#but she's out slapping patrick

[tarotofbadkitties]

The reason the hotel scene is so weird is Patrick. Fresh off starting a fight with him for no reason, Art's coming in hot. He's both guilty because he was such a dick, and also pumped with adrenaline cause being mean is a rush for people who are never mean. When he tells Tashi he has something to say to her that's going to make her mad, his body is tense and his hands are twitching. Art's ready to have that fight about his retirement.

What Art doesn't know, is that she and Patrick already had the fight they should be having in this moment. She should be pissed because they've been doing this together and now he wants to quit on her, but her affects all wrong; she's as placid as a lake. Her energy is making him anxious, suspicious, and you can see his brain going a mile a minute. Just like a partner having a sexual affair isn't horny when you expect them to be because they gave their lust to someone else, a partner having an emotional one can be too calm when you expect them to be fired up. Patrick gave him some pushback, but he had the big fight about being abandoned in favor of the saddest marriage in the world with Tashi and was ready to reconcile. Unlike Tashi, who liked to meditate and be chill before a match, Art's looking for a fight ahead of his match in the morning.

The problem is, neither of his people are down for that, and he can't put his finger on why. With that plan foiled, he switches gears to sexy mode. While he's working his way into the zone, slowly kissing his way around Tashi's body, she's damn near ready to combust. At this point, he can try to catch up and satisfy her OR he can leave her sexually unsatisfied the same way she left him emotionally unsatisfied. What wins this battle is passively giving her permission to sneak out while he pretends to be asleep. If she wants to fight with Patrick then she can go fuck him too.

[theoldsports]

SHITHEAD.

Art Donaldson x Reader.

warnings: a lot of them. 18+, slapping, begging, major angst, brat!Art, an argument with make up sex. Art is really manipulative because… he is a bit and we all know it. [Y/N] is very ill-tempered too. it’s dirty.

can be a part ii to SPONTANEOUS, or read as a standalone. this is my favorite piece of writing i have published on this account.

The bed was empty beside [Y/N]. She stared at Art’s empty side of the bed. The soft green sheets and mix-matched pillowcases went unoccupied. Not because he wasn’t home, but because [Y/N] hated Art so he had to sleep downstairs on the couch.

It wasn’t that she really hated Art. She did hate him right now. Not in a funny way. Their drive home had been silent. Poor Art didn’t know how to facilitate conversation that wouldn’t worsen the situation. His sorrowful eyes, but honest eyes kept glancing from the road to where [Y/N] sat in the passenger seat. The real showdown had started between them something awful when the door to their house slammed shut.

See, Art cried when he got mad. Or sad. Or profoundly excited. Their wedding photos were two-thirds Art crying and trying not to show that he was crying.

Art hadn’t cried tonight yet. That pissed [Y/N] off. She was furious and he seemed to feel absolutely zero discernible feelings about that.

They argued all the time. It rarely lasted all too long.

It was different this time. When [Y/N] started to say something cruel or shout or weep, Art got a little smaller, but he alarmingly stood his ground. He averted his gaze and said “I respectfully disagree,” or “What the fuck do you know about how I feel?” in a dangerously level tone.

Fighting with Art about this wasn’t fun. He was too cool about. He knew he was right. [Y/N] wanted to yell and scream because Art was so relaxed and condescending in his tone. When the man who had spent his teenage years getting referred at competition after competition as literally Ice tonelessly said: “Jesus Christ, aren’t you bored yet? What, going to over-explain the same information to me again, or…?” Finally, that had made [Y/N] drag herself to bed and yank the door closed violently enough that she felt the metallic vibration run all the way up to her shoulder.

And she was still laying there, staring at Art’s side of the bed.

At the Zweig’s party that night, there were a few hot topics in the Donaldsons’ sphere:

1) Lots of congratulations from people that had known them grow up, but hadn’t seen them since the wedding or prior.

This was mostly very kind. It dragged that smirk up Art’s face and caused his fingers to dig tighter into [Y/N]’s waist. That look of pride and tenderness on his face was more than welcome.

2) Lots of questions about Patrick. His lack of attendance was felt.

Both Donaldsons dodged these question as much as they could. Art kept an eye on [Y/N]’s liquor consumption. He knew how embarrassed she would be if she said something she regretted in front of Patrick’s family. Patrick had hurt them both, but Art’s heart went out to [Y/N]. Her world had been built around Patrick’s from a young age. Art was trying to engineer his own world higher around her so she wouldn’t be able to see the old place and people that had burned her over the walls.

3) “You’re married. When are we going to be seeing a little Donaldson running around?”

With Art keeping an eye on [Y/N]’s drinking, she hadn’t really been keeping an eye on him. She just assumed he would keep his shit together. Art drinking in public was never really a concern. He wasn’t a big drinker anyway. At this point, his career mattered more and he was approaching his mid-twenties which made him feel surely less young than he had once. He wasn’t a casual beer guy either. It was Patrick who liked beer and Art who would have a moledo or something sometimes. Art did like white girl drinks, though. Tequila and fruity stuff. He had been able to shoot shot after shot of vodka like a pro in college at a season-end celebration.

Art was a tight-lipped man, but he was a giggly drunk who he got pretty comfortable talking out of his ass from behind a glass with an umbrella in it. Art was rarely comfortable with anything, so a drink or two at a party was welcome to him.

Another important point of context is that the largest point of tension between Art and [Y/N] was starting a family. They desperately wanted a child together, but they disagree on when. [Y/N] felt like she was fresh out of college, so she figured they had plenty of time. Art felt that he was fresh out of college, so he figured they may as well get to it.

Their arguments about this were once semi-regular. In the last four months or so, Art timidly bowed out and hoped [Y/N] would tell him when she was ready (sooner rather than later). He got tired of the low-tier shouting matches. Instead, he would pick fights about things that were decidedly lower stakes when he was bored.

Art had let [Y/N] field comments about family planning throughout the night. Unfortunately, when Art was polishing off a second drink, he ran his mouth a little bit.

Knowing he was the designated driver that night, Art did go easy. Art was also, like, five pounds. While he could hold his liquor with grace, he always got giggly. He watched with heavy eyelids as [Y/N] walked away to collect another drink following the dinner portion of the evening. The paper placecards with their shared last name emblazoned on them rested comfortably in Art’s inner jacket pocket to be kept as a memory.

Some guy who sold boat insurance and liked to rub elbows with talent was talking Art’s ear off. Art couldn’t remember his name, but [Y/N] would know it.

This was the precise moment that got Art in trouble.

Because when the guy whose name Art was sure started with an R said: “So! You’re married. When are we going to be seeing a little Donaldson running around?”

Art said:

“Any day now, I hope. Tomorrow. I’m good to go. [Y/N] thinks now’s not a great time for her.”

He had said it with a smirk and a stupid little laugh. It was basically locker room talk. Big deal. He would’ve said it to Patrick with [Y/N] present in the room. This guy wasn’t Patrick and he was technically speaking behind her back.

Art had forgotten how close they were standing to the bar. He had forgotten that the frequency of his pitchy tenor was known to carry. He had forgotten that he was well known to be an instigator of fights even though he never actually threw the first punch. He had forgotten that he hadn’t been whispering. He had forgotten that this guy… Richy? Ronnie? was pretty much a stranger who had no business knowing their business.

Now, Art was sleeping on the couch and his side of the bed was empty.

Jackass.

[Y/N] stared still at the empty bed and didn’t know how to articulate her upset to an Art who had seemingly yet to feel ashamed.

She had a headache and was tired. But sleep wasn’t going to come easy and all she had to look forward to was a hangover.

Art didn’t really snore, but he was a heavy breather when he slept. The lack of his white noise made the A/C blowing and the stairs creaking too loud. Maybe all of this was on [Y/N] for making Art uncomfortable, she dared to think.

Then she reminded herself that it was Art’s fault for talking too much and for drinking when he knew he was supposed to drive home.

[Y/N] rolled over to face away from Art’s spot. All she could think about is how his hands always sleepily pawed at her to pull her back when she got too far away from him before he fell asleep.

“So, what’d you do?” Patrick asked.

“She hates me.” Art replied. It was almost a question.

“I asked what you did, not what she feels. She already told us what she feels and it’s that she hates you.” Patrick stated. When Patrick had stopped through town for a match, he had come by for dinner with, well, his best friends. This had been right after they’d gotten engaged.

Art sniffled. He didn’t want to cry in front of Patrick. Art would sooner cry in front of his own father. Both men would have laughed in his face, but it would have stung more from Patrick. “We got into a fight yesterday. A big one. Like, the first, uh, big one. She’s worried about the f—“

“The future? Please,” Patrick said bitterly. He frowned and his jaw tightened, but he combatted it by tossing Art a smile before the other man noticed the tension. “Stupid. You’re gonna marry her. You’ll play tennis. She’ll do her… columns? Articles. I don’t get what it is that she does—“

“She writes for—“

“Sure, yeah. You’re gonna have two kids so you can each pick a favorite one. And she’s gonna be a pain in your ass forever. Don’t be a pussy.”

Art sniffled again and stared at the floor. “I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I didn’t think I did,” Art said meekly. “I don’t get it. She gets so mad sometimes. At me.” Patrick stared at him blankly. Art had to know that he was usually at least a little bit the problem.

“Did she do the thing where she calls you a—“

“Shithead bastard?”

“Shithead bastard.” Both boys said at the same time. Art dragged his hands through his hair and looked up at Patrick. Both of them quirked a smirk at the other.

“See,” Patrick started. “You’ll be fine. Fuckin’ go after her.”

“And say what!”

“Uh… ‘I’m sorry?’ You do that kinda shit. She’ll like that.”

It was impossible to know how long [Y/N] laid there. The clock was on Art’s side and she would get spitting mad if she rolled back over.

She could just go downstairs and tell Art to come back to bed. He was probably sleeping just fine.

“Hey, hon, you don’t hate me, right?” Art’s voice whispered in the darkness.

[Y/N] was fairly certain she had imagined it. She had not heard his sweaty feet on the stairs or his fingers against the doorknob. Quickly, [Y/N] whipped over to face the door behind her.

There was Art. His sweatpants sat low on his hips and his shirt was long gone. Clothing didn’t often survive the night on Art’s back.

Really, she couldn’t help but wonder how long it had taken Art to work through coming upstairs so quietly. “Mm?” [Y/N] groaned in question.

Art rocked his right shoulder into the doorway to lean. His arms were crossed and his eyes straight ahead on her from what [Y/N] could tell in the glow of the hallway’s thermostat. “Please just tell me you don’t hate me and I’ll let you go back to sleep. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

With a sigh, [Y/N] sat up and rolled her cracking shoulders back. “I don’t hate you, Art.” Her heart melted a little bit. [Y/N] knew it was immature, but her special attack in arguments since childhood was to bandy around the word hate a lot. Not that she had said it to Art tonight, but she had no doubt said it before. More than once. More times than she could count, maybe.

She was surprised Art had never asked this before. That surprise hurt in an a way that was too complex to describe. “I could never hate you.” [Y/N] continued, voice hushed only because it was dark out.

Art’s posture relaxed slightly. “You promise you don’t?” Said Art’s evermore crippling lack of self-confidence.

“I promise.” [Y/N] replied calmly.

“Okay. Thank you.” Art said in a small voice.

“I love you, baby. I don’t hate you. You shouldn’t have to ask that. I’m sorry I made you feel like you even have to ask that.”

Art frowned sharply. “No, I’m the one that should be sorry. You told me nicely not to talk about—“

“Don’t play that. You have to know you don’t feel like you did anything wrong, so you don’t have to invent a situation where you’re some horrible person.”

Art was silent.

[Y/N] continued. “I’m pissed because you told Randy,” RANDY. His name was RANDY. That’s it. “Our business. My business, really. He’s an asshole. It’s fine. Well, not now, but eventually. But you kinda martyred yourself on it. You don’t have to do that and I don’t hate you. You know I don’t… Right?”

“I’m sorry.” Art said quickly. He was gifted at making every single minor problem his own fault. He knew he was a little bit of an awful person for that, but he would die before admitting it. Art would hide behind his martyring habit as long as his cross could hold him, though. [Y/N] hadn’t noticed before this moment, but she could see the shining of his eyes in the digital blue-green glow. Tears. This time, less than obvious waterworks. Aw.

“I’m sorry. I’m still pissed at you for running your mouth, but I’m sorry too.”

Art nodded, said nothing else and reached for the doorknob.

Here is a frustrating thing about Art.

He said he was going to leave for downstairs once [Y/N] said she didn’t hate him. He started to make good on that vow. If he says something, he’s going to do it, even though he doesn’t have to do it.

“Come on,” [Y/N] called louder than she’d been whispering. “Come here, pretty baby.”

Pretty Baby by Blondie had been their wedding song. She had been calling him that for almost as long as she had known him. Saying it, or hearing the song always made that stunning, small crooked smile stretch up beyond his sad puppy eyes all the way to his ears.

Art’s kryptonite was pretty baby. They both knew it.

He turned to look at her with a slight blush on his cheeks, almost visible in the dark. Art shifted one of his feet childishly over the other in apprehension.. “Don’t make me say it again. I don’t like to ask twice.” [Y/N] reminded him.

After a hasty nod, Art was in bed before he [Y/N] blinked. The blonde sat bolt upright beside [Y/N] with his eyes wide. Hesitant, but coyly so. He knew this pattern. The agony and shame from her brutality would only last so long. Housepets loved to cause trouble for treat.

Not to say that Art liked to start fights so he could play some low-status lapdog that got to feel his wife’s fingers comb through his hair the way he liked as a reward for an apology. The man bit his cheek to avoid a devious smirk. A part of him did like to do that sometimes, though.

He always got away with it. He was such a nice boy.

[Y/N] rolled her eyes and leaned back into the threadbare pillows. With a finger, she beckoned Art nearer. Hesitation eliminated, Art flopped slowly down beside [Y/N]; she on her back, he on his side, facing her. Delicately, Art’s fingers dragged down [Y/N]’s arm to curl in her fingers.

Not long after that, his plush mouth climbed down from her neck. Then shoulders and collarbones. Then bicep. Elbow. Forearm and wrist. Down her hand to her silver-studded ring finger. Each kiss with accompanied with an honest and dutiful I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He was sorry. Genuinely. Sorry for the upset he brought his wife, but not the cause. Art’s beautiful duel-colored eyes glanced up at [Y/N]’s blown pupils through her own fingers.

“I didn’t mean to talk about you like that… I just… I love you so much that I want more of you. That’s all, honey,” Art laid his head on [Y/N]’s upper chest and his mouth moved against the front of her throat. “I’m just a little stupid, huh…”

Under his lips, Art could feel the rumble of a laugh rip through [Y/N]’s throat. Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair to hold him in place. “Do-don’t talk about yourself like that,” she mumbled and gave his hair a lovely tug with both hands. He whimpered. [Y/N] wanted to bottle that sound. Art would always remember what she said next and how she said it: “Only I get to talk about you like that… St-stupid.”

This was the version of [Y/N] he was going to remember when he thought of her every day for the rest of his life. That sentence, the way her hair hung from where he had pushed it away from her neck. The sting of the cold metal from her wedding ring on the back of his neck and the stone of her engagement ring pressing into where he reached his palm to place his hand over hers. There was just the wrong amount of clothes between them. Her eyes ringed smoky from the makeup smudges and the exhaustion.

