4! 🩶⚽️ Thank you for everything.

via wearebayfc December 10, 2024

[baddawg94]

John Lynch, Strong Safety

3rd round pick by the buccaneers out of Stanford (1993)

[ldyvdr]

tags are so real but as a bay area girly this is the worlds least romantic place.

idk if someone asked for this before but moodboard of like stanford era tashi (no injury) but like.. gf coded if that makes sense

ohhh to meet tashi when you’re both at stanford and fall in love with each other 🤧

[golddustwomanwins]

INVISIBLE STRING

Patrick Zweig x Best friend Reader

I keep having ideas for writing things for Patrick and I’m not even a Patrick girly (the irony). This is very much sheltered reader who hasn’t got a clue about anything. Receiving her first ever orgasm from her best friend Patrick (who’s doing it absolutely selflessly of course).

18+

Growing up you came to know that Patrick was an awfully touchy person. At first it threw you off. You rarely touched anyone, avoided hugs or shaking hands with people. But it was different with him. Being his best friend required for you to tolerate his touchiness.

When you were standing in the kitchen making a sandwich he’d pass by you, his knuckles grazing against your exposed midriff and triggering goosebumps to dance along your skin. When you were out on a walk—or going anywhere really—he’d take your hand in his, intertwining your fingers. You’d flushed every time he did it, even though you knew it didn’t mean anything to him.

On parties you’d both get separated for some time, only for a pair of strong arms to wind around you from behind. A nose nuzzling your neck and whispered words “‘missed you.”

It was like you two were attached by an invisible string pulling and stretching taught once one of you got too far away from the other.

His touchiness gave off the wrong impression to others. Speculating that you two had something going on, but you and him both were quick to deny the rumors. Still, it kept the boys at school at bay. They wouldn’t dare ask you out or even talk to you, knowing Patrick wasn’t far away. It kept you sheltered and sometimes you’ve been wondering if Patrick had been doing it on purpose. But that was ridiculous, he would never do such a thing.

It was a drastic change, to go from seeing him everyday at school to you leaving for Stanford with Art and him going on tour.

He only visited every few months when his schedule allowed it. Luckily for you, summer break correlated perfectly with him coming to see you. So here you were, in your childhood bedroom, the window wide open and the sweltering August air running through the room.

Patrick was only in his boxers, crammed against the wall to make space for you on the bed beside him. His eyes were trained on the TV as you lied on your stomach going through your seminars notes. His eyes flickered from the screen to your crossed ankles in the air, the delicate new glow your skin carried since going to college in CA.

He too had gained a slight tan, more freckles than usual dancing over his cheeks and nose. One hand of his was shoved beneath your tank top, only adding to the heat of your body but you didn’t mind. To be frank, you didn’t even register it, knowing Patrick it was only for his comfort.

“Art says you’re sharing some classes,” he mumbled, fingers moving softly beneath your shirt.

“Yeah.” You barely looked up from your notes, scratching and writing some sentences anew.

He pinched your side slightly and you squealed, glaring at him. His lips pulled into his trademark smirk. “I’m here for a short time and you’re focusing on your notes.”

“I thought you were watching the game?” You asked and he shrugged with a smirk. “I can multitask.”

His hand wandered up and rested between your shoulder blades, not asserting pressure only resting there.

You stashed your notes on the nightstand and turned on your side, stretching your body in the uncomfortable heat. “How’s touring going, then?”

“Same old.”

“Shitty then?” You chuckled when he protested. His hand wandered to your waist and tugged you closer to his body. His nose travelled along your collarbone. “I’m having you know that I’m doing quite well. Rankings going up for a while now.”

You shivered slightly at the contact, Patrick looking at you with a knowing glint in his eye. You always thought it was normal to feel this way. Slightly nervous, fluttery around him. It was just the effect he had on people. Due to your immunity against male attraction—and Patrick’s doing—he was the only male you had really contact with. You thought your feelings for him were purely platonic.

“I’m happy for you then.”

“Course you are.” He dropped a short kiss against your throat before stretching his body languidly beside you. You couldn’t help yourself but let your eyes dip down to his toned stomach. Abs rippling as he shifted into a comfortable position.

He caught your slip up, a slow smile stretching on his lips. “Anything other interesting happening that I’m missing out on?”

You looked up from his stomach, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Well, going to college does include frat parties, right?”

You shrugged, putting your arms behind your head. Your shirt rid up in the process and Patrick’s hand immediately found your exposed stomach. He physically couldn’t stay away. It’s like your his little innocent vixen, created to make him want.

“Haven’t been to many. Arts taking me to a few meetups with the tennis players of Stanford. But no surprise, it’s mostly tennis talk.” You looked up at him. “And I get plenty of that from you.”

He chuckled, pulling you a little closer. “Yeah?”

You nodded. As if on accident your thigh slipped between his muscly legs and his pupils blew wide. You didn’t even know what you were doing to him.

“So no guy catch your eye?” He wasn’t exactly smooth with it. You frowned up at him. “What? Why?”

“Just wondering,” his fingers traced circles along your skin. Your body was growing warm with him this close, your thigh still nudged between his legs. You felt something shift against your leg, your eyes dipping down to his crotch for a moment. If you think back closely, there have been guys talking to you but you never imagined them to want anything more but talk. Their gazes lingered sure and sometimes they’d touch your waist while bending down to talk to you. But the music was always so loud, so you didn’t mind when they got closer. It never felt the way it did with Patrick.

“Still holding out for me then, huh,” Patrick asked you with lidded eyes and you wondered what he meant.

“You’re my best friend,” you insisted, thinking that he wanted reassurance.

Patrick chuckled lightly, his hand wandering to your cotton shorts, fingers playing with the elastic band. You held your breath, anticipation building but you didn’t know for what.

“You know, maybe I should reward you,” he mumbled against your throat, pressing a sloppy kiss there.

“Pat,” you breathe, not really understanding what he’s doing. You knew stuff. Heard your girl friends talking about it but they always tried not to talk about it, seeing the confused look on your face.

His hand wandered inside your cotton shorts, thumb running over the small little ribbon on your panties. He groaned looking down to see the soft pink of the fabric against your skin. His fingers slipped under the waistband of your panties and you quickly grabbed his wrist.

Patrick looked at you with parted lips. “You trust me, baby?”

“Of course I do.” You assured him, leaning closer. So eager to please. His fingers slipped further and your breath hitched when they swiped over your pussy. Your hips bucked as a soft whimper left your lips.

“Patrick,” you breathed and he licked your throat. “I know, baby.”

His fingers wandered lower, fingers freezing when they almost slipped through your cunt. “My, my, such a dirty little girl. All wet for me.”

You moan as his big fingers rub over the perfect spot, making a strange flutter appear low in your sex. Your hand was still gripping his wrist, nails digging into his skin as he kept mouthing your neck. Your hips were bucking against his hand as he kept a slow pace.

“You want more?” He asked and you nodded quickly, biting your lips until you tasted blood. Patrick scolded you, “you have a mouth, use it.”

“More,” was everything you managed and Patrick let out a breathy laugh, his own hips grinding against your thigh.

“‘M gonna stretch this tight little cunt,” before you knew what was happening his middle finger slipped through you and inside you. Your eyes widened surprised as you looked at him with flushed cheeks. Patrick eyed you with a dirty grin, pulling his fingers slowly out of you. You whimpered at the sensation. He slowly moved his finger in and out of you, lips meeting yours hungrily. Patrick kisses dirty, all tongue and teeth and spit. You moaned into his mouth as something dark coiled in your tummy. Your hips were moving as frantically as Patrick’s and you barely noticed his hard cock humping your leg.

“You gonna be a good girl and handle one more, yeah?” Patrick asked you, spit connecting his lips. He watched you as he slowly inserted another finger, you waited for it to hurt but he slipped into your cunt with ease. Patrick chuckled. “Such an easy slut. Wouldn’t even need any lube with you to slip my cock in. Perfect.”

He increased the pace of his fingers and you were a blubbering mess, eyes squeezed shut as Patrick roughly tugged the collar of your top down, lips closing around one nipple. When he started to press the heel of his palm against your clit while moving his fingers, stars burst in front of your eyes and the tight band in your tummy exploded.

