#and he does not love tennis or think about tennis in the way tashi does (and the way art USED TO)

[queensunshinee]

So sweet || Patrick Zweig x reader, Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex), drinking, mention of an eating disorder, again, I really don't know what's going on here. It's so weird. Just a small but important reminder: English is not my first language, so please don’t be mad if there are any embarrassing mistakes- I’m really trying my best!

Word Count: 7.3k

So sweet

Patrick wanted to know what is it about you that makes Art lose it. You're not the funniest, not the best at tennis—or at anything Patrick has ever seen you do, to be honest—and you're definitely not the prettiest. You're not the best. You're just not.

"She’s just so sweet," Art had said when the two of them were sitting in one corner of the Stanford cafeteria, and you were in another. Patrick didn’t see it; he thought you were scheming. That you were the least sweet person he knew. And because Art has known you for so many years, Patrick has known you long enough not to trust you. Who picks a college just because the guy she’s sleeping with also chose Stanford? Only a conniving witch. Someone who wants to pull Art away from him and Tashi. Someone who wants to pull Art away from his dreams. From tennis. Someone who wants Art all to herself. Patrick figured it out years ago. You can fool Art. Fuck it, you can fool yourself if you want. But you can’t fool Patrick.

And it doesn’t matter at all that you and Art have known each other since you were six. It doesn’t matter that all the evidence points to your parents being responsible for your academic choices. It doesn’t matter that it’s only since you got to Stanford that you started sleeping together; he never touched you inappropriately even once before college. Patrick didn’t like you before you two started having sex, so he sure as hell doesn’t like you now. You didn’t even bother to sit with them. You didn’t even bother to say a simple 'hi' to him. You don’t respect him enough to sit at the same table when he comes to visit Tashi and Art. You don’t respect him. Period.

“Do you think she’s ever eaten a burger?” Patrick suddenly asks, completely ignoring Art’s rambling about competitions and trying to inspect your plate from afar. He can’t see what’s on it, but he’s sure there’s nothing nutritious enough there. “I know for a fact she’s eaten more than one burger in her life,” Art rolls his eyes. “Why are you so obsessed with her?” he asks for the millionth time. He asked it every summer. He asked it after Patrick went on about how insane it was that you and Art were going to the same college.

“I’m not obsessed. I just think there’s no way her pussy smells normal with that diet,” Patrick says, earning himself a well-deserved elbow jab from Art. Art never talks about you that vulgarly. Art doesn’t talk about you much at all. That’s part of what annoys Patrick: that they can talk about any other girl, but with you, it’s never an option. Even about Tashi, he managed to talk to Art. He gave him the signal. He told him. But Art doesn’t share anything about what he does with you.

Patrick knows about Melanie from statistics that Art slept with. Patrick knows about Georgia or Regina or whatever her name is who works at the library and made it to second base with Art. He knows down to the exact books they leaned on. But he doesn’t know anything about you. Art keeps you to himself as if you’re some treasure he needs to guard at all costs. Patrick hates you and the broccoli you’re shoving into your mouth while reading a book, ignoring the outside world. You’re such a fucking smug witch. You won’t be able to fool him. . . . Art will never tell Patrick that there are moments when he thinks he loves you. Sometimes. Most of the time, he doesn’t. Most of the time, he knows he loves Tashi. The same Tashi that Patrick took for himself. Snatched her right out of Art’s hands.

But with you, it’s different. With you, it’s been building for years. You’re the one he smeared snot on when you were six, and somehow, you kept coming over to his house to watch cartoons with him. You kept showing up at the tennis court, reading a book while he practiced. You kept being an inseparable part of him.

Art knows you love him. It’s so clear to him, almost as clear as the fact that his first dog was named Jameson and that he died when Art was 8-years-old. You held his hand when he forced his parents to bury him. He didn’t want you to hold it, tried to shake you off for a few seconds, but you insisted. He never told you, but it felt nice.

Your first kiss was with Art. He insisted. Of course, he insisted. You love him so much, and you’re so, so sweet. Always polite and blushing at the right moments, and at 14, he kissed you. Explained to you that you couldn’t start high school without knowing how to kiss. He was doing you a favor. You said “thank you” afterward, like the polite girl you always were.

You kept kissing after that, as if it was the natural thing to do. Every time he came to visit in the summer and you’d come over. Every time he went to your place. You’d end your time together with his lips exploring yours. So sweet.

He will never tell Patrick that he knows you better than he knows himself. That he knows all your secrets just as you know all of his own. That sometimes he melts under your gaze and would be willing to tell you his ATM code if you asked. He will never reveal this to Patrick. Or you. He will never tell him that sometimes he feels like you’re such a deep part of him that you are simply him. And he is simply you. And when he thinks too deeply about that, he’s capable of barging into your lecture, telling the professor there’s been an emergency, dragging you into the janitor’s closet, staring for a second at your terrified face, and fucking you there on one of the shelves. Not that it happened. Maybe. He won't tell anyone.

And he will never give you the chance to go all in for him because it’s too terrifying. Because with you, he feels helpless, out of control, almost embarrassed. And because Patrick hates you. He’s never seen Patrick hate anyone as much as he hates you. And Art doesn’t think he can be in a relationship with someone Patrick doesn’t like. Which, in itself, is a crazy thought.

But Patrick loves Tashi, and Tashi has nothing sweet about her. No look that radiates tenderness or sweetness. She doesn’t smell like cinnamon and vanilla. She doesn’t have a soul that wants to share secrets with him. Tashi doesn’t look at him like he holds the moon. Tashi doesn’t look at him as if he could fill an empty space in her heart. Because she has no empty space in her heart. Tennis fills her heart. Tennis and Patrick. Art looks at her heart from the outside. He’s not a part of her story. He so badly wants to be part of her story. He thinks it's a need at this point.

And every time his mind fills with Tashi, he finds some random girl willing to stroke his ego (and his dick) just enough to make him forget. He never goes for the easy option; he doesn’t go to you. He only wants to be with you when he’s thinking of you. When you fill him so completely that he can’t breathe. When he physically needs you in front of him. Not when he wants someone else to touch him. Not when he wants Tashi Duncan so badly he could cry.

He looks at her and Patrick, unable to understand what she sees in him. What she finds in his best friend. The scatterbrained guy who doesn’t shower every day, who wears the same underwear longer than is acceptable, who snores while laughing, who eats whatever he wants, whenever he wants, like he isn’t trying to make a living as a pro. Like everything is a joke. Art doesn’t understand how Tashi can waste her time on a joke. . . . "What are you studying, Little Dove?" Patrick pulled out one of your earbuds when he found you tucked away in a corner of the library. He saw how you physically recoiled at the nickname he’d given you the first time you met. Not a nickname you liked. That only made him want to call you that enough times for it to be engraved on your gravestone when you die. For you to maybe one day think it was your real name. For it to become a part of you. Little Dove. He didn’t even know why he called you that. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good either. But it wasn’t necessarily bad.

"What are you doing here?" you replied, half-indifferent, reaching out for him to give you back the earbud he’d so brutally yanked. "Killing time. I had a fight with Tashi, so I can’t go to her match. Art’s obviously there because well, he’s in love with my girlfriend." He paused to study your reaction, wanting to see how you’d respond to the fact that Art didn’t love you. That he loved what belonged to Patrick, and you didn’t belong to Patrick, so he would never love you. Not really. Not entirely. "You’re the only person I know here. It’s your job to entertain me," he said, flashing a fake smile.

Everything about Patrick was fake. That was something you’d learned to be indifferent to years ago. Every time he jabbed at you or said something vulgar to disgust you, you knew it was fake. There was no point in taking him seriously. You pitied him the way you’d pity a little kid whose ice cream cone had fallen and no one was willing to buy him a new one. "I’m not a clown, Patrick. I have a test tomorrow," you said and snatched the earbud from his hand. He didn’t retaliate. He simply sat down across from you, examining you more intensely than you were comfortable with. His gaze pinned you like a scalpel. You tried to breathe evenly. He’s always like this. He’s always like this. Remember that he’s always like this, and everything will be fine. This is not the time to panic. Not in front of Patrick Fucking Zweig. He can’t win a war you’re not actively fighting.

"How’s life, Little Dove? Happy at Stanford with Art? Better now that he finally agreed to fuck you?" He was blunt to the point that it made you glare at him and wrinkle your nose for a second. That only deepened the smirk plastered across his face. "Do you need something?" you asked, trying to sound as though his vulgarity couldn’t faze you. As though everyone around you spoke that way all the time. As though your pathetic sex life wasn’t plastered on your forehead like a billboard. He was laughing at you. Patrick Zweig was laughing at you.

The thought that he might know every intimate detail of what you and Art did in bed made your entire body shiver. He could see it on you. He knew he’d won. But you weren’t even playing. You wanted to scream you weren’t even playing. No sound came out. He’d won. He knew it, and you knew it, and there would never be a draw again. Because you would both always know he���d won. That Art had told him how you moan. Maybe Art had even figured out that you fake all your orgasms because you’re probably broken so he told Patrick that too. Maybe it was all more humiliating than you could imagine. Maybe you wouldn’t be able to talk to Art ever again. Maybe-

"You’re overthinking it, Little Dove. I can see it on your face. It’s not that deep," he rolled his eyes and took a bite of an apple he’d pulled out (you had no idea from where). "You can’t eat in here. This is a library," you mumbled, grateful for the change of subject. Any change of subject. You’d be willing to talk about cactuses at this point if necessary. "I’m not a student here," he reminded you, as if you’d forgotten. As if that wasn’t the sole reason for your fleeting happiness- that you didn’t have to see his face here 24/7. Only sometimes. Only when he was visiting people who actually mattered to him.

You put the earbud he’d pulled from you a few moments ago back in your ear, signaling to him that the conversation was over and that you hoped not to see him again for the next year. Or ever, if you're being honest. You wanted to go back to studying in peace. To not think about the brazen guy in front of you. The one so emotionally entangled with the boy you loved that sometimes you felt there was no way to win. No way to beat Patrick Zweig. Because he came gift-wrapped in a package deal with Art. And once, you tried so hard to make him like you. You tried to fit into their conversations, laugh at the crude jokes, nod when Art nodded. Just so Patrick would stop looking at you with disdain, stop looking at you like you were a stray cat too wet to save. Like one that had rabies. Like one that needed to be put down.

He just kept staring at you, eating his apple as if rules didn’t apply to him. As if he were above what was allowed and what wasn’t. Making you hate him a little more, but admire him just as much because you would never have the guts to act like the world belonged to you. You thought it had something to do with the amount of money he grew up with. Art once told you Patrick had two pools (in one of his houses). Who needs more than one pool in a house anyway? But that was all you needed to know about him—he was privileged enough to believe he had the right to treat people like they were beneath him. And you’d never admit it, but you didn’t want to be beneath him. You didn’t want to lose to Patrick Zweig. You didn’t want to lose when you knew the prize was having Art. . . . He finds out that Tashi got injured completely by accident. He leaves you alone in the library because you bore him. You don’t let him sink his claws into you, something he realizes he liked doing only when he's around you. So, he goes out to smoke a cigarette, what else is there for him to do when he’s stuck here while Tashi plays and Art makes eyes at her from the crowd? What else does he have to do when you're sitting in front of a book and ignoring his existence and the nasty words? And then someone said something about seeing Tashi's knee fly through the air, and Patrick’s cigarette fell out of his mouth.

He asked three different people where the athletes' clinic was. Two ignored him, and one gave him wrong directions. He found the clinic on his own, trying to make sense of the campus signage. He felt like it was taking him forever. In hindsight, maybe it was better that it took him longer. Because Tashi looked devastated, Art looked lost, and both of them screamed at him. Art’s scream hurt more. He wouldn’t admit it, but he felt Art’s scream all over his body. It made him shiver.

And that’s how he lost Art Donaldson forever. Checkmate by Tashi Duncan. He didn’t expect that. He thought only you could take his place in Art’s life. Never Tashi. He thought you were the only one Art would lose control for. Maybe he looked at everything wrong. What a terrifying thought, to realize you spent years trying to beat someone without noticing the other players. Absolute blindness. He felt lost. Stuck in your disgusting university. Stuck in the loop that his life dragged him into. No matter how much he tried to think about it in the last half hour, he couldn’t find a way out. He couldn’t see a world where he and Art could be friends again.

‘I've got your bag, you forgot it in the library,’ his phone beeped with a message from you. Another message with your room number. He nodded to himself, even though no one could see. He wiped away some of the tears that had fallen from him, hoping no one would see that either.

He knocked on your door loudly, not caring about the other students living in the hallway. You opened quickly, intending to say everything you think about him, but in the hour and a half he’d been gone from your sight, something in Patrick’s gaze had changed. You’d never seen him like this, and it made you lean against the doorframe, mouth half open. You know for sure that he cried, the trail of tears was obvious. You know for sure that he was confused, his gaze zigzagging. The famous smirk he dedicates to you at every moment wasn’t there.

"Who died?" you asked quietly, because you couldn’t find any other reason for what you were seeing in front of you. He just passed through you, as if your room was his own. As if he had an invitation. As if you had to let him in. "Can I sleep here tonight?" he asked. His leg was shaking. He looked the worst you’ve ever seen him. "What happened to Tashi's room-" "Please (Y/N)," he used your actual name, "I’ll be out of your hair by morning. You won’t even feel like I was here, there are no more buses, and my car’s at the tournament site," he explained incoherently but clearly enough for you to nod. For you to understand that something terrible had happened. Bad enough that he couldn’t sleep at Tashi’s. Bad enough that he couldn’t sleep at Art’s. The thought of it made you cringe because the only thing that could have happened, the only thing that could have caused Patrick to fold in front of you like this-

"Am I overthinking this?" you asked after what felt like an eternity. When you were lying on the bed in the dark, and Patrick was lying on a makeshift pile of sheets and pillows on the floor next to you. You hoped he’d tell you that you didn’t need to think about it too much. That he’d tell you the same thing he said to you in the library. "Not this time," he said almost in a whisper, "I’m sorry," he added. Neither of you knew what he was apologizing for; For how he acted all these years or was he apologizing on behalf of Art? On behalf of the person who until just a few hours ago was his best friend. Patrick thinks an apology won’t be enough for either of you. He tries to sleep. When he leaves, he doesn’t write you a note. But there’s a flash of understanding when he looks at you before he walks out; Art was right, there’s something sweet about you. Patrick will never admit it. But what reason would he have to admit it now? Art is no longer part of his life, and he’s pretty sure Art won’t be part of yours just as quickly. You and Patrick both lost him, you just don’t know it yet. He almost feels sorry about how out of the loop you are. And what connection do you and Patrick have without Art? He thinks he’ll miss you. He saw you move slightly, one leg sticking out from under the blanket. He’s sure he’ll miss you. What a humbling thought. . . . You haven't seen Art for a week. And that's okay. Because he doesn't owe you anything. He made sure to remind you at every opportunity that he doesn't owe you anything. Not with words. Never with words. With actions. By acting like he doesn't see you, even though you both know he does. He never sat with you in the cafeteria. He never introduced you to his friends from the tennis team. He never introduced you to Tashi. He drew a very clear line about who you are to him, and you decided years ago that it's okay. That it's enough for you. That Art is yours in the summer. That Art is yours at night. That Art is yours when he wants to be yours.

