#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

[poppy-metal]

NEED to be tashi’s innocent stepsister who Patrick’s just obsessed with whilst he’s dating her. Your sister is your whole world, Patrick can see that. You look at tashi like she hung the moon in the sky herself and if he looks too closely he can see the lust for her in your eyes, buried beneath all that admiration.

So of course he decides to be proactive about it. One night he’s staying over at your parent’s place and as the evening rolls around he fucks tashi. Like fucks her, making sure she’s gushed over his cock at least three times, making him alllll nice and wet. He waits for her to fall asleep and sneaks into your room to shove his cock in your mouth.

At first you’re a bit dubious about it, you would never want to hurt your sister but as soon as that sweet, tangy, indescribable taste hits your tongue you can’t help but go to town on his hard cock.

“You like that?” He teases you from above, jerking his hips mercilessly into your mouth “taste good?”

You gargle out something akin to an agreement before he’s bending down to groan into your ear “you better savour that shit up, that’s the taste of your sister’s pussy”

Might come off anon might not but for the time being can I pretty please be ur sweet 🐉 if it’s not taken?

🐉 when I catch you,,,,, when i catch you,,,,,

hhhhh you hate that patrick has power over you and you even more that you kinda like it - it was easier when he was just tashi's dumbfuck boyfriend you hated for stealing her attention. you were so sure you were sneaky about it, your admiration innocent in appearance - your preening under her attention just the sweetness of a younger sister. no one had to know you stole your big step!sisters panties and rubbed your pussy raw while you sniffed them. no one had to know you secretly seethed with jealousy when she regailed a story about how she fucked a girl on her strap once, no one had to know how you fucked yourself on your dildo imagining your big sister breaking open your virgin pussy on her big plastic cock - and when she got a stupid fucking boyfriend no one had to know you pressed your ear to the wall and humped your pillow to wet slapping sounds of patrick fucking her - the headboard slapping the very wall your ear rested against - her moans mixed with his animalistic grunts making your cunt gush - filled with so much jealousy, and want, and lust - you forgot to muffle your whimper when you came - that's what gave you away.

and when patrick started paying extra attention to you afterwards it made you uncomfortable. face flushing when he'd purposely tease you, bump his shoulder against yours when he plopped down next to you on the couch and leaned in way too close - the scent of his cologne and boy smell invading your nose and you told yourself you were grossed out by it, annoyed, scrunched your nose and shoved at him - his attention made you uncomfortable because it made you wet and you didn't want to have the hots for your stepsisters boyfriend when you already had the hots for her.

but when tashi would get all huffy and snap at patrick to leave you alone and threaten him you'd think you wanted patrick to bother you alot more if it meant tashi would get all protective over you like that. you loved when she got invested in you, that she vetted all the boys you went on dates with and hardly any of them impressed her - so you rarely dated at all.

you knew you could never have her though. she was too focused and driven - you doubted her and patrick were even serious - and you were in love with her. plus - you knew she was religious too, and even if she was okay with fucking around and having sex, you doubted fucking her little sister would be passable to her. she'd think you were gross and a pervert. she was perfect and was gonna be a tennis star and get married to a man someday and have a big family and be famous and you didn't fit into that. that didn't stop you from wanting though. from desiring. from being a freak.

freak enough to suck her boyfriends cock when he cornered you one night and confessed to knowing what a little pervert you were. you felt bad - you really did, this was tash's man, and she could act all tough and independent as much as she liked, but you knew she cared about patrick - he was cheating on her, technically, by propositioning you. the right thing would have been to tell her everything, despite what patrick might reveal about you - but you were far far far away from being a good girl.

you did try to resist, called patrick an asshole and a horrible person - you tried to be a good sister, but the second patrick gripped your hand and guided it to under his sweats, to his bare, sticky cock - and said - "v'got your sisters pussy all over my dick. you wanna taste her don't you, you little freak?"

you'd been helpless after that - and you'd always been naturally submissive, and yeah maybe you'd always admired how hot patrick was, but you'd never felt anything deeper about it, because it wasn't comparable to what you felt for tashi - but right then, at the moment, with him towering over you all intimidating and tall and his hair mussed from being in tashi's bed all night - you sunk to your knees for him, too easily.

let me be a bad sister in secret, you thought as you opened your mouth to receive patricks cock - if it meant it was the only way you'd ever get to taste your sisters cunt - you'd be fucking terrible.

patrick groans when you sink your mouth around him - his grip on your hair tight and hard. "lick the whole thing - fuck yeah, suck her off me -"

god, you really could taste her. a tangy saltiness on his cock that wasn't just his skin - the sticky film of what must have been her orgasm covering his thick shaft that you lapped at like a kitten, holding his cock up so you could lick the underside too- get every last remaint of her off his cock and onto your tongue - whining as you did it -

patrick reached down to grip himself for you, holding himself out of your way and pushing your head even further between his legs - "get my balls too. she was fuckin' drippin' all over them."

you'd given head before - albeit alot less enthusiastically then this - but you'd never given special attention to a man's balls. never had the desire too.