“Say it again.” Art whispered, swinging a knee over [Y/N]’s thighs so he could stare down at her. His forehead pressed softly against [Y/N]’s.

[Y/N]’s mouth fell open slightly with a breathy exhalation. Holy shit. “What, pretty baby, you want me to tell you how stupid you are? You like that?” [Y/N] almost whispered into Art’s still lips. He was too shocked to kiss her back, but too turned on to pull away. Art whimpered louder than before. [Y/N] felt him nod.

So she didn’t hold back. “You think I need to punish you after you behaved like that today or something? You need to atone for what a moron you were, shithead?” [Y/N] kept her tone light enough to just about tease as her nose trailed along the side of his. Her objective was to belittle. Her nails slid down Art’s muscular, sturdy back.

They both knew Art was a masochist on his worst days. Did he get off on being degraded sometimes? Sure. But this series of events was ridiculously new and exciting for [Y/N]. And shockingly obviously for Art too.

His hips pressed into her pathetically. “What? Did you need help with something?” She asked innocently when she felt Art’s hard-on against her thigh. [Y/N] kissed him distractingly warmly for how she was treating him. Art’s head spun and he couldn’t seem to make sense of anything anymore. He had backed himself into the best kind of corner.

Across Art’s hips and side went [Y/N]’s left hand, to the front of his sweatpants. Humiliatingly, Art blinked tears out of his eyes and screwed them shut. His mouth opened and closed, but no intelligent sound came out. [Y/N] planted a kiss at the corner of his parted lips. His strong arms boxed [Y/N] protectively in from above, but she had him locked into place, really. “Baby, if you want something, you know you have to ask for it.”

“Nnh,” Art tried, eyes stuck shut. His attention was mostly spent hold himself up over his wife. His insanely gorgeous wife. [Y/N]’s other hand grabbed his jaw tenderly. He still didn’t look at her. Art was gathering his courage. “Yo-you already told me I couldn’t have what I wanted.”

With a sharp inhale, [Y/N] grip went from gentle to nonexistent. At the lack of contact, Art’s damp eyes crept open one at a time to see if his brattiness had overstepped the situation. His frightened eyes caught [Y/N]’s. She popped the side of his face sharply with an open palm. Art blinked and tipped his head to the side like a dog.

That was big trouble, huh?

“Fuck,” he said. Both of them panted in sync. “I’m sorry.” He meant it.

[Y/N] pulled Art’s face to hers and kissed him hard. “I love… you.” She said.

[volchitsa-of-winterfell]

the way patrick zweig is so clearly a creature of desire; so fundamentally hungry. always devouring, uncaring of how desperate he might appear for it—taking a bite of the line judge's bagel sandwich before he even sits down; scarfing down his hotdog before grabbing a bite of art's, and then later treating their churros exactly the same way; picking the cigarette that tashi slapped out of his mouth up off the literal alleyway street so he can finish smoking it. acting on his hungers without asking permission first.

the way art donaldson is comfortable expressing desire without acting on it; content to yearn. mr. i-do-what-she-says-and-then-i-win obediently drinks his green juices, his electrolyte mixes; he lays his heart on the table for tashi, twice, and lets her decide when to take it; he tells her he wants to kiss her, but then lets her come to him to actually do it. a lapdog, just like patrick says: he'll turn his pleading eyes to you, desire writ across every line of him, but he is too well-bred to ever snap and just take.

....except, of course, with patrick; but even then, only when he can sublimate his desire for patrick into the appearance of desire for another woman. snapping at the churro when patrick calls him out over sowing doubt in his relationship with tashi is the obvious one, but also the fact that art is the one to come first in their mutual-masturbation experience when talking about kat zimmerman (how much of it was because of miss zimmerman and how much of it was art letting himself imagine patrick with her?). patrick, in the churro scene, describes it as seeing art "lit up about something," and while he's not wrong i think it's more specific than that. art feels deeply, keenly, but he guards the flames of his desire so carefully; banks them down and keeps the embers glowing for years. tashi is content to meet art halfway, to take the quiet longing invitations he extends. patrick is not. his desire, his hunger, is bigger than that. he wants to see sparks fly. how perfect, then, that he is the only one who can bring that out of art. he does exactly that with the racket-neck signal, and art (once he's over his shock) is once again lit up; ready to take the win, not to have it handed to him.

the way tashi duncan understands them both, perfectly, from their very first night in that hotel room that was so formative for all three of them. she kisses art first, because she already knows that if she kissed patrick first, art would take that as a rejection and retreat; put his desire away. she kisses art first because she knows patrick will not give up on his own desires that easily. she understands how to stoke art's desires and how to temper patrick's and teach him patience. and because of that, she gets them both: she doesn't have to choose.

[heavenbarnes]

Million Dollar Baby

Art Donaldson x Fem Reader

Warnings/Contains: this is essentially a series of vignettes, at this point you’re the duncan-donaldson sugar baby, swearing, effective cheating (tashi approved), mild exhibitionism, face slapping (not with hands), unprotected sex, reader is pretty submissive, thee slightest tashi x reader, patrick mention.

Part one

it’s that part two to “i wanna make it (so badly)” that i kept harping on about! just wanted to prove to you all i could make good on something! enjoy! i still crave this man!

Born under a lucky star.

Rabbits foot. Horse shoe. Triple sevens. Four-leaf clover.

Art Donaldson plays tennis very well.

When you're around?

He's better.

O2 Arena, London, England. ATP men's singles finals.

Naturally the only way you'd ever get close to something like this was on her invitation.

Tashi had invited you.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We'll cover your flights and accommodation- it's important that you're there."

Yes, because you were sure you could sweet talk your way into a lesson with Lily at Buckingham Palace.

Obviously, obviously it wasn't about your silly little tennis lessons these days. But that was the front.

Rich neighbourhood, nosey neighbourhood.

"Tashi, I couldn't help but notice Art's Jeep drive past me as I left Pilates. Just who was that pretty young thing in his passenger seat?"

"She's Lily's tennis coach, he drops her off when she's had to stay late."

Yeah,

yeah.

Drops you off because your legs aren't their best when they've been over his shoulders for an hour.

It was a pretty good front.

So you found yourself courtside in a Lacoste skirt you'd never imagine owning. That's why you didn't own it, Tashi had left it on your bed among other items of clothing she expected to see you in.

Dress-up doll.

Her plaything.

Pulled out of your thoughts by the chorus of cheer, it was all directed to the movement you could just and only see out the corner of your eye.

Art Donaldson took the court with a kind of swagger that made your thighs tense under expensive material. His eyes took to the stands- sweeping over adoring eyes looking back at him.

And then he came to rest.

You could tell he looked at Tashi first, the way his shoulders straightened and the grip on his racquet became even tighter.

Miracle it didn't snap.

Then you felt him look at you, his eyes softened and the corner of his mouth turned up.

A smug smirk as he ran his tongue along his teeth.

And you began to think back on everything that lead you here.

-

You had found yourself in many precarious situations with Art.

And you were acutely aware of the fact you hadn't seen it.

You'd felt it- felt it against your thigh, the heat of your cunt,

fuck, you'd even felt it against the sole of your foot.

Ruined numerous pairs of Calvin Klein's in the process.

But you'd never seen it.

And it wasn't a topic of contention, it wasn't a 'you' thing per se.

It was actually the fact that Art about blacks out every time you make him cum, and that's through a good few layers of clothing.

The thought of getting it out and laying it against your bare skin? Putting it in your mouth? Putting it inside-

Even the the idea of it makes his eyes water. Blessing and a curse, really.

On one hand, he's guaranteed a mind-blowing orgasm.

On the other, it might only last a few seconds.

You were just happy to be there.

Art could give you everything or give you nothing and you'd lap it up every time.

Good girl.

Art looked good like this, he always looked good but there was something about this.

Sat on the couch, thighs spread, large hands balled up on his knees. When you were in this position- on your own knees before him, with reverence- he looked good.

He looked all consuming.

If you asked him, it wasn't a sight Art was used to, something something role reversal.

Your hands ran along the coarse hairs of his legs, ever-so-slightly getting closer to the bottom of his shorts.

(Post-tennis, still a little sweaty- heavy musk if you really got your face in there)

"We'll go as slow as you need, Art."

However he wants it, whenever he wants it.

Quarter to midnight on Tuesday, you were meant to be doing an ungodly load of laundry tonight. But then he'd looked at you, then he'd told you he 'needed' you.

Turns out whatever he wants looks a lot like what you want.

Obedience in spades.

He stopped you before your hands could go any further, opting to reach under the waistband himself. You were all the better for it, too focused on not giving up the extent of your excitement.

Was it weird to say you'd spent a lot of time imaging what his cock looked like?

Probably.

You reasoned it with the fact you knew Art spent a lot of time thinking about what happens under your pretty little tennis skirts. That and he'd seen it more times than you could count, these days.

Things always seem to go his way.

Your breath caught in your throat when Art hooked his thumb around the waistband, stretching the elastic so he could get it out.

Of course, of course it was as pretty as the rest of him.

Flushed pink at the tip, pale and creamy down the length of it. Kind of thing you need to get your lips around.

Banked for another day.

One hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped around the base- Art slapped his cock once, twice on your outstretched tongue.

"A-ahh, f-uck- okay-"

Nice and slow- can't have him blowing the top off just yet.

He couldn't really say you were helping the point. Sitting there, sitting pretty, primed and ready for whatever he wants next.

The sight along was enough material to tug his cock to for the rest of his life.

Let alone being faced with it.

Which is why he did just that- tugged his cock to it.

Long fingers wrapped around a long cock, twisting along the length of it, rolling the palm over the head. Sticky wetness catching in the centre of his palm as he drags it back along the shaft.

Your tongue stayed permanently outstretched, allowing him to slap the weeping tip right on it. If it wasn't your tongue, it was your cheek- wherever he could gain purchase with your skin without tipping himself over the edge.

Yet.

Eventually, Art came in filthy hot ropes across your face and the most minimal amount actually made it in your mouth.

Majority of it was painted across your cheeks, drawn up and sweet under your shining eyes. Bright smile stretched across your face beneath pearly little drops.

Pretty girl-

perfect girl.

-

"I'm sorry- I just need- oh, oh god- just need-"

Incoherent.

A bleary-eyed, incoherent Art.

Chest pressed tight to your back, shorts around his thighs- your little skirt bunched up tight in his fist.

"I need this- I need this- y'so good to me- I need this-"

Yeah, seems like it.

You'd only managed 15 minutes on the court before it'd come to this. Art had thrown his racquet to the wind and ushered you around the side of their changing shed- the same one where he first,

You know?

Yeah.

You'd actually headed for the door but he couldn't wait that long, pulled you between the wall and the tall fence that circled the court. You were both nestled in beneath an Arabian Gingerbread Palm of sorts- naturally.

Art had slipped your underwear to the side and mounted you like a fucking dog.

Desperate.

The sound of his taut thighs slapping against yours was fucking ludicrous, the sight would’ve managed something worse.

He had a look across his face that said he knew this was pathetic- that there was no way he should’ve been rutting into you in broad fucking daylight.

But it’s not like you could see that look, not when his face was pressed into your neck.

“Ohh, you just- you just feel so good.”

Was he crying?

You looped an arm around the back of his head, slowly stroking your nails against his scalp as you struggled to keep yourself from buckling under the pressure.

Your other arm stretched out in front of you, palm braced on the wall as Art continued the relentless piston of his hips.

Through tears even.

“Feels so good, Art- making me feel so fucking good- just rub my clit, touch me a little.”

In an instant, his fingers were under the front of your skirt as he rubbed haphazard circles around the apex of your cunt.

“Like this? You like this? Tell me I’m doing a good job, please.”

Jesus Christ.

“Yes- doing a good job, you always do so good- gonna’ make me cum.”

And like you’d said the magic word, Art was going rigid. Hips slamming into you with a couple brutal and unyielding thrusts, less precision than you were used to with him.

Til’ he was dripping out of you.

His fingers kept going.

Until your face was pressed was pressed against the changing shed wall, sure to leave a lovely pattern of stucco on your skin.

Until you were babbling and canting your hips back onto his hand as drool ran down the side of your cheek.

Until you even realised that he’d dropped to his knees and was running his tongue through your cunt from the back, massive hands splitting your cheeks.

You reached a hand back to grip his hair, pulling his face even further into the sodden lips of your pussy as you fucked yourself back onto his tongue.

“That’s it- lick my cunt, Art. See how good you taste?”

Your ears stopped ringing long enough for you to hear it.

He makes that noise when he cums.

Again.

Tashi watched you both drag your feet back into the house- a sheen of sweat over you both that could’ve looked post-tennis.

To anyone else but her.

She let you pass without issue, but a fine hand pressed to Art’s chest as he tried to follow you to the showers.

“If I ever see you cum before her again, there will be trouble. Understood?”

There was no use explaining that you didn’t mind, that you kind of liked when you riled him up- made him lose control.

That he probably deserved to feel good.

Instead, you heard him murmur an apology before he finally got you under the monsoon shower head in the enormous guest bathroom.

Three more good ones on his tongue, just for good measure.

-

It was a miracle the Donaldson-Duncan mantelpiece didn't crumble under the immense weight of success.

Trophy, after trophy, after photo, after-

"Did Tashi meet Obama?"

Art chuckles over your shoulder as he watches you cradle the photo, eyes wide with admiration. Devotion?

"She did, he invited her to the White House the year before we got engaged."

"Your invite get lost in the mail?"

"It wasn't about me."

Is anything ever about him?

As you continued your impassioned scan of their family treasures, you came to a complete stop at a 5x7 frame.

"Is this a young Art Donaldson?"

You could feel his eyes on you as you lifted the frame with the same gentle touch as you'd lent to Tashi's photo.

This time, your fingers gingerly brushed over the glass- almost as if you could feel the crop of golden curls beneath your fingertips.

"You've never seen any of my earlier games? Junior doubles at the US Open?"

Taking your eyes off a very-pretty-young Art, you threw him a look that said something like 'be so serious.'

"No, I wasn't much for watching tennis as a- what? Six year old?"

Oh.

That's right.

It was impossible for Art to forget the elephant in the room- call him a dirty old man but Art was always thinking about the pretty young thing that he liked best in his lap.

But sometimes he forgot.

"Well, that's me the day Patrick and I won."

"Who's Patrick?"

Oh.

And just like that he's chubbing up in his pants.

Art Donaldson currently exists in a space and time where he has something that Patrick doesn't.

And you're none the fucking wiser.

How could you be? You're still enamoured with the shaggy golden curls and the unspoken pull of a backwards cap.

"Yeah, you would've driven me wild back in the day."

There's a wry smile that catches on the corner of his mouth, right at the same moment he takes the photo from you. You're forced back to reality, present day-

The one where Art's a few years older but still as devastatingly handsome.

"Would've?"

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, feeling a firm chest pressing against your shoulder blades. Feeling crowded.

Feeling caught.

"As if I don't already."

Art spends the evening reminding you of your place.

That, despite the age between you, he's still the one that runs rings.

-

Contrary to popular belief, Art Donaldson has bad days.

Unfortunately for just about everyone in the O2 Arena, he chose today.

Well, the fates decided on today.

As he thrashed his racquet through the air, you could've sworn you heard the 'woosh' it was sure to have made from all the way up here.