He doesn't want to be anymore. You can see it in him because on the rare occasions you do see him in the cafeteria, he looks away the second your eyes accidentally meet his. On the rare occasions you do see him this week, his arm is half-wrapped around some girl you don't know. He's trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. Hurt you without really hurting you. He's trying to remind you that he doesn't owe you anything.

You'll never tell him it hurts. You'll never tell him that when you were ten, your mom, half-drunk, told you that to be loved, you'd have to sacrifice a lot. You don't know why you remember that, but you do. And since then, all you've done is sacrifice and sacrifice and sacrifice until sometimes there's nothing left to give. And now is one of those times when there's nothing left to give. You look at him from across the room, and he's a stranger to you, and you're a stranger to him.

You expected him to say something when it happened. You expected a hug, and if he were sensitive enough, a kiss. You expected life to flip upside down and for the sun to stop rising. But life went on, and your sacrifices stayed behind. Along with secrets and hugs and caresses and tears and memories. So many memories. All of it left behind. You can handle heartbreak. Everyone can. You won't be the first to sacrifice and not be heard by God. You won't be the first to starve yourself, and you won't be the first to wait for a phone call that never came. You won't be the first to cry and cry and cry.

After two weeks, you stopped waiting for a message. You stopped expecting a 'hello' in the hallway. You stopped hoping that Art Donaldson would knock on your door in the middle of the night. After two weeks, you looked at him one last time with pleading eyes. With an almost tortured look. After two weeks, you decided you wouldn't sacrifice anything more for Art Donaldson.

After two weeks, you ordered pizza and ate the whole box. He doesn't love you. He doesn't owe you anything. It's okay. You're okay. If not now, then soon you will be. . . . Art spent all his free time helping Tashi recover. He missed Patrick the way you'd miss a vital organ that had to be removed in an emergency surgery. He missed Patrick's messages from the tour. He missed his stories. He missed hearing him talk about a show Art had never watched and never planned to watch. He missed Patrick, but he had Tashi. He missed Patrick, but it was necessary, and one day he wouldn’t miss Patrick anymore, and he’d still have Tashi.

It’s different with you. He doesn’t just miss you—he’s hollow without you. He doesn’t know who he is without your admiring gaze. Without your nose brushing his in the middle of the night. He doesn’t know who he is without you ever since he learned how your skin feels under his touch. And he thought he’d be brave enough to walk into your room and just tell you that he can’t keep doing what the two of you have been doing your whole lives. He can’t keep playing this game. Because it’s not fair. Because he wants to be somewhere else. Because you weigh him down.

He knew he’d be in trouble if things got too serious with you, so he followed all the rules. He never introduced you to his friends. He never took you on a date. He never called you his girlfriend. He did everything right, and he’s still in trouble. That frustrates him more than anything.

He’s noticed that you don’t seek his gaze anymore. That you don’t try to catch his attention. That you’ve stopped sending him messages. He’s noticed that you understood the painfully obvious hint of “no,” and he hated himself for it. He showered that day for almost an hour. Scrubbed himself until his skin was red. As if trying to wash you off his body. As if trying to cleanse the filth he carries in his soul. As if trying to convince himself he’s not a bad person.

He found comfort in the fact that summer was almost here. That it wouldn’t be up to him. That there would be family dinners. That your parents would invite him, and his parents would invite you. That someone would force you both to be in the same room. He found comfort in knowing he wouldn’t have a choice. He didn’t want a choice. He wanted to see how you were handling it. He always sees you immersed in a book. Immersed in a conversation with someone he doesn’t know. Immersed. So immersed. Once, he thought that look -that ability to see into someone’s soul- was reserved only for him. How presumptuous of him. How foolish. How fucking selfish. . . . Patrick sent you a picture of a pigeon that wouldn’t leave him alone while he was eating pita on a bench in some park. He didn’t know why he did it. You’re not friends. You were never friends. But he saw that ridiculous pigeon and wondered if there was something about it that might remind you of him. He wondered if you and Art were still you and Art. He wondered and wondered until he sent the picture. Maybe you wouldn’t reply, but ignoring something wasn’t your style. You’re too good to ignore someone. You don’t have any malice in you. He doesn’t know when he started thinking you didn’t have any malice, because up until two months ago, he thought you were a scheming witch.

'You don’t know how to take pictures.' -(Y/N)-

'Look at you bothering me while I'm eating, little dove' -P- He smiled as he typed.

'Are you bored?' -(Y/N)-

'Maybe I miss you like you clearly miss me' -P- He didn’t know why he wrote that. He didn’t know what he wanted from you, if he was being honest with himself. But he wanted something. He wanted someone. Everyone deserves someone, and Patrick deserves someone too.

'You’re full of shit' -(Y/N)- He could imagine you rolling your eyes as you typed that. He knows you don’t talk like that. He thinks it’s something reserved just for him.

He decided to call because typing with food in his hand was too much effort. You answered quickly, out of breath. “Are you in the middle of sex?” he asked, unable to stop himself. “Why do you always have to say the grossest thing possible?” you shot back. He was glad you couldn’t see him because if you could, you’d hold the grin on his face against him. “What’s gross about sex, little dove? It’s natural-” “Why did you call?” you cut him off, not giving him any more points. “Just wanted to ask how you’re doing.” His voice sounded smaller. Embarrassed. You’re not friends. You never were. That’s not the nature of your relationship. There’s nothing he loves about you.

“I’m fine. Busy with school.” He could imagine you shrugging. “You’re going home soon, right? Summer break.” He knew what that used to mean for you and Art. He didn’t know what it meant now. He was fishing for answers, trying to figure out where things stood between you two. He wanted to know if Art had cut you out of his life with the brutality of a killer or if he was still keeping you wrapped in a ribbon, belonging only to him. He thought the former sounded more like Art.

“I’m probably staying at Stanford, for obvious reasons.” He could hear your voice, quiet as though you didn’t want to admit it. “It’s not fair,” Patrick said. “You’re supposed to enjoy your summer.” He added, growing frustrated with how inconsiderate Art was, with the monopoly Art held over your shared neighborhood. Bull-fucking-shit; “I’ve got two weeks off, and my parents are abroad. You could come to my lake house if you want a change of scenery,” he said, spitting the words out quickly before he could regret the invitation. Art was the only one who’d ever been invited there.

“That’s nice of you.” You said. He could hear the surprise you tried to hide in your voice. “I mean it,” he said, much more determined now. “It’ll be fun. My parents have the most impressive alcohol collection you’ll ever see.” He didn’t know what he was doing or which part of his brain was speaking for him right now. “I’ll think about it,” you said, wrapping up the call with a few more sentences. It felt like a win. And more than anything, Patrick needed a win. . . . "Is it true?" you heard Art's voice before you lifted your head from the book you were reading. "Hey, Art," you said with the most genuine smile you could muster, ignoring your racing heartbeat that only quickened. The truth was, you hadn’t seen him this close to you in two months. "You’re not going home for the break?" He sat down across from you without an invitation. "Nope," you said, as if it were obvious. As if that had been your plan all along. As if three months ago, you hadn’t whispered to each other in the dead of night all the things you’d do over the summer. As if you’d never loved him.

"You weren’t planning to tell me?" he asked, his gaze never leaving you. All you could do was raise an eyebrow because, honestly, where did he get the audacity? Where did he get the nerve to sit down across from you and make demands? Where did he get the idea that he owed you nothing, but you owed him everything? It’s your fault. You know it’s your fault. You taught him that you’d give every part of yourself for just a sliver of attention. But you don’t need that from him anymore. He’s a stranger. A stranger whose favorite scent you know. A stranger you’ve seen cry at Titanic. A stranger whose taste still lingers on the tip of your tongue. A stranger you know too well.

"No," you answered honestly. Because frankly, what else is there to say to him? "Are you serious? Why aren’t you going home?" he demanded answers. Demanded and demanded and demanded, after you gave and gave and gave. It’s your fault. Your mother’s fault and her foolish advice. You spoon-fed him love. "Because I have other plans. I’m sorry, am I missing something here, Art? We haven’t talked in two months, and I don’t understand what the issue is now." You didn’t want to be rude. Not to Art. Not to anyone. Sometimes to Patrick, but only because he was the most vulgar person you’d ever met. But Art was gentle and sensitive and beautiful, and harsh words had no place in your conversations with him.

"What plans?" he ignored your jab, but you could see him swallow hard, his eyebrows knitting together as if you’d sent him to work in a coal mine all summer. "I’m going to a friend’s," you found yourself shrugging. "Who? Someone I know?" he asked. "No," you felt guilty for the lie, "Why is this your business, Art?" you tried to make him leave or at least give you an answer. "We had plans too," he said quietly, as if revealing one last secret to you.

"I don’t remember." His expression changed in seconds. It was the look you’d only seen when he played tennis or tried to fend someone off you at one of the parties he told you to come to. Ice. He stood up and walked away within moments. Maybe this is the closure you two needed. Maybe it’s for the best. . . . Until the very last moment, Patrick didn’t believe you’d come. He waited for your bus by the side of the road, and when you got off, dressed in a floral summer dress and an oversized hat, signaling to the driver that you had a suitcase in the luggage compartment, Patrick stood frozen in place, his mouth agape. Because if someone had told him six months ago that he’d want to spend his free time in the summer with you, he would have laughed in their face. If someone had told him you’d show up in this remote place, in that ridiculous outfit, he probably would have snorted.

"Little dove, I was sure you’d chicken out," he said. Back when you talked about it, he treated it like a challenge. He spoke about your arrival at the lake house like it was a mission on a reality show. Impossible to pull off, with so much to lose. "I told you I’d come." You shrugged and smiled a smile he’d once seen you give to Art. Patrick had never received a smile from you, at least not a friendly one. Always a fake one. The kind he wanted to wipe off your face. "Are you going to help me with my suitcase, or are you going to keep standing there like a statue?" you asked with a chuckle. Patrick thought he was ready to sell the Porsche he’d come in, just to hear you chuckle again.

"This car is ridiculous," you said as you sat down beside him and raised your hands for emphasis. The convertible top was too much for you. Patrick had chosen this car on purpose. He wanted you to have the full Zweig family summer experience. He wanted you to feel what it was like to be in his inner circle. For a fleeting moment, he thought maybe he could buy your friendship. He didn’t know why he wanted it so badly. He went to sleep with your messages and woke up to them. Neither of you had any other friends, not real ones at least. It would’ve been sad if it didn’t make him so happy. He was such a loser. But it didn’t seem like you cared, and maybe the Porsche would grow on you by the end of these two weeks.

He showed you the rooms and the massive windows that let an unreasonable amount of light into the "cabin," which was supposed to be modest but was larger than most of the houses in your and Art’s neighborhood. Patrick knew that. He studied your reaction to everything he showed you. Watched as you stared at the lake right outside the cabin. Sat on the sofa in the living room for a moment. Placed your belongings in the guest room.

"We need to go shopping," you announced after opening the fridge to find it completely empty. "We don’t have to. You don’t eat anything anyway," he blurted out, and he saw you pale. "What are you talking about?" you mumbled, looking everywhere but at him. "Nothing, I’ve just never seen you eat." He tried to say it casually, but the truth was, it had always preoccupied him. Every time he visited Art in the summer and found himself at gatherings with you, you’d take food onto your plate but never actually put it in your mouth. He couldn’t understand how it didn’t bother Art. He couldn’t understand how Art just ignored it. As if it were completely normal behavior to sit with someone you called your best friend and not eat.

"I eat." Your entire face was scrunched up, the way he’d learned it does when you overthink. When you’re trying to get the most out of a situation you’ve found yourself in. When you’re trying to be nice to Patrick but don’t want to because he doesn’t deserve it. "Whatever, little dove. Let’s go shopping. I’ll show you the main street. There are some cool spots there," he concluded the conversation because he didn’t want to argue. And honestly, it wasn’t his place to comment on your habits. So he decided to let it go.

The main street of the small village you were in was almost empty. It could have been suspicious if Patrick hadn’t been here dozens, if not hundreds, of times since he was born. This was one of his dad’s favorite vacation homes. After an hour of wandering between stores, they found themselves sitting across from each other at a diner. Patrick watched as you ate fish and chips in front of him like your life depended on it. Like you had something to prove. He just rolled his eyes, shoved three fries into his mouth at once, leaned back, and chuckled.

Everything was peaceful. Patrick was sure it would be much weirder, at least at first. But no. You fit into his summer as if you’d always belonged there. From conversations with the elderly neighbors at the cabin next door to the meals you cooked together- it was domestic. Patrick was afraid to talk about how different this was from anything he’d ever done with a girl. He was afraid to mention that you were sleeping in the room that used to be only Art's. He was afraid to admit that he thought you were pretty in a way he hadn't thought before.

He thinks you’re most beautiful in the morning, before you’ve had your coffee. If he’s lucky and goes for a morning run, even before you’ve brushed your teeth. He’s discovered you’re funny. That you can deliver the funniest line with the perfect timing. He thinks it’s because you read a lot. Because you’re smart. Because you know things. He loves that you come to watch him train, even though you’re busy with your own things and only steal occasional glances his way. He thinks he could replace Art in your life. He thinks you think so too.

But deep down, you both know nothing could ever replace Art. And one of the times you’re sitting across from him at the diner, he takes a picture of you sipping a milkshake while smiling and uploads it to Facebook. Because Facebook is the new 'it' thing, and everyone has it. And if Patrick’s lucky, you’ll make it your profile picture. Then he can look at it and remember that he made you laugh, that he made you happy, and for two weeks, he beat Art Donaldson at something. And it felt sweet. So sweet.

The night before you plan to go back to university, you and Patrick get drunk on his dad’s fancy tequila. He’d never seen you drunk before, so like many things, this was new. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and you were wearing shorts that were far too short because August’s heat was unbearable. And the more both of you drank, the fuller your lips seemed to him, the rosier your cheeks, the larger your chest.

He just wanted to touch something. To feel something.

When one thing led to another and you were straddling him, your lips on his, he let out a deep bassy groan he never thought he could produce. Patrick had been with girls before- God knows he’d been with enough girls not to lose his cool over someone agreeing to kiss him. But something about how delicate you were and how much he had hated you a few months ago, how much he’d wanted to erase every trace of you, made him so hard he found himself grinding against you like some kind of desperate dog. He fucked you on the couch in the living room, and though the couch was comfortable, he wasn’t proud of it. He thinks he should’ve restrained himself, taken you to a bed. He thinks you deserve more than him being lazy, drunk, and not at his best. But if there’s one thing Patrick Zweig is terrible at, it’s delaying gratification. And he wanted you so badly. You didn’t seem to mind the location, at least not outwardly.