patricks balls are heavy things - he's got a fat sac, and you can see the individual balls inside the fleshy skin, like two well - balls, you suppose. or two ripe fruits. they hang from how full they are - the skin around them a little loose. they look meaty. the musk there is even more prominent too, more distinctive - he's got alot of fuzz down there and you should be disgusted - you know for a fact tashi isn't licking these balls, she'd said as much when she told you how much she hated giving head - and you'd agreed that it sucked, only for her to flick your forehead and tell you you shouldn't be sucking anyone's dick, because no one was good enough to be on your knees for -

and isn't that another thought? how angry she'd be at the fact that you're such a slut? on your knees and liking it. salivating at the smell of a man's sweaty balls inches from your face - she'd be so disappointed. your cunt throbs and you moan as you lean forward to lap at his sac.

your hand reaches between your legs as you explore his balls with your tongue - laving your tongue in circles across the silken flesh, suprised by how soft he is here, despite the hair, which you surprisingly don't mind - you're liking this alot more than you thought you ever would -

"fuck - knew you'd be such a fucking slut. open your mouth - " you do so eagerly, and he pushed your face almost entirely between his thick thighs, until your mouth is directly under his balls, "- yeah, just like that. shit, you're good at that."

he lowers his balls into your mouth and you close your lips around one of the fleshy stones - pulling and sucking it into your mouth with long swallows. like you're trying to pull it all the way into the back of your throat. you pull and suck pull and suck until he plops free from your mouth with a wet sound and he doesn't even have to ask before you're giving the same treatment to the other one - until his whole sac is wet and gleaming with your saliva and drool.

god, you feel insane - your mind is fuzzy - your nose is pressed up against the underside of his fat cock, hid knuckles bumping against the ridge of it because he's fucking jerking himself off while you gurgle on his nuts - he's disgusting and deplorable but you're not better, your tongue sneaking back to lick the underside of his sack, to his perineum, your head bobbing as you suck and suck and suck.

he just feels so warm in your mouth - squishy and full and the sensation is as fun as the taste is salty and good on your tongue - you're enjoying yourself so much that when he pulls you back you actually try to dive back in - forlorn as you stare at his dripping sac, wanting to go back, lap and lick and lave at them for hours -

you're not left wanting for long though, as she's soon feeding you the tip of his cock, and then more - your mouth stretching and splitting as he forces himself down your tight throat - "shittttt" he grunts, half hunched over you, and his palm slaps on the wall behind you, he looks down at you with the most debauched expression, pupils blown out, hair dark and wild, lips bitten red - and you feel a wash of pride that your mouth undid him that much - hate yourself for it -

he gets you all the way down, all the way to his thick base - until the thick thatch of hair at his pelvis, wirey and dark is brushing your upper lip and nose - he lets out the most pornographic moan that's so loud you actually feel a flash of panic that tashi will hear and coming barging in and see your mouth split wide around her boyfriends dick and - fuck why did that just make your clit pulse?

"she can't take me like this," he tells you - "she starts spitting up before I can even get - fuck - halfway down. but look at you - " he shakes your head a little, kind of jiggles it on his cock, moving it inside your mouth, and your throat constricts at the same time your pussy throbs and throbs and throbs - "you fuckin took that shit - oh fuck, if she knew what a little cocksucking slut her baby sister was - what d'you think? think she'd be proud?" his free hand comes down to cup your cheek, and he pushes against you so that his cock shifts in your mouth, pushes against the side of your cheek that he's cupping, his thumb strokes over your skin in faux tenderness.

you should bite his dick off - talking about tashi like that - so what if she can't deepthroat him? but you're so turned on, you can't help it. you can't even pinpoint why. you don't get off on the thought of hurting tashi - you'd rather kill yourself than upset her - and if you knew for certain if she knew about this and she'd cry over it, you'd gut patrick like a pig yourself.

but.

but then you think of her being proud - like he said. of her watching how much of her boyfriends cock you can take and being impressed.

you're not good at tennis - and that kills you - because it's tashis lifeblood - it's the very essence of her being. her one true love.

but what if this was something she could be impressed by? you'd always thought you'd only be happy with a guy if they were hand picked by tashi. almost like you wanted her to be there holding your hand with you on the dates you went on - there with you when you were kissing them - instructing them on how to do it, how to make it good for you - you never let them touch your cunt because in your head, you always knew, tashi would never approve of this guy taking my virginity.

obviously she approved of patrick enough for herself. and she did have high standards.

was this why you were letting this happen? you didn't know - you didn't want to analyze - it just felt good in the moment - so you moaned around him, and you reached into your panties and you touched your wet pussy as you let patrick zweig fuck your face in way he never would your sister's.

and when he cums, hot and pulsing on your tongue and down your throat - when he grunts - "stick out your tongue and show me", you open your mouth wide to show him you swallowed it all down. he grips your chin and his eyes shine with pleasure. an approval that sends shockwaves straight to your throbbing little clit.

he leans back, tucks his softening, wet cock back into his sweats - and you think he means to leave you - leave you to deal with all your conflicting emotions but then he scrubs a hand down his jaw. appraises you.