Tense, you were slumped in your seat as you couldn't escape the voice in your head-

the one that was telling you your luck had run out.

The one that still sounds a lot like Tashi Duncan.

"COME ON!"

Tashi's voice actually sounded from beside you, making you jump out of your skin.

Naturally, you began searching for Art- searching for something to do, someway to fix this. What was left for you if you couldn't be lucky.

Rabbits foot. Horse shoe. Triple sevens. Four-leaf clover.

Nowhere to be found- but you found Art, found his eyes.

Looking at you.

Pleading with you.

Come on.

There was that pathetic little gaze you'd come to know. When he wanted something, when he needed something.

Art Donaldson always gets what he wants.

You jumped a little when you felt Tashi's hand rest on your knee where it crossed over the other. Perfect manicure drumming against your kneecap, gripping once.

Gripping twice.

Gently, prying it away from the other till they were side by side.

Thighs being forced apart.

Suddenly acutely aware that Art's eyes weren't on your face anymore.

They were on Tashi's hand.

Acutely aware that, among all the pretty things she'd laid out on your bed this morning, there wasn't a pair of panties among them.

That same perfect manicure between your spread thighs, patting you once, twice- right where her husband had made a home.

Under a lucky star.

Art Donaldson had a penchant for getting what he wants.

With an unmatched performance, the arena was turned on its head. Neon green blitz across the court, landing right where he wanted it to.

The crowd cheered his name to a tune only he knew;

How to be a winner.

All guts, all glory.

The deafening commotion chewed you up but it was Art that spat you out. Amongst the noise, the fury, you found him stood staring right at you.

Expectantly.

The weight of responsibility on your chest. Your luck hadn't run out, it was only just the beginning.

To the victor go the spoils.

Somewhere, a rabbit was missing it's foot.

[222col]

https://www.tumblr.com/222col/761602995000639488/patrick-meeting-you-on-tinder-a-younger-girl-too

and imagine he becomes obsessed with you. wont stop texting you, showing up to bars you’re at, constantly touching you when you’re around😈😈

you knew what you were signing up for with patrick. a one time fuck, an instagram follow and maybe a ‘u up?’ text once in a blue moon. but that wasn’t the case, patrick had become obsessed. more obsessed than you knew what to do with. you went for the older, egotistical guy purely for the sex, thought it would be an easy fuck that you could get your fix and move on from. but patrick’s texts started blowing up your phone only two days later.

patrick: hey princess wanna get a drink?

patrick: let me fuck that pretty pussy again

patrick: come sit on my dick pretty girl

patrick: cmonnn i need to taste u

every one of them you ignored. you weren’t there to become patrick zweig’s personal fuck toy. yeah, the sex was good, but christ. the man was obsessed. you were keeping your friend company during her shift at the bar she worked at when patrick first showed up. the tagged location on your instagram story. “you should be more careful, princess.” he’d whisper in your ear. you, of course, end up fucking him again that night. he’s charming, and you have needs. but it only makes patrick more pussy whipped.

“need to see you again.” patrick mumbles into the skin of your neck, both still heaving in the musty back seat of his car. “i’m right here.” you joke, slipping back into your clothes. “let me take you out.” you only scoff, putting on your shoes and getting out the car. “bye, patrick!”

patrick: i need you.

patrick: please let me fuck u again

it’s degrading, the levels patrick has fallen to in his obsession with you. he rarely wants to sleep with the same girl twice, let alone begging to fuck her a third time. he finds himself stalking your social media, waiting around bars he knows you go to, desperate to feel you again. it’s when he finds you in a club that he knows he’s fucked. he craves you. watching your mini skirt hitch up your thighs as you dance with your friends. he’s never seen anyone, anything, like it, like you. his hands are all over you when he reaches you on the dance floor, lips on your skin. fingers hooking underneath your clothes, hips rolling against yours. all it takes is for you to lean up and kiss him and he’s dragging you to the bathrooms.

he’s on his knees, in the stall, face buried in your cunt. he’s high off the taste of you, wants to worship every inch of you. fucks you hard against the door, bruises your face holding in your moans. “want to get caught? want everyone to see what a little slut you are, huh?” patrick whispers into your ear, hands tight around your thighs, holding you up flush against his skin. he loves marking you, loves seeing the pink of your cheeks when he slaps you. he jerks off everytime he sees a hickey from him on your skin peeking into the selfie you posted on instagram. his teeth are in your shoulder, biting down, hard.

“can’t fucking get enough of you.” patrick almost groans as he pulls his jeans back up. he feels himself get hard again when he sees the bite mark on your shoulder sticking out through the straps of your top. all you do is smirk at him, kiss his lips again and dart back off to your friends.

patrick: please let me take u on a date

[artdcnaldson]

ugh "leverage" to ensure she won't go tattling to patrick. especially as he starts getting meaner and meaner, he tells her it's to make sure she doesn't back out and tell on him. because patrick would genuinely kill art if he knew what he's been doing to his baby sister.

i know it doesn't really fit in the canon of the other parts to this au, but hear me out anyway... what if he agreed to fuck her, properly this time, in her sweet little pussy. BUT he needs said leverage to make sure she keeps quiet about it (truly he just needs to immortalize taking her virginity so he can watch it back for the rest of his life). so he "agrees", he's the one to bring it up lol, on the condition that he can record it. y'know like really shitty, amateur, pov style, on her creaky dorm bed and pink, frilly sheets. shaky and grainy, but it's good enough for him. it's not like he would ever actually post it anywhere or show people, but she doesn't know that.

he gets off on how nervous she is when he points the camera at her, she's blushing and trying to hide her face. but he just slaps her cheek and manhandles her to look right down the lens of his shitty phone camera. tells her to moan louder around his big cock, tell the camera how good he feels, really just stroking his own ego. makes her tell the camera exactly how he's making her feel, can't cum unless she asks into the camera. he nearly cums right inside her when she tells him he's too big and it hurts :(((((

yummy yummy yummy

-🐞

OHHHHHHH <3 I had to let this simmer. This had to ruminate. Had to really let it sit and grow legs or whatever wine people say idk

RATING: E (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v, degradation, making a sex tape, loss of virginity, world’s worst aftercare), mean!art as always, uncomfortable power dynamics, DUBCON due to coercion

He catches you leaving one of your classes, chatting happily with a few girls as you walk. Their eyes widen as he approaches, smacking his gum, looming tall over them. You murmur a quick apology and bound over like an obedient little pet, falling into stride beside him as he walks.

“What class is that?” He asks, nodding back towards the building. Most of the time he forgot you even attended the school beyond cheering at his games and floating around his dormitory like a ghost.

“Peoples and cultures,” you reply, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s an anthropology course I’m taking. It’s actually really interesting, like, these past few lectures have been—“

“What are you doing tonight?” He interrupts, not really caring beyond the simple answer to his question. He has a one track mind, and for the moment he’s just thinking about getting in your pants.

He watches you think, then shrug. “Um… nothing, I guess? Why?”

Art stops by a tree suddenly, tugs you by your wrist to stop with him. “Do you promise if we fuck you won’t tell Patrick?” He watches as your eyes widen, as sheer need and excitement makes you practically vibrate out of your skin.

Frantically you nod. “I’d never tell Patrick, I’d take it to my grave, I swear,” you say, totally earnest, bouncing on the balls of your feet as he looks at you.

“God, I want you so bad,” he hums, brushing your hair back behind your ear. You melt beneath his touch, gaze all half-lidded and soft. “I just… I think I’d have to have some leverage, just to make sure no one ever finds out.”

You tilt your face, resting it on his hand, your eyes half-lidded and dazed with need. You hum a soft, “Mhmm,” without even knowing what he’s implying, what he’s asking of you. But he hears what you’re thinking, all dumbed down and needy— yes, Art, whatever you say Art, anything you want, Art.

He wants to do it in your room, that night. He walks you back to your dorm and tells you to get your roommate out, make sure she’s busy for however long you need. He’d text you when he’s on his way.

So you’re just… fucking vibrating with excitement, cleaning up your dorm, changing your sheets, fluffing your pillows. You light three warm vanilla sugar candles so the dorm smells nice and sweet, put on your roommate’s SEXXXMIXXX <3 CD that she had burned in High School (and kept your fingers crossed it was still relevant). You took the longest fucking shower of all time, scrubbed your skin until it stung, shaved you’re entire body, wondered if maybe he wouldn’t like bald pussy, then worried that he’d hate if you kept the hair even more. Moisturized, then put on pretty, light makeup— lipgloss, mascara. All in the span of time it took for him to text you.

Art :) <3

omw

You feel a little dizzy by the time he’s at your door, already wet just anticipating what you were about to do. He grins down at you, at your silky little pajama set, pink and lacy around the edges. Smacks his gum, trails his hand along the sides of your waist.

“Pretty.” He looks smug as he rubs the lace between his fingers. “You got all dressed up for me, huh?”

It’s amazing how timid and shy you can look as you stand in front of him, biting onto your lip as you nod. He shuts the door behind him and guides you backwards until you knock against your bed and laugh nervously. Jesus, he’d already fucked your ass, your throat, he’d done things to you that even the dirtiest fucking sluts on campus wouldn’t dream of allowing. But you’re all shy because he’s finally going to fuck you properly?

You gasp as he tugs down the neckline of your top, exposing your tits to the cool air of the dorm. So cute, soft. Your nipples already hard and sensitive, so just the lightest pinch makes you let out a pretty moan.

“Remember what I said about leverage?” Art says, and you nod slowly, dreamily. “I want to film it.”

Your eyes widen slightly, as you think back to the pictures he’d taken of you just a few weeks prior. “And you’d… what? Like post it if Pat finds out?”

“No, no, only if you tell,” he corrects. Even then… he doubted he’d actually ever post it anywhere. He had a tennis career to consider, after all. But the important thing was that you believe he will. “It’s just to make sure this stays our secret.”

You swallow, consider it. You didn’t plan on telling Patrick, so it was fine, right? He’d hate Art, and you didn’t want that. You would never want that, no matter what.

So you nod softly. “Okay,” you say finally. “I’d… yeah, I understand. Okay.”

God, you’re easy. So fucking easy it makes him a little sick to think about. What if he wasn’t Patrick’s friend, if he was some frat house asshole who would take advantage of how bad you wanted him? You’re so lucky he’s a good person.

He uses your own fucking digital camera— pink and decorated with little heart stickers. Turns it on and records you as you slip off your sweet silky pajamas, revealing soft, smooth skin beneath. You’re so shaky, so nervous. You can’t even look into the lens.

“No panties?” He asks, lips quirked into a grin. He steps forward to slip his hand between your thighs, to cup your pussy in one big hand. God, you’re so fucking wet, just like you usually are. He could just slide right in without any resistance, just bury himself right inside that tight little pussy. “Jesus, you’re a fucking mess, just dripping for it, aren’t you?”

You moan, relishing in the feeling of his hands on you. Art never touched you, not to get you off, at least. So the feeling of his thick calloused fingers against your cunt makes you whine. He breaches your entrance with just a fingertip and grins at the feeling of you clenching around the intrusion, desperate for anything he’ll give you.

But the relief is gone as soon as you’ve gotten it. He pats your thigh, nods to the bed. “Go lay down. Let me film you stretching yourself out for me.”

“Art,” you whine once you’ve laid down, embarrassed as he trains the lens on you. “Do you have to film this part?”

It just makes him double down, grinning smugly as he settles at the foot of the bed. “C’mon, just fucking do it. Show the camera how fucking wet you get for me.” You hear the whir of him zooming in as your hand slips between your thighs, as lithe fingers slide through your soaking wet folds and you tease your clit. He groans softly, grinning at the sight on the camera. “Alright, spread yourself out now. Show me how small and tight you are.”

You whimper pathetically, but obey. Your fingers form a V as you spread your lips, revealing the pretty, drippy hole of your cunt. He doesn’t even have to tell you to start fucking yourself, you just do. Pretty, manicured fingers disappearing inside the tight channel of your pussy, slow and easy as you pant and gasp sweetly.

“Can you do three?” He asks. He zooms the camera out, makes sure he gets all of you— your tits heaving with each breath, the slow grind of your hips to meet your fingers. You nod softly, press a third finger alongside the other two. He grins at the sight of the stretch of your cunt around them, how your body works to accommodate them. “God, it’s a tight stretch, huh?”

“Mhmm.” You moan as you pump your fingers slow, in and out. Wet to the point of it sounding obscene. Slick dripping out with each thrust, making your fingers glisten.

He can hardly take sitting there and watching, but god, he’d love it later on when he was alone with only the video to keep him company. But who knows? Maybe he’d fuck you once and never want anyone else. He already felt that way… kind of. You were so eager, so obsessed with him. You touched him like it was an act of worship. He couldn’t get that from easy pussy.

He sets the camera down on the foot of the bed while he undresses, tugging off his sweats and tee shirt, mussing up his hair in the process. It’s not lost on him, the way your fingers speed up at the sight of his cock, how needy and desperate you are.

“How bad do you want it?” He asks as he picks up the camera.

God, he’s mean. You whine when he grabs your wrist and makes you slip your fingers from inside of your cunt. Empty, needy, desperate. “Please, fuck me, Art.” You’re embarrassed, of course you are. He has a camera focused on your needy little expression, one hand on your thigh all warm and possessive. “Please, I’ve been so good for you. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I just need you, I need you inside of me. Want you to be my first. Please, Art.”

He’s not sure where he wants the camera as he notches the head of his cock at your wet little hole. Part of him wants to film the second he buries his cock inside of that tight fucking cunt, but the other wants to film your face, watch how pretty you look as you take your very first cock.

And god, you’re trembling beneath him. Visibly shaking with anticipation, or nerves, or need. He runs a hand along your torso, cups one of your tits in his hands and thumbs over your sensitive nipple. “What, are you cold?” He teases.

“N-no,” you stammer, meeting his gaze. “Just— I just want it so bad.”

He films your face, which was the right call, he decides. He has to think about it technically, or he’ll risk blowing his load one pump in, like a total fucking loser. You’re so tight around him, clamping down on his cock as he sheaths himself within you, inch after inch. And god, that angelic face of yours— mouth agape, wet and pink and pretty, the tiniest furrow between your brows, lashes splayed against your cheeks as you moan, soft and sweet. “Hurts,” you practically whimper. “God, Art, fuck, it feels—“

He films where your cunt swallows him, stretched to the point of obscenity around his thick cock. It shouldn’t even be able to take him, not when you’re so small, so fucking tight. It’s a fucking miracle you’d even taken a toy before. He’d make you film that next. All desperate, fucking yourself on silicon while you drooled over a picture of him. It was sweet that you’d been trying to prepare yourself to take him and you were still a shaking, needy mess.

Tears well in your eyes as he thumbs at your swollen little clit, he feels your pussy clench around him, already so fucking keyed up. He should be good. He should make love to you, nice and slow, like a good boy. He’s starting to think he’s not a good boy, not at all. “Just lay there and take it, yeah? Just look nice and pretty for the camera.”

You cry out when he pulls back only to drive back in, hard and deep. His pace is relentless as he fucks into your cunt— warm and wet and tight and fucking perfect. He honestly shouldn’t have waited, he should’ve fucked you the first night you offered yourself up to him— sweet and needy and clinging off his shoulder like you were his girlfriend.