His lips were everywhere, as if he was trying to swallow you whole in one go. The sounds coming out of you were pornographic. Every so often, the thought crossed his mind that Art was the only other guy who had ever heard you like this, seen you like this- so needy, so vulnerable. It made his cock twitch even harder than it already was.

When he touched you, you were so wet that he told you how dirty you were for him. He talked to you like he still hated you. Like it was all punishment. Like he was about to get up, point at you, and laugh at how pathetic you were. But you couldn’t think about that now. You didn’t have the bandwidth. Not when his hands were teasing your nipple. Not when his lips were marking your neck. Not when he entered you in one hard thrust, making you almost cry out.

At some point, your heels found their way to his shoulders. He looked at your face with the little focus he could muster, and it was a sight he needed to preserve. To remember until the day he died. And he pushed deeper with that thought, drawing sounds out of both of you that neither of you knew you could make. In the end, he felt you clench around him, making him release everything that had built up in his balls with one long groan.

He just lay over you for a few minutes, still wearing the condom. With the sweat, the tears, the marks- you looked so utterly fucked. And it was because of him. He hadn’t felt this proud in a long time.

“So this is what it feels like,” he heard you mumble. “What feels like?” he asked, finding himself playing with your soft hair. “To have an orgasm.”

He hadn’t expected that, so he shifted slightly to look at your face. Your eyes were still glassy. You weren’t focused. If you were, you probably wouldn’t have said that. “What did you say?” he asked, wanting you to repeat it. “I’ve never come before. I thought I was broken,” you chuckled like it was a joke. But Patrick’s heart pounded harder than he expected. He knew for certain that you and Art had slept together before. That wasn’t a secret. He knew you and Art had done things that weren’t just sex even earlier. “You and Art-” He was confused. “I’m not proud of it,” you sighed quietly. “I faked it so he wouldn’t feel bad. I read in a magazine what to do to make it seem real,” you explained quickly, as if saying it faster would make it less scandalous. “You don’t have to fake orgasms to make someone feel good, Little Dove,” he sighed. “You’re the one who's supposed to feel good. That’s the whole point of sex,” he declared, explaining it to you like reciting a rule to a confused puppy.

Patrick needed a win, and this—this was the biggest victory of all times. He had beaten Art Donaldson in every damn set, and it felt so fucking sweet.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve written anything, so this came out super weird and unclear. I hope you like it tho! Please DM me and let me know what you think. That’s it, byeeeeee

[mainfaggot]

just watched challengers at the cinema w my little sister. it was so intense wtf

[mareestoermers]

i think we are all forgetting something when we talk about how toxic patrick, tashi, and art are — or when we decide one is “worse” than the other. they all have moments of seeing right through it, seeing each other’s toxic behavior for what it is, and STILL want and need each other in this possessive, envious, visceral way.

1. in the way beginning, tashi is clearly flirting more with art than patrick, and patrick is visibly annoyed. art sees right through it and even challenges him like “okay, let’s leave”, and has this little smirk on his face because he knows patrick won’t give up on tashi.

2. tashi immediately sees the visible tension and love between art and patrick, and literally orchestrates their first kiss. she sees right through their repression, and even calls herself a “home-wrecker” but still entangles herself with them, especially patrick because he’s clearly the better tennis player at that point and that is tash’s ONLY true love. tennis. that’s what she desires most in him, and patrick knows that. he even calls her out on it in the dorm room scene. but they have this mirroring fire in each other that neither of them can give up, not until patrick breaks the balance and bails — tashi’s injury is literally a metaphor for the balance shattering between all three of them when patrick leaves her.

3. before this, patrick sees right through art trying to break them up, and even admires that quality — maybe even feels smug and flattered because art is jealous and feels left out from both tashi and patrick. patrick has known this all along, we saw it in the “tick-serve” scene, where he even swears to tashi he won’t tell anyone but he still tells art, who is desperate to feel a part of them and patrick wants that, too — even keeps that close intimacy with art that we see in the churro scene (swoon swoon swoon).

4. haven’t you noticed that arts desire to be great is only ever tied up in patrick and tashi? how he needs to beat patrick to win tashis affection, how he needs to win in tennis so that tashi can live through him, how he lives up to his potential in the ending only because tashi and patrick push him to it, in their little fucked up ways? he knows this — he even admits that he’s playing for tashi, that he knows she’s living through him. he even admits he’s playing a fucked up little game with patrick when they’re in the sauna. yet he still does it. again, he knows what’s happening, sees right through them — still does it, still loves them.

5. when tashi calls patrick to come pick her up he knows it’s not just to tell him to throw the match — and despite how she battles him about it, they still have sex in the car, because he already knows. he’s so fully aware of her and her game and he’s so willing to be caught up in it, the same as art.

just some examples of how they all have moments of clarity and agency and yet they still choose to be entangled in one another because they’re all fucked up in their own, individual ways, and they’re all living through each other for their own specific needs. arts is to be seen as worthy, as great, but only through their gaze. tashis is to have the career that was stolen from her. patricks is truly to be in love and in lust with both of them, because we even see that from the beginning that tashis love alone will never satiate him; it has to be arts love, too. that scene in the sauna when he thinks he’s lost it from art is the most sad and fucked up we ever even see patrick. on top of tashi asking him to throw the game — he’s so defensive of arts feelings.

in short this is an actual love triangle (and i would go as far as to see it as a polyship). you can’t erase one without the whole thing unraveling, and you can’t say one character was the “worst” without picking apart the motivations and pointing to the fact that their bad behavior was never a secret or left unchecked.

even at the end, patrick signals to art that he slept with tashi — art knows and they still have that intimate completion at the end, all three of them. art living up to his potential and embracing patrick fully (id argue this could even be a metaphor for embracing his bisexuality), patrick having both tashi and arts affection again, and tashi playing a phenomenal tennis match through her little white boys — in such a visceral, emotional way that she cries out like she did in the beginning and the last frame is her smiling.

in a fucked up way, they all get what they wanted out of each other.

[ervotica]

you’re an angel, i’m a dog — a.donaldson

pairing; older!art donaldson x fem!reader

warnings; roughly written, badly edited, not beta’d (because when is it ever?), allusions to smut, implied age gap (reader is early 20s, art is early 30s), slight tashi x fem!reader if you squint, infidelity (but tashi is kinda cool with it), just some thoughts about older!art and his pretty girl

a/n; this concept has been eating at me for daysss so i had to write it at least roughly! should we make this a series? (maybe get patrick involved?🫢) let me know what you think! ART & CHALLENGERS (poly!art & patrick) REQUESTS ARE OPEN! any questions / conversation starters about this particular au are highly appreciated and encouraged!! please come to my inbox 📥 <3

older!art is fucking obsessed with you— you, who comes to every one of his matches, who sits next to his wife in those adorable little tennis skirts you sport just for him, who whoops and cheers from the stands whether he wins or loses.

you’re forbidden fruit. so, naturally, he adores you.

tashi knows, because of course she does. she never pries, never so much as spares you a second glance when he wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck and huffs hot air against the shell of your ear. she doesn’t care — you’ve made art better at tennis.

his confidence has skyrocketed since having a pretty thing like you cheering him on, his biggest and most enthusiastic supporter. he plays better, he second guesses himself less, he’s more relaxed.

you’re what’s been missing. the last piece of the puzzle.

an obedient little thing, glued to his side, wagging like a dog at his every command.

he fucking loves it. loves having someone relying on him for love and validation. loves the way you preen under his fervent gaze and flutter your lashes at the slightest touch.

when tashi asks you to join art’s team officially, you almost keel over.

“look, i don’t care that he’s fucking you… or that he’s in love with you. he has a shot at the us open this year, and he needs you by his side to do it.” she says. you’re quick to agree, ever obedient and desperate to please.

“he’s in love with me?”

she scoffs. “you’ve seen the way he looks at you. he almost creams his pants every time you’re in the same room as him.” she tilts your chin upwards with a crooked finger, giving your cheek an affectionate - albeit condescending - pat.

“you two can have your fun— but he has to win this year.”

art’s perched against the doorframe when you turn, corded forearms crossed over his chest. you scrunch your nose, pushing back a smile that crinkles at your eyes despite your efforts.

fucking smitten.

tashi rolls her eyes, a half smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and she nudges you towards him.

“go on.”

he opens his arms in greeting and you’re quick to fall into them, your fingers knotting in the shorn hair at his nape. his chest expands beneath your own as he takes a long breath, and he presses his nose to your pulse point, shuddering.

“love you.” he murmurs into your skin.

“love you more.”

he could cry; he doesn’t remember the last time someone told him they loved him and meant it. you’re obsessed with him, almost as much as he is with you.

at his next match, you carry his rackets and send him off with a good luck kiss that has him breathless, grinning as you roll his wad of gum between your teeth that you sucked right from his waiting mouth.

he wins.

how could he not with his pretty girl watching?

and that night, he rewards you with a thorough fucking, whispered love confessions against your lips, and a breathy moan as he cums that you won’t be forgetting anytime soon.

so, yeah. maybe this life isn’t so bad, after all.

[cryptfile]

⨳ kinktober file 02 — victims of love, a. donaldson.

summary — you will simply not tolarate losing.

warnings — 18+ mdni, rivals to lovers, fem!reader, tension, filthy mouth, praise kink, whiny&pathetic!art, choking, pet names, p in v, masturbation, mentions of spit, blood and injuries (reader falls during a match and Art takes care of it, nothing wild), dumbification (art calls reader a loser multiple times).

side notes — this takes place before Tashi’s knee accident, it’s not important to know but whatever, english is not my first language thanks to the greater power of the universe, so any mistakes, let them be, i’m not sorry, also, like my previous file, dividers by @cafekitsune! let me know if you want to be tagged in the next kinktober file! been thinking about doing a kinktober masterlist so it’s easier for you my pretty people to look up and read whatever you want. Requests are still open at the moment!

Fuck being a loser.

Even when the tournament is a friendly one. Stanford always do that shit, this thing to bring students together and forces everyone to participate, yet, when you find out who you’re compiting with, it’s pretty obvious you’re going for the throat, not caring if the word “friendly” is in name as there was a medal and 150$ on game.

Yes. You are competitive by heart, it’s part of your genetics now that you’re deep into this tennis world you never wanted to be a part of, Tashi made you sign up and suddenly, suddenly you take it very seriously.

You win the first match, the second, and when it comes down to the final one, you find out it’s none other than Art Donaldson the one who’s on the other side of the tennis court, bouncing the yellow ball until he’s confident enough make the first move.

By the end you’re sweaty. Visible drips of sweat even when you’re standing on the other side, running to match his stregth and game. You wanted to be pro, enjoy the luxury of a relaxed life whose only meaning is to win plays, and to finally be that, you need to beat everyone, man or woman alike as it’s not a matter of sex, but rather talent.

It does not matter if it’s a friendly tournament, it does not matter about the masses saying you’re good, it’s about the fact that you won, that you beat Art Donaldson out of all people. Tashi is a wild ride yes, she makes you work for it when you two are against each other, run to every side, get tired. Art is tension.

Competition.

There’s nothing friendly about the way he’s looking at you, like he’s not dripping in sweat like you are, making those filthy sounds he makes each time he uses force to hit the ball, enough effort on it to make him tired, utterly tired.

So when he won, your knee is already bleeding, shaking his hand in nothing but hatred as he gives you this confident smile he uses to flirt sometimes. You hate it, every second of it, hate the fact that you lose against Tashi’s friend (who you’re sure she must have fucked before cause how there’s so much unresolved tension there?) and how he’s looking at you like he just crushed you in every sense of the word, even enjoyed it while doing it so.

“Good match,” he says when everyone’s looking at your interaction with him, but you don’t say a word. Art chuckles cause he knows people like you, people who need to prove themselves over and over again. “You did a good job.”

You don’t need praising even when it does things to you. You remain professional as you shake his hand, a fast and tight shake before taking the second place. Second.

What you don’t expect is to be in that party later. The music’s loud and people are celebrating something you’re not much aware of, yet the third place greets you with the tequila as you arrive, a bronze medal on his chest as the strong, burning taste goes down your throat before you caught him out the corner of your eye.

Art Donaldson.

He loves praising so much he cannot help it when people stop and say something nice about him: A good little tournament he won? It’s not something he’s going to be proud of his life forever, but it’s enough to make him enjoy the comments about his talent as the day goes through, the medium-sized gold medal still on his neck as he walks like he owns the place. 150$ dollars richer.

Fucker.

Everything seems to be against you: Sororities aren’t your thing but you’re there, the tournament went to shit, Art was literally haunting you.

You think about leaving. You live in a small residence where everyone knows each other, so big spaces filled with as much students as they can possibly fit is not a exactly a plan for you in a friday night, not when you like to stay indoors— But Tashi’s there, your friends are there, and man, you just need to have a good time after the disaster of a day.

So instead, you shove down a shot or two. And when you’re invited to smoke some grass outside, you don’t doubt it, even when Tashi says something about training tomorrow before disappearing, you're sat in a small circle, not caring about your friend’s words as you forgot about the pressure and simply smoke oblivious to everything — Even to Art's gaze.

Fuck being pro. You were doing okay in physics, maybe you should stick to that.

So while you’re drowning in misery, Art just looks at you with a beer in the hand. You picked his interest right at the end of the game: Tashi's friend, new blood, and a fresh face after a whole semester of knowing the same people — It’s safe to say he's drawn to you like he has been with everything he liked during his life. So yeah, he caught himself staring, going back to his memories and the imprinted scene on his brain of the match you two shared before like it was something intimate everyone in the public saw, the dripping sweat falling off your skin as you throw yourself to the floor caughting the small ball when you don't care about your physical well-being anymore.

He can see the wounds on your knee still, the scraps of dry blood as you smoked weed. He knows you're abusing, abusing your limits, testing how far you can go after a hell of a mach, and Art's usually pinning after Tashi at that point, desperate to sabotage Patrick, yet that night specifically he finds himself in trouble until that very moment, that very moment that everything seemed to change all of a sudden.

Truth is Art don't know you very much. He knows Tashi got a female friend she happens to like, a breathe of fresh air as she would describe you, that you play tennis sometimes, but more than that? He's totally clueless even about your name.

It’s just,— God. He loves girls that can put him in his place. It happened with Tashi before driving him crazy with need, and it has happened now in a lame tennis court with you out of all sudden. He thinks about that look you gave him, the tension of the competition, about the fact that even when you saw him, you choose to ignore him, the silver medal you received before well hidden in the back pockets of your shorts instead of proudly display it on your chest like the thrid place did.

You’re no second place. It’s very clear.

He likes your ego, that cocky face you got when someone mentioned the match, dismissing your second place like it was nothing; and Art just stares, even when people notice he’s looking at you, he doesn’t care about being evident as he scans each and every one of your actions.