“Fuck, you’re so hot when you cum,” his words and moving fingers only made the pleasure better, waves and waves coming at you. When soft after waves shocked through your body, Patrick pulled his fingers out of you, pulling a small whimper from you. His digits were glistening wet as he raised them to your lips. You eagerly took his fingers in, eyes widening surprised when he shoves them so far back you almost gag.

Entranced, Patrick watched you clean his fingers, still fully hard in his boxers. He was awfully gentle with you, hand stroking through your hair as he looked at you with his infamous smirk.

“Do you want me to…?” You motioned for the tent in his boxers. Patricks smirk widened before he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Not tonight.”

[darlingdaisyfarm]

Could you write about stan or Ford taking care of their sick s/o? I've been suffering from an awful head cold this past week and it sucks i could really use the comfort 😭

sick days with Stan & Ford (x reader)

a/n: starting with smth sfw while i work on… other things hehehhe but I hope you’ll feel better! take your meds and let yourself rest 💌 and thank u for the ask, anon!!

Stanford Pines

the kind of man who fights interdimensional monsters but still worries if your tea is the right temperature.

he tucks you onto the couch, fussing over pillows and blankets until you’re buried like some kind of marshmallow. then he disappears into the kitchen, where you can hear pots clanging and. . . is that the blender?

when he returns, he’s holding a tray with a bowl of soup, a glass of water, and a strange concoction that’s vaguely green.

“head cold or not, you need fluids. hydration is important,” he says, setting a mug of something herbal-smelling on the coffee table. “this tea is from the forests of dimension 52. the locals swear by it for respiratory ailments.”

you squint at the mug. “it’s not gonna. . . mutate me, right?”

Ford pauses, adjusting his glasses. “probably not.”

“Ford!”

he chuckles, sitting beside you with a soft sigh. “it’s perfectly safe, i’ve tested it. besides, you trust me, don’t you?”

and of course you do, even when his idea of “helping” involves interdimensional remedies that could very well grow you a third arm.

you take a tentative sip. the taste is weird, but soothing, warming you from the inside out.

“good?” he asks, watching your face expression.

“yeah,” you admit, sinking deeper into the blanket. “not bad.”

satisfied or at least faking this, he leans back, but that little crinkle in his brow never really goes away.

“you’re overthinking again,” you notice, looking at him.

“i am not,” he says, entirely unconvincing.

“Ford.”

he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “i just hate seeing you like this, i keep thinking there must be something more i can do.”

you reach out, tangling your fingers with his. “you’re doing enough, really, just stay with me, okay?”

Ford’s expression softens and he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“always.” and he stays, reading to you from one of his journals while you drift in and out of sleep. his voice is calm, comforting and every so often, he pauses to carefully check your temperature.

Stan Pines

you wake up with your throat feeling like sandpaper and your head pounding. you barely have the energy to groan, let alone drag yourself out of bed, but the world outside your room is loud. voices from the tv, Stan’s yelling at it.

with blanket wrapped around your shoulders, you stumble out and see Stan sprawled on the armchair in his striped boxers and tank top, he’s shoving popcorn into his mouth by the handful, but when he sees you, he nearly chokes on it.

“jeez, you look like somethin’ the cat dragged in. worse than waddles after he found that mud pit last week.”

you sniffle. “thanks for the pep talk, Stan.”

he waves you over as his tone softens. “c’mon, c’mere. what’s wrong? flu? cold? bubonic plague? don’t tell me you’re contagious.”

you plop next to him, dropping your head onto his shoulder. the tv’s too loud, but you can’t even complain about it.

“it’s just a cold,” you murmur. 

“cold, huh? well, that’s nothing to mess with,” you can hear the tease in his voice. “lemme get my doctor bag. got some snake oil in there that cures everything, even bad attitudes.”

he shuffles off to the kitchen, muttering about needing to find some ginger ale. he comes back with a mug of tea that looks. . . questionable. is that a bay leaf? and a handful of mints?

“drink this, kid, don’t ask questions.”

you sip and it’s awful. Stan grins as you make grimace. “told ya it’s magic. now, get cozy.”

he turns the tv down and drapes his old, scratchy afghan over you. you don’t know when it happens, maybe during some ridiculous commercial for glow-in-the-dark socks, but you fall asleep with your head still on his shoulder.

when you wake up, the tea’s gone, replaced by a cup of melted ice cream with a sticky spoon, meanwhile Stan is snoring loudly with his arm protectively thrown over you.

[bittersweet-jack-of-no-trades]

Stanley gets kicked out of the house, sure, but he's resourceful. There's nothing here for him on land, but he doesn't have to stay on land; he takes his ass right down to the local marina or port, and he gets himself a job as a deckhand. Turns out, his easy swagger, jackass personality, and eye for the con makes him great on boats. He works those big fishing/trawling boats, at first, hauling in catch and tending lines; it's back-breaking work, terrible conditions with twelve or sixteen or twenty hours shifts, but he loves the ocean, loves the rolling waves and the freedom it gives him. Somehow he ends up somewhere coastal and Southern, Florida or Texas or South Carolina, and with a played up Jersey accent and a good idea of the best local fishing spots, he makes himself into a local legend of a fishing charter captain. Where he could never fit in on land, there's no judgement on the open water, nor in the bays and bayous: just the hum of the engine, the snag of a bite, and really, really fucking good tips. (Besides, you can't drink and drive on land, but on a boat? Shit, he thinks he saw the local PD crack open a six pack the other day.)

When Stanford calls him, panicked and hurt and manipulated, there's nothing easier than than hauling his brother off like the catch of the day. Bill can't catch them out here; Stanford's mind might be Bill's battleground, but the ocean is Stan's. And the only beasts allowed on Stan's vessels are the ones he can fry.

[rabbitcruiser]

Food in Morro Bay, CA

A burrito in Mexico is, historically, a regional name, among others, for what is known as a taco, a tortilla filled with food, in other parts of the country. In modern times, it is considered by many as a different dish in Mexican and Tex-Mex cuisine that took form in Ciudad Juárez, consisting of a flour tortilla wrapped into a sealed cylindrical shape around various ingredients. The tortilla is sometimes lightly grilled or steamed to soften it, make it more pliable, and allow it to adhere to itself. Burritos are often eaten by hand, as their tight wrapping keeps the ingredients together. Burritos can also be served "wet", i.e., covered in a savory and spicy sauce, when they would be eaten with a fork and knife.

Burritos are filled with savory ingredients, most often a meat such as beef, chicken, or pork, and often include other ingredients, such as rice, cooked beans (either whole or refried), vegetables, such as lettuce and tomatoes, cheese, and condiments such as salsa, pico de gallo, guacamole, or crema.

Burritos are often contrasted in present times with similar dishes such as tacos, in which a small hand-sized tortilla is folded in half around the ingredients rather than wrapped and sealed, or with enchiladas, which use corn masa tortillas and are covered in a savory sauce to be eaten with a fork and knife.

The word burrito means "little donkey" in Spanish, the diminutive form of burro, or "donkey". The name burrito, as applied to the dish, possibly derives from the tendency for burritos to contain a lot of different things similar to how a donkey would be able to carry a large burden.

Source: Wikipedia

[tinytennisskirt]

Kiss Me

art donaldson x bestfriend!reader

summary: to keep your crazy ex at bay, you and patrick instill a facade of fake-dating, brought on by an impulsive move that art missed the opportunity to take. art, who has had a thing for you forever, is completely crushed, but you’re only FAKE dating patrick. you do have real feelings, y’know?

warnings: kiss!!!!, mention of punching and blood, broken nose, mentions of marijuana, angst, slight miscommunication trope and fake dating trope with a twist!!!

“kiss me,” you said, looking at the boys a little desperately. both of them went wide-eyed, art turning slightly pink. “please! now! one of you kiss me!”

“what?” art says, eyes as big as plates just as patrick lunges forward, grabbing your face and kissing you. now this was a problem because number one, art donaldson has had the biggest crush on you since the moment he met you in the stanford cafeteria, and two, it was his best friend who just kissed you. there’s no escaping that. what the fuck.

art just watched as you kissed him back, a little shocked and little dumbfounded and honestly a little bit crushed. he pressed his mouth into a line for the duration of the kiss, not able to take his eyes away or even blink. he’s just second-guessed and missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime and patrick just took it. patrick. patrick who had to ask what your name was three times the same day he met you because he kept forgetting.

he watched as you pulled away, feeling his heart strings pull. “i’m so sorry, patrick, but thank you.”

patrick grinned, “you’re welcome.”