“A-Art, fuck—“ You cry out, fisting your pretty hands into the frilly duvet, as he bullies himself into you. “Oh, god, fuck, A-Art, it’s too much— I-I can’t—“ A strangled moan seems to rip itself from your throat as your head falls back against the pillows.

He grins. “Yeah? Don’t tell me, honey, tell the camera.”

You whine, turning your head away as embarrassment rips through you. It’s mean, keeping it trained on you while you’re so fucking vulnerable. He grabs your chin, holds it in place as he fucks into you, deeper, rougher. It punches out gasps from your pretty open mouth— Ah! Ah! Ah! Over and over and over.

He pops your cheek, not too hard, but enough to draw your attention back from him and away from your dizzying thoughts. “Tell the camera how good it feels to have my big cock in that little pussy of yours, yeah?

“It feels— ngh— I love it,” you have pretty fat tears slipping down your cheeks as he drills into you. “You’re so big, I— God, fuck— I feel you in my stomach. Here—“ You grab his hand, move it to press against the bottom of your stomach. He can’t feel anything, not except warm skin beneath his, but he groans at your words, at the implication that he’s so deep he’s in your fucking guts.

He has to bite his tongue so hard he tastes blood. He knows he’s going to cum, knows that he’s not going to last or show off epic, manly stamina and impress you. Not that you give a shit, but he wants to set a standard for whatever fucking loser you fuck next. He’d have next time, and as many other times as he wanted. You’d keep coming back for it, for him.

He struggles to manhandle you the way he needs while holding onto the camera. He tosses it into the sheets so he can press your knees up to your chest. “Hold them— yeah, that’s it, fuck— feels good.” You’re so obedient, holding your legs up for him so he can get deeper. Your eyes roll back, flutter shut. He fumbles to grab the camera, to immortalize you like this.

Your cunt squeezes around him, makes his rhythm falter as he struggles to fend off his orgasm. God, he just wants to bury himself deep and rut into you, to cum deep and hard, leave you dripping with him. It’s about him… but it’s about you too. He’d be good, he’d make you cum.

“Tell me how bad you need to cum. Fucking beg me for it,” He groans, rubbing at your clit with a calloused thumb.

You whine, squeezing around his cock as he draws you closer and closer. “Need it, Art. It feels so good— you’re so fucking perfect, feel so perfect inside of me. Wanna cum for you, around your cock, wanna show you how good you feel. Please, please, god, I want it, I want to feel it, Art. Want you to cum inside of me, need it so bad— I fucking dream about it, about you. You’re so much better, you’re everything I want, Art, fucking claim me. I want you to.”

Art wanted to pull out. He did. He was going to glaze your pussy with his cum, get it on video, swipe his fingers through it and make you taste it. But Jesus Christ, you fucking ruined that idea. He cums suddenly, practically collapses on top of you as he fucks into your cunt, spilling himself deep inside of you. And like the perfect fucking toy you are, you cum too, milking him for all he’s worth, walls clenching down around his cock as he lazily ruts into you.

He pants, stays buried inside of you as he tries to catch his breath. He’d never cum inside someone before— he was too afraid of knocking someone up. He’d always had the self control to pull out, but he lost himself in fucking you, in the tight grip of your pussy around him. Christ, that was bad.

When he pulls out, a thick gush of his cum follows, pearly white, dripping down your ass and to the bed. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, you’ve tugged a blanket over yourself shyly. Looking so demure, so sweet, batting your lashes up at him expectantly.

The camera lays dropped and forgotten on the bed, he goes and presses the stop button on the camera and you grab at his arm. “Do you want to stay the night?” You ask with a shy bite of your lip. “I told Izzy to fuck off, so she’s with her girlfriend. We’ve got the dorm for the night, so you can stay.”

Art makes a face akin to annoyance as he redresses, tugging on his boxers and sweats. His shirt is somewhere… he can’t focus. “I’m not your boyfriend.”

Your eyes widen, you swallow as heat floods your cheeks. “Yeah, I mean, I know,” you stammer. “I just thought…”

His jaw ticks. “Don’t do that, then. This is just about fucking.

Art watches the sad little nod, the tiniest twitch of your nose as you fight the rush of tears to your eyes. “I know that, Art,” you say sadly, and you’re trembling again. “I just wish you’d stay for a bit. I’m… I feel a lot right now. I’ve never… I’ve never felt this before I just want—“

“What do you want? A hug, a kiss?” He watches you sniffle sadly, nod and mutter a watery, yeah. He sighs, stops searching for his shirt, and pulls you against his chest. You feel so warm, so vulnerable as you shake and cry hot tears against his chest. He frowns, pulls back, and presses his lips to yours, quick and chaste. “I’m not doing this again if you keep acting like this.”

You sniffle and nod. “Okay, I know, I won’t do it again.” He kisses the crown of your head. Grabs a random shirt from the top of your laundry basket, grabs the camera, and heads for the door. You watch him leave with a pouty, wobbly little frown and get up to redress. You find his Stanford Tennis shirt partly beneath your bed and pull it on. It’s big, fits you like a hug, smells so boyish and warm. You lay back down on the bed he just fucked you on and breathe deep, let his smell flood your senses. It feels a little like being wanted.

AURRRRR this was so much longer than I thot <3

Anyways. Love pat’s sister au, feel free to send me any asks you want about these messy bitches <3

🐞 anon i love u

[yameoto]

The first thing I think of when I see this is broke ex patrick zweig

broke ex!patrick whose good morning text is simply a venmo request. broke ex!patrick who calls you pissdrunk to pick him up from bars so you can foot the bill. broke ex!patrick whose sending u 32 voicemails at 4am that u don’t even open. because he’s done this before and you didn’t get the sound of his filthy pants n the sloppy sound of his dick slapping against some other girls mouth out of your head, in his vain attempts to get u jealous. one new voicemail for each new girl. calling them the names he used to call you “pretty fuckin’ princess” “y’so good. so much better—“ and the second last one is punctuated by the sound of her sputtering, choking, gagging (she doesn’t take it as well as you). n he’s cursing and grunting and then he moans your name as he comes. guttural and ripping deep from his chest, completely unmistakable; and the next voicemail is the girl jerking back. spitting his dick out of her mouth n slapping him across the face. broke ex!patrick sending u a slew of more voicemails after that that’s just him jerking himself off n being like “fuck baby i miss your tight lil pussy so bad.” “m’sorry ‘m’sorry. i’ll pay you back next time. swear. pay you back with this fat fucking cock if you just—“

[leftoverghosts]

'til death

art donaldson x cheating wife reader. mentioned you x pat.

"I don’t think I could survive seeing you with someone else."

warnings: nsfw!!! some curse words. use of she/her for reader. no use of y/n. dom art. smut. art is a munch. finger in butt. cheating reader. more gross than i usually write. not beta read.

nori says: please!! please!! read my warnings! xoxo. i have a few more asks to get through for my xmas game! but besides those (and ones pending from sof) i am closing it!! thank you so much for playing!!! here is a little gift of what i would have selected!

word count: 1,400~

"Tennis Legend Art Donaldson’s Wife Seen Kissing Mysterious Man."

The title elicits a scoff from you, while Art's teary eyes gaze at you as if you've castrated him.

Yes, you kissed Patrick. Yes, things went further than just a kiss. But for some asinine, no-name fucking blogger on Instagram to refer to you as "Art Donaldson's wife" is the real travesty here. That's libel, that's slander.

Your knee throbs with pain.

"Why didn’t you tell me Patrick was in town?" Art weeps, and you drag your eyes back to his face before cringing.

Martyr, martyr, martyr. It’s his favorite role. You want him to be angry, to be calculating like he used to be. You want him to manipulate his way back into your good graces.

"Art," you sigh, "ask me what you really want to know."

“Did you fuck him?” He asks it almost as soon as you finish speaking.

"Twice." You shrug, wanting to wound, longing for the real him to shred through the flesh of the docile facade he's hiding behind and fight with you.

He sucks in a breath, fingers drumming against the table before he...smirks?

"I don’t think I could survive seeing you with someone else. Especially not him.”

“You’re barely surviving as is, Art. Sometimes I feel like if it weren't for your blinking, I wouldn't be able to tell the difference between you and a doll. I have to sit you here, change your expression there. Fuck. Who are you?"

He blinks at you. "I am who you made me."

"I want you to be who you used to be."

"If I change, will that make you stop seeing Patrick?"

You pause, confused. "Patrick doesn’t matter to me. He's not the man I chose to marry. But when I'm with him, I can pretend it's the real you again. I like the familiarity of it, like we're back in that hotel room and he fucking listens. Having to explain this is beneath me.”

"Mhmm," Art takes a moment to process your words before getting up and walking around the table to stand beside you. He hovers over you, waiting for you to face him, and when you do, his hand is in your hair, yanking.

Art pulls you out of the chair with little effort. It crashes to the ground with a loud clatter before he kicks it aside. He steps behind you, needing even less effort to press the side of your face against the table's wood grain. His hand grips the back of your neck, firmly holding you in place.

"You don't just want me to listen, you want me to fucking snap, don't you baby? It's not like you to work backwards.” he sneers. “And if anything is beneath you, it’s still sneaking off with Patrick Zweig in your thirties. He’s ranked two hundred,” your skirt is pushed up to your hips, “and seventy fucking fifth.”

Art rarely curses, but you've pushed him over the edge and caused him to reveal that he's been keeping track of Patrick's rank.

This was what you wanted all along.

You start to complain when he rips your expensive pantyhose, but Art silences you with two quick slaps on your ass and rips enough of your underwear to have access to you.

“Shut the fuck up. You’ll use my Amex to buy new ones anyway.” He lets go of your neck and swipes his pointer and middle finger across your wet center like a credit card, squeezing your labia and working at your clit. You can't see his smirk but you can feel it. “Don’t you have any self worth? Or are you that bored with the life I bankroll for you?”

When you don’t answer, he pauses, peering down at you as he restrains himself. His expression is tinged with fear when your eyes meet, as if questioning whether he’s gone too far. Consent has always been important to him; even after five years of marriage, he never touches you without asking for permission.

“I’m okay, Art. You’re doing well.” You reassure him, not lifting up from the table, but turned on by how quickly the apprehension in his eyes transforms into lust.

"Okay." He nods and drops to his knees, "open your legs for me, baby." You oblige eagerly, yearning for his touch. His strong hands grip your soft flesh, spreading you open before him. Your heart races with anticipation as you feel his hot breath against your most intimate area. He teases you with a long, slow lick, his tongue warm and wet as it glides from your clit to your asshole.

A moan escapes your lips as he begins to work you over with his mouth. Art points his tongue and probes at your ass, prodding and swirling around the rim. He alternates between flicking his tongue rapidly across your hole and pressing it inside you, wiggling it deeper.

You're drunk on the vulgar slurping sounds as he laps at you, greedy and insatiable. He sucks and nibbles at your rim, taking you apart piece by piece.

He pulls back to spit thick gobs of saliva over your fluttering hole, the crude act making you clench and shiver. Rivulets run down your crack and over your thighs. He dives back in, sealing his mouth over your entrance and sucking hard, his tongue writhing against your walls.

You cry out and push your ass back into his face, desperate for more. Art’s hands grip your hips as he tongue-fucks your hole with abandon, plunging in and out, swirling around your rim. He devours your ass like a man who has been starved for days, moaning with pure bliss at the taste of you.

Your thighs begin to tremble, overwhelmed by the unrelenting pleasure and his grip is hard enough to bruise as he feasts on you, giving both your holes the attention they crave. He knows just how to please you, taking care of your every need before indulging in his own desires.

You would laugh at how even in his dominant role, he still prioritizes your pleasure first, but the sensations are too exquisite to do anything but feel.

Art works you over with his tongue, bringing you to a shuddering climax before standing and shifting his sweatpants down to free his throbbing erection. He fucks into you and one hand grips your ass cheek while his thumb circles and probes your puckered entrance, slipping inside to the first knuckle.

"Does Patrick fuck you like this?" Art pants heavily as he thrusts into your slick heat. "You think he could afford a woman like you? The jewelry you're wearing right now costs more than that piece of shit's entire car. And he thinks he can put his hands on what belongs to me? Fucking tell me."

"No, never!" You babble incoherently, grasping at the table for purchase as the dual stimulation threatens to overwhelm you. The sensations aren’t new, but this tension is. "I only keep him around because I miss you so much, Art. It's always been you."

“Lying. Fucking. Whore.” he grits out, each word punctuated by a sharp snap of his hips and a twist of his thumb buried in your ass. "You miss someone you were trying to get rid of? But you'll never be rid of me. 'Til death do us part, say it!"

“Til’ death, baby.” You eagerly agree, tears flowing from your eyes pool on the table under your cheek. It feels like a baptism, like you’re coming back to your religion.

“Cum for me. Slut.” He dribbles a little more spit down onto his thumb and quickens the pace of thrusting it in and out of your asshole, matching the rhythm of his cock inside your pussy. “Show me what you did for him in that cheap hotel room.”

He's always vocal during sex, but the degrading words are hitting you in all the right places. Your legs start to tremble and you tighten around him, signs that you're close to orgasm. Just as you think you're about to come, he pulls away, stroking himself until he finishes and ejaculates all over your backside and legs.

“What the hell, Art?” You whine, turning to glare at him. But he shoves the same thumb into your mouth and when you recoil, he laughs. His expression is deadly serious.

"If I catch you with Patrick again, I'll divorce you. Don't test me."

[sunsburns]

need tashi making making me take the strap while art and patrick are above me

bruh and i know her strap is fucking big too. like just imagine her behind you, hands on your ass and hips, a tight grip as she tugs you closer, pushing her strap into you. and you're wincing into the sheets, salty tears in your eyes at the stretch as she goes in real slow and surprisingly gentle while you tremble under her.

“‘m almost in, baby,” she mutters under her breath, humming softly. at the same time, art kisses her neck, leaving bruises in his wake. “c’mon, i know you can take it.” tashi continues to push the tip of the silicone into your hole while patrick runs his fingers up and down your spine, grinning at the way you shudder at his touch.

it’s only after a few more gentle strokes that she finally pushes the whole thing in and she’s fucking you relentlessly; a little rougher than art, a lot more gentle than patrick. she watches the way her cock sinks in and out of you, relishing the moans and whines you make. “look at you,” she mewls, “taking it like a good girl...”

when art leaves tashi’s side, it’s to go to you, to kiss your ass, then up your back, momentarily stopping to suck on patrick’s fingers before he tangles his hands into your hair to pull your head up from the pillows. your mouth hangs open, breathless sighs escaping your lips before he starts to kiss you, tongue, teeth and spit.

you only stop when you feel patrick start to rub at your sensitive clit while tashi speeds up. art continues to eat up every single moan you let out, running his tongue over your own, his free hand reaching down to toy with your perked nipples, fighting back his urge to suck on them.

when you cum, unravelling under their touch, tashi doesn’t top. her grip grows tighter at her hips, and if she’s feeling cheeky she'd slap your ass with her cock still deep inside you. you moan her name and she licks her lips, “you've been so good, can you give me another? i know you can.”

[temporarywelcome]

Devil's Night, 1946 - James Patrick March

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Many years have passed since you and March have split up, meeting again in the Hotel Cortez when you need him to do a simple task he's been procrastinating on for years... distractions happen

CW: smut, porn with WAY too much plot, fingering, angry sex, p in v, possessive!james, dom!james (kinda), sub!reader (kinda), a slap to the cooter

A/N: they're both vampires it's mentioned like twice it really doesn't matter lmao. Pretend women have some more rights in 1946. I WAS SUPPOSED TO POST THIS ON HIS BDAY BUT ALAS... life.