Shit, he’s been staring a long time. Your friends notice when they tell you about the cute strawberry blonde that’s been checking you out the whole night, but you, knowing who he is, just know that he’s only doing it for teasing, to make your blood boil like he did in the match.

No one’s breaking the nice bubble you made though, laughing, dancing until you’re dizzy and you need to tell one of your girls that you’re going to the bathroom real quick, plan that usual, goes incredibly catastrophic.

The door is locked and you stand outside knocking a couple of times, cursing at the time it took the person inside to get out. And it’s all very cliché when you think about it hours later, cause when the door opens and you’re so rushed, so high already, you don’t happen to notice who you’re running into.

Either way you crash into him when he comes out. Art, Art, Art fucking Art. You’re half way drunk as you would say, and he’s dead sober as he prevents you from falling, grabbing you by the arm as you lose balance.

“Careful,” he would say before noticing it’s you—. “Having trouble to keep on your feet, second place? you okay?”

The nickname stirs something in you. Boiling rage mostly as you quickly stand on your feet again, regaining the balance you lost.

“Thanks. Watch where you’re going,” you quickly reply, rolling your eyes to the back of your head—. “Gotta be careful. People are not kind as me.”

“Kind? You sure about that?” he laughs softly, looking down at you. Fucking rat. Is he mocking you? “Don’t think you were kind to me. You were nothing but the opposite.”

“Were you expecting a pat on the back and a kiss on the cheek?” you asked furrowing your brows in response, an attitude that only appears cause you lack of shame, driven by liquid courage.

“Well for starters, that could be nice” he admits, and you now understand how it ended like it was going at the moment, how he prevented you from getting into the bathroom as he puts his hand right in front of you, blocking the way inside. “Maybe a good job would do.”

You sober up really fast after that, impossible not to.

“How’s your knee?” he asks after the silence, and you notice how he’s leaning towards you, hand on the wall as he points out the wound you didn’t take care of before, too mad to disinfect it as you ignore the pain after the match: Nothing hurts more than a bruised ego. “Did you go to the infirmary?”

“It’s only a bruise, m’okay” you say, looking at your kneecap as well, the dried blood that’s still on your skin—. “Can I go in or what?”

He’s pretty confident in himself, it seems like it (or maybe it’s because he has a gold medal with a number #1 on it), yet he’s grabbing you by the waist, pushing you inside the bathroom as he closes the door behind him with the help of his foot, helping you sit on top of the sink as he looks out for the first aid kit in a bathroom that’s not his.

And you, weird enough, forget why you’re there in the first place. That you were feeling strangely dizzy, that you were going to the bathroom to stare at the mirror and wash your face to sober up, even drunk for a moment as he presses a clean towel dipped in alcohol, a weird silence as you leg tweak against the sudden pain, a reflex you cannot control.

“Do you always get so mad when you don’t get what you want?” he asks, distracting you from the burning sensation as he takes care of the wound in your kneecap—. “Never met someone that could get so passionate about a friendly tournament.”

“No,” you admit, looking at his hands. Even when the blood is dried it still hurts. His touch is gentle, warm against your skin as he touches only what he needs to be touched, keeping his left hand on your tight as he prevents you from moving involuntarily. “Don’t lose often.”

“That so?” he asks, tilting his head slightly backwards, giving you this smile as if he has a huge secret about you only he knew, like you two share confidence now that you’ve shared five minutes in a bath away from the noise. “How long you’ve been playing anyway? Haven’t see you around.”

“A while,” you find his curiosity annoying, yet you’ve been rude enough so you don’t say much, not when he’s helping you—. “Didn’t take it very serious until this semester.”

He hums. Art likes that. The fact that your brain works for something else rather than the competition, that you could talk about the fucking weather if you like and not another match, so he takes in the information in, standing between your parted legs, incredible close.

“And you’re winning don’t you?” he asks curiously. “Hoping to go pro.”

“Well, I think we all want that in the end, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t respond, not with words exactly, but he leans over the bathroom sink, body barely touching yours as he grabs the red thread hanging on the back pocket of your shorts, the one he knows it’s there cause he’s been looking at it the entire night, and you need help cause your breathing hitches on your throat for a moment: Art’s touch is soft, equal as it was when he was taking care of your wound, his fingers sliding in the back as he grabs the silver medal of the second place between his fingers.

How, the hell he smells so damn good? Since you heard he was participating in the tournament you were eager to beat him and reduce him to ashes, but now, you find yourself sniffing on his scent as he fills your nostrils with a sweet smell much like vanilla, clean.

“You should wear your medal,” the blonde says, placing it over your head—. “Let people know you’re good in what you’re doing.”

“I don’t want people to cheer over a second place,” you admit looking at the silver with disgust, too proud to let it slide. “That’s mediocre.”

He seems to thing about it for a second: “Mediocre huh? Would you be happy if we switched medals then, second place?” he asks, looking down at your face. He’s too comfortable now that you didn't pushed him away, caging you in the sink as he places a hand on each side of your legs, his weight now against the spacious marble counter—. “Is that what you want? I’ll tell everyone you beat me if that’s going to make you happy.”

“No,” Why are you even nervous? You scold yourself in your mind a couple of times, he’s looking at you with those fucking puppy eyes, glistening under the white lights of the bath as he looks at you almost pleading—. “Cause that’s not true. You won.”

“Don’t really care. I just want to put a smile on your face,” Art replies, and god, it’s getting damn hard to think at that point cause his fingers are tracing invisible patters on the sides of your legs, stupidly close as he scans your face, no shame, nothing but a pure act of lust. “Don’t want you to be mad a me, second place. Would not want us to start off on the wrong foot.”

Whatever he’s doing? It’s working. Cause when he’s taking the gold medal out of his neck to put it in yours, exchanging the silver one you hated so much with his gold? You’re sure you’re making it all up in your head.

“There,” the athlete smiles almost proud as his knuckles brushes against your chest—. “Looks better around your neck anyways.”

He caughts you off-guard. You’re no longer high, drunk, or whatever excess you’ve been through the night, and you simply dig it, a lot to be honest with yourself. Maybe it’s the fact that you lose the tournament, that you’re somehow vulnerable thanks to your ego being bruised so much, but you let it happen, let his fingers grab the skin of your tight again like its their original place cause you want him to do it, to experience his touch.

“Nobody’s going to believe me,” you blurt out, nervous enough to act like you’re normal about it, about his warm skin seeking yours—. “They all saw you win. You played good.”

“You really think that?” he’s dizzy on that cocky confidence, that boost your words give him as he smiles, his right hand caressing your cheek for a moment, losing itself in the strands of your hair moments after. “You really think I did a good job out there? Beating you?”

It’s the way he’s saying it. How he’s all desperate about it, so needy for you to admit he did good as he brushes your hair using his fingers.

“You know I do. That’s why you won, Art.”

“I swear i’ll keep the secret, loser” he chuckles lowly, breaking every rule as he pushes you to the edge of the counter. “I’ll tell everyone that you won, but you’ll still be the second place to me.”

Fucker.

You want to respond, say something sassy as well, a snarky remark at least, but Art’s pressing his forehead against yours, grabbing you by the jaw strong enough to remind you he has more force than you, but gentle enough to let you enjoy it, demanding you to look at him. Look at him like he’s been looking at you the whole damn night.

“I do, really want to kiss you right now, second place” he admits close to you, gaze travelling to your pumped lips as his eyes take in the details, the pink shade mixed with a transparent lip gloss that only seems to invite him, to make a mess with it, dissapear at its finest. “It’s burning me alive.”

He waits for any sign of permission, and you try to think reasons to say no. Any motive to say no to him, but instead you simply chuckle, back against the wall, trapped in this atmosphere he so easily created: There’s no human way possible to say no cause to be brutally honest, you want it too.

He’s hot. he's handsome in a way you cannot stop thinking about so when he's kissing you? You have no complains. You let him be needy, let him touch you like an anguished men, like he encountered a glass of water after a long walk in the dessert. The kiss it's all teeth and bite — It's fast, messy, demanding and wet. He's grabbing you by the medal, tugging on the gold circle just to make you lean towards him, fingers now caressing on the skin of your throat now as he deepen the kiss, not even waiting for permission as he slides his tongue in, wanting more.

"So you wear my medal and i'll wear yours" his breathing collides against your skin soon after, planting kisses on the crook of your neck, drawn by your smell of peaches, the softness of your skin. "Say it, please say you'll do it."

Each second becomes a torture, a cruel joke when you were so invested in winning, something you don't care about now, that seems to be far from your interests as he squeezes the skin of your tight, toying with the hem of your shirt, the cotton fabric of your black t-shirt that only annoys him as he touches your stomach, the sweet intimacy he's been craving since the morning.

"I'll do it," you nod for a second—. "But you have to be convincing. Don't make me look like a fool."

"How could I?" he asks, utterly curious as he stops for a second to look at you. "You're a winner, anyone can tell."

It makes your blood rush. His words seems to hit the jackpot, cause your shirt's falling the floor, the door's being closed with lock, and suddenly, the air is hot, the only sound that filled the bathroom of the sorority being his kisses, your labored breathing as you forgot about the rest of the party.

It's not something you'd usually do, the rush of something so sporadic, so inconsistent, but you love the adrenaline, the touch of his hands, the electricity being poured down your spine.

"Nobody would even dare to think you're in reality a loser" he says, praising once again in his own way as he places a soft kiss on your lips, looking down at your hands now, fingers interwined now in his jeans. More. You want more. “A really hot second place.”

Your touch is getting more eager now, and as you unbuckle his pants, he's fucking whimpering, his hips moving in need for the friction the palm of your hand can offer, taunting him for a second before he's pulling down on his own underwear himself, the blue fabric of his jeans falling halfway over his tights.

Your hand leaves his body for a second, and he's ready to beg for more until he notices what you're really doing, a large amount of spit going into your hand in what Art could swear is the most erotic act he has ever seen, traces of drool on in your chin before your fingers finally hug his already hard cock.

Soon he's fucking your fist, burying his head in your neck, moaning and pleading you to keep on going, moving his hips fast enough to create a delicious sound you thrive on, ones that mixes damn well in the air. He's slightly sweaty, not like he was in the game, but enough to create this nice smell it only makes you addicted.

"Don't cum," you ask, and it's a lot when his movements are becoming more erratic at the time passes, incoherent words of praise and need as he bites on your neck—. "Art. Don't cum on my hand."

Fuck that.

His touch becomes desperate after that. The medal of the first place still on your bare chest, your black bra slightly up as he’s been touching you, rolling your nipple between his fingers, your skin almost glowing beneath the bathroom lights: He needs you more than what's actually possible, tugging on the button of your shorts, annoyed with the piece of fabric as he takes it off, the time it took to undress you being valuable time he simply doesn't want to waste.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks, making sure for a second you're okay, nodding in response before he grabs you by the hips only to push you in the position he wanted, finally throwing the damn shorts you're wearing to the floor before spreading your legs open, positioning himself in the middle. "God, you're such a fucking sight."

His voice is rough now, and that nice look on his face, that fucking rat smile, friendly even, is far erased from his lips now as he grabs his dick, pushing it between your folds without really fucking you, and the act is enough to make you moan when he’s moving his hips in a cruel pace, the tip of his cock leaking already against you clit. He’s fucking his own fist, your already dripping cunt making it easier for Art to slide as he wants to.

He spits, and it’s a crime cause nobody looks good while doing so, the trails of saliva that leaves his mouth land on his dick, coating your cunt before slightly pushing it inside with the help of his fingers, finally offering what you trully need—. And you feel him, inch by inch. When his fingers are grabbing you by the waist to keep you in place, pushing slowly until he’s deep inside, placing sloppy kisses all over your neck as you moan in response.

Art swears he’s in heaven. Invaded by an intense bliss as he began to move. The second place medal hits his torso, colliding against yours as he moves, and his left hand moves to grab a fistful of your hair just to pull it backwards, making your head follow the motion — He’s relentless, moving in a slow pace at first before gaining rythm, but shit. You’d lie if you didn’t say he knew what he was doing when his right thumb moves in circles over your swollen clit.

It’s hard to hate Art Donaldson like that. All whiny and pathetic, mumbling words about how warm your pussy is, how tight you feel, wet for him. It’s hard giving a fuck about the competition when he’s leaving your hair alone to instead grab the thread of the medal you’re wearing, the red ribbon that was on his neck before and now is hanging on yours, angling the medal so the thread is now choking you, pulling on the gold slightly to make it harder to breathe.

“C’mon, loser” he says with a cocky smile, looking down where his cock is, stretching you out to his liking with each thrust. “D’you feel that? How good your pretty pussy is taking me? That’s first place material there, champion material.”

You nod a couple of times, too fucked-out to function. Lewd sounds fill out the room after, the moans, the grunts, the coils of pleasure that started to form in the lower part of your belly, fueled by his rough movements now, leaving that soft touch behind to replace it with force, fingers digging on your skin so hard he’s sure it’s going to leave a mark behind.

Fuck it. Fuck the game, fuck second place. Your head hits the mirror behind the sink, yet it means nothing as you can feel the orgasm being poured all over by the minutes, the insane punch as he keeps on going, hitting that nice spot in an inconsistant pace as you come undone.

“God that’s it,” he says, pulling on the medal until your skin is changing fucking colors—. “That’s it, cum,” he demands. “Taking my cock like a fucking champion.”

He cums soon after you, pulling out as it lands on your stomach, the gold medal thats now resting on your belly stained with his cum.

And he melts in top of you for a second, breathing heavily against your neck, body covered in sweat before blushing slightly embarassed about the mess he did.

Weird enough, only one thought appears on his mind after five minutes: Just wait until you meet Patrick.

previous kinktober file [ dean winchester ] // masterlist

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Leave My Wife Alone (Art Donaldson)

Description: Y/N wants to Retire but Tashi isn’t okay with that.

Word Count: 753

Request: If you’re still taking requests could you write a fic for Art Donaldson pls: where he’s married to the reader who is a retired tennis player who Tashi became a huge fan of during college, when YN retires Tashi becomes bitter that she did and tries to pressure her into coming out of it, and it makes Art so upset that he confronts her about her about bothering his wife and her obsession with her life

Y/N Donaldson was a famous name through Tennis. Well Y/N Y/L/N was but when her and Art got married she changed her last name to his. The Donaldsons. They both were big tennis players, loved throughout the community. Tashi Duncan was Y/N’s biggest fan. They met in College and Y/N was surprised that when she faced off against Tashi she was a good sport about it.

Tashi was known for not being a good sport but since she was a huge Y/N fan she was honored. Thus began the friendship that they have now. Tashi and Y/N always talked about Tennis. It was their favorite Topic. When Y/N and Art got married Tashi was her maid of honor. “I want to retire.” She told Art as they ate dinner. Art was playing a challenger so they were at a luxury Hotel. “Are you sure?” He asked. She nodded.