“hm… why?” art asked, trying not to focus on the way you wiped your lower lip with your thumb. he felt winded, if he was honest. no fucking way you just walk into a room and ask to be kissed by one of them and he doesn’t take it. no way that just fucking happened.

you were a little panicked, though, it seemed- the way your eyes darted around the room. “my ex- the crazy one. he’s here at stanford by some fucking… crazy chance? i knew he was coming to talk to me, i just needed to look… taken.”

“by me?” patrick laughed. “poor guy.”

art’s mouth fell a little open. “so you needed to be kissed?” his emphasis on ‘kissed’ came out bitter.

patrick shoved art just a little, ruffling his hair, “someone jealous?”

yeah, he was jealous. he was pissed. more than. he pressed his tongue to his cheek, “your ex is here?” he ignored it. “like on campus or going here?”

“i don’t know, but i’m kind of terrified.” you said, folding your arms. “i’m sorry about the kiss, pat.”

“don’t be. wasn’t the worst kiss i’ve ever had.”

“okay, rude!” you hit him in the upper arm.

“it was good, i promise.” he laughed. art felt just the slightest bit sick. “but what’s this guys deal?”

“obsessed with me.” you replied, your usual fun and carefree personality silenced to a serious monotone. “it was hard as hell to get rid of him back home but he’s here and that alone is scary as hell.”

“i get that,” art said, turning to patrick. “you remember that one girl janet back at the academy?”

patrick chuckled again, “oh yeah. art had his own little stalker.”

“really?” it seemed to cheer you up. “what did she do?”

“i’ll tell you back at my dorm. don’t need you hanging out where this guy is.” he offered. you agreed and the three of you walked back to his dorm, telling you the janet stories. you did end up feeling better but it was patrick who beat art to walking you back to your dorm. fucked.

art just sat on his bed, knees to his chest, hands draped over his legs wondering what the fuck just happened and how things got so fucked up so fast. the thing was that this was the only crush art had ever withheld from patrick. how fucking stupid did it seem to have hid it now? god, he was so fucked for it. no way patrick could say he kissed you now, that was fucked. and stupid. and lucky. his face fell into his hands as he flopped backward on his bed, hoping patrick came back quickly.

art’s stomach kept flip-flopping at the thought, remembering how you kissed patrick. you kissed patrick. it was so stupid! so fucking stupid. by some hesitation, he fucked everything up for himself. he could have kissed you. he could have KISSED YOU. he groaned out loud, rolling just slightly in pure frustration. this is what he got for keeping shit a secret.

the next day, the three of you were eating in the cafeteria. you and patrick on one side, you sitting across from art. “so he’s definitely going here now-“ you said, gesturing with a french fry. “which is insane and a little bit threatening.”

“he wouldn’t try anything, would he?” art asked, concerned.

“i don’t know,” you shrugged. “he did back home and it was bad. and he’s here and he knows i’m here and the look he gave me yesterday…”

patrick spoke with his mouth full, “as if he could get past me. and art.” he said. you smiled, art hated how beautiful it was when you smiled at his best friend. patrick swallowed his fries, “there’s no way he’s getting close with us around.”

“what if i’m alone, though? class to class? or class to dorms?”

art was about to offer to walk to to and from whenever he could but patrick spoke first, again. never had he wanted to jam a fork in his best friend’s throat so quickly. “i’ll walk you. you said yesterday you wanted to look taken, so i mean, it would keep up appearances.”

you gasped and grabbed the table, “oh my god. fake dating. like in the movies. that’s such a good idea.”

art wondered if you remembered that the fake dating trope always ended in falling for each other for real. he felt his chest tighten, there was no way fake dating was just suggested because patrick kissed you first. “i don’t know about that,” art said. “if you have to say ‘like in the movies’ is it a great idea in real life?”

“it could be?” you shrugged, looking at patrick. “maybe it will. and then once he knows to leave me alone for sure we can just go back to normal. if you’re up for it, pat?”

“yeah i’m up for it,” he says. “i don’t have anywhere to be but here anyways.”

“true,” you nodded.

art just covered his mouth with his hand and looked somewhere else. he couldn’t eat anymore. this was actually happening in front of his eyes and he couldn’t say anything or do anything about it. his chest stayed tight, as if someone had laced around his rib cages and started pulling hard. he bit his cheek to keep from showing just how much this hurt him. because it did, it hurt him, no matter how innocent it was on your end, on patrick’s end. well, maybe not on patrick’s end. art wasn’t sure about how patrick really felt on the topic- he could only hope that patrick didn’t see real potential…

you placed your hand on art’s, trying to get his attention again, “oh my god you’re freezing.” you said, squeezing his hand just a little. his attention fell on that, on you. “you’re okay?”

“with what?” art said, a little presumptuous.

“just asking if you’re okay. you stared off for a bit there.” you said, hand still intertwined with his like it was nothing. it was nothing.

patrick was focused on his food. and art already hated third wheeling a fake couple. “i’m fine, i just remembered i have some shit i have to do before my next class. i’ll see you guys back at my dorm later?”

“oh, meet at mine,” you said as art got up with his meal that was only 1/4 dug into. “just in case you-know-who is around?”

“yeah,” art nodded. he didn’t have many words left in him. he was sure if he forced words out it’d be some monologue about how frustrated he was that he missed the fucking opportunity to kiss you and this was snowballing and he was not feeling good at all, in fact he was feeling really sick. “see you guys later.”

he didn’t see the way your eyebrows furrowed when he walked away. patrick did though. “was that weird?” you asked him. “the way he got up and left, was that weird? am i imagining things?”

“no, that was weird.” patrick agreed. “i don’t know what’s up with him though, he hasn’t said anything.”

“nothing?”

“he was like that last night when i was over after you left. didn’t talk much.”

you twisted your mouth to the side, wondering what could be up with him. but he didn’t say anything, not for the two weeks that you and patrick were fake-dating. art pretended like he was fine when patrick walked you to art’s dorm room to hang out, pretended like he was fine when you sat with patrick in the stands at his own tennis game, too close for comfort just because your ex was in the crowd too. art lost that game just thinking about how much he wanted to toss his racket right at patrick. it wasn’t out of hatred- he did not hate his best friend, he was jealous of his best friend. all because art hesitated and he didn’t…

and you kept wondering why art was so distant. was he upset with something? what was he keeping to himself that made him so standoffish? you were determined to know because obviously two weeks is a while to be ‘out of it’ as art claimed he was.

you and patrick held hands at the table, you were trying not to look at your ex who stood in the corner on his phone, standing facing you. “your hands are really hot,” you said to him, chuckling.

“that’s not me.”

“that’s all you,” you said, laughing quietly. it doesn’t sound very genuine, you were nervous. art could tell. “he’s still watching?”

art pretended to scan the cafeteria, noting the cold gaze your ex set on you. patrick had two people in this room to be jealous of, which sucked. patrick for the hand he held and your ex for the simple fact that he had you. he was ugly, to be honest. not a great looking guy but apparently enough to date you at some point. fuck. he nodded back at you to tell you yes, you were still being watched.

you wished you didn’t have to hold patrick’s hand. the fake dating thing wasn’t so bad, it was just added actions to hanging out with your best friend. just a few kisses and he wasn’t bad- but there was nothing in it. it was funny if anything, you usually ended up laughing about it. it was so dumb. maybe you could let your hand slip out if his… his hands were sickeningly warm.

art stared at your intertwined fingers. fucking sick and jealous and upset. you, perfect, pretty, purple nail polish, lip gloss, quick humour and soft gaze and your hand was in patrick’s. unappreciated, almost an empty gesture. patrick didn’t like you. not the way art did, not the way art could have. if he didn’t fucking hesitate. if he’d kissed you then. it would have been so easy… he watched your hand slip out of patrick’s and brush against your jeans. art hated how it made him smile just in the slightest. but it was fleeting. patrick reached his arm around you and pulled you closer and art swore he felt his heart drop a few inches in his chest. he should have been used to it by now.

but he wasn’t when you hugged patrick the next day when saying goodbye, your ex just always around. art was on his way to trying to get rid of this guy just so you’d stop touching patrick. art, a sweet boy, thinking about kicking this guys ass just for patrick to take his hand off of your waist. it was killing him, it was taking him apart.

it killed him when he watched all these empty acts… why was your ex always fucking there? it was crazy how afraid you were of him but so rightful, why was he always around? but you hugged patrick, you kissed him on the cheek, you held his hand and it was vile and it hurt, this ache in his chest never dulling. even when you weren’t around, it was still there. art prayed for easy sleep most nights, if he was awake laying in bed it would eat him alive. his chest would tighten to the point of pain. he missed out on one thing and spent every night just repeating that moment of hesitation, that mistake.

you and art alone was hard to come by naturally. usually patrick was around, even if the both of you didn’t want it. you sat with him in the library. “you’re so lucky that janet girl didn’t follow you to stanford,” you groaned, resting your head on your arms on the table. “i miss being free.”