________

The Hotel Cortez hasn’t changed in the slightest since the last time she saw it.

It still was bustling with guests and patrons, with loud chatter at the bar and silent gossiping in the sitting area. There was a couple seated in one of the love seats, holding hands, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears.

The sight made Y/N grimace. 

It reminded her of how things used to be. How things were between Y/N and James Patrick March, the owner of the establishment. They were practically glued at the hip, her painted black nails always gazing his skin, his hand always firmly on her lower back. Always together. In love.

That was long in the past. 

Striding towards the front desk, Y/N eyed the little receptionist up and down, “Hello, is Mr. March in tonight?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the receptionist, her name tag reading Laura, replied. “He’s currently in a meeting in his office. How may I help you?”

“I wish to see him. Now,” 

Laura raised a brow, awkwardly clearing her throat, “He’s in his meeting, ma’am, he might take some time. If you’re in a rush, you can write him a message?”

Y/N rolled her eyes in annoyance, lips curling into a sneer, “Tell him to wrap it up. His wife would like to speak to him,”

____

Within minutes, Laura was ushering her into the office of James Patrick March. 

Like Y/N expected, as soon as James was aware of her presence, he had kicked everyone out of his office, eager to see her. He was seated at his desk, a cigar between two long fingers, wearing his usual white button down, black suspenders, dress pants, and shoes combo. To accompany it was his carefully gelled hair. Y/N remembered doing it for him every morning, a little bonding experience the two of you used to have. 

“It’s been a long time, my dear,” he finally said after a moment, his usual James March smirk appearing on his annoyingly handsome face, “I was beginning to miss you,”

“Hello, James,” Y/N replied, making no move to step closer to him, “It has been a very long time,”

“You haven’t aged a bit since the last time I saw you, dearest,” he complimented, rising up from his seat, “Just as ravishing as ever,”

“How can I age, James? You took that from me,” Y/N laughed bitterly. She adjusted her large black fur coat, eyeing the room. It was practically the same as before, “It’s been twenty years, James. Possibly time to renovate,”

“You’ve always been so kind, darling,” he strode towards her, taking her hand, “Now how may I assist you?” he brought her hand to his lips, pressing a sweet kiss to her knuckles. 

“Take a guess,” she snatched her hand back, slipping a hand into her designer purse and pulling out a neatly piled stack of papers. She walked to his desk, and being, well, a man, James’ eyes travelled to her ass, admiring the way her tight black dess esentuated her curves. He was snapped out of his thoughts when she slammed the papers down ont the desk. “Sign the papers,”

“Excuse me?” 

She looked at him over her shoulder, “Sign the damn papers,”

“What papers? I believe I don’t know what you speak of, my love,” he placed his finished cigar in an ash tray.

“Cut the act, James,” Y/N hissed, taking a pen from his desk. She turned to face him, holding it up, “It’s been twenty years. What’s the point of doing this any more?”

“Doing what?”

“James,” she clenched her fists, “It’s been twenty years! I want a fucking divorce!”

A laugh left him, a dark chuckle, “That’s what this is about? The silly divorce? And for a second I thought you missed me,” he opened up a cabinet and grabbed a bottle of scotch and two glasses, “You came to me on this day just to harrass me? On such a special day?”

“Special day?” she scoffed, “What’s so special about it?”

“Oh, my dear,” he brought an arm around her, leaning in,” It’s Devil’s Night,” he whispered into her ear, breath tickling her skin. 

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes, “I remember. However, I don’t give a damn. Just sign the papers and I’ll be out of your hair,” 

“But I don’t want you to go,”

“But I want to go,” she shot back.

James shook his head, taking a drag of his cigar, “You really want to end a twenty year marriage like this?”

Y/N barked out a laugh, “We were only together for a month of it,”

“Yes, till you left me,” he snapped, sudden venom in his tone, “You didn’t even say goodbye. Didn’t leave even a note. Just some blasted divorce papers.”

“So you did get them?” she mused, digging into her bag and plucking out a cigarette, bringing it to her lips.  Despite his anger, James still immediately brought his lighter to her cigarette, like he always did when they were together. She glared at him, dropping her lighter back into her purse and taking a puff, “From that letter you sent fifteen years ago, I was quite confused.”

“Ah, what did I write in that letter again?” 

“Hm,” she pretended to think, “First, I had wrote you telling you to sign the damn papers. You then wrote back saying you never got any papers. You said I would just have to meet with you to sort this out.”

“And you never did,” he pointed out the obvious, politely holding out a glass of scotch for her, which she dd not take, “So why now? Why not continue on with how things have been?” 

“Because I don’t want to!”

“Well why?” he pressed, stepping forward, “What’s so different now than fifteen years ago? Ten years ago? One year ago? What’s so different? What is so-?”

“I’m engaged!” 

There went the scotch.

It fell from his grasp immediately, the glass shattering onto the floor like little puzzle pieces, “...Excuse me?”

Y/N groaned, holding up her left hand, revealing an golden engagment ring with a modest diamond, “I’m engaged,”

James gripped her wrist, examining the ring closely, “How pathetic! You don’t even like gold, you love silver. And this diamond! It’s practically microscopic! How could you settle for a man that not only can’t tell your taste but is poor?”

She rolled her eyes, “How materialistic, James,”

“It’s true! It doesn’t even compare to to the ring I proposed to you with,” To Y/N’s surprise, James yanked up his necklace, revealing the charm that was neatly tucked under his dress shirt. Two rings, one silver with a dark trim and a comically large ruby in the middle, a diamond on either side. The other ring was more modest, still silver, with small diamonds embedded into it. Her engagement and wedding ring. 

“You… you kept the rings?”

“Of course I kept the damn rings!” he scoffed, raising his left hand now. He was still wearing his wedding ring. “Of course I kept the only remembrance I had of the wife who left me!” 

“You turned me into a damn vampire!” she shot back, shoving him angrily, “Did you expect me to be happy with you?” 

“I wanted us to spend eternity together-”

“I didn’t even know you were a vampire!” she shot back, “And you just turned me without even asking me! F-Forcing me to drink your blood, I thought it was some devilish ritual!”

“It was practically a ritual to declare our love!” 

Y/N rolled her eyes, “Yeah, I felt so loved then. I was terrified! I didn’t know what you were going to do! You… You could have been planning some sacrifice or God knows what, I-”

His lips were then on hers, his body pushing hers against the desk. She gasped, feeling the sharp sting of the hard wood hitting her back. His hands went firmly on her hips, blunt nails digging into her flesh as he kissed her hungrily, her burgundy lipstick smearing all over both of their lips. 

She should have pushed him away. She really should have. Should have pushed him away and just fucking kill him to end this nonsense once and for all, but she couldn’t. Instead, her arms wrapped around his neck, kissing him back just as feverishly. 

“You made me wait twenty years for you,” he growled, lips leaving hers to find her jaw, then her neck, kissing and sucking on the skin with need. “Twenty years without you,”

“N-Not like you missed me,” she panted, fingers playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck. 

“How could you say such a thing? I have been patiently waiting. Have you ever seen any reports of the famous James March with a new mistress?” He tugged up her ebony dress till it was at her waist, pushing her onto the desk. He plucked the cigarette out of her shaking hand and discarded it into the ashtray. 

“Well, no-”

“Because there has not been any.” He said firmly, beginning to rub her through her lace panties. She whined out, grip on his hair tightening. “I have not touched a single other woman in twenty years while you've gone around whoring it up with all these other men who mean nothing compared to me,”

James took it upon himself to relieve her of her undergarments, his large fingers rubbing her swollen clit in tight circles, “Well? Who is he? Tell me about this bastard,”

“His n-name is William,” she choked out, hands going to his shoulders to ground herself, “He loves me very much,”

“Yeah? What does this William do for a living?” one of those long fingers slid through her wet folds and into her awaiting heat.

She bit her bottom lip, not just to stiffle her moans but to prolong her answer. “Um…”

“What does he do for a living?” James repeated, pushing in a second finger and curling them inside of her.

“Ahh! He's… A hotel owner…” She trailed off.

He stopped his movements, looking at her with wide eyes, “He's a what?”

“Hotel owner,”

His eyes darkened, “So my replacement is just some cheap copy?” he hissed, utterly offended, “For that you might of well have just stayed with me!” His fingers left her cunt, causing her to whine with need. “Shut up,” Next thing she knew, a large hand was delivering a harsh slap to her sex. 

She cried out, “James!”

“I said shut up,” he grumbled, hastily undoing his belt buckle and suspenders, pulling down the front of his pants and boxers, his leaning cock springing free. With one hand on her hip, he began to stroke himself, “Once I'm done with you, all thoughts of your cheap new fiance will be out the window.”

How the hell did they end up like this? She came here to demand for him to sign the damn divorce papers so she could marry the man she supposedly loved, yet here she was about to get her back blown out on her ex-lover’s desk.

James lined himself up with her entrance, slowly pushing in. He always started off gentle and romantic, but Y/N knew better. This was just the beginning.  “How does that feel, my love? Still thinking about that bastard William?” he said the name venomously. 

“N-No, James,” she whined out, legs wrapping around his waist as he began to thrust in and out of her, tantalizingly slow. He was teasing her, doing it on purpose. 

“Can he fill you like I can? Hit just the right spots like I do?” he continued, nipping at her earlobe, “I bet you don’t get this wet for him, bet he struggles pushing into you because he just doesn’t get you excited enough,” James smirked, both hands grabbing her waist as he sped up his pace, sliding in and out of her clenching walls with ease, “That’s never been a problem with me. You’ve always come to me with open arms… and open legs,”

“Oh, shut up, you bastard,” Y/N grumbled, nails beginning to dig into his back as he found a steady pace, hips snapping repeatedly against hers with each thrust. “We were never able to have normal sex, huh?”

“Well, you never stopped cursing me out,” he replied cheekily, hands going to her large fur coat, and sliding it off of her shoulders, “I think I got used to you berating me while I kindly pleasured you,”

“You got off on it, don’t lie,” she shot back with an eye roll, until he hit that perfect spot and she gasped, “Oh James do that again James please do that again-”

“Ah, that’s what I like to hear,” he mused, angling his hips to hit her G-spot over and over again. His hands went to the zipper of her dress, bringing it down so that the entirety of the garment was bunched up by her waist. “Much better,” he said smugly, leaning down to take a nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud. 

“Ahh!” she whined, playing with her other nipple in pleasure, “Right there right here!”

He began thrusting into her faster, a groan leaving his lips as he plunged deep into her warmth, “Look at that, darling, your cunt is taking my cock so deeply, how greedy,” he teased, admiring the way she involuntarily clenched around his thick length with each thrust, swallowing his dick. 

“Greedy for your cock only, you damn bastard,” she cried out. Couples give each other such endearing or powerful names in the bedroom, but of course that had to be her favorite for him. Bastard. Even when they were madly in love, that was what she called him. “It always filled me up so w-well,”

“Really, darling?” he grinned, reaching a hand between their bodies and gently rubbing her clit. Her eyes snapped open and she whined, lips parting into the perfect “o” shape. “Filled you so perfectly? Then why did you try to replace me, huh? With some cheap copy? Sounds like we know who the real bastard is here,” 

The combination of his dick pounding into her and his fingers expertly rubbing her clit had her seeing stars. She dug her nails into his shoulders, head falling back as she moaned out in pleasure, giving him the perfect view of her breasts bouncing every time his hips met hers, skin slapping against skin. She wasn’t hearing a word he said at this point, digging her heels into his back, ankles locked, urging him deeper into her. Knowing she was still in her blood-red high heels turned him on even more, he used to always love seeing her in heels. 

“Damn you, you bastard, I’m going to cum!” she gasped, biting her bottom lip, “Damn you, damn you,”

James laughed, leaning his head down to bite her pulse point roughly, “You’re gonna cum all over your ex-lover’s cock, my queen? Cum all over my cock and make a mess of yourself? Do it, I dare you,” he lifted his head to survey her facial expressions as he continuously snapped his hips forward, drilling into her in abandon. He then reached out, his large hand going around her throat, and he didn’t even have to squeeze, she was cumming. 

“I’m cumming, I’m cumming!” Y/N squealed, cunt clenching around him one last time before he felt her thick fluids coat his length. 

“That’s it, my love, cum all over my cock, it’s my turn now, gonna fill you up, make you mine again,” he buried himself inside of her as he came, painting her walls white. Hips sputtering, he came to a halt, arms going around her waist, “All mine, no one else can have you but me,” he nuzzled her nose with his own, waiting for some movement. Signs of life. 

And then her gorgeous eyes opened, looking up at him tiredly, “I came here for a divorce,”

“Damn that divorce,”

“Damn that divorce,” she repeated, leaning her head on his shoulder. 

“Dramatic girl, leaving me all by my lonesome for twenty years just to come back to me,” 

Y/N hummed in response, closing her eyes, “Take that as punishment,”

James let out a soft chuckle, stroking her soft hair, “Have I been punished enough?”

“I suppose,” she pulled away from his neck to look him in the eyes, “Happy birthday, James,”

_____

how tf does one write dominate men sorry I usually like subs

[cupidsarrcws]

fucking frat boy!patrick one night at one of the social mixers not knowing who he was <3

you weren’t apart of a sorority— your friend was and she practically begged you to come to one of the social mixers her sorority was throwing (one of her attempts of getting you to continue rush season).

you were in red dress, floor length and silky, with a champagne glass in your hand while you stood in the corner, watching as your friend talked with one of the frat guys who had wandered over to the two of you and dragged her away from the conversation.

that’s when patrick swooped in.

“i haven’t seen you around before, what sorority are you apart of?”

you looked around, almost confused as if he was talking to you or someone behind you. you blushed a bit when you realized no one was around, clearing your throat before speaking.

“uh, i’m not— i’m a plus one. for rachel,” you murmured, pointing out your friend who was giggling and talking across the room. “more like her keeper now, she told me not let her go home with any frat brothers so.”

this got a laugh out of patrick, which shouldn’t have set off the butterflies in your stomach but it did. you couldn’t deny that he was attractive either— he was wearing a light blue shirt, slightly unbuttoned to where you could see his star of david necklace, and slacks that made him seem taller than he actually was.

“i’d like to know the names of people before they start ogling me if that’s okay with you.”

his words pulled you out of your trance, your face flushing up in embarrassment as he chuckled at your demeanor. “i’m just joking with you, i enjoy the attention.”

“r-right,” you said before telling him your name, reaching out your hand for him to shake. he glances down at your hand before reaching forward, pushing a piece of your hand that had fallen behind your ear.

“i’m patrick, patrick zwieg.”

you don’t know how the conversation led to you being shoved up against the door of the broom closet, but all you could think of is how your legs were about to give out with how fast he was going.

“p-patrick,” you gasped, feeling his hand bunch up the front of your dress before placing his fingers over your clit, the groan he let out going straight into your ear.

“god, you’re so fucking wet,” he panted, driving his hips into yours at a pace where anyone who could walk outside could definitely hear what was going on. your soft moans and whimpers were only fueling him to go faster.

your back was arched against his, your face being smudged against the door as he pounded you into it. it was almost uncomfortable but hearing how his grunts went directly into your ear made the soreness you’d feel after worth it.