“Yup. I’m 32 years old. I think this is it for me and I want to start a family.” The last part made him smile. Art always wanted kids but figured it would be best to wait for the right time. “Whatever you do I’ll support. I just don’t know about Tashi.” Tashi was gonna be heartbroken. “Well I’m sure she’ll understand.” Y/N said not believing her own words. “Will she though?” Art asked unsure. “I mean you’re still playing.” “Yeah but she doesn’t care about Art Donaldson, she cares about Y/N Donaldson.”

She smiles at the use of his last name after her first. She loved it. “I will tell her when the time is right.” Y/N said and got up with her plate. No time was right. They both knew that. As she was washing her plate she felt Art behind her. His breath was hitting her neck, “So is it too early to start thinking about a baby?” He asked. She giggled and turned around to face him, “Never.” She said and kissed him. He lifted her up onto the table and smiled against her lips. 

“So I’ve been thinking a lot about this and I want to retire.” She shut her eyes tight after she Tashi. Tashi felt the world stop. This was her biggest fear. Since she couldn’t play Tennis anymore, Y/N was her way in. “No. You can’t.” She said. “Tashi, I’m 32 now and I want a family.” “You have a family. You don’t need to quit Tennis for that.” Y/N looked at her as she ranted. “I mean you’re the best Tennis player right now, why stop now?”

“Tashi I understand but-” “If I could still play I would. I would have never thrown it away.” “Tashi I’m not throwing it away. Wait, is that what this is about? You can’t play Tennis so I should?” “No, I just think you still have a lot of years left in you.” “Art is still playing.” Y/N said. “Art is nowhere near as good as you are. I care about Y/N Donaldson not Art Donaldson.” 

Art was pissed. He knew that Tashi was going to be this way but he still had a little hope that she would be a good friend. “I mean she said that you shouldn’t quit because she never got the chance to play like this?” He asked. “It was implied.” Art was so mad at Tashi for implying that. It was sickening. He was wide awake when Y/N went to sleep. He stared at the ceiling as he thought about what Tashi said to his wife. How could she? Y/N was a great player but she deserved to be happy and not have Tennis be her life forever.

He got up quietly and took his phone with him. He went to Tashi’s contact and hit call. He waited as it rang. “Hello?” She answered. “Listen, I understand that you didn’t get your big dreams of Tennis but that does not mean Y/N has to suffer for it. What you said today was so uncool and you aren’t a very good friend.

You only care about Tennis and you are so obsessed with her career that it’s gonna kill you when she retires because you’ll have nothing left. You only care about one thing and it’s Tennis not her well being or anything like that. Just Tennis. It’s Pathetic Tashi.” He said and hung up the phone. He sighed and went back to the bedroom. He got in bed and could actually fall asleep. Though he wasn’t ready for what Tashi was gonna say tomorrow.

[sharonccrter]

I saw this really interesting video, which talked about my two biggest gripes with challengers' discourse. Which are that everyone keeps saying Art is the heart of this movie, and secondly, the insistence that Patrick doesn't love Tashi, only Art. The creator pushes back against these two narratives, and I wholeheartedly agree. Patrick is arguably the heart of this movie.

Two of the most important scenes in the movie are the churro scene and the scene between p/t out in the storm, and they both centre around Patrick.

The entire movie is about passion and purpose in life, and Patrick is the passion.

I mean, a lot of people assume Patrick didn't really have feelings for Tashi, but the only person who says that is Art. Who is vying for Tashi and is his biggest competitor. The reason I empathise with Patrick is that he is genuine and loving to Art; he does love him. However, we are shown no evidence to suggest that Patrick is this shitty boyfriend, apart from what Art says when he's trying to get into Tashi's head because his jealous. We find out that they're talking every week while he's on tour (normal relationship shit). It's Art who insinuates that Patrick is cheating while on tour. The only person in this movie who says Patrick doesn't love Tashi is Art, and it's obviously very intentional.

I think the reason both Tashi and Art push Patrick out of their lives is because he forces them to comfort parts of themselves they are not yet comfortable with. I mean, it's obvious why Tashi would react that way to Patrick; she's just lost the most important thing in her life. However, I think it's tragic from Patrick's point of view as well. I mean, what did Patrick really do? He got into a fight with his girlfriend because she hurt his feelings.

And no, he's hurt was not about Art. The fight made him feel unimportant, which made him feel like she didn't actually care about him. And that's where Art comes in, because who was going around telling Patrick Tashi didn't give a shit? You bet ya. Art. Art absolutely got into his head. And even if he clocked it, in that moment, he still allowed it to get to him because he was emotional and upset. And because he was too hurt to support her, he was thrown out of Tashi and Art's lives.

And here's the thing, Patrick never saw Tashi as an idea. He saw her as a real person, unlike Art kinda did. Patrick wasn't going to let Tashi treat him like shit just because she was special. And, tbh, if Tashi hadn't gotten injured, I think it's something she would have eventually been grateful for. But instead, she got hurt; she pushed Patrick away, and Art slid into his place, telling her that she could be his entire world and the star. That's not healthy, and sorry to stay a little manipulative.

And let's talk about Art. Patrick and him were literally fire and ice. They always had this underlying desire. They were perfect opposites. Let's face it: Art could never replicate what he had on the court (and off) with anyone else. But instead of confronting his feelings, he took the first chance he had to get Patrick out of his life.

The girl I was watching said it perfectly, "Art and Tashi allowed themselves to find consolation prizes in each other and allowed them to run from parts of themselves they didn't want to comfort and in turn enable each other's worst habits."

Art tries to become a tennis superstar so Tashi can live through him, and Tashi gives him a family so he can finally be confident in who he is. But is there any passion? I don't know; I think at some point, it drained; nothing about what I saw on screen apart from their initial get-together screams passion.

Cue Patrick walking back into their life and showing them how they can feel. Art was always going to let Tashi live through him, but that was never going to be satisfying for her. Tashi needs to find a way to create an identity for herself, separate from him. And I believe it'll be the only way she'll live a satisfying life. That's why they need Patrick: to make them realise that and to help them rediscover their passion.

I think people think that Art is the heart because Patrick admits to being a piece of shit. But the truth is, they're all dicks; Patrick was just the only one who was willing to admit it.

[laniidae-passerine]

I don’t think Tashi’s look of disgust when Art kisses her knee is actually about him. It’s at herself. Their dynamic is so entirely shaped by power, by the fact that Art is lesser than her. She’s better at tennis, better at keeping her control, better at getting Patrick to fall into her bed. It’s the uncaring idol and the tortured devotee. Hell, it’s outright stated; she asks “what am I, Jesus?” and he says “yes” like it’s obvious. Even the way they sit in that scene shows how Tashi is a religion to him, kissing and bowed over her lap like in prayer. Which is why, to a woman who buys into that dynamic, who also thinks of herself as God to Art’s worshipper, it’s so disgusting that she truly does love him. Tashi adores him. Not even close to as much as she adores tennis, but she does. Right after that scene she goes and asks Patrick to throw the match - because if Art loses, she leaves him. And she doesn’t want to have to leave him. It goes against what she knows. God is not supposed to make sacrifices for mere mortals. Achilles is not meant to swoon at the soft weakness of his heel. But here she is, seeing the chip in her armour and thinking it lovely anyway. Hence the look.

[newrochellechallenger2019]

Kinktober Week 2

Sex Toys/Creampie/Praise + Degradation/Oral Sex

divorced!art donaldson who buys you the rose toy

in the final years of his marriage to Tashi, the two of them had barely fucked, and when they had it had been so vanilla, it hardly counted.

he felt like it had been so long, he wouldn't even know what to do when he started seeing you. you, the young tennis protege he'd taken under his wing, for 'coaching' of course, and if his cock ended up buried in your tight pussy after a particularly good practice so what?

it didn't take the two of you long to cut the bullshit and start dating officially, and now you'd practically moved into his mega-mansion.

-

art steps through the front door, slipping a parcel in his pocket and he spots you in the kitchen, sitting on the counter, drinking a glass of water.

he walks over to you, a playful frown on his face as he slots himself between your legs in greeting, 'what have i told you about sitting on my counters?' he scolds, his eyes twinkling with mirth so you know he's not truly mad.

you offer him a mischievous grin in response, 'didn't know you were home' as you sip your water, 'well i am now' he retorts, taking the water glass from your hand and putting it down on the counter beside you.

he presses his lips to yours in a loving kiss and after a beat of surprise you kiss him back.

he puts his hands under your ass and lifts you up into his arms, kissing you hungrily, he does a stupid little spin as you wrap your legs around his waist, showing off his tennis physique as he carries you into the bedroom.

you giggle as he drops you onto the bed, clambering on top of you immediately and kissing at your neck as you squeal, 'what's all this for?'

'can't i say hello to my favourite girl? i missed you' he grins against your collarbone, biting down on it to curb your protests before sitting up 'and i got you a present', he pulls out the parcel from his trouser pocket and holds it out to you.

you tilt your head to the side 'are you sure i'm not missing anything...?' you say as you open the parcel 'baby...' he whines, 'come on let me spoil you'.

your brow furrows as you open the parcel and you stifle a laugh as you look at the rose toy inside. art's watching you intently, waiting for your reaction and as you meet his eyes, he starts to ramble 'i just- i haven't bought a sex toy in so long, certainly not like this so i googled and everyone on social media says it's incredible- and-' you cut him off with a kiss, too kindhearted to tell him it was mostly a joke. 'thank you baby, it's perfect' and he smiles, reassured.

'look i was thinking...that we could...' he begins tentatively 'do you want me to show you how it works?' you answer for him, enjoying the way this was going immensely.

he swallows, hard before nodding. you smile and slide your shorts off, tossing them off the bed and leaving you in his stanford shirt and your underwear.

his gaze trailed over your body lustfully as you opened the packaging and pulled the toy out.

you looked up at him expectantly 'little help?' you purr sultry and he scrambles over to you, thick fingers pulling your panties off your legs and chucking them aside, his eyes drawn to your cunt, and the perfect little bud just beginning to peek out.

you grin as you lower the toy to your clit, allowing it to latch as you turn it on.

you immediately squeal as the vibrations begin and art's eyes widen with desire, watching as your face contorts with pleasure.

'holy shit' you pant, pressing the toy closer to your pussy, the vibrations causing your body to shake.

'yeah like that baby' he praises breathlessly, hands undoing his trousers but eyes still on you.

'weren't...kidding...' you moan, turning the vibrations up deftly and your back arching.

'no?' he grins, tugging his boxers off, cock half-hard. 'tell me how it- fuck- feels love' and he begins to palm at his cock, watching your pussy as though it's heaven sent.

'can't' i mewl, face flushed in pleasure, feeling the toy latch on further.

he continues to masturabate, his face at eyeline with your pulsating, glistening cunt. 'aw, ngh- you can't take it baby?' he teases and you moan.

he grins deliciously as an idea comes to him and his pace increases until he's cumming ropes with a groan, hand now coated in his white cum 'ngh- let me- help you- darling' and two of his wet fingers slide themselves into your open pussy with little resistance and you whine, high-pitched 'no- wait'

'you can sweetheart, i know you can' he breathes, mesmerised and you whimper as his other hand moves yours off the toy and he holds it, feeling the power of it in his palm.

you can feel his thick fingers against your walls and you clench instinctively. 'good girl' he praises 'told you I'd take care of you, didn't I?'

you nod desperately, hips bucking as his fingers twist inside you, combined with the suction on your clit. 'mmf-too...ah!...much'

'it's okay, i got you' he soothes, his fingers scissoring inside you and he deftly turns the vibrations up on the toy and your thighs start to shake, a sign you were close.

you come with a shudder, moaning his name and gripping the sheets and he watches intently as the waves of orgasm crash over you, murmuring praise, 'that's it, good girl' repeatedly as you soak his fingers in clear liquid.

he turns the toy off and pulls his fingers out, licking them clean, your juices and his combined and you just stare at him, eyes glazed over with pleasure.

'so...good present?' he jokes with a wry grin and you crack a smile, giggling and he scoops you back off the bed and carries you to the bathroom to clean up.

[stanart4clearskin]

the first time art sees you is at a stanford frat party that patrick and tashi had dragged him to (he usually loves a good party but that night he had actually wanted to stay in and study—shocker i know—because calculus was absolutely beating his ass) so art was a little bit grumpy at his friends for making him go

but ofc it’s not that they truly forced him to go to the party because art is weak and would do whatever tashi and patrick wanted him to do

so as he sits on a random couch as patrick and tashi are busy playing ping pong in another room he scans the party for any familiar faces

art’s practically a frat boy himself (although he decided not to rush because he wanted his image to be captain of the tennis team. not captain of the tennis team and frat boy) so of course he knows basically everyone who comes to these parties

his eye catch yours because you’re a few drinks in and have be not so subtlety staring at him for the past five minutes (you claim that it’s the alcohol that makes you so entranced by him but you know that’s a lie. even sober you’d be staring at his face that you sort of just want to sit on and feel his nose pres-)

art shoots you a crooked grin which almost always makes girls swoon and you are not an exception. you take this as an invitation to walk over and sit down next to art on the couch

art introduces himself and you blab on about how you’d have to live under a rock to not know who he is (it’s the alcohol getting to your head plus the fact you haven’t talked to a guy this hot in a while)

art lets you keep talking because he thinks it’s cute and plus it gives him more time to just stare at your lips

eventually you introduce yourself to art and naturally he tells you that you have such a pretty name and you roll your eyes at that because let’s be honest. he says that to every girl he meets

you two end up just making small talk for a few minutes before art asks if you want to go outside to take a walk

the frat house is sweltering hot with the bodies packed inside so of course you say yes and he leads you two out to the backyard, a gentle hand pressed against your lower back

he sees the way your eyes widen and lips part ever so slightly when he touches you but he just smirks to himself and pretends not to notice

once you two are outside he leads you both to a quiet secluded area where you stand leaning against a tree, him in front of you

art tells you about how he didn’t even want to come to this party but he’s glad he did because he got to meet you

you tell him that’s the cheesiest thing you’ve ever heard but blush anyways

he’s standing close enough where he can play with your hair. so he does. he twirls your hair around his fingers and compliments you on how silky smooth it is and how he wishes his hair could be as soft as yours

you look at him confused because what is he talking about? his hair looks plenty soft

he shrugs and tells you that it’s not as soft as it looks (a total lie) and that’s how you end up running a hand through his hair

and then that leads his face to being alarmingly close to yours and you two just stand there staring at each other while playing with each others hair

normally you’d think this was weird as fuck but your tipsy and honestly don’t really care because art donaldson looks likes he’s two seconds away from kissing you so no complaints there

you’d expect art to just kiss you given the reputation he has but he’s a gentleman so of course he asks you if he can kiss you

you nod and next thing you know, he’s gently pressing your back further against the tree and he’s kissing you like a man possessed

you two make out for a solid 15 minutes before art’s phone buzzes and it’s patrick texting him that he’s heading back to tashi’s dorm

that reminds you two that it’s nearing 2 am and that you should probably get some sleep

art walks you back to your dorm and you two stop outside your door. neither of you want this to end so you invite art into your dorm to just hangout for another hour

and of course with you both being horny, one thing leads to another and the next morning you wake up to a pile of curly blonde hair buried into the crook of your neck

[artydonsgf]

Hi, requesting dad art … we didn’t get to see that in the movie… or domestic art. The way he’s so gentle with Tashi

hi!! please enjoy dad art!! this was so fun, i love soft art

Art Donaldson as a Dad

- when he finds out that he’s becoming a father, he cries 100%

- hopes it’s a girl, he thinks he’s destined to be a girl dad

- when he finds out the baby is a girl, he cries again

- buys shit you will never use “just in case”

- “baby are you sure we don’t need three different breast pumps? just in case?”