“you can be free.” art said, closing the book he was looking at. “he shouldn’t control anything. fuck him, honestly.”

“don’t remind me,” you groaned again, putting your face into your arm. “i feel haunted and i’m scared, im never not scared.” your head turned on it’s side, facing him without lifting your head. “his actions back home, if the cops hadn’t gotten involved i don’t even know what would have happened. he got a warning and i moved away but he’s here and he’s everywhere. it’s a good thing he’s not literate.”

art smiled just a bit at that, but not all of that. you smiled too. he was glad you were making light of it. it was good to see you not so on edge without being in your room or his. “i’m sorry you’re scared. you have the right to be, but i wish you weren’t. he’s here, yeah, and as long as patrick and i are around, he won’t get to you. not even a word. i catch him within ten feet of you, he’s done.” he pulls a loose string off of your sweater- “can you still do that cartwheel thing?”

“yeah i’m gonna cartwheel him to death,” you nod. “i’ll teach you if you want to help me tag team him with cartwheels.”

“i think if you can do it, he’s already a goner.” he pushed your hair out of your face and you smiled, shutting your eyes, enjoying the peace of a public space without the eyes of anyone but art. art was a quiet contrast to the whirlwinds and overstimulation of feeling watched and having to hold hands or be touching patrick in some way. art was a perfect break from it.

he watched how you looked with your slight smile on glossy lips, your eyelashes perfect as your eyes laid closed. and more than any time he’d seen you and patrick, more than any touch and kiss he knew you’d exchanged with his best friend, he was the angriest he’d ever been that he didn’t kiss you then. the angriest. but it coexisted with the extent of how he felt about you, being here with you, the extreme happiness. art donaldson was a fairly simple guy but you were so… how could he not be…

fuck.

the next day it just about ripped him to shreds to see you kiss patrick again. even after you pulled a bit of a face. and it was too much. he couldn’t do it anymore. his avoidance worsened, he tried to get out of hanging out as much as he could. he couldn’t bear seeing the empty affection. how lucky patrick was to get to do it. he just couldn’t see it anymore. he got further and further from you both. hanging out with you alone only sometimes, patrick alone sometimes. he felt a little outcast but it was his own doing for his own good.

you enjoyed all the time you got with him alone. he was the peace and quiet. he was the next safest thing but without the pretending part. with him you didn’t have to pretend anything. you’d just talk, laugh, he made you laugh so much you almost forgot you were having an ex-boyfriend crisis. he was sweet and he was so kind and it was refreshing to know someone who just wanted to spend time with you. and you didn’t have to be anyone for anyone. but you missed hanging out with him the way you used to- which was a lot more, and you missed the three of you hanging out, smoking, talking, dancing, being weird and loud. it meant a lot to you and it just sucked when he wasn’t there. you had to fix it. you had to see him more!

you caught him after one of his late evening classes, running up from behind and covering his eyes. “guess who?”

“it’s not patrick…” he said, small smile on his face as you uncovered his eyes and began to walk his pace next to him. “hey.”

“hiii,” you lead. “so i was wondering if maybe you wanted to get dinner?”

he looked the other way to hide how his eyes widened. “dinner?” he looked back at you.

“yeah. nothing crazy, i mean, probably just the campus bar if you wanted.” you just wanted some time alone with him in a good setting. maybe start going out without patrick…

art pressed his lips together, looking at you. dinner meant patrick. the campus bar meant a risk of being seen by your ex. appearances were important, after all. “i have chinese leftovers,” art lied for the sake of not having to be around you and patrick and the fake hand-holding and all of the things that made him nauseous. “i’ll see you after though?”

“oh.” you said, smiling. “why don’t we skip dinner? i can grab something on the way back to your dorm.”

“it’s fine. i’ll see you after, no problem. i think patrick has an ounce on him still, we can smoke or something.”

“yeah.” you said, honestly a little embarrassed your attempt at hanging out with him alone had failed. but even with that, he still “i’m just going to head back to my room. what time do you want me over?”

“maybe nine? make sure patrick doesn’t forget his rolling papers.”

“i won’t…” you said, noticing how art’s pace picked up. you had no idea how badly he wanted to get away from the idea of you and patrick out to dinner for appearances. “art?”

“yeah?”

your next words sounded a bit insecure. you swallowed them and decided on saying something else. “i like your hat.”

“you bought it for me.” he smiled.

“i know.” you smiled back. “see you later.”

“see you.” the second he could, his face turned to an expression of disgust. this whole thing was so stupid- all of this because he hesitated. bullshit. he’d almost gone a day without thinking about it. when would it end?

you went back to your dorm alone. or you tried. earbuds in, ipod on, listening some 90s hit you’d been obsessed with again lately and it didn’t occur to you that this was the first time you’d walked across campus alone. you had shortcuts patrick showed you, alleyways between residencies.

and there he was. him. by chance or by choice you didn't know and the second you realized was the second you realized it was too late and he had you blocked into a corner. your earbuds fell from your ears as he began to curse at you. the events began and you tried to use your speed dial to get either art or patrick, but you could only click patrick’s before he yelled at you to put your phone down. patrick didn’t pick up.

you were afraid.

it was forty minutes later when art got a call from patrick, asking if he was free. just on a whim.

“hey, you up for anything?”

art blinked, “you’re with Y/N?”

“nah. actually, i didn’t call while you were in class, but she said she was going to ask some guy out, i think the fake dating thing is done for.”

art’s stomach did it’s first front flip instead of a backflip. “done for?”

“yeah, honestly i’m glad. she’s been scaring away a few girls i’ve had my eyes on. not that i minded helping her out, it just- she’s not my type, you know? she’s a good friend but i couldn’t… you know.”

art rethought you finding him after class. he was fucking stupid- asking a guy out, asking him out? he didn’t know if he was crazy but when you mentioned getting dinner you didn’t mean with patrick, you didn’t have plans with patrick. oh fuck, art thought, feeling five things at once. distress, joy, stupidity, a bit of anger, and regret. “she say who she was asking out?”

“no. but i’m happy for her. i think she’s not afraid of her ex as much anymore. plus, fake dating or not we’re still her friends and we’re around her pretty often. the guy wouldn’t go near her with us around.”

“that’s what i keep saying,” art nodded as if patrick could see him. he was grabbing his sweater and shoes as he spoke. “listen- uh- come meet me here at campus at ten. i might not be back at ten but you know where the key is. i gotta go… bring rolling papers.”

“done,” patrick agreed. “talk to you later.”

“bye,” art said, leaving out the door. if he was right, you’d just asked him to dinner and he had said no. without hesitation this time, he had said no. he said he had chinese leftovers, he didn’t have anything. fuck. so stupid, you were probably at your dorm alone right now. fuck! fuck, fuck, fuck.

he ran a hand through his hair as he jumped the stairs and left his building to head over to yours. walking a little faster than he had control over- breaking a jog. yes he’d go to dinner with you, what the fuck, how did this happen, did you like him? his head was a bit of a mess but he had to find you. he called you on his way over but no answer. he walked up to your dorm and knocked, but no answer. hm. maybe he wasn’t the guy? or something. his brain drew conclusions and he checked the common rooms on his way downstairs and outside.

fuck. did he miss a chance again? again, after all of this? another chance? he’d had too many taken from him but this was his own fault.