“f-fuck i’m close, i-im gonna cum!,” you whimpered loudly, feeling his other hand slap over your mouth.

“fuck— do it, cum all over my cock, wanna feel your tight fucking pussy squeeze around it,” he groaned. those words and the pressure from his fingers on your clit sent you right over the edge, feeling your whole body being covered in bliss.

you’re surprised that you didn’t collapse onto the floor with how much you were shaking, just babbling nonsense about how good he felt, thanking him for letting you cum on his cock— if you knew half of the shit you were saying, you’d die of embarrassment.

but patrick thought it was the hottest fucking thing he’s ever heard— immediately pulling out and cumming onto your ass.

you both panted heavily, bodies still close to one another as you recovered. you finally regained consciousness when you felt him wipe up his mess that he left on your body, turning your head to look at him.

you gulped softly, seeing his smirk as he got redressed. you looked around for your panties, furrowing your eyebrows when you couldn’t find them.

“i’ll give these back when the time comes,” he spoke, holding to your pair of black lacey panties in his hands, his smirk only growing wider when your face turned even more red.

he pulled you into a sloppy kiss, reveling in the soft moan he got from you before exiting the closet, leaving you with your thoughts.

“fuck me,” you muttered to yourself, leaving the broom closet just in time to run into your friend. her eyes were wide and her jaw was slightly gaped, causing you to look over yourself, thinking that your makeup was still smudged or that your hair was out of place.

“what?”

she didn’t give you any time to say anything else, grabbing your hand before taking you into the girls bathroom, making sure that no one else was in there.

“who were you with?”

your face heated up once again, gulping softly as you fidgeted with your hands. “look, i know what you said about fraternity guys but he was actually-“

your friend stopped you, holding up her hand. “i don’t care that you hooked up with a frat guy, i just care about who specifically.”

“his name was patrick, his name is zweig i think,” you shrugged, raising your eyebrows as your friend rubbed your face in frustration. “what is it rachel.”

“do you remember that guy that hooked up with tashi, my sorority president? how they dated for a while before it became a whole shit show? that he’s the biggest piece of shit and cannot be trusted?”

your stomach churned at where this was going. you heard about these stories from multiple people— hearing about how he slept with a lot of girls from the sorority, how he was an asshole— the whole spiel.

“that was patrick… and if im correct, that’s who walked out of the janitors closet a few minutes before you.”

fuck.

[amymbona]

First time writing an ask kinda nervous….. imagine you went to the tennis academy with ArtPatrick and they never really noticed you, not really on their radar but you end up going to Stanford and befriended Tashi and they are just whipped for you idk what else to add IM SO NERVOUS

Yes yes yes that's so cute! The boys being completely smitten with reader 🥹🥹🥹 I could make a series from this cause this one's a bit short (I've no inspiration😔). Let's pretend that in this neither of the boys study at Stanford and Patrick isn't dating Tashi.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

To begin the story simply, tennis is the main focus of your life. Or at least used to be, until you hit puberty. With hormones running through your body, up and down from head to toe, and your periods happening each month, you started noticing significant changes not only in your physique but your mentality too. Suddenly, boys were all you think about.

While slowly building your teenage career and attending the academy, you kept your eyes on boys around you, subconsciously searching for a partner. And you considered yourself pretty normal. Not many thoughts about sex, at least not the hardcore version of it, just hoping for a nice monogamous relationship with a guy who'd love and support you unconditionally. Until you met Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson.

Aside from your crush on Brad Pitt as Achilles, you were never really smitten with boys before, so your poor brain froze the moment you entered the court and a mix of two muscular - for their age - moans reached your ears. There they were. The brunet one was taller, a mess of curly hair sticking to his forehead, and he was a bit more expressive too. Most of the groans were from his mouth, face grimacing as he chased the ball, limbs long. Next to him, on the court, was a guy who's blond hair was hidden under a cap, but you caught a glimpse of his big nose. This one, was a bit more muscular, eyes creased in concentration.

It's safe to say that you became obsessed with them, figuring out their schedule to be on the court exactly at the same time. It wasn't really your thing before, but you began tucking your skirts a bit higher so they could possibly catch a glimpse of your ass, and make sure to groan loud enough when you hit the ball. Every so often, your eyes would trail towards the two, eager to see if they are watching you, only to end up disappointed if you find them immersed in a deep conversation.

It shattered your poor teenage ego, especially when you decided to greet them - reminding yourself that tennis players all know one another so it won't be that awkward - only to end up with a light wave from Art in response. Honestly, you were devastated.

Now, one year into Stanford, you've managed to successfully push the two towards the most dark depths of your mind, focusing back on tennis. You are grateful to have befriended a fellow player - Tashi Duncan - who has become something close to a best friend. You hadn't really heard of her before, perhaps once or twice on the sport's channel news, but she has proven as an incredibly complex person. For her age, she is far above average, dominating every match, but her soul is delicate enough to flow in sync with yours.

The two of you are dorm mates, spend a lot of time together and have found much needed calmness in the presence of one another, a friendship one could really ask for. Doing the talk, you've learnt about Tashi's family, hobbies and friends - two of which, she has mentioned, were named Art and Patrick. Rings a bell?

And definitely rings a bell, if not even slaps you across the face, when you come back to your dorm after practice, eager for a shower and a good afternoon's rest, only to find two boys occupying your two beds. And Tashi's nowhere.

"Oh, hi," the blond guy is the first to break the awkward silence, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. "We didn't know you were coming. We, um- we're waiting here for Tashi."

You nod, eyes trailing between the two boys, each of them gazing you up and down. And suddenly, you become too aware of your attire - a really mini *mini* skirt and a light sports bra, your top stuffed somewhere in your sports bag that you've dropped by the door - and it's easy to see the boys aren't trying to hide their excitement.

"Well, she's still at practice so..." you mutter, crossing arms over your chest to somehow hide whatever the boys are looking at.

"Should we go?" Art proposes, finger pointing at the door.

"No, no, you can wait here. I'm just gonna shower so I can't really entertain you." you offer the boys a small smile and quickly fish some clothes out of the wardrobe and disappear in the bathroom.

The boys exchange a glance, mouths parted and eyes wide. Damn. It's been a long time since they've seen a girl this pretty! Your flushed cheeks and plump lips are all engraved in their minds, the sight of you in so little clothes hard to erase. God, your cleavage was so full, almost spilling out of that bra, that Patrick desperately wished the fabric would magically burst and he's ve granted with the clear view of your tits.

You reenter the dorm in a fresh set of clothes, combed hair flowing down your back and the boys' eyes are on you again, small, playful smirks on their faces. You try to ignore the butterflies in your tummy and the way your voice threatens to quiver as you approach your own bed, currently occupied by Patrick.

"Do you mind?"

"No, no, enough space for both of us," he replies nonchalantly, patting the space next to him, but that smug smile on his face is hard to miss.

Your eyes roll, arms crossing. He knows damn well that's not what you meant. "Just move."

Patrick grins, raising his arms in mock defense and reluctantly pushes up from his spot only when Art commands him with a soft c'mon Pat, allowing you to plop down.

For a long while, now both settled on Tashi's bed, the boys study you, taking notice of the way your sweater clings to your skin, the way your bare feet tap against the floor nervously and how you're trying to look all calm and indifferent, picking up a random book from the nightstand to demonstrate so. But Patrick breaks the silence.

"So, who're you?"

The question surprises you and perhaps hurts a bit, as you realise the boys have completely forgotten your face, despite seeing it for years in the academy. Perhaps you hoped they would remember you.

"Tashi's roommate... Y/N." you add when they raise a brow.

"Y/N." the name rolls off of Art's tongue sweetly as he repeats it. He likes how it sounds, it's simple but very flirting, as if your face was meant to hold such a name.

Patrick, meanwhile, imagines himself screaming that name. Not only that, his mind is filled with various scenarios where you are the main character.

The boys introduce themselves, not that it's needed for you, and for a moment, you're almost tempted to remind them that you actually know each other. "Yeah, I know you."

"You do?" Patrick asks, raising a brow, almost too excited.

Fuck. But you can't just tell them how much of a crush you had on both of the boys back in the academy, how many days and nights you spent thinking about them, imagining that'd be thinking about you too, imagining all the possible moments you three could have spent together.

"Um, yeah, from the... From Tashi." you stumble over your words. "She's mentioned you before a couple of times."

The boys nod, looking you all over, examining every single of your tiny mannerisms that are on display, the way you nervously scratch the back of your neck and chew onto your lower lip. Fuck. You're so cute in their eyes, they could watch you forever.

A slightly awkward silence settles over the room, and the more intense their gazes become, the more nervous you are. God damn, where the hell is Tashi when you need her the most? If you'll be forced to stay alone with Art and Patrick for one more minute, you're probably gonna go crazy and say something incredibly stupid or just jump in one of their laps and begin kissing them.

Like a miracle, a much needed knight in shining armor, Tashi shows up. She greets her friends, introduces you three once again before finally taking the boys out. Like they're on a leash, the boys follow her without a single protest, but before they leave the dorm, two sly smirks are shot in your direction. What you don't hear, after the door closes, is the boys smothering Tashi in questions about you.

[girliism]

more rigger art but with a special guest appearance by patrick (thank you to anon who put this in my mind)

letting patrick sit in on some of yours and arts scenes was nothing new. art knew you liked the attention and patrick was his best friend, there’s no one he’d trust more. that’s why when patrick asked if he could do more than just watch art told him yes, after asking you of course.

you were seated on your knees at the foot of the bed with patrick behind you, his hand grabbing your forearms bringing them to your back to rest on top of one another, and he wraps them with the rope. “how does that feel?” art asked while watching patrick finish up tying your chest harness leaving a nice design of knots in the back. “feels good.” you answered, yours eyes following art’s figure as he gets up to walk behind you. the feeling of their presence behind you was making your cunt throb.

“gonna let me play with you tonight?” patrick voices from behind you, kissing behind your ear. you nodded sighing softly, then patrick placed a silk blindfold over your eyes. “sir.” you panicked a little, being bound and blindfolded, having not heard art’s voice in awhile.

“i’m here baby, just relax, you’re ok.” you pursed your lips out silently asking for a kiss, which art gladly gave you. patrick lets his hands glide over your body, brushing against the rope resting above and below your tits, his thumbs ghosting by your nipples. your mouth falls open and you moan into your kiss with art when patrick’s hand reaches down to cup your pussy. “fucking soaked down here.” you couldn’t help but grind against his hand.

patrick tsked moving his hand off you. “art, you have a very eager bunny on your hands, thought she had more home training.” you huffed. you could sometimes forget to ask before taking, you were so eager. “just want you, just wanna play together.” you whined. “but what do we say, hmm.” art rub his hands up and down your thighs, pinching your waist. you sat up a little straighter and licked your lips. “please patrick can you fuck me with your fingers.”

satisfied with the answer he got, patrick pushed you forward so you were face down ass up. patrick smooths his hands over your ass before placing a smack down on it, the force of the slap jolts your body forward and a loud moan. “look at you talking my fingers so well.” patrick coos pumping his fingers in and out of you painfully slow. you were whining, and burying your face in art lap, his steadily growing boner pointing your cheek. “f-faster please faster. sir, make him go faster.” you babbled, and faster patrick went. with no warning patrick fucked his fingers in you. “oh fuck, thank you.” your eyes were rolling to the back of head behind the blindfold as you moaned into art’s lap.

art’s hand that was petting your cheek moves to press his two fingers down on your tongue, forcing your mouth open. the high that was quickly approaching you gets ripped away when art signaled for patrick to stop. “no! why why?” tears flow from your eyes as you try and talk with art’s fingers in your mouth. “patrick is our guest pretty, you can’t cum before our guest.” you couldn’t protest cause patrick rammed his cock into you.

“fuck, tight pussy, so warm.” patrick pulled out only to buck back into you harder beget settling for a rhythm he was happy with. “god art. you always pick up the best girls, with the perfect pussies so needy.” patrick grunted, letting his head fall back, relishing in the feeling of your cunt squeezing him so tight. moan after moan is punch out of you. you’re so lost in the feeling of patrick fucking you, you almost miss the sound of art unbuckling his belt. “come here, baby. come suck sir’s cock.” you couldn’t see and your hands were tied behind your back, so getting art’s sick in your mouth was a task.

the tip of art’s cock finally met with my lips and you immediately sucked it into his mouth. you were a moaning, slobbering messy around art’s cock. you more so just hold him in your mouth than you were sucking him. patrick’s art grab your waist fucking you back onto him. having nothing else to grip onto you dug your nails into your elbows. “fuck.” art had to pull you off his dick, all the moan around you were doing he could feel it and was ready to cum yet. “tell me how good patrick’s fucking you. tell me how much you love letting him use you.

“fucking me so good sir. love the feeling of his fat cock using me - oh fuck sir - like being a slut for patrick.” your words are like honey in patrick’s ears and his bruising grip gets hard. “holy shit art, can i cum in her?” patrick moans. his hip smacking into your ass. “cum in her patrick.” a low moan is heard and warm liquid is spilled inside you. patrick sits for a moment before pulling out. your breath is heavy. “sir?” your pout can be heard in your voice and if you weren’t blindfolded art would bet you’re giving him the most sickening puppy eyes. “please can i cum now?” art thumbs over your cheeks. “come sit on my cock and you can.” patrick has to help you crawl over to art, you lack of vision and use of your hands making it hard.

“oh.” you gasp as your pushed down onto art. your blindfold is pulled off and you have to blink to get your eyes used to the light in the room. “hi.” you say finally getting to seeing art. “hi, you wanna cum huh.” you nodded you head so fast. “ok.” with that art planted his feet on the bed and started fucking up into you. your pussy was slick with your arousal and patrick’s cum. “gonna let me cum in you too? leave you dripping with mine and patrick’s cum pouring out you pussy.” you moaned and whimpered, nodding your head. “yes god yes.” patrick hand slides up your throat and under your jaw, tilting your head back to look at him. “what a little cumslut you are.” patrick said his eyes locking with yours before he smashed your lips together. it was a messy kiss with much tongue. “you can let go whenever bunny.” art whispered kissing your throat. you finally cum when patrick’s fingers come down to rubbing fast against your clit. “fuck.” you body twitches and slumps back into patrick’s chest. the feeling out you squeezing around him had art cumming, his mixing with patrick’s.

both men clean up after you, wiping you down, whispering praises and kisses little bits of your skin.“thank you for being so good for us today.” art says kissing your face. patrick is slow when he unties you. stretching your arms out from being in a bent position all night. you end your night sandwiched between them, your arms wrapped around art burying your face in his chest. patrick’s arms wrapped around your middle his fingers drawing shapes on your stomach.

[222col]

Can you please write a fanfic about shy nerd Stanford student Art being in love with reader who studies in the same college and her repeatedly rejecting him but Art pining for her and doing everything to change her mind and he only has eyes for her even though there are many girls who have crush on him and trying to seduce him and get him to like them back. And one day his best friend Patrick decides to set him on a blind date without Art knowing because he knows he would refuse so when Patrick tells him to meet a girl he thinks that they would meet for studies or something and when Art goes to that "blind date" he notices that y/n was on a date in the same place on and she realizes that she has feelings for Art because she gets jealous when she sees him with the girl but she can see that he's feeling very uncomfortable around that other girl. You can add smut and them ending up together I'M BEGGING YOU TO WRITE SOMETHING LIKE THIS 🧎‍♀️

oh my god yes yes (i changed the blind date idea a little hope thats okay!!!) i may have gone a little overboard on the length i was excited okay | 18+!!!