- a worrier the entire pregnancy

- he checks you over every night before bed, puts his ear to your stomach to make sure baby’s alright, just always has a hand on you

- googles things that could go wrong and drives himself mad with worry

- wants to do every genetic test possible to make sure mom n baby are healthy

- when your water breaks at 2 in the morning, he’s freaking the fuck out

- he’s running around in his underwear trying to find your hospital bag, trying to find his phone to call patrick for a ride, trying to find his pants

- hovers every time the nurses do anything to the point of having to tell him to sit down and calm down

- refuses to leave your side even when nothing is going on

- has your entire birth plan memorized and is a fierce advocate for you

- holds your hand the entire time and whispers reassurances to you and tells you how excited he is to be a father

- if anything goes slightly wrong, he’s nearly passed out from the stress

- once he hears the loud healthy cries of baby girl, he’s completely smitten

- tells you that she’s the cutest baby in the world because she looks “just like you”

- mind you the baby is still covered in gunk

- gets to cut the umbilical cord and is stressing as he does it

- “i’m not hurting her right?” he says as he cuts something baby girl does not feel

- immediately takes a selfie with baby girl n sends it to all his friends (so literally just patrick)

- just very giddy and excited

- as happy as he is about baby, he’s also glued to your side the whole time you’re in the hospital

- he showers you, helps you go to the bathroom, fixes your hair up, etc

- constantly thanks you for the sacrifices you made to have baby girl

- will nearly fight you if you try to stay up to do anything that isn’t feedings

- wrangles baby out of your hands as soon as she’s done feeding so you can get a few hours of sleep

- has not slept or eaten or showered since the baby was born but he wouldn’t have it any way

- finally showers but with the door open “just in case his girls need him”

- when you’re finally out of the hospital, he’s walking out like a turtle

- he’s taking the slowest steps possible and looking down at the baby the whole time

- you have to tell him that walking fast will not give your baby shaken baby syndrome

- drives even slower, it takes an extra 30 minutes to get home

- treats you like an absolute queen the moment yall get home

- gives you massages of all sorts, takes baby when she’s being fussy, always asks you to get in a few hours of sleep, etc

- as baby girl grows up, it becomes apparent that she has him wrapped around her finger

- every birthday he gets her something even more ridiculous because “she wanted it”

- she got a mini car for her 3rd birthday

- a horse for her 4th birthday

- gives your daughter the silliest nicknames ever, he’s a cheesy dad

- extremely excited about daddy daughter dances every year

- steers her towards other sports and interests besides tennis, he doesn’t wanna pressure her to follow in his footsteps

- when baby girl starts becoming an older kid/preteen, it’s even more apparent that she has him wrapped around her finger

- he’s had to remind himself on multiple occasions that he can’t buy a car for his 12 year old daughter

- celebrates you becoming a mom after baby girl has gone to sleep on her birthday every year

- gets you a small cake n a gift and gives you plenty of kisses as a thank you

- essentially he’s the best husband n dad in the world

i hope this was everything you wanted and more!! please gimme more requests i love writing

[lovebot444]

Sweet angel of mine - Ballet!Art AU

I apologize for taking so long, school just started again and so did my social life! But here it is, I hope it’s up to expectation💋

Disclaimer: this is barely proofread, and halfway through the writing I realized I sucked at dialogs. English is not my first language. Read at your own risk!

Warnings: slight stalking/obsession. Cursing. Mentions of porn and masturbation. Patrick just kinda pops up out of nowhere. Writing based on Art’s pov, which is why it kind of belittles him.

Art knew her. They never spoke, she has never even looked his way, but he knew her. He has walked by her classes too many times not to.

Not in a creepy way, no! Ask anyone who knows her just like he does, she’s just too enticing to go by unnoticed. Seriously, it’s almost mythical, she is so inhumanly beautiful that it’s sickening. Back straight and head held high, every aspect of her is set to absolute perfection, in a way that it’s obvious she’s either: A) An Angel or B) A ballerina.

C) Both, was Art’s best guess, because she seemed to lack all ballerinas number one characteristic — the crippling fear of being perceived as anything less than perfect. The type of fear that feeds the need to knock down the competition from the very start, a fear that’s hidden by enough fake confidence to present yourself as a higher being, the fear that keeps them skinny, uptight and miserable.

His Angel was never like that, she was only the good parts of ballet. The class and the beauty, but never the pain. Which is why he didn’t dare to speak to her, she’s just so perfect, he can’t risk tainting her pure clear soul with all his greed and shame — infect her — like the disease he is.

He’s happy just memorizing her class schedule, what time she’ll be at the cafeteria, and the exact way she moves behind the big glass windows of the dance studio. Never unhappy, never bothered. After all, she’s his Angel, and he’s just Art Donaldson.

That changes tho, at a college party. Art never went to parties, he uses all his energy studying for classes and practicing tennis. His friends try dragging him out of that lonely dorm room every goddamn weekend. Art never went to parties, and yet there he was at the rooftop looking for Tashi.

He spots her with her back turned, wearing that same pink top from that night at the hotel. It must’ve been destiny, because when he tapped her shoulder and she turned around, it wasn’t Tashis’s face.

“Hi!”

“Oh! Uhm… sorry, I was looking for Tashi.”

“No way! I’m her roommate!” Art had to fight the urge of blurting out “I know”.

“What’s your name?”

“Uh, Art”

“No way! I can’t believe I’m finally meeting the Art Donaldson.” The Art Donaldson? Not just Art Donaldson, but The Art Donaldson. She knew him, or heard of him… but still! Maybe this one sided, weird, parasocial relationship he has built her wasn’t one sided after all. Maybe she knew all his classes as well , maybe she watched him play like she watched him dance, maybe he’s her angel too…

“Tashi has told me so much about you! I don’t know why she didn’t introduce us sooner…”. Or maybe she’s his friend’s fucking roommate.

And before he could beat himself for being so foolish, she grabbed his hand. She guided him through the party and talked to him like he was worth talking to. Back straight, head held high, the same drill he had watched from afar, but this time is the first time he can watch from up close. He would’ve described her as reachable, except she has already been reached, since she was holding onto him. She told him how she loves Tashi and they get along so well, well enough to share absolutely everything — especially clothes — and he wondered, if one of those rare times Tashi would hug him goodbye after practice, he was actually hugging her.

Eventually they did find Tashi, and only then she lets go of his hand. Art thinks he might come to parties more often, because this evening went better than he could’ve ever imagined. He got to be part the cool kids in their very secluded and exclusive little group, not talking to loud or being to wild, but still being the stars of the evening.

And he got to know her.

From this night on, she would never be just the girl he’s weirdly obsessed with. Now, she’s the girl who loves iced coffe, the girl who’s only at Stanford until she’s good enough for Julliard. She’s the girl who said she was glad to meet him, that said he is funny, and smart, and they should hang out again some time.

Time flies when it’s spent with endless praise, and soon enough, the pink skies turned a deep shade of blue, most people left and the party is now a game of truth or dare with only their friends.

Tashi had left about ten minutes ago to grab more alcohol from the deli nearby. Art had taken his shoes and socks off for refusing to say both what Patrick used to tell him about ballerinas, and what he used to do while listening. And she has been answering pretty invasive questions, refusing to strip since she was only wearing sandals, shorts, and nothing underneath Tashi’s sweater. The others were merely background characters. And of course, Patrick was the asshole who kept making the invasive questions and disgusting dares.

“When was the last time you touched yourself?”

“What’s your porn search history?”

“Common Art, I think she’d like to hear it”

“I dare you to dance on the edge of the rooftop.”

This time, instead of laughter it was awkward silence, everyone froze.

“If you don’t you have to take your shirt off.”

“Get some music playing then.”

What?

“You don’t actually have to do it!”

“Yeah Patrick is just being a jerk!”

Everyone tried to stop her, but she was already sliding out of her sandals and playing classical music on her iPod.

“Oh my God, I was joking, I just wanted you to take your shirt off!”

Now she pushed herself up the edge, standing until the right part played through. She started slow — but not scared — in fact, she seemed as confident and collected as she always did. The parapet of the rooftop was quite thin, and she hopped and twirled from side to side at such a rapid steady pace that everyone just sat still and observed, their mouths agape but with no sound coming through, scared that if they shouted for her to stop they’d distract her and she’d fall.

The tense atmosphere and background music was abrupt by Tashi barging in through the door.

“What the fuck is she doing.”

She sounds angry, the second most scary thing happening right now.

“Performing Kitri’s variation on the edge of a rooftop…” A girl who Art has seen dancing alongside her answered, she too seemed more mesmerized than terrified.

“And why the fuck is nobody stopping her.”

Tashi started shouting for her to stop. Saying how this is stupid and dangerous and she’s completely insane. As the music intensified so does the choreography, and suddenly she’s pirouetting all the way until the very edge. Tashi’s demands start sounding more like begs, her voice almost crack when she sees her roommate stop, one centimetre forward and she would’ve fallen.

“That was- the most, stupid fucking thing someone has ever done.” She tries to sound tuff, but her heavy breathing makes it obvious she’s in the verge of crying.

“Not if you know you’re good.” She hops of the parapet, walking towards Tashi, close enough to her face to whisper — “And I am.”

God, Art has never been this fucking hard in his entire life.

[angelplummie]

TAKING WHAT’S NOT YOURS! 4

ART X TASHI X PATRICK X F!READER

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

it is here yall, no smut but a surprising amount of straight sexual tension, i’ll make it gayer in the next one dw

you can’t believe you’re here. fuck. fuck. you changed too, back into tennis gear. fuck. the stars twinkle above like little spectators, a clear night in new york city. like fate was watching. they had reserved a court before even asking you, cocky as ever. you had all driven there together. you sat in the back, like mommy and daddy were taking you to a dance recital. this whole thing was ridiculous, and positively beneath you. and yet here you are, separated by a net from the man you’d thought in your naivety you would marry one day. you each stretched, rackets on the ground a ways away. every time you saw them in the corner of your eye you tensed, thinking about what was to come.

when you beat art, you wouldn’t fuck him. that’s something you were certain of, because it would make it so much more embarrassing for them. pimping yourself, your husband out is one thing, trying to and failing is much more humiliating. you thought about it, briefly on the car ride. what it would feel like after all these years. how good it would feel to make tashi squirm. and she would squirm. so help you god she would squirm. and art too. while he was inside you and clinging to you and more vulnerable than he’s ever been, you would tell him all about tashi and patrick’s little raundevouz, their little secret excursion. you would hear his heart break beneath you, feel his world crumble. you smiled to yourself in the backseat. art gave you up, tossed you out like a used tissue the second he could wriggle his way into the amazing tashi duncan’s life. and where was he now? coming second place, being cheated on, being whored out. and where was tashi? still seething over college, still hating you. you couldn’t judge her so violently, you were uncomfortably similar. except you can play, and she has art for a husband. it seems you can have love or tennis, and never both. tashi seems to have neither. in a roundabout way you pity her. in a more direct way you think she got what was fucking coming to her.

but no. you couldn’t fuck him, because that would hurt infinitely more. if tashi had come to town and avoided you, that would have angered you five times more than whatever this is. no. you weren’t sleeping with him. no way no how. nuh uh. dick is dick and you can get dick from anywhere. if the night before told you anything, historical dick will always do you wrong. so there. not sleeping with art. or tashi. or whatever.

tashi watches you stretch. your muscle fibres flex and protrude, a threat. if you beat art, she thinks you’re going to try to refuse the reward. or you at least plan to. you’re so fucking proud. everything is beneath you, everything, you can’t be pleased by anything. art is perfect, in every way, and yet you sneer and turn your nose up at her perfectly fine man. she wants to see it. she wants art to fuck you so bad it makes her angry. she wants him to be rough, and mean, she wants him to hold you down and make you cry. she watches the body that dominates the court, the face that haunts her dreams. she wants you to fucking submit. she wants your tennis body to become a cocksleeve and nothing more, and she wants art to do it. art would like it too. she knows he would. he doesn’t speak about you. he avoids you like the plague. something is left. maybe because of how you ended, in one clean silent chop the day of tashi’s accident, that he feels there’s something unfinished. she thinks he wants you. and he’s gonna get you and destroy any dignity that might remain. he’s gonna pound you like he owns you, because really he does, and tashi is gonna watch and she’s gonna laugh.

if you lose, she’ll watch her husband destroy you at tennis. and that will be just as freeing.

your gaze shifts from man on court to woman in stands, woman to man. they both have this serene look on their faces. not a care in the world. art should be worried. you’re going to thrash him. presuming this was still somewhat about tennis and he had any pride left at all, he was in for a rude awakening. second in that open. hm. you were gonna hang his sorry pathetic cuck ass out to dry and then you were gonna leave him wanting.

art’s certain he can win. tashi gave him comprehensive coaching in your style, your weaknesses and your strengths. truth is, you’re impressive, but art is a man. he could over power you, smash you into the dirt with sheer brute force. he’s certain he could beat you. but will he? tashi was unclear. this was of course entirely for her benefit, so which would she prefer? art had a feeling that your prize wasn’t only there to make you want to play. the prize didn’t seem to entice you at all, which bruised whatever remained of his ego. so should he win, or lose? what would please tashi more, seeing you beaten, or seeing you beneath something she owned? maybe they were the same.