“i’m sorry, okay!” you said, voice shaky. you were trying to be loud without letting him know you were trying to draw attention to yourself so that anyone might intervene. “i’m sorry we haven’t spoken, i didn’t know you wanted to.”

“bullshit. you saw me, you didn’t even say hi.”

“hi! please, can i just go back to my dorm i don’t know what else you want.”

“you know what i want. what i miss. what i know you miss too, i know that patrick asshole doesn’t give you what i gave you…” trauma, you thought. fought not to say it to his face. but you were afraid. “you miss me.”

“i-“

“bullshit! just because you have a boyfriend doesn’t mean you don’t want me.”

“can i please go back to my dorm room? if you don’t let me go, i’ll scream.” you said, a little more panicked by the second. he stepped closer and you stepped back into the wall. “i will scream and you will be caught.”

“you’re not going to be screaming anything but my name-“

“please.” you pleaded. “it’s not worth it.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.” art said, punching your ex in the face, hard. pain immediately splintered up his hand and into his wrist. he hissed a bit in pain, immediately shaking his hand out. “fuck.” he’d never punched anyone ever in his life. not like that.

you covered your mouth and watched as your ex raised his hand to his nose, bleeding and honestly disgustingly crooked. art broke his nose. you reached to the side for him, unable to take your eyes off your ex as he scrambled to his feet. he wasn’t the type to fight and he was a coward, always was. your hand found the sleeve of art’s shirt and you grabbed hard.

“fuck you,” your ex seethed, blood running down his face. ���say goodbye to your tennis career buddy, that’s assault.”

“and what were you about to do?” he had never felt more adrenaline in his body. he wasn’t himself. your ex went quiet and if there was ability to turn red even after bleeding, he was pink in the face. he stumbled, stuttered. And hurried off. “fuck!” art said, holding his hand with the other hand. it pulsed in sharp pain. “jesus-“ his eyes fell on you and immediately he was pulling you into a hug he didn’t even hesitate about. his hand hurt like hell but with his arms wrapped around you he ignored the pain coursing through his fingers, hand, and wrist just to squeeze you tight. you were breathing hard, a little ragged, a little bit like you were trying not to cry. “you’re okay.” he said gently.

he made sure not to get the blood from his knuckles on you. it was more important to hold you than it was to tend to that right now.

you could have stayed in his arms a while longer and he would have let you, but things sunk in. “you punched him.”

he winced in pain again, “not properly. fuck, this hurts. i’ve never punched anyone before.”

he knew you were still in some state of shock and surprise and frankly, so was he. “that was…” you saw his hand, how badly he’d hurt it, your hands gently grabbed it. “oh my god, art…”

“it’s fine,”

“it’s not fine. i’m so sorry, does it hurt badly?”

“no, not much.” a lot. “just a bit.”

“i’m so sorry, art, i’m so sorry, thank you, that was… crazy.”

art almost chuckled. you were sorry, of course you were. you were the sweetest girl in the world, sorry for something he did. “why are you sorry? don’t be sorry.” he said.

“you didn’t have to do that,” you said, taking his fucked up hand in your own.

“what if i told you i really wanted to?”

you smiled just a bit. you knew he wasn’t violent. in fact, art was one of the most gentle people he’d ever known. “thank you. i think if anyone was deserving, it was him.” you held his hand the way you did and it was gentle in return, but your hands were shaking. you looked him in the eyes, grateful and genuine. “come on. let’s get this cleaned up.” you said. the pain in his hand almost dulled when you looked at him, he swore. it returned, shooting and throbbing as he followed you into your dorm room.

he sat on your bed and you came over with your little first aid kit and some water. your hands were still shaking. “you’ll report him later?” he asked.

“i think i will. will you come with me?” you asked, wiping the blood that wasn’t near any of the wounds.

“of course.” he nodded. “you’re okay though?”

“i will be.” you nodded. in the dim of your dorm room, the lamplight warm, he saw you smile just a bit. his heart beat hard in his chest. he understood your short responses. “i was just walking home… he cornered me, i didn’t think he could. he did.”

“he won’t do it again.”

“i know. he’s a coward. once he’s caught he backs off.”

“you’ll be free from him. especially if you report him and it goes over well.” art said. “but you stood your ground that whole time?”

you sniffed as you tossed the bloody tissue away, “yeah. i didn’t cartwheel though, not enough space.”

art laughed just a little and so did you. “i’m sorry i didn’t either. probably would have hurt less.” he flexed his hand, wincing in pain. “can’t believe i punched a guy.”!

“me neither,” you giggled. “i think you broke his nose.”

“i hope so.” he returned. “would be a good first try.”

“would be good. he was already ugly anyway- now maybe he can get some reconstructive surgery.” you giggled. he was glad to see you laughing about it. “art, this is going to sting a bit.” you said, his hand in your own. art nodded, braced, and you put a few drops of some solution on his hand, watching it fizz up. he hissed just a little, and you tightened your grip on his hand. his lips pressed together.

he sighed, breathing out slowly. “i’m never punching anyone again, jesus christ-“

“good, i hope you don’t have to,” you said, cleaning it again, him wincing in pain again. “i’m sorry-“ you added.

art smiled, “don’t be sorry.”

“then i’m not.” you said, cheeky smile in return. you were so beautiful… silence filled the room for a moment. it was a thick silence, filled with unsaid words.

until art broke it, “you think you’ll continue to fake-date patrick?”

you looked at him through your eyelashes, “i’m done with that. he was angry with patrick, said some shitty things. it didn’t stop him.” you nodded. “plus patrick said it was scaring other girls away.” you laughed. “i’m just glad i don’t have to hold his hand anymore, he’s so… warm.”

art nodded. he adjusted the way he sat, getting the slightest bit closer. “you’re glad it’s over with?”

“for sure,” you said, bandaging his knuckles up, securing it with with pins. “i hate kissing people without meaning, you know?”

“i know.”

“it just… it wasn’t bad but it wasn’t what i wanted from the getgo.”

art’s eyes softened, but his eyebrows furrowed, “you seemed pretty excited about the fake dating. like in the movies. was it anything…” he trailed off as you raised his bandaged hand to your lips and kissed his hand gently. as if kissing it better. you did it like it was the most natural action. art cleared his throat, “wasn’t what you wanted?”

“wasn’t what i wanted. from the start.” you repeated.

“i thought you had plans with patrick tonight, that’s why i said no.” he stated, just so you knew.

he swore he saw you blush, “no- that was just- i didn’t. i just, i don’t knowwww.” art noted how close the two of you were. “i just thought maybe you would.”

“i didn’t know you meant just me,” he chuckled. “if i did, it would have been yes.”

your hands still shook ever so slightly. “it’s good to know. and if i asked again…” you trailed, your cheeks just the slightest bit pink.

he smiled, trying to keep it a smile and not a grin, “i’d say yes.” he swallowed hard, “and if i asked you if i could kiss you right now…”

“i’d say yes,” you replied. “hypothetically- i mean-“ you started giggling as he moved your hair from your face, smile turning into a grin, bandaged hand grazing your cheek just slightly. your eyelashes fluttered gently and your giggle turned into a smile.

“hypothetically?” he beamed, leaning in

“mhm,” you smiled, meeting him halfway. you both smiled into the kiss, but it was slow, sickeningly slow, with no impulsivity and nothing at stake. lips barely grazing each other’s, gently, not fully kissing, not yet. art’s non-bandaged hand slid over your jaw, settling to the place just below your ear before he closed the (very) small gap between.

the kiss stayed slow, art’s lips pressed to yours sweetly, gently, easily. and it filled the void every empty kiss with patrick left in you. his lips were soft, and so were yours, your berry lipbalm the cause. your lips almost melted into his, the way it felt like you were meant to kiss him. your lips fit together in a way where they never really had with patrick. or anyone, ever.

mouthes open, just slightly, taking in as much as possible in a kiss while still moving with only patience. the breaths in between filled with the feeling of you smiling against his lips. his heart pounded in his chest, about as hard as it did when the adrenaline kicked in earlier. but it was just you. only you.

and the kiss was slowly undoing the ache he’d felt for two months. his chest was full, heart pumping, feeling warm. and actually happy. really happy. there was no pain to be felt, not in his hand, not in any manner. your hand on the back of his head, fingers slowly moving through his hair, sliding over his jaw. it was only a few minutes, both of you not wanting to stop, not for anything, but there was a knock on the door. and you both pulled away, both a little dazed. art’s cheeks and nose were visibly pink and he for sure was wearing your lip balm at that point.