"c'mon, please, just say yes this time," he's pleading with you. holding your favourite flowers in his hand. part of you feels bad, rejecting him again and again. he is cute, just a little too cute for you. "art, i've told you, you're not my type." your arms are folded, he sighs and leans his head against your door frame. "will you at least accept the flowers?" his words are like whimpers. you smile sweetly at him, extending your arm. that smile is all he needs, handing you over the bouquet. you find an empty cup in your dorm room, filling it with water and placing the flowers inside. he watches your every move from the doorway. "goodbye, art" you mumble, grabbing your phone from your back pocket and laying on your bed. you don't watch him leave, he studies you for a few moments before closing your door and heading back to his own room.

"hey, art," girls flutter their lashes at him on his walk home, he always just smiles awkwardly and moves along, breaking the heart of another girl, because they just aren't you. he arrives to his dorm, collapsing on the bed. his cock twitches, he didn't even realise he was hard until that moment. must have been when your hand grazed his taking the flowers, or the sight of your hard nipples against your stanford t-shirt. his hand is already in his trousers, thinking about you bursting through his door, apologising for all the times you rejected him, kissing his whole body telling him how stupid you were for not letting him take you out. his door swings open, he comes there and then, stuck in his fantasy. "oh jesus christ art, did she say no again?"

art quickly covers himself and his mess as his cheeks blush red, patrick sits on the edge of the bed. "don't laugh," art begs, burying his head in his pillow. he can hear patrick smiling in his words, "i'm not, but christ, man, you need some pussy." patrick watches him shake his head in his pillow. "dude, i watch girls throw themselves at you nearly every day, and yet you're the only guy on campus not getting laid." art sits up, still covering himself with his blanket. "i don't want those girls, i want-" patrick just slaps his arm. "yes, i know you want her. but she doesn't want you. hey, i wonder if she's just gay or asexual or something, maybe i should try and fuck her and we'll find out." patrick says, deep in thought about this idea. art's eyes darken, "don't you fucking dare, patrick." patrick just rolls his eyes at his friend. "hey, calm down romeo, we can share." art is up now, pushing patrick out of his room, locking it behind him. "i was only joking, art, don't be so sensitive."

weeks go by, art still rushes to meet you after class, carrying your bag or books back to your room. leaving you notes and your favourite snacks outside your door late at night, bringing you a coffee some mornings. every time he sees you he asks the same question, "will you say yes, let me take you out?" it's met with a sigh by you every time, sometimes squeezing his arm or kissing his cheek to soften the blow. these acts of kindness only make art fall more and more for you. art sits in his room, studying tennis plays and doodling love notes on a thursday night. his phone lights up, a text from patrick.

meet me @ our favourite bar tomorrow night? 7pm?

art replies 'sure' and continues doodling. tomorrow comes, art does up the buttons to his pink shirt and zips up the fly of his jeans. he fluffs his hair on his way out, leaving to go meet his friend at the bar down the road. walking through the entrance into the dimly lit bar, art scans the room for patrick, only to see a blonde waving him over. he furrows his brow, slowly walking in her direction. "hey! patrick told me you'd meet me here at 7, i was a little early so i just got us both a drink, hope that's okay?" art has literally no idea what she's talking about. "what is happening right now?" he asks, his tone blunter than expected. "your friend, patrick, told me to meet you here, for our date?" art slowly sits in the chair opposite the blonde. " i was like, so surprised when he told me you wanted to go on a date because obviously i see you on campus and at tennis but like, i didn't think you'd wanna date me-" she's rambling, art cuts her off. "what's your name?" he can barely cover the boredom in his voice. "oh, um, it's lindsay. would you not already know that if you asked patrick to set us up?" she's confused, sipping her drink, red lipstick sticking to the straw.

he's thinking of an answer, debating just leaving. there's no point him being here, on this stupid date that patrick has orchestrated. he questions whether just running for the door would make him a terrible person, but as he checks the exit, he sees you. sat on a table by the window, leaning over, talking to a man he's never seen before. is this why you always said no, because you had a boyfriend? no, you would have just said that. well, now he definitely can't leave. he watches intently as your cleavage bulges over the top of your dress, laughing as you bring your drink to your mouth. you're five tables away, but you're sat facing him. "uh, art?" the blonde questions, bringing art back to the situation at hand. "sorry, uh, lucy. yeah, i guess i must have forgot talking to patrick about it all, i've been so busy with tennis."

you look so beautiful, all art can think about is ripping your little white dress off your body and fucking you over the table, right in front of the stupid guy you're on a date with. "it's lindsay," the blonde whispers, sipping her drink again. "yeah that's what i said," art's eyes revert back to the girl in front of him. he leans back, allowing more physical distance between him and lindsay, lucy, whatever her name is. your eyes scan the room, landing on art. your mouth opens slightly, he's on a date? why did part of you feel jealous, sad even, that after months of trying to win your attention, he's given up. he's moved on. you bring your focus back to your own date, trying to shake off the emotions running through your body. your eyes keep darting back to art, letting your date take over the conversation. he looks uncomfortable, leaning back on his chair, fiddling with the hem of his button up. you think how beautiful he looks in this light. you smile slightly, as his eyes meet yours. he smirks, catching you staring at him.

he watches you excuse yourself to the bathroom, your hand lightly grazing his back as you walk behind him. his breath hitches, immediately cutting the blonde girl off to go to the bathroom. you're washing your hands when art rushes into the room. "art, what are you doing, this is the ladies r-" you can't finish your sentence, his lips are on yours. you push him off you, as he just smirks down at you. fuck, that's what you wanted. no more nice little art, following you around like a lost puppy. but a tall, hot art, forcing his lips on yours, not caring about anything else but kissing your mouth. you grab him by the hair and pull his lips back onto yours, feeling him chuckle against your lips, his hands rush around your body. he pushes his tongue into your mouth, moaning as he does, his hand grabbing your body and lifting you up onto the sink. he slots himself between your legs, lips never leaving yours. you taste like perfection, everything he'd been dreaming about.

you remove your lips from his, leaning up to whisper in his ear. "take me home," you kiss and bite at his earlobe. "no, i'm gonna fuck you right here," you lean back and look up to him, the blue of his eyes overshadowed by the size of his pupils. "what if someone walks in?" you question, your lip between your teeth. "do i look like i fucking care?" you've never been so turned on in your life, neither has he. he's trying so hard not to jizz his jeans. slipping his hands under your dress, lifting you up slightly to remove your underwear. he tucks the lacy pair into his pocket, "i'm keeping these," he growls into your ear, your head leans back, hitting the mirror behind you. he positions your body at the edge of the sink, wrapping his arm around you to keep you in place. his other pushes his jeans and boxers down to his ankles, his cock hitting his stomach, finally free from the constricting fabric. you gasp at his size, he just smirks and runs his fingers through your folds. "you're fucking soaked," you blush, "don't get embarrassed, i've dreamt of making you this wet."

all you can do is grab his head and kiss him. he lines his member up with your hole, teasing your entrance. "how badly do you want it?" he pushes the tip in, "fuck- so badly, art, please," he keeps teasing you, so very slowly sliding more of his cock inside you. "you're so tight princess," he can't keep his eyes off your face, savouring every expression you make, every quiet noise that escapes your lips. he pushes himself all the way in, holding himself there. you feel even better than he ever imagined, it's the most perfect thing he's ever felt around his cock. "please, art, please fuck me," you're begging him, he's revelling in it. he's been begging for your attention for months, and now here he is, inside you, you begging him to fuck you. you buck your hips, in need of any kind of movement. "fucking hell, art, please, i'm desperate for you, i need you,"

his hands grab your ass from underneath you, pounding into you harder than you've ever been fucked before. the bathroom fills with the sound of skin slapping skin as you bury your moans into his face, arms tight around his neck. he pulls your head back by your hair, desperate to see your face as he fucks you. he moves his hand over your mouth, as much as he wants to hear every ungodly noise you make, he wants to finish inside you before getting caught. he lifts you up again, spinning around and pushing your body against the wall, your legs wrapping around his waist as he keeps pumping into you. one hand around your waist, the other on the wall keeping him steady. only making you even wetter, his strong form holding you up with just one arm. he bites down on your shoulder to stop the groans escaping him. "you're fucking mine," he whispers into the nape of your neck. you simply nod your head, not good enough, he thinks. "tell me, tell me you're mine," his words leave his lips in between thrusts.

"i'm yours, fuck, i'm all yours art," your breath is shaky as you answer, legs tightening around his waist. "that's my girl," he peppers your face in kisses, his hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead. "christ, shit, i'm so close," he mutters against your lips. "come inside me art, fuck, i'm on the pill, please baby," it's like you can see his thoughts, read his brain. he moans against your lips as thrusts once more, pushing his body up even closer against yours, your orgasm comes at the same time as arts. both mumbling profanities against each others lips. he pulls out of you, gently setting you back on the ground, still holding you, keeping you steady. you can feel his load drip from your pussy onto your thighs. he kisses your forehead repeatedly, "my god, you're so beautiful."

you shyly smile at him, leaning up to kiss his lips. the two of you return to reality, art helping clean you up, pulling up his boxers and jeans. "am i really not getting my panties back?" you ask him, giggling. "nope. these are my souvenir princess." your knees go weak again, readjusting your hair and clothes in the mirror. "christ, why did i wait so long for that?" you laugh, looking to art through the mirror. he plants a kiss on your cheek. "i knew you'd come around eventually, sweetheart." the two of you double check your appearance in the mirror, "back to mine?" art asks, still nervous for your response. you simply slip your hand into his and nod. the two of you leave the bathroom, heading towards the exit of the bar. you notice art's date has already left, yours still sat at the table waiting. "what the fuck?" is all he can muster, seeing you and art holding hands leaving the bar, laughing, art leads you back to his dorm.

"can you just wait here a sec?" he asks sweetly, pulling his keys out of his pocket. "my room's a mess." you nod, leaning on the wall next to art's door. he scrambles through the door, almost running to his desk to discard the ridiculous amount of love notes dedicated to you. he trips on his way, landing on the floor to see patrick sat on his bed. "what the fuck did you do? i set you up on a date out of the kindness of my heart, and what do you do? leave through the bathroom, you little shit! she's been blowing up my phone complaining about you." patrick hits art lightly on the head. still on the floor, art smirks. "well, i didn't actually leave through the bathroom," patrick interrupts him, "fine, so you stayed in the bathroom so long that she left, same thing!" art stands up now, "i had a very good reason to stay in the bathroom so long." patrick leans back on the bed, looking up to his smirking friend. "enlighten me," you enter art's room, having heard the whole conversation. "i think that good reason he's talking about might be me." you stand before the boys, holding your hands behind your back, faking innocence. "holy shit, you finally fucked her?" patrick jumps up, hugging his friend. "and in the bathroom, while on a date with someone else, i'm so proud."

[24kmar]

𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎 (P. Zweig)

Apart of my fic "Born Stunna"

𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Patrick Zweig x fem! Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+ MDNI, Smut, language, cheating, brat! Reader, manipulative! Reader (wolf in sheeps clothing)

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: when tashi and art start going to hard y/n with tennis, she decides to take a break from them. Confiding in none other than patrick. 🎀apart of my fic "Born Stunna". Enjoy!!

Idea from @doll-0f-flesh

𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒆, 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒐𝒍. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒂 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒉 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒍

Karma takes form in Y/N L/N. It had been a rough week for her. Art and tashi getting on her ass and her nerves. Sure she had been slacking with tennis, but could you blame her?

So much stress and hard work was bound to get to her. So, she looked for a stress reliever. That stress reliever taking form in patrick zweig. She saw the way he looked at her. His eyes following her wherever she went.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝑰 𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒆𝒔, 𝑰 𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒂𝒔𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒆𝒔

So, why not play it to her advantage? She told art and tashi she was going for a late night drive to clear her head. What she didnt tell them was that the passanger was none other than patrick.

"You sure about this?" He asks nervously, not wanting to get in the middle of her, art, and tashi.

"Yes pat, dont act like you dont want this as much as i do" she smirks, carressing his thigh softly.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒃𝒚 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇, 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝑰'𝒎 𝒔𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐.

"God- fuck" she gasped out as patrick bounced her on his cock in the driver seat of her car. Rain pouring down. Background noise to the sound of skin slapping skin.

"Shit" patrick moaned, bruising grip on her hips. Sure to leave marks she'd have to find a way to explain to tashi and art. "Fuck you feel like heaven" patrick groaned, eyes screwing shut and jaw falling slack. "Y'see that princess" he chuckled, looking down to see the bulge off his dick in her stomach "im in your guts." He giggled, pressing on the bulge.

Making her let out a mewl. His cock reaching places she didnt even know existed. The sting of the stretch bringing pleasure and pain. Leaning down to put her head in the crook of his neck, she started leaving open mouth kisses on it.

Making him moan, cock twitching as she lets out a particular moan. He knows that moan, thats how he knows shes close. This isnt the first time theyve done this.

"You close princess?" He speaks, grabbing the back of her neck making her look at him. "Huh?"

She nods, going to put her face back in the crook of his neck. "Nuh uh princess" he tuts, making her look at him again "want you to look at me when y'cum. Can you do that?" Nodding, she lets out a silent scream, cumming. "Atta girl" he smiles moving to kiss her neck. "Mm no marks" she whispers, earning an eyeroll from him. "Wonder what art and tashi would say if they saw you be such a slut for me" he smirked

The feeling of her cunt spasming around him getting him close also. "Fuck, m'gonna cum" he pants. "Where do you want it baby?" He asks. "Want y'to cum in me"she replied, gasping at the overstimulation. Just those words pushed him to the edge. Groaning as he came in her.

After getting redressed, they get to talking. Giggling like idiots, her phone buzzes. Rolling her eyes opening to see a texts from tashi and 3 missed calls from art.

"Oh shit" she spit out

"What? Whats up?" Patrick furrows his eyesbrows from the sudden change of atmosphere.

Looking over to see a message that reads

'Y/N'

'Where are you?'

'Y/nnn'

'Answer your phone'

'Are you with patrick?'

oh fuck.

[rubytuby]

surprise

patrick zweig x fem!reader 

word count: 3.3k (LOL)

warnings: established relationship with patrick because i'm lazy, art is your best friend, mentions of getting drunk but it's college so like to be expected… also allusions to sex haha but um i just love to write a cutesy plot.

note: i am normal about patrick zweig, i feel so normal about him #needthat. jokes, but i am in love with him its so bad, i wish he was real. also please don't be offended by my tashi erasure, still love her, but she didn't exactly fit in here. obv this is not canon bc you're dating patrick in stanford era instead of tashi, anyways, hope you enjoy <3.

FEBRUARY 23 2007, STANFORD

The sun hung low, casting long shadows over the tennis courts as you and Art wrapped up your practice session. Both of you were drenched in sweat, Art slung his tennis bag over his shoulder and jogged over, his face lighting up with a mischievous grin.

“So uh, want to walk back to the dorms together?” he asked, sounding overly eager.