you were both fully stretched and watered, and had began the stroll to pick up your rackets in synchronicity. his eyes raked over your face, and for the first time in all of this he considered what he wanted. he would’ve wanted to leave you alone. to respect you. but that couldn’t have happened. tashi needs closure. sleeping with you would be strange. you weren’t the same person he left in college, he wasn’t naive enough to forget that. before it all fell apart, when he was your tentative boyfriend, there were nights he locked away, too tender to be thought of by a married man. nights at his lake house, nights in your dorm, mornings when he would wake up covered in you and it was so still and calm that he had thought maybe it was still night, and you forgot to turn the light off. those nights, bolted into the safe for lost things in his mind, now drifted free. your soft skin and its smell, the weight of your body on top of his, your strawberry balm kisses. when you would dash away before sex to ‘freshen up’, and he’d smell his dorm’s cheap fruity hand soap when his nose pressed into your clit, when you opened your arm pit. you’d stopped drinking because he wouldn’t sleep with you drunk. you’d cry sometimes when he held you, when you were on top of him or when he was curved over your body so tightly everything touched. you’d cry. because no one had ever been this nice to you. and he would kiss them away, right from your under eye, licking them as they drooped of the edge of your chin. you never said i love you. never got that far. but he felt it from you. he knew you did. you had. he could tell in the way you listened to him. any tiny thing, any tiny little thing you logged away and remembered about him. if he told you once that he liked your hair half up half down, that was your hair for the next year. if he told you he liked your hands, rings and bracelets would scatter all across your dorm to be thrown on at his arrival. superficial things like that, but you listened so hard. you tried so hard. in those nights, you were like putty in his hands. he could’ve moulded you into anything. so receptive, so soft and wet and gentle. when he was inside you, when he was milked by your suckling, loving heat, he felt more at peace than he had in his whole life. it felt like you were the only two people left in the world, by God’s perfect design. you would take anything he gave to you, and because of that he was sweet and perfect to you. he was a dream man because you deserved a dream man. he truly adored you. but he wasn’t yours. and when those loving nights and sleepy mornings ended, it was tashi that returned to his mind. tashi. and she was so different from you. she was dangerous and painful and she made him itch. it was like getting high from a wasp sting, like he was addicted to the hurt. he didn’t want what was easy, what was simple and good and hearty. he wanted her. and it all worked out how it was supposed to, because tashi was his wife and she loved him and needed him and you were a tennis star. but, taking everything into account, it could never be how it was with you ever again. because you didn’t trust him anymore. he watched as you scooped up your racket, doing the same. you looked so concentrated. so angry. he wondered if you always felt angry. it probably helped you play better.

did he want to sleep with you again? that was the real question. well, if you would let him, he would. he wanted to. he never stopped adoring you, he realises now you hate him. you never did anything to make him stop. never pullled the plug, just walked away. the passivity of it made you slip away into the back of his mind, and for so long he didn’t realise you never left. he wanted to know how you changed. he wants to know how you’re different, and selfishly, he wants you to forgive him. if he was close enough to you you would know how sorry he was. if he could touch your skin one final time, and know whatever hurt he had caused you hadn’t stopped it being soft, then he could let go of you for real.

“you two ready?” tashi called from where she lounged in the seating area.

you flipped the racket round in your hold a few times, and nodded. art nodded too.

“alright.”

this was it. you were going to beat that man into the ground and you were going to laugh in tashi’s face and you were going to remain unfucked. partially unfucked. god, in this rush you had forgotten that just the night before patrick had smiled at you, and for a glorious hour you had lost your mind. it didn’t bear thinking about. you wondered what he was doing tonight. probably laid up with some sorry girl in that fucking motel room. what a simple life failures lead. you eat, you fuck, you shit, you die. when you’re actually worth something everything is struggle.

art was undecided. he held a little fluorescent ball in his hand, putting it into the neck of the racket. his eyes darted in the dark to his beautiful wife. he raised his eyebrowqa millimetre. tashi’s head flicked side to side, incrementally left to right, shaking no. throw the match. this wasn’t about tennis anymore. it had never been about tennis. he knew that now.

restless you leaned from knee to knee, crouched, flaunting your mobility, eyes never leaving tashi duncan. he looked back to you, and when he met your eye a shiver ran down his spine. he’s gonna touch you again tonight.

he paused a few more seconds. and then he served, a big sweeping motion, a thunk over his head. you were put into play.

what was it tashi had said? something really pretentious. you remembered hearing about it, something she had said to the threesome lackeys. it was passed down in bits like chinese whispers, but you’d heard the thesis of it. tennis was like fucking. like making love. like a beautiful dance where souls intertwine and total nirvana is reached and blah blah blah. at the time you’d thought that it was the biggest load of drivel you’d ever heard, and that if that was how she really felt then she’d never amount to shit, at least not in tennis.

but now, on this moonlit court, a dozen feet away from tennis star art donaldson, a dozen more away from star coach tashi duncan, you think maybe she was right all along. because you are fucking the shit out of art. he can’t seem to get a single fucking point. if this was a relationship, it’s fucking abusive. small grunts emanate from him, wimpy and down trodden sounds like a kicked dog. you get halfway through the match before realising what’s really going on.

the sound of the ball cracking from racket to racket is ear splitting, but the sound of your celebration every time you sink a point is louder to art. more distinctive and more memorable. you pump your fist at your side, and almost hiss, yes, and you walk around in a little circle, as if unable to contain your excitement. in all the match footage tashi had him watch, you never celebrated unless you won the match. he almost felt himself smile, but forced it away. he couldn’t let you know your joy was under his control, that he was allowing it.

but he wasn’t subtle. point after point after point, and art never withered. his spine was straight, not beaten wavy with defeat like it was supposed to be. once or twice the ball passed right by his racket, he didn’t even lift it. he got a few points, it wasn’t forty love. but he didn’t sweat. grunted before he even lost the point, before he even began to hit the ball. his arms were loose. they flung one way and another. was he even trying to hit the ball? you were grunting, you were sweating. you were fucking trying. you respected tashi and art enough, if not as people, then as competitors, to fucking try. all this bullshit about fucking, and you were still willing to try and win because despite everything, you still felt you had something to prove. didn’t they? what was this if not proving something? what more could it possibly be? art was smiling. beaten into the dirt and smiling. this was fucked. your turn to serve. you hold the ball in your hand, and seethe. you don’t move. your head tilts incrementally. you stare art down, half to determine the degree of fuckery, and half just to make him squirm. until his eyes flick to tashi. guidance please, master? his big loping puppy dog eyes scream.

fucking pathetic.

your racket clatters to the ground, ear splitting in the dark and quiet. tashi grinds her teeth, fingers drumming the seat, and almost calls out. almost barks at you to keep playing. but she doesn’t. because for some reason, you’re stalking towards the net. she can see the moonlight bounce off your closely shaven legs. the springing of your pony tail wafts towards her a paralysing chill, and she remains in her seat, silent.

your shoes grind as you stop on the astroturf, gripping the net with one hand, beckoning art with the other hand. he looks at you, up and down, eye brow quirked up. his lips pout involuntarily, and the bottomless well of tenderness you have for this silly, silly man pours fourth once again, doing nothing to stave off your anger.

“you tryna fuck me or something?”

art recoiled slightly. his eyes dashed to tashi.

“what do you mean?” his voice was thin. he wanted you to be quieter.

“play like you mean it or get off the court.”

you turn on your heel as soon as you spit the words, tearing at the dirt red asphalt. but then you stop. art never does anything you want him to. you know from experience. he needs an ulterior motive. you flick the sweat off your slick forehead with the slick back of your hand, and turn to art, savage smile pulling uncontrollably at your lips.

art remained where you left him by the net, stunned. what a violent, vulgar woman you had grown into. the creature he knew, that swallow, that doe, would never have spoken to him like that. jaded. vicious. you were changed. you were mangled. even that look on your heavenly face sent chills ricochetting up his spine, across his ribs. he visibly twitched as you returned to the netside.

“art, did tashi tell you about atlanta.”

you let the end of that word flick, like a feather in the wind. ta.

art blinked.

“atlanta? we were just there.”

you grasped the net and leaned forward. all was hush, even new york waited for you to continue. no car alarms, no distant drunken hollering. it was just you and art and festering contempt. and tashi, off the side, craning to hear a word and hearing her heart beat instead.

“you wanna know who else was there?”

you bit your lip, gleeful. art took a step closer to grip the net, to lean over.

“who? what are you talking about?”

“patrick.”

slowly, like a fall through quicksand, art realised. art screwed up his face, looked at his shoes, and then slowly, and right before your eyes, he found out who his wife really was. face fallen, eyes wide and focused on you, you only nodding. now that it was in front of him it seemed to obvious.

“what does that mean?”

but he knew what it meant.

“it means, i saw him yesterday. he said he saw you. well, not you. your other half. she didn’t tell you? he said it was a quite vigorous discussion.”

“stop it.”

that sickly satisfied smirk slipped off your face like leftovers into trash, leaving only the fire that never left.

“make me.”

neither of you looked away, rarely blinked, both fumed. art thought he could best you, thought you wouldn’t notice, thought you would just accept his bullshit and roll over. but art didn’t know his wife like you did. and now he would play you like he hated you, and you could beat him at his best. also, he most likely wouldn’t want to have sex regardless of the outcome, so it was win-win in truth.

arts thoughts were not so controlled, nor as proud or positive. the limpness of his arms, the rise and fall of his chest, it all spurred on a horrible sinking feeling, as if along with his world he too was crumbling. he had thought nothing when she left for a walk after the finale. nothing whatsoever. but it was then she had stolen away, like a criminal. a secret dirty rendezvous. forbidden, tantalising, stomach churning. art got second place that day. was that why? was she punishing him? why had you done this to him? patrick. patrick. of all people. patrick. each flash of his smiling face in the void of arts mind was like a gunshot, a flash breaking through the void. how could one person be this cruel? and why did it have to be you? why were you changed? why couldn’t you be the same, why couldn’t you love him still? he needed someone that loved him and you were right in front of him, dead. dead to love. dead to connection. you were a creature, but you were no doe. you were a wounded sulking beast. you would beat down or maul anything wilfully ignorant enough to cross your path. but he needed you to love him. if not tashi, you. despite tashi, you.

watching his crumble had a strange effect on you. he swayed, and looked all around like he was blind. you felt bad. the animal softness you kept for him in your soul churned inside you. you felt guilty. but he should know. he deserved to know. maybe not in that way. but in a way.

“is that true? swear to me you’re not lying.”

the night was cooling off, and the ice-lake blue of art’s eyes, the press of his lips, the sag of his shoulder made you shiver. only now did you realise how close his face was to you as he leant over the net. incrementally moving back, you swallowed.

“i swear.”

“ok. ok.”

he looked down, rocked, didn’t pull away.

“i’m sorry. i’m sorry.”

his cheeks filled with air, and you could hear him try to cough out the lump in his throat.

“hey, art. art.”

he wouldn’t look up.

“i never wanted to know that. i would’ve never known.”

you didn’t think about this, about how ugly this all was. that was an ugly, horrible, jaded thing to do. jaded. patrick was right.

“i’m sorry.”

hands on hips, he turned around, moving away from you, racket clutched in a white fist. he just walked. and walked. it looked like he was about to leave the court when he turned around.

“you serve.”

and you and him played. actually played for the first time all day. he was running for the god damn ball, he was slamming it so hard your wrist ached to receive it. his face was aged, he looked more wrinkled and wisened and sinister, and he played like that too, like he has a clue what was going on and what tennis was. on one hand, this pleased you. a real fucking game. someone of the tashi clan is finally speaking to you in a language you can understand, a field you can dominate. art, try as he might, still, still, still, using all his anger, wasn’t beating you. this pleased you immensely.

but on the other hand, art was so angry. so fucking furious, and he was directing it at you. of course he was, you’re right there, you’re the bitch that told him his wife cheated, you get the surface of it. but he was so fucking angry. the grunts he made, the force behind his strides, the festering resentment he looked at you with, that was all bullshit. art is so bullshit.

in times gone by, tashi was the big bad in your mind, a monolith for your hatred. but this hissy fit is alerting you to another fact. art left you for her. he married her. that was his choice. but now, it blows up in his face, and he has the gall to be angry at you? to glare at you, grunt at you, spit on the moon-shaded clay and snarl at you? he comes into your life for the second time, blows it up, while you have a competition, and now he’s pissed at you for biting back? with the truth no less.

art is angry at you, but the truth is, you’re angrier. and so you wipe the floor with him.

above, tashi surveys, quietly mystified. this is the best you’ve played, ever. your form is exquisite, and strong, violent but controlled. you’re not fucking around. not that you ever are, but she notes that as your tally climbs and climbs, you never get comfortable, you never let up. it’s the same measured looks, the same desire as you lick the sweat off your lips and eye-fuck her husband. whatever you spoke about got art playing good too. maybe you should come to all his tournaments. tashi is itching to know what was said, but moreover she’s itching for the match to end, for a forfeit to be exchanged. whatever that may be.

it doesn’t take long before her prayers are answered, and the verdict is art has lost. he miss your last mighty shot by a landslide, on the other side of the court when it crashes down and bounces away out of bounds, into the nothing. you have won. you won. art lets out a guttural throaty cry and throws his racket to the ground while little sweat droplets leap from him like glitter.

he laps the court angrily, and you just hold out your arms, let the cool air hug your skin. no victory cry, because your body is singing with exhaustion, hard earned exhaustion, as your chest fills with air you feel vilified, you feel your truth has been exacted. you beat tashi. tashi’s husband. you beat art. you beat tashi’s man servant into the ground. you fucking win.

“fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck,” he holds the back of his head, elbows swinging as he moves about.

“fuck is right. i win.”

“shut up.”

like the crack of a whip you turn to look at him. he is still so fucking angry. at you. you, of all people.

“what was that? shut up? did a loser just tell me to shut up?”

“you know what you fucking did. you told me so i would lose concentration and throw the match.”

you were both approaching the net, seething, panting. he pointed at the floor as he spoke, with passion, like he even had a leg to stand on. maybe it was his righteous outrage that pissed you off, his self important hurting. why was he so angry at you? you didn’t fuck patrick. well, not in atlanta anyway.

“i told you so you would give enough of a shit to play me for real. that was the best you’ve played in year, art,”

you poke his chest, and aggression blooms within him from your point of contact like blood in water. you’re gonna make him crazy, he’s so angry. you’re still poking him.

”and guess what? i still. fucking. beat you.”

“you shut up or ill make you shut up.”

“oh, that really got the testosterone pumping didn’t it donaldson? do you think your balls are gonna drop soon, you spineless shit?”

“you vicious little bitch. you’re this much of a cunt just because tashi was better than you in college? how pathetic can a person be?”

“she is not fucking better than me. and you of all people should know that.”

your voice cracks. so it comes out fu-cking. but your point remains. a breath filled quiet settles and for a brief moment all either of you can do is stare at each other and realise how close you’ve gotten and ache and burn and crave. his hand rests on the net, a centimetre away from yours. if you wiggled your pinky at all you’d be touching.

you watch him breath, watch his eyes trace the sweat from your chin that drips to your chest, watch him hate the fact he noticed. you watch his anger congeal. set into warm mush instead of hot liquid. you felt a heaviness in your chest as you felt yourself giving in, giving over to your anger. giving over to the hurt that fueled it.

and you kissed each other. because there was nothing else in the world to do. like opposite poles, against both of your conscious wills, you crashed into each other and kissed like biting vipers. it hurt. your fingers dug into his thinly covered shoulders, his back, dull though they were. he gripped the back of your neck, the base of your skull, pushing you forward into him, keeping you where he could have you. his other hand fisted the back of your tank, like he was holding the scruff of a bad cat’s neck. trapped in his hold, you had no choice but to love him. you clawed and kissed and little noises escaped you, and all of a sudden he was 19 again and he had you. All thoughts of tashi and patrick and coming second place were vanquished, and all he could feel was the softness of your nose pressed into his cheek, the pliable flesh of your tongue and the freedom with which you enjoyed things, how much noise and honesty you were willing to give. nothing had felt so raw, so real for a long time.

your lips mushed and deformed around the other, your tongues licked like fire, you held each other until you felt you couldn’t be closer. and then tashi existed again. and you pulled away.