“it’s probably patrick,” art said. “he’s got… weed.”

“he’s got weed?” you smiled, standing up over him. “think he’ll knock again?”

“probably,” art replied, reaching up and pulling you back down into a kiss, your body between his legs on the edge of the bed. another kiss, just a little faster this time, your hands cupping his face gently. interrupted once more after twenty seconds by patrick knocking. you pulled away with the prettiest grin and went to answer the door.

patrick came in with a knowing look that he shot art before questioning art’s bandaged hand. the story unravelled over a joint and a good amount of laughter and for once art was able to enjoy his friend’s company without those nagging thoughts and feelings. you might have been patrick’s with the facade, but this was real. art’s hand rested on your thigh and before the night truly ended, the proper plans were made. not only to report your jackass of an ex, but to get dinner after.

[matrixbearer2024]

Can't Sleep Love [Stanford Pines X Reader]

Ford is up working late again, drowning himself in work because restful sleep continues to elude him. That was until you came into the picture, and you both know that Ford can’t truly deny you anything. It doesn’t matter how stubborn he is.

OOC: God I suck at summaries- anyway here's a fic I was working on because oh my GOD I missed writing this geriatric and he's adorable okay-

[Sleep has always been a distant thing, a reluctant guest— until you came along, whispering for me to rest beside you.]

Ford wasn’t entirely sure what he was working towards. Papers crumpled, journal pages filled with almost unintelligible scrawl, his ink staining the pages with endless numbers and letters. It was going to be one of those nights— one where peaceful sleep remained an impossibility, slipping through his grasp like smoke. He didn’t even bother reaching for it anymore, not when he already knew what awaited him on the other side.

Harsh nightmares, regrets, deep wounds that refused to heal— scars that marred his flesh, both mental and emotional, seared into his very being like brands of memory. The state of his well-being almost mirrored the state of his desk. Papers and books lay in scattered disarray, empty coffee mugs stacked haphazardly to the side, long forgotten. Nothing was where it should be.

The mess was a stark contrast to his usual meticulous and orderly nature.

And yet, Stanford couldn’t bring himself to care. He was too tired to even begin organizing it, much less clean up the wreckage of his workspace. Running purely on fumes, he pushed forward, determined to keep the monsters in his mind at bay. Even if it meant forcing himself to work to the brink of exhaustion, even if he had to bury himself in equations and theory just to drown out the thoughts clawing at the edge of his consciousness.

His work was consuming, methodical. If he let himself fall into the calculations, if he lost himself in the hypotheses, in the endless cycle of experimentation, then time blurred into an abstract concept— an inconsequential thing, swallowed whole by the pursuit of discovery. A welcome distraction from the horrors lurking beneath the surface, waiting for him the moment he allowed himself to rest.

Then, the pen in his grasp began to stutter against the paper, leaving behind an unsightly blotch of ink.

At first, Ford thought nothing of it— perhaps just an unfortunate clogging of the nib, or an old pen finally giving out under the relentless pressure of his scribbling. But as he lifted it to inspect the tip, rolling it lightly between his fingers, a faint frown tugged at the corners of his lips. There was still ink left, plenty of it. And yet, when he tried pressing it to the page again, it stuttered and faltered, leaving behind uneven, jagged lines instead of the precise, methodical words he had intended.

Stanford huffed through his nose.

So much for keeping his notes clean. Yet, as he turned the pages to glance over his previous work, most of it was indecipherable. The elegant and deliberate cursive he once took pride in had been reduced to nothing more than sleep-deprived scribbles. He could barely make sense of his own writing.

The longer he stared at the page, the less it made sense. The equation he had been editing, rewriting, revisiting over and over again— it had all blurred together into something incomprehensible.

What was he even working on?

His mind was failing him. All logical thought had come screeching to a halt, refusing to function, refusing to move forward, no matter how desperately he tried to force it. The once-blazing fire of his intellect had burned itself to embers, and even those embers were beginning to ash over.

Restarting that fire would be impossible without fuel.

And Ford had nothing left to burn.

With a heavy sigh, the scientist finally put his pen down. Continuing now, when all he seemed capable of doing was staining the pages with ink and exhaustion, was an exercise in futility. Of all the nights his trusted jotter had to give out, it had to be tonight.

The universe had a way of playing cruel tricks on him, didn’t it? A part of him wanted to believe that he deserved it— that this was some kind of cosmic retribution for the countless mistakes he had made in his life.

Then again, fate had never been kind to him.

The sound of the basement door creaking open barely registered at first. His focus remained firmly rooted in the inked diagrams and unfinished calculations sprawled across his journal, his mind wandering anywhere but here. Days long gone, memories that haunted, time he could never get back. The monsters in his head refused to bid him adieu.

Then, he heard it.

Soft footsteps against the wooden floor. A faint inhale— hesitant, lingering.

His shoulders instinctively stiffened before he forced himself to relax. He already knew who it was.

No one else dared to venture down here this late. No one else ever tried to pull him away from his work. No one but you.

"(Y/N)…?"

His voice came out rough, almost disbelieving, as if his exhaustion-addled mind hadn’t yet fully processed your presence. In the dim quiet of the lab, the steady patter of rain against the window nearly lulled him into the sleep he so vehemently resisted.

Ford still fought against its pull. What was the point of resting when all that awaited him was the inevitable jolt awake, the cold sweat clinging to his skin, the suffocating weight of dreams that refused to let him go?

He didn’t want to sleep.

When he finally looked up, his glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose, and for a moment— just a fleeting moment— he forgot how to breathe.

The soft golden glow of the desk lamp illuminated you in warm hues, light catching the delicate curve of your face, your silhouette outlined like something ethereal. A trick of the light, surely. And yet, the sight was enough to steal the breath from his lungs.

Or maybe that was just the exhaustion talking.

You lingered at the entrance of the lab, shifting your weight slightly, the familiar flicker of mischief in your eyes tempered by something softer.

"I knew you’d still be down here."

Your voice broke the silence, gentle yet firm, an undeniable truth.

Ford swallowed, suddenly all too aware of how long he had been hunched over his desk. His back ached, his fingers throbbed from gripping the pen too tightly, and his mind— his mind waged a war against itself, a battle fought on all fronts.

You always had a way of doing that to him.

Disarming him with nothing more than your presence.

Stealing the air from his lungs with nothing more than a glance.

Autonomy had never truly been his when you were around.

"You should be asleep."

The scientist muttered, his six fingers absently drumming against the desk. His words were more of a deflection than an argument, thrown out automatically rather than with any real conviction.

"So should you."

You countered effortlessly, crossing your arms with a tired yet playful grin.

Stanford exhaled through his nose, his free hand rubbing at his temple, already resigning himself to the inevitable. He knew you well enough by now to recognize when you weren’t going to leave him alone— not until you got what you wanted.

And, as much as he loathed to admit it, he never really wanted you to leave in the first place.

You gave him a sheepish, almost apologetic smile, lingering in the doorway, shifting your weight slightly from one foot to the other.

"Couldn't sleep?"

He asked, trying to rationalize your sudden visit. He knew you meant well— everything you did, everything you were, always seemed to center around a quiet, unwavering concern for him. Ford just found himself too tired to appreciate it in the moment.

Because he didn’t want to sleep.

"Something like that."

You hesitated, glancing at him before meekly adding.

"Would you mind some company?"

His first instinct was to refuse— not out of dislike, but habit. This was his space, his domain of absolute concentration and solitude, the one place in the world that had always been his and his alone.

And yet—

As he watched you fidget in the dim glow of the lab’s lighting, eyes flickering with quiet vulnerability, that well-worn reflex… softened. Dissolved.

Something warm spread through his chest, slow and unbidden.

Ford cleared his throat, slightly flustered, but beckoned you inside with a quiet gesture of his hand.

"You’re always welcome, (Y/N)."