You squinted at him, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. “Sure, but I need to shower first. You know, make it seem like I haven’t been pushed to my physical limits,” you said, gesturing to your sweaty attire.

Art laughed. “You have a single, why don't you just wait until you get back to your dorm?”

You groaned, shoving your racket into your bag. “That's the problem. The maintenance guy showed up at 7:30 this morning to tell us they’re shutting off the water from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. only on my floor for some urgent plumbing issue.”

“Damn, that sucks. Are they even allowed to do that without giving anyone notice?”

“That's what I asked, but apparently, giving us 30 minutes notice is considered adequate. So, technically, they can,” you replied, rolling your eyes in exasperation. “I’ll be quick, though. Just need to rinse off. If you don’t wanna wait for me to chill, you can walk back to the dorms. I won’t be offended.”

Art shook his head. “I’ve got time, I’ll wait. I’ve gotta call someone anyways,” he said plopping down the bench and pulling out his phone.

“Alright weirdo, if you’re sure,” you said, dropping your tote bag next to him. “I’ll be super quick.” With that, you darted off to the girls' locker room.

As soon as you disappeared, Art pulled out his phone and dialed Patrick’s number. The phone barely rang before Patrick answered, his voice tense with impatience.

“Are you guys on the fucking way yet or am I going to have to wait longer?”

“Hello, sunshine!” Art greeted cheerily. “Your beloved is taking a quick shower. We’ll be there in about 25 to 30 minutes.”

Patrick groaned loudly. “Why didn’t you just tell her to shower in her dorm? I’ll lick the sweat off her if it means not waiting any longer.”

Art grimaced at his best friend’s comment. “The water’s out on her floor. She said she’s literally only rinsing off and changing. Just be patient. I’ll text you when to leave so we can time it perfectly.” A sigh rang out on the other line.

“If this plan doesn’t work and I’ve been hiding from my girlfriend for a couple hours for no reason, I’m going to seriously hurt you,” Patrick grumbled, staring out Art’s dorm window.

“Well she definitely thinks you're in New York visiting your parents,” Art paused, “I just had to talk her down from buying a plane ticket, so I think we’re good.”

“I told her I just got into the city a couple hours ago when I actually got to SFO. She was so upset yesterday when I said it’d be five days until we saw each other. She called me a fucking asshole, so I dont know what to do anymore.” Patrick said as he flopped onto Arts bed.

Art scribbled on his worksheet, humming in response. “Well, at least you know that she definitely misses you.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure if she misses me or just wants to slap me in the face,” Patrick replied, exasperated.

Just then, Art saw you coming out of the locker room, chatting with one of your friends on the team. “Hopefully not the latter. Anyway she’s out. See you at 15. Don’t be late,” Art said flatly before hanging up, knowing Patrick and his unfortunate untimeliness. 

Art smiled up at you as you approached. “Who was that?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

“Our shared lover,” Art replied with a laugh, haphazardly shoving his worksheet and phone into his bag as he stood up.

“Aww, any exciting updates from Pat? He still stuck with his parents for another five days?” you teased, sticking your tongue out playfully.

“He just got to the city. He mentioned playing on the East River courts and paying someone to hold a spot for him,” Art lied smoothly.

“Sounds about right,” you said, sighing. “Anyway, I was talking to Nathalie over there…” you squinted, linking arms with Art as the two of you started the walk back to your dorm. “She mentioned a frat party happening tonight. Since Patrick’s trapped in New York, I figured why not go?”

“There’s going to be a keg stand, a ton of alcohol, and some shitty DJ or something,” you added, glancing at a group of students touring the campus before turning back to Art.

Art nodded, slightly wincing at the mention of the keg stand. “Wow, sounds like a lot of fun,” he replied sarcastically, earning a nod of agreement from you.

“I was planning on skipping it, but Nathalie really wants me to go. I thought if you came with me, it might actually be fun. Better than wallowing in my room wishing Patrick was here,” you admitted, biting your lip.

"Well, we had fun at that party last Friday, you remember right?" Art asked, smirking.

"Remember is a strong word," you replied, shaking your head with a laugh. "I think I have bits and pieces from that night. I do remember waking up still drunk at noon with my t-shirt on backwards and you snoring next to me in bed. Also like 5 missed calls from Patrick."

Art flashed you a lopsided grin. "Well, your bed's comfy, but I thought I was going to roll off in the middle of the night."

"Well, I stayed in my corner, I was flush against the wall as you were all sprawled out making yourself at home on my bed," you teased, nudging him playfully.

As you approached your dorm building, you noticed Art’s phone buzz. He glanced at it quickly, fumbling to put it away as a smile grew on his face. “What’s with the grin, weirdo?” you asked, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing. Just a funny text,” Art replied too quickly, stuffing his phone back into his pocket.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re terrible at lying, you know that?”

“Who, me? Who said I’m lying, I’m the picture of innocence,” Art said defensively.

You shook your head. “Sure you are. Anyway, I think I’m gonna drop my stuff on the floor, crawl into bed, and maybe take a nap. Maybe we can think about that party, I can call you at 11 so we can pregame.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Art said with a nod. “I’ll walk you to your door.”

You smiled gratefully as the two of you ascended the stairs to your floor. Art talked animatedly about his plans for the weekend while you half-listened, preoccupied with thoughts of collapsing onto your bed and taking a deserved long nap.

"Yeah anyways, I'm thinking of catching up on some studying, this english class is kicking my ass," Art continued, unaware of your drifting attention. "Maybe I’ll go on a run later though. You could join me if you wanted, if you’re up."

"Maybe," you replied absentmindedly, reaching a hand into your tote bag sifting for your keys.

As you reached your door, frustrated with your bag, you dropped your tennis bag and lifted your whole tote up, practically sticking your face in it to find your keys. "I hate these fucking tote bags, I can’t find shit," you grumbled to Art, feeling a tap on your shoulder.

Startled, you turned around with a scowl— until you saw Patrick standing there, a mischievous grin on his face. "Patrick! What the fuck? What are you doing here-” you exclaimed, letting your tote bag fall to the floor and throwing your arms around him in a tight hug.

Patrick laughed, hugging you back just as tightly. "Surprise" he exclaimed, holding you close, smiling at Art over your shoulder.

You pulled back slightly, giving him an incredulous look. "You asshole! Trapped in New York with my parents, my ass!" you shook your head, playfully hitting him on the chest.

Patrick held his chest dramatically and leaned in, kissing your cheek lightly. "All part of the plan," he murmured. “Plus, I had a little help," he added, nodding towards Art, who was standing nearby with a smug expression.

You turned in Patrick's arms to face Art, scoffing in shock. "Art, you were in on this? You’re such a liar," you exclaimed.

Art shrugged. "Hey, I was just hosting him at my dorm while we were at practice. Technically, I didn’t lie—I just omitted a few details," he explained, grinning.

"How could you do this to me? Traitor!" you said dramatically, though a smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

Patrick wrapped his arms tighter around your waist, pulling you closer against him and resting his head on your shoulder. "Come on. You know it was worth it," he said, his tone teasing.

You sighed playfully, shaking your head at the pair of them. "I guess I can forgive you both this time," you conceded.

Patrick’s hand gently brushed through your hair as he settled his head into the curve of your neck. “You know I can’t stand it when you’re mad at me,” he said softly.

As you lingered in Patrick's embrace, you paused. "Wait, where's all your stuff?" you asked, pulling back slightly and turning to look up at him.

Patrick grinned, nodding towards your door. "In your dorm," he replied casually.

“Wow, Breaking and entering," you quipped, crossing your arms squinting at Art.

Art interjected with a laugh, "Actually, perfectly legal entering. You're the one who gave me a spare key."

You shook your head, "That's for emergencies, Art," you retorted, shooting him a mock glare.

Patrick turned you around to face him, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. "Come on, admit it, you're impressed," he teased.

You sighed, "I'm shocked you guys were able to pull this off, honestly," you admitted, shaking your head with amusement. Patrick laughed softly, rubbing your back soothingly.

Reluctantly pulling away from Patrick's arms, you grabbed your tote bag from the floor, turning to face Art and Patrick. "As much as this hallway talk is very exciting, I seriously need to find my keys. I'm exhausted," you declared half-joking.

After a brief search through your bag, you finally located your keys nestled among your belongings. Patrick picked up your tennis bag with a playful grin, indicating his readiness to follow you inside.

"Alright, Art, thank you," Patrick called out over his shoulder as you unlocked the door.

Art waved casually. "Have fun, be safe you two. I'll see you later," he replied as he walked down the hallway.

As the two of you entered your dorm room, you barely had enough time to place your bags on the floor before Patrick closed the gap between you and him and crashed his lips onto yours. His hands pulled you against him as he pressed your back against the door, placing his hands on either side of you almost boxing you in. His kisses were sloppy, teeth colliding as his lips moved against yours, hands desperately roaming your body, as if he couldn't get close enough to you.

You responded eagerly, melting into his embrace, your own hands finding their way into his hair, tugging him closer. His lips moved hungrily against yours, his tongue tracing your lower lip, hands roaming over your back, then up to cradle your face, pushing strands of hair away as he deepened the kiss.

"Patrick," you managed to gasp between kisses, your chest rising and falling with each breath. "I... I need to put my stuff away," you painted, reluctantly pulling back

Patrick leaned back, a mischievous smirk on his face, moving over to lean against your desk. "Sure," he murmured, his gaze lingering on you as you took out some things from your bag. "So, how was practice?" he asked, his voice low, as he looked you up and down.

You scoffed, a hint of satisfaction playing on your lips as you organized. "Heinous. I keep getting paired with this girl on the team who can't return any of my serves," you replied exasperatedly, glancing over at him.

Patrick raised an eyebrow, "maybe you should just go easy on her."

You shook your head, clicking your tongue in frustration. "I've tried to go easy on her, but she can't even play me when I do that. She acts like it's my fault she can't play for shit," you paused to sigh.

Patrick grinned, tracing a hand up and down your arm. "We both know you're too good for stanford women's tennis," he murmured, moving from the desk to stand behind you, his hands coming to rest on your hips and giving them a quick squeeze.

You whipped your head around, rolling your eyes and scoffing at his comment. "Careful," you say firmly.

Patrick put his hands up in mock surrender, his cocky grin never faltering. "Alright, alright. Sorry, my bad," he said. "You're right."

As an unspoken apology, Patrick moved closer, his hands gently moving up to your waist as he leaned in to kiss your neck softly. His lips left a warm trail on your skin, "I missed you," he murmured between kisses, his breath hot against your ear. “So much.”

You tilted your head slightly, allowing him better access, closing your eyes briefly to savor the sensation. "I missed you too," you hummed, your voice softening as you turned to face him fully. Your hands came to rest on his chest. "You know, I wish you would’ve just told me you were coming," you teased, carding your fingers through his hair.

Patrick's playful demeanor softened as he gazed into your eyes, his fingers brushing against your cheek as he pushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "Sorry again," he murmured sincerely, his breath mingling with yours. "Do you still love me?" he asked, clearly teasing and testing you.

You couldn't help but smile, your fingers threading through the strands of his hair at the nape of his neck. "I still love you, even with your elaborate lies," you replied, planting a sweet kiss on his lips. "But I have to say I knew something was up. Art was being weirder than normal."

Patrick hummed, his hands gently caressing your sides as he leaned in for another kiss.

"Hey? Are you even listening to me?" you asked, blinking up at him, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.

Patrick paused, his forehead resting against yours as he looked into your eyes. "Sorry, what did you say? I was a little distracted," he said, smiling.

You laughed softly, giving him a light shove. “I said Art was acting weirder than normal. I could tell he was hiding something.”

He shook his head and grinned, suddenly, he scooped you up over his shoulder, eliciting a surprised laugh from you as he carried you to the bed. Playfully flopping you down, his hands on either side of your head as he leaned in to kiss you again, his lips warm and insistent.

"So, what's our plan for tonight?" he asked between kisses, his fingers tracing light patterns on your sides.

You sighed softly, your words catching in your throat as his kisses became more fervent. "Well, there's this party my friend invited me to," you managed to say, struggling to speak coherently. "But last time I went out with Art, it was a shit show," you paused, trying to focus as his lips trailed down your collarbone, "but you're here, so we can do… whatever you want," you finally managed to say, your voice breathless with desire.

"Can we?" Patrick teased, his tone dripping with innuendo, his kisses becoming more urgent and needy.

You sighed deeply, rolling your eyes. "You know, you're impossible," you muttered, shaking your head. "But yes, we can."

Patrick grinned triumphantly, his hands roaming over your body as he leaned in to kiss you again, his hunger for you evident in every touch and movement. "Good," he murmured against your lips. "I think I just want you to be myself tonight."

"Freaky," you quipped, biting your tongue to hide a laugh.

With a self-assured grin, Patrick swiftly removed his T-shirt, revealing his lean and tan body. His gaze never left yours as he leaned back in, his lips finding yours with intensity. Your fingers traced lightly over his chest as you meshed together, and through kisses, you opened your eyes for a moment, gaze fixed on the freckles dotting his nose and cheeks.

"You've got more freckles," you observed with a playful smile, pulling back slightly, teasingly tracing each tiny mark with your fingertip.

Patrick grinned warmly, his eyes crinkling as he removed his lips from yours pulling you into a tight hug. "You're so cute," he murmured, squeezing you against him. His hands gently moved up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he pulled you closer, lips looking for another kiss with a soft sigh of contentment slipping out. His gaze, filled with adoration and longing, locked onto yours, silently expressing his deep affection.

"Fuck, you're so pretty," he whispered, his voice low and filled with awe. You locked eyes with him, your own expression softening as you smiled, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw.

Without breaking eye contact, Patrick's hands moved to the hem of your T-shirt, his touch almost insistent. He lifted the fabric, exposing your skin to the cool air and his heated gaze, with the T-shirt slipped over your head and thrown to the floor, forgotten. His gaze traveled downward, taking in the sight of you, bare-chested in front of him, a cheeky grin began to spread across his face. 

You rolled your eyes, whacking his arm. "Are you 13?" you teased.

Patrick laughed, unfazed as his hands and mouth roamed your newly exposed skin, his lips moving back to your collarbone, placing soft kisses along its length. Your remaining clothes were shed in a flurry, falling to the floor as you both moved with urgency desperately reconnecting.

Finally, as your kisses slowed and the two of you were breathing somewhat heavily, you rolled onto him, resting your head on his chest. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you close, with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

"I love you," Patrick murmured softly, placing a lovingly sweet kiss onto your forehead.

You met his gaze with a soft smile. "Is that just because we had incredible reunion sex?" you teased lightly, a playful challenge in your voice. "Or do you love me all the time?"

Patrick laughed, his fingers moving up and down on your back. "Only for the sex, it's usually worth the plane ticket," he teased back, with a smile. "Just kidding. I love you all the time," he replied earnestly, as a grin started forming on his face.

Leaning up from his chest, you pressed a sloppy kiss against his mouth, your hands tangling into his hair as you felt the corners of his lips curve into a smile against yours. "I knew it," you murmured against his lips, a hint of amusement in your voice.

"Say it back," Patrick urged with a playful grin, attempting to deepen the kiss, but you playfully pulled away before he could capture your lips again.

Rolling your eyes theatrically, you feigned annoyance, though your smile betrayed your true feelings. "Fine," you replied, leaning in to kiss him once more. "I love you too, freak."