“congrats. our room or yours?”

[coldblooded-angel]

My thoughts during the Churro™ scene as a professionally licensed Yapper:

SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT:

While they’re in the canteen, there’s a moment where Art looks at Patrick and you can clearly see the relief in his eyes that he has his friend there with him. (Or does he??)

I don’t think Art was lying about not keeping in touch with Patrick. In between his tennis career and his relationship, Patrick has neglected Art (which I think is because he’s so used to him being there that he just never fathomed him not being there which makes him complacent in their friendship).

But when Art realizes that once again Patrick has been taken away by just the mere image of Tashi, he’s hurt. I think in that moment Art wanted to feed that hurt, lash out and make Patrick feel the pain he feels for being left out.

Art jokes about Patrick not being there to visit him because he misses him. He misses his friend, his constant and yes, it’s in a joking manner but Patrick sees thru him (as he always does).

(The fucking head tilt took me out because it screams fond like ‘aw baby u really did miss me ure so cute when ure jealous but wont admit it’)

The entire scene (for me) turns into reassurances and doubts. Their friendship was being tested to see if it could withstand having to share their love and space with a third. Having to make concessions and space around their new desire and jealousy.

When Art tries to downplay his thoughts, trying to twist Tashi’s words to manipulate he was clearly being petty but I also think there’s some truth to his statement of not wanting Patrick to get hurt. He is his friend first but he also knows him (the same intrinsic way that Patrick knows Art) and how his friend will be able to bounce back from any relationship because Art truly doesn’t think these two are that serious (blinded by Patrick’s history and his own feelings). So Patrick sees the manipulation for what it is.

(The fond look in his eye when Art isn’t looking. That man is in love your honor!!!!!)

Patrick knows Art was trying to manipulate him. He knows it and he likes it, encourages it even. He looks at him like he’s proud of Art. The fact that it mattered more to him that Art was actually being vocal about his own wants instead of repressing as he always did, even if it was through breaking him and his girlfriend up. He didn’t even see it as a threat because it never occurs to him that he could lose Tashi to Art (or vice versa) because at this point, he’s secure in his place within the triangle. But also reveals how insecure Art feels within that same triangle because of his perceived isolation.

[hvneybuckin]

tashi duncan (mentions art donaldson & patrick zweig.)

afab!reader, stanford!tashi, stanford!reader, tashi records during the act, it's implied that she's sending the recording to artpatrick, strap-ons, artpatrick have a thing for you and tashi knows it

18+. mdni

690 words

from aiden — this one is for my lovely gal kaia @kisses4kaia !! if not for her this one would have never came to fruition 😌

Competition is a big part of tennis, and tennis is Tashi’s life— so it’s no surprise that she’s a sucker for, well…competition. 

Almost everything she does has some kind of competitive undertone to it. ‘Everything’ including you. 

It wasn’t that hard to get you hooked (really, it wasn’t), and she did it right under Art and Patrick’s noses. 

Their liking for you was obvious, obvious enough for her to catch on to it the moment they walked up to you. The way they’d constantly interrupt each other to get your attention. Patrick’s poor excuses of flirting, Art’s rambling about how he admires your technique— all of which to be expected from the pair. However, what really interested her was you. 

So much so that after they walked away, Tashi quickly took their place. “They’re annoying, I know.”

“Who, Patrick and Art?” You look towards the direction they walked with a shrug, “I dunno. They’re cute, though.” She nods in response. 

It’s not like she can deny it.

“You’re Tashi, right? Tashi Duncan?” She nods for the second time, you making yourself familiar in return. 

After that, the two of you never really stopped talking. Of course, you were close with Art and Patrick — annoying as they were —, but you and Tashi were kind of inseparable.

Even when Patrick makes some gross remark, saying that he “wouldn’t be surprised if you guys had fucked.” 

You unfortunately miss Tashi’s grin afterwards, her expression hidden behind the shared can of beer the four of you passed around. 

And of course, once it’s just you two in your dorm, you don’t shut up about it. Not because it’s been on your mind ever since Patrick said it, definitely not because thinking about it has you making a mess of your panties.

No, never that. 

Only because— “It was so absurd! He’s such a weirdo sometimes, I swear.” Tashi doesn’t speak, but instead shrugs, her legs held close to her chest. She gives you a look, one that you could recognize anywhere. 

“…What?” 

“Hm?”

“Tash. I know that look. Tell me what you’re thinking about.” She giggles with a slight shake of her head. It’s obvious that whatever���s on her mind, she’s hesitant to make it known.

“I’m not thinking about anything. Just— I mean… would it really be that big of a deal if we did? Fuck, I mean.”

You respond with blinks. And then you realize exactly what Tashi had just said. 

“No. It wouldn’t be, I don’t think so.”

“I don’t think so, either.” 

And so, it isn’t. It’s not a big deal when you’re both sitting there in silence. It’s not a big deal when she moves forward to kiss you, your back hitting the roughness of the carpeted floor. 

However, once her dick – albeit fake – is buried in you, you begin to think that this might be larger than the two of you anticipated. 

Can you even be bothered to care when she’s fucking you this good, though? 

In fact, it doesn’t even concern you that she’s recording the entire thing on her old flip phone. 

“Who’s got you this wet, huh?”

You should have known she was gonna say some snarky shit like this, but a pathetic whine slips past your swollen lips nevertheless, Tashi’s own curling into a cruel grin. 

“You. Only you, Tash, promise!”

She hums in response, her strap (that you didn’t even know she had until she dug it out of her closet) forcing a plethora of mewls out of you. 

“Yeah? Not even Art? Or Patrick?” You swiftly shake your head no— the action contradicting how you let out an exceptionally lewd moan at the mention of the two boys.

Tashi snickers. She knows that they’ll probably replay that part a couple hundred times. 

“Uh-huh. You’re mine now, right, baby?” 

You mindlessly nod in agreement, barely even processing what she had said. 

“Yeah, you are. Smile for the camera, say hi to ‘em.” You know exactly who Tashi’s referring to.

And still, for some reason, you do as she says. You look at the phone in her hand, and fucking wave. 

[bountycancelled]

house of cards (a challengers au)

requested: no, but send challengers reqs I BEG !

warnings: none :)

content: tension I guess? readers kind of a go with the flow typa gyal, but the flow is sometimes manipulative and evil so... tashi and art both play (different games but they still play) patrick is a loser, but he's my loser so it's okay lowercase intended, unedited.

a/n: back after like a half year hiatus, and im on my challengers bullshit, hope you enjoy this cuz I wrote in a day lol

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"you know, sometimes it feels like you hate me." the words leave your lips before you can stop them, coming out of your mouth with the kind of instantaneous honesty you learnt during your many years around tashi. admiring her, envying her, loving her, and hating her all the same.

she raises an amused brow, the sides of her mouth quirking up in a half smile. she probably thinks it's funny, your train of thought. you're in her dorm right now, laying on her bed with your head rested against her shoulder while some episode of some show serves as background noise. and yet, you seem unsure that she even wants you here.

but the one thing you can count on tashi to know, is what she wants. so if she's sure that she doesn't hate you, you should be too. "I don't hate you. I love you, more than usual, honestly."

that shouldn't make your stomach flip in the way it does, but you've always been a little like a hungry dog waiting to be thrown a bone when it came to affection, from anyone really (a problem that you thought you were working on effectively, you weren't.) but mostly tashi, who's affection was about as rare as the sight of her not playing tennis. well, maybe that comparison was in poor taste after the injury, but anyway.

"why is that?" you hope you don't come off as eager as you are to hear what you've done to further place yourself in her good graces (you do, but don't worry, tashi thinks it's cute.)

"you're the only one who still plays tennis with me. real tennis." she nudges you off of her shoulder as she speaks, forcing you to look at her, leaving you to tackle that feeling that always seemed to arise whenever she was close. a feeling that would rather die that put a name to.

god, you were such a tryhard when it came to her. you let her tell you about her escapade with the notorious 'fire and ice' duo, art and patrick. you assured that it was totally okay to pit two friends against each other for the prospect of getting her, you nodded along when patrick came out victorious, and you comforted her when she eventually broke it off.

and the cherry on top of this absolutely miserable sundae of yours, you played exactly the same way you used to play with her, because you knew it was what she wanted, and anything she wanted, you'd give it to her.

and she knew that, of course. one of the reasons she kept you around.

she brought her face close to yours, so close, closer, closer... before turning your own face to plant a kiss on your cheek, deciding to pay attention to the show you two had put on her laptop, completely shattering what you thought had been a moment between you and her. not the first time she's done that, not the last time you'll think that.

you inhale and exhale deeply, willing yourself to not spend the whole night picking that last ten seconds of that interaction apart, trying to analyse if you were running on pure delusion, or if something had been there, between you two.

but you do anyway, and you don't come to a solid conclusion. when it comes to tashi, you never do.

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your run in with patrick is unexpected, but what is expected is just how fucking miserable he looks. you debate just leaving the diner all together, finding another place to eat. hell, not eating at all would be better than whatever conversation you could possibly have with the ex boyfriend of your best friend. the poor thing is still wearing that grey 'I told ya' shirt, and it's evident that he isn't taking any of this well.

you understand both of them, patrick blames himself (it's not his fault, at least not to you) and tashi needed someone to blame. there's a small part of you thats just glad you weren't the one that she chose, but it's small, and the bigger parts of you just want to pull patrick into a hug, but you're unsure of how appropriate that would be. unsure of if he would even want that from you. because you're not actually on his side, you'd never be on the side opposing tashi, and patrick knows that.

that doesn't stop his eyes from lighting up in hopeful recognition as he spots you awkwardly lingering by the entrance, and now you have to go and sit with him because you are not about to kick a dog while it's down. you flag down a waiter and order for yourself, turning to face him with a pensively worried expression.

"are you... okay?"

patrick laughs at your words, not because he thinks it's funny that you ask. (even in the event that you're just pretending to care, he's just thankful that you humoured him by sitting down) he laughs because he knows that you know that he's not. even if the two of you were strangers, you'd sense his misery from the second you entered and took one look at him.

"never better. foods here." he changes the topic swiftly, and you're starving, so you don't try to redirect it, stuffing your face almost as unapologetically as he is. but once the food finishes and you await the bill, you take another long look at him, and the sadness in his eyes make your heart ache.

you don't owe anything to patrick, but for whatever reason, you find yourself reaching for his hand, holding it in your own and giving it a comforting squeeze, smiling back at him sympathetically when he flashes you a grateful half smile.

maybe it's the unique circumstances of the breakup, or his sad brown eyes, or that one time you two played a "friendly" game right before him and tashi got together (the looks he gave you from across the court would be misplaced, but tennis was intrinsically sexy, and so was patrick, so you tried not to overthink it. tried.)

or maybe it's the emalgumation of every look that would make you squint curiously at him, every casual touch that would last too long because patricks patrick, every tipsy kiss on the cheek, or shoulder squeeze, but after you two leave the diner (he pays, and you feel bad about it, but don't comment further.) but when you face each other outside the establishment, the sunset painting the sky, you pull him into a hug.

the hug feels... far too intimate for two friends (were you still friends? you weren't sure.) but, whatever. he's hurt, grieving the loss of someone that would surely break you if you lost them and the loss of his own best friend, so you're not gonna judge. he wraps his arms around you slowly, hiding his face away in the crook of your neck, holding you so gently that a passerby would think that you're the one being comforted.

you tell him to call you if he ever feels lonely, immediately regretting your language because it sounds like you wanna fuck him, but he understands what you meant. and then, you say your goodbyes.

you don't tell tashi about that interaction. and you don't think you will.

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your run in with art isn't intentional, but he's grateful for it.

he knows that you and tashi usually run drills together at the courts on saturdays, its not crowded since everyone is in their dorms trying to piece themselves together after a shitty week. but he also knows that tashi needs to rest right now, so you'd most likely be alone. but he doesn't strike then, the racket in your hand will make you too focused, he knows that all too well. you'd be giving him one word answers, barely paying him any mind and probably wanting him to fuck off as soon as possible.

so while he's wracking his brain, thinking of another opportunity to find a way in with you, because being closer to you meant being even closer to tashi, he's seconds away from getting on his knees and praising the gods above when he sees in the cafeteria, alone.

him being there for her when the injury happened was simply happenstance, and he was lucky in a roundabout sort of way, getting to comfort tashi and hopefully building a good image of himself in your mind, because you were there too, of course.

but that wouldn't cut it. he needed to be truly in with you, and he needed a new best friend anyway, he'd basically sold his last one off, so this was a two birds, one stone kind of situation.

you don't look up when art sits in front of you. because one, you know its him, he has the nervous kind of energy whenever he's around you, different to the kind of nervous energy he has when tashis around, but you can still sniff him out regardless. and two, you're still feeling shitty about that whole... thing with patrick, too shitty to care that blondies over here in front of you, trying to get in with tashi.

"they stale or something?" he asks, his smile stupidly warm and inviting as he points towards the cheese fries on your plate, completely untouched. you shoot air through your nose, smiling despite yourself before giving him a response. "no, I'm just grappling with the fact that I'm a shitty friend, and maybe even a shitty person in general."

he hums, holding his hand towards your tray as a silent question, and you push it towards him nonchalantly, letting him take what he wants. he feels way too good about a simple tray, but something about you sharing your food gives him hope that you haven't completely ruled him out.

"well, think about it this way. the average person needs to have at least one of these traits in order to be liked. talent, kindness or looks. you're a fucking beast on that court, and you're gorgeous, so you don't even need to worry about being a good person." it's easy to butter you up a bit, because the words he's saying are true, and he had a feeling that telling you what he honestly felt was the route to go with.

you roll your eyes at his words, but the compliment makes you bite back a smile. you're only human, after all, and not even you are invincible to the charms of one art donaldson.

but you keep your cool, waiting for the inevitable of him bringing up tashi, with the obligatory acting like that wasn't why he sat with you in the first place. but it comes later in the conversation than you thought it would, he asks if she's doing any better, and you answer with an honest 'no.'

maybe this is just another one of his tactics, pretending that he's fully interested in getting to know you with no tashi shaped ulterior motive. but it works. because you end up talking over your now empty tray for a while, so long that you're late to your next class.

the look that he gives you when you leave is one of longing, but it was a specific kind longing, one linked to tashi. that's what art tells himself too, as he watches you walk away.