His voice was quiet, sincere, imbued with an honesty that had your lips curling into a smile— a smile that softened the tension in your shoulders as you stepped forward. As the space between you closed, his heart betrayed him, picking up its pace in his chest. He was helpless to ignore the way his body adjusted instinctively— not retreating, not guarding itself, but making room for you.

Not away from him, but into his personal orbit.

The air shifted, charged with something unspoken, something warm. He noticed the way your gaze softened, studying him with a concern he wasn’t sure how to handle.

Before he could think of what to say, you moved— carefully perching yourself on the edge of his desk, like you belonged there. And at this point, you did.

A gentle silence settled between you both as your eyes flickered toward the window, watching the soft streaks of rain slide against the glass. The muted rhythm was hypnotic, lulling the lab into a peaceful hush, a quiet stillness neither of you felt the need to break.

Yet, despite the comfort of silence, Stanford found himself subtly observing you from where he sat. How the dim lighting of the lab softened your features, painting you in hues of gold and shadow. How your fingers lightly tapped an absentminded rhythm against the table’s edge, mirroring the raindrops above. How your presence alone seemed to quiet the restlessness he hadn’t even realized had taken root in him.

You liked his space just as much as he did.

You carried a peacefulness with you, something intangible, something steady. And somehow, without ever trying, you had brought that same quiet comfort into his sanctuary of worn notes and half-finished projects.

Your place at his worktable had become as natural as the endless stack of empty coffee mugs that littered it.

"You work too hard, Ford."

It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t even a reprimand. It was simply… true.

He exhaled a soft chuckle, adjusting his glasses with a sheepish expression.

He had no argument.

With a resigned sigh, Ford ran a hand through his silver locks before leaning back slightly in his chair, finally turning to fully face you.

"Perhaps."

He conceded, voice low, contemplative.

His eyes flickered toward his scattered notes, a quiet war waging in his mind.

"But science isn’t going to innovate itself…"

"And you won’t innovate anything if you collapse."

Your counter was effortless, lighthearted but firm, your gaze gentle as it searched his features. Concern wove itself into your voice, threading through every syllable like a quiet plea.

"You should rest too, you know?"

Stanford couldn’t quite hold your gaze for long at that, something raw and unfamiliar settling in his chest. Vulnerability was not something he had ever been good at, least of all when it came to himself. Instead, his eyes flickered downward, his six-fingered hands clasping together on his lap, fingers tightening as he quietly processed your words.

You always had far too much power over him.

The silence stretched, lingering, not uncomfortable but heavy with something unspoken. Outside, the rain tapped gently against the window, steady and rhythmic, weaving itself into the quiet hush of the lab.

A sanctuary.

A place that had once been built for solitude now felt warmer with you here. More… alive.

And that was dangerous.

Because when had this started happening? When had you become the thing he looked forward to most? When had your presence become more enticing than his own research?

Ford was a man of science. A man of logic, of reason. He was meticulous, disciplined, driven by the pursuit of knowledge, not… this.

Not achingly aware of how close your hand was to his on the desk. Not stealing glances at the way the lamplight caught in your eyes. Not memorizing the soft rhythm of your breathing and how, somehow, it had synced so effortlessly with his own.

The realization unnerved him.

He needed to do something. Say something. Anything to break the spell you had him under.

But before he could, you moved first.

Your hand, slow and deliberate, reached for his.

Ford froze. Completely. Utterly.

And then, you laced your fingers through his.

A simple gesture. Innocent.

But it wrecked him.

Stanford Pines had faced interdimensional horrors, eldritch beings, the very fabric of reality unraveling before his eyes— And nothing— nothing— had ever unraveled him the way you just did.

His heart slammed against his ribs, hammering out a frantic, uncontrollable rhythm. His mind, usually sharp, usually relentless in its calculations, flatlined.

"(Y/N)…"

He started, but his voice— his steady, controlled voice— wavered in ways it shouldn’t.

You just smiled. So effortlessly, so carelessly, like you weren’t sending him spiraling into full-blown catastrophe.

"Come to bed."

You murmured, soft and quiet and wholly devastating.

A request. An invitation. A trap.

Ford swallowed thickly.

"I—"

And then your thumb brushed against his knuckles.

His brain short-circuited.

He lost.

Just like that, you had him wrapped around your finger.

"…Just for tonight."

He relented, voice hoarse. Your smile brightened at that, something radiant blooming across your features, and Ford barely had time to steel himself before you gently pulled him up with you.

The shift was effortless. Natural.

Ford barely registered standing, barely registered how your hand fit so perfectly in his own. It felt right. It felt dangerously right.

The simple gesture was somehow overwhelmingly tender, and for a moment, he found himself frozen— before he carefully, almost reverently, squeezed your hand in return.

His pulse stuttered when you squeezed back.

And as you guided him gently from the lab, the rain continued to murmur softly overhead, its gentle lullaby carrying you both toward a place where, at least for tonight, work and worry could wait.

And Ford…

Ford was helpless against it.

Because in these quiet moments, he realized— with striking, undeniable clarity—

That he’d gladly trade a thousand nights alone in his lab for a single evening with you.

[t-is-for]

Let’s get this party started! 🎉

via wearebayfc March 30, 2024

[cellophaine]

Chapter I: SERVE

Masterlist

Pairing: Art Donaldson x F!Reader

Word Count: 2377.

Warnings: None.

Author's Note: The first chapter is here!! I'm so excited to finally release this as this idea formed in my head a while ago and it's been itching to take shape. I hope you will enjoy this chapter and stay for the messiness of it all!

GIF Source: @harcive

2021. San Francisco.

Your bedroom, 2 AM. Outside, the storm raged. The whistling notes of winds pried their way inside through the seams of the window. You lay on your side, watching the maidenhair tree as its leaves and branches were torn in different directions, but the thick trunk barely wavered. The constant pattering of rain running along the window soothed your troubling mind.

Another sleepless night.

It was also raining like this on the day that you met him. Perhaps it was nostalgia, maybe it was your indulgence of self-loathe, either way, you often recalled that day over the years, long after it was over, thinking about how cruel fate was even though you didn’t believe in it. You often thought about how had you listened to the weather forecast on that portent day, there wouldn’t be so many sleepless nights.

2006. Stanford University.

The angry and ruthless storm swept over the campus’ ground, painting a murky varnish over the courtyard. You didn’t bring an umbrella. The cafeteria was almost empty with the exception of some other unfortunate souls like yours. Your messenger bag wouldn’t survive in this rain with its metal clasps broken and glued together, its nylon strap peeling off along the edge, and its canvas surface thinning.

You chose a seat by the big bay window overlooking the courtyard. The rain railed on the glass panels, loud and blurred together in a clashing harmony. The perfect background for your wandering thoughts while you stared out the window. You had a shift at the coffee shop on Friday, then the weekend to yourself. The library’s copy of Mrs. Dalloway was due the following Friday, but you didn’t need that much time. You could finish it this weekend. You should return your mom’s missed call and your dad’s message. Probably more of what you didn’t want to hear, but you should respond nonetheless.

Out of the peripheral of your vision, a moving silhouette headed in your direction. You ignored it until they stopped at your table, far enough that you couldn’t touch them if you reached out, but close enough to make your head turn. Your eyes caught onto the white shirt before skipping along the length of the torso before reaching the face. You were taken aback by his appearance, and most of all, his piercing eyes on you.

“Hi. May I sit here?”

He had a half smile that softened the outer corners of his eyes. Blond locks swept all over, framing his face in tousled waves. A sharp jaw that your eyes couldn’t help but trace along. He was cute. There was an easy air about him that almost disarmed the guard you placed when it came to strangers. Almost.

Your eyes quickly flitted around the nearly empty cafeteria involuntarily as if to signal that there were other seats he could take. But you nodded regardless with a thinly veiled hesitance and watched as he took his seat across the table. You wondered what he wanted from you.

“Looks like we’re stuck here for a while.”

You bobbed your head in agreement.

“Yeah. I should’ve brought an umbrella.”

“Me too. It doesn’t rain very often so I thought today would be one of those days, you know? Should’ve listened to the forecast.”

You hummed noncommittally and turned your head towards the window again. He moved a little in his seat as if he was trying to pull at your attention physically.

“I saw you sitting alone from over there, and uh … I thought you might want some company.”

Your eyes squinted at that and watched as he reached over the table.

“My name’s Art. Art Donaldson.”

You shook his hand and told him your name. His name stirred at a memory in the back of your mind.

“I know you. I mean, I’ve heard of you.”

His face lit up ever so slightly at that.

“Yeah?”

You nodded.

“Your name is mentioned pretty often, especially whenever tennis comes up. Some people in my class seem to be fans of yours.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and light.

“What about you? Are you a fan of me?”

You pretended to think about it and shook your head.

“Ouch.”

You held up a hand in defence.

“Hey. I’m just not a sports person.”

“That’s fair. We’re pretty annoying anyway.”

You blurted out before you could stop yourself.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. You could see the way his smile dropped, the way his body went still, and guilt trickled in rapidly until it was a big, sweeping wave.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

“So you were thinking it?”

“Yes, I mean, no, but kinda?"

Art only stared at you. You straightened in your seat.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? It just came out, I honestly don’t mean anything by it. My roommates said that I’m very sarcastic and if you don’t know me you might think I’m very mean but honestly I really don’t mean it I’m so so sorry …”

You trailed off as Art’s smile grew until his body shook with the sound of his chuckle. It was you that stared now. Your heart was pounding, nerves pulled tight across all directions, unsure of where they were heading.

"Uh …"

Your voice wavered, and you cleared your throat. Art waved a hand dismissively.

“Don’t worry about it. No offence taken.”

The joy he seemed to get from your momentary despair cast his face in an endearing light. You found yourself staring at the way his eyes crinkled, the way his lips quirked up, one side higher than the other.

“Still. It was rude of me.”

Art looked at your rueful expression, and you could almost tell the moment his light bulb went on.

“You’ll have to make it up to me.”

“What?”

He leaned forward. He was now halfway over the small table.

“To fix my broken ego. You’ve just destroyed it, after all.”

You fixed your eyes on his and met him in the middle, turning the distance into proximity.

“You know what they say about having a fragile ego?”

"What do they say?"

"Hm, I thought you knew already."

Art held your gaze for a long moment, searching for your tell. You couldn't hold the grin back, and he mirrored you, understanding your sarcastic nature a little more now. You broke away first and stood up, eyes roaming around the cafeteria and eventually landed on the food counter. You turned to look at Art, jerking your chin towards the other side of the room.

“Alright, let’s go. Whatever you want, on me.”

Art chose funnel cake fries with vanilla ice cream. You could feel his eyes on you as you smoothed out the slightly crumbled bills, counted the change and gave it to the woman behind the counter. His gaze made you feel a little insecure. You kept your eyes on the woman as you thanked her.

“Anything on it?”

She held up the paper box. Art turned to you and asked if you wanted anything. You said caramel sauce absent-mindedly as you put your wallet back in your pocket. After a generous drizzle, she passed the box to Art, along with two spoons.

“Wait, it’s your treat. Why did you ask me what I wanted on it?”

He shrugged as if the answer was obvious.

“I thought we could share.”

You returned to the table. The rain had calmed down, reduced to a light shower. It took some convincing from Art as you refused to have some as it was your treat for him, but eventually, you shared the first few bites in silence. You tried not to pay too much attention to his lips every time he licked the spoon when Art broke the voiceless air and asked about your major. English, you said, as your parents dismissed and scorned. Despite their disapproval and incessant attempts to convince you otherwise, you still wanted to be a published author, dreaming of seeing your name on the shelves one day.

“The scholarship helped a lot. If it wasn’t for it, my parents would have forced me to stay home and attend the community college there.”

“I'm guessing you didn't want that?”

“Not at all. And don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with the college back home, but …"

You considered our next words properly. A cold feeling crept up your spine, but you found the words that you'd never had the courage to say out loud before tumbling out.

"I just don’t want to be stuck there, you know? In the same place that I grew up in for years and years on end with my parents, and it's …”

You met Art's eyes to find that he was staring at you. All of a sudden, the cold became unbearable, and you felt so uneasy that you felt an instinctual urge to physically press your lips together to prevent anything else from slipping out. The baggage was too much for someone you met not even an hour ago. You cleared your throat.

“Anyway, what about you? Are you going to be a pro tennis player?”

Art's brows slightly furrowed, and he took a moment before responding. He seemed to sense your discomfort, but he let it go. You felt the weight eased off your stomach, feeling grateful that Art chose not to pursue the topic further.

"Yeah, I hope so."

"Is it something you've always wanted to do?"

He thought about it for a brief moment.

"I … think so. It's something I've known for a long time, and very well."

You nodded, taking another spoonful of ice cream.

"Okay, maybe not as well as my friend Patrick."

"Tell me about him."

The funnel fry stopped just before it reached Art's mouth.

"Why? Are you interested in him?"

“Sure am. I’m the kind of girl that needs more information on a guy before expressing my interest. So tell me."

A small frown formed on his lips. His hand made a slow descent to the table, the fry forgotten. He looked like a kicked puppy, and you felt bad for your harmless joke. You reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze.

"Art. I'm joking."

He took your words in, and an amused smile slowly spread across his lips. With the other unoccupied hand, he rubbed on his ear, which drew your attention to it as it turned into a faint shade of pink. He cleared his throat, and you pulled your hand away.

"Uh– okay! So … Patrick."

You nodded, encouraging him to continue. He told you about the Mark Rebellato Academy, how Patrick was his roommate and became his best friend, how they played tennis together and made …

"Fire and Ice?"

Art nodded.

"Who's who?"

"He's Fire, and I'm Ice."

"So when you're together, what do you make? Warm water?"

"Okay, when you put it like that, it doesn't sound very exciting. But we're good, I promise."

You put the spoon down, decided that you were done with the dessert and let Art finish the rest.

"When can I see you guys play together?"

Art thought about it for a moment.

"I don't think it'll happen soon. He's trying to pro, and he's busy with a tour right now."

"I see."

The rain had ceased to light mist, which made Art's silence became palpable.

"Do you miss him?"

"I– I'm happy for him, I am. He's doing exactly what he has always wanted to do, which is becoming a pro and not having to concern himself with a degree, but …"

"You wish he was here, playing tennis with you. Like how you used to."

Art nodded. You felt the air become heavier, so you switched it up.

"What about your family? They must come to your game to support you?"

Art smiled, but his voice was tinged with a sadness that made you regret even asking.

"My grandma asks me about every game I've ever played. And, uh … my parents enrolled me in Mark Rebellato, but they don't really come to my games. They don't … ask me about them, either."

The silence thickened like honey, but it wasn't confining. A tangible thread of mutual understanding wrapped around you, binding you together across the small table. You couldn't bring yourself to say something, anything, but when your eyes locked, the kindness in his eyes assured you that you didn't have to.

You blinked and allowed the quiet moment to slip through your fingers.

"I have a question for you."

He gestured for you to go ahead.

“Why me?”

“What do you mean?”

You arched a brow.

“You know what I'm talking about. There are other girls in there. Why did you choose me?”

“Just wanted to introduce myself to the prettiest girl here.”

You rolled your eyes at his smirk. He picked up the last funnel fry and popped it into his mouth.

“Do you really use that line on every girl you've met? Has it ever worked?”

“No, not every girl. And, you tell me.”

You shook your head, trying to fend off the inevitable smile that tugged on a corner of your lips.

“It’s not working.”

You said before standing up. Outside, the rain had cleared for the sun to poke through. Taking the empty box and cutlery, you put everything in the trash bin nearby while Art was still sitting.

“I guess I’ll have to get your phone number.”

You returned to the table, where Art looked up at you with that playful look.

"Why?"

"So I can prove myself to you."

“There’s no need. I’m sure I’ll see you again around the campus anyway.”

You picked up your bag, signifying the end of your talk. Art sprung off the seat as if it was on fire.

"But–"

You placed a hand on his shoulder and applied the tiniest bit of pressure.

“This has been enjoyable, really. I’ll see you around, Art.”

You offered him a smile before letting your hand drop. You didn’t look back once when you walked away despite the urge to have a final good look of him. Art gathered his bag, his hand reached inside and grasped the umbrella lying amongst the notebooks, his eyes followed you until you disappeared.

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