"you're a virgin?"

had tashi told him you were? or did it leak from your pores?

"what's it to you?" because, really. why did he care?

patrick tongues the inside of his cheek - and you hope he doesn't notice the way you squeeze your thighs together. you hate how fucking stupid hot he is. you wish tashi had gone for someone ugly, one of those "I don't know how he bagged her when she's a 10 and he's a 2" kinda situations, but no, because tashi was vain, and didn't date ugly people.

"I can fix that for you, if you want."

you stare at him. he'd said is so casually, like he was a math tutor offering to help you understand math homework better and not the guy dating your sister who he knew you wanted to fuck you -

"dude, what the fuck? you're dating my stepsister."

patrick raises an eyebrow. "didn't give a fuck about that when you were gargling my nuts just a second ago."

"you don't deserve her."

"yeah, no shit." he scoffs. straightens and shrugs like it's not big deal, though there was definitely a tinge of bitterness to that statement. he leaves your room, stopping at your doorframe to add, "just an offer. text me if you change your mind, yeah? we can work something out."

he slaps the top of your doorframe in a ridiculously boyish gesture as he leaves and you stare after him. dumbfounded.

of course you masturbate to the memory of the whole ordeal immediately after - still throbbing and horny from it all - and after you're left so empty and wanting, starting at your ceiling as your chest heaves up and down, and you can't help but think how similar you and patrick are, more than you'd thought. you both love tashi. you both kind of hate her for the power she holds over you. you're both kinda fucked up sexually, though patrick definitely has more experience than you.

and it's not like tashi is ever going to want you back - or actually be the one to take your virginity - so why not patrick? she'll break up with him soon, anyway. a fact even patrick seems to be aware of. it can just be a quick affair, a secret tryst. the closest you'll ever get to your big sister - and a way to scratch that perverted itch inside of you.

you last a week before you cave and text him.

[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

[zweiginator]

facesitting w patrick plssss

oh and what if patrick and tashi were together! you are tashi's roommate. she kicks you out a lot, when patrick comes to visit. which has been more and more frequent. but you're always a good sport.

tashi likes you a lot. she says you're fun and a great friend, not to mention you're gorgeous. it's like she's taunting patrick. he feels uncomforable when she brings it up. of course, he thinks you're beautiful. anybody with two working eyes can see that. but he's tashi's. it feels like walking into a glue trap to tell her that he agrees with her. that yeah, you're super hot.

she brings it up more and more to patrick.

"do you want her to join us or something?" you're in class; patrick and tashi are laying in tashi's bed together. she's straddling him in nothing but her bra.

"she's shy. with sexual stuff."

patrick teases her. "how do you know? you try to fuck her when i'm gone?"

"no--i try to set her up on dates. plenty of boys on the tennis team like her. she refuses."

"maybe she wants you." he pinches tashi's side, and she slaps his arm.

"i dunno."

"so then, why bring it up to me? i'm your boyfriend, remember." he says it like a true reminder.

tashi shrugs. always so blunt. "i think the best thing to get her out of her shell would be to make her feel sexy."

"so we have a threesome?"

"no." tashi, tilts his chin up, looks at patrick's pretty pink pout.

"you eat her pussy. make her feel like a goddess."

"you're asking your boyfriend to eat another girl's pussy?" patrick sits up on his elbows. "why?"

she doesn't truly answer. "i've seen you ogle her before. do you want to or not?"

"tash, i think we gotta get her in on it first."

but once tashi gets her mind on something, she can't stop thinking about it. maybe it's a perverted little fantasy for her to have, watching her strong boyfriend eat out her innocent little roommate.

she really does think it would help her blossom, get rid of her sexual repression. when patrick's face is in her pussy it makes her feel like a god.

so she brings it up, while patrick is visiting art and some more friends of theirs. tashi stayed behind for this specific reason.

tashi sits next to you on the bed. "so, what do you think about patrick?" she asks.

you blush, almost imperceptibly so. but tashi notices. of course you find him attractive--who wouldn't? but he is tashi's boyfriend. you can't compete with tashi--you don't want to.

"i think he's great for you. you guys match each other really well. just seems--natural."

tashi leans in, tilting your chin up. "i asked what you think about him. how does he make you feel?"

you shrug. "um, i like him. he's fun to be around."

"do you want him to touch you?"

you don't understand what's happening. why you're weirdly turned on, thinking about patrick but also listening to tashi's voice. how she's rubbing your back. tashi doesn't seem upset at all. in fact, it seems like she wants this. like she's egging it on.

"i mean, i definitely think he's attractive." you don't know what to say.

tashi's hand finds your knee. "what if i told you patrick and i talked about you. about helping you out."

"helping me out with what?"

"your confidence. you know, he thinks you're a very pretty girl. i do too."

it makes your cunt feel fluttery, hearing her say that.

"i would like that, i think."

"i think you would too."

that night, patrick and tashi get home from dinner. they invited you, but you politely declined, lying about some other plans you had.

you're in pajama shorts and a tank top, doing some homework. you try not to react to them coming in; your heart beats faster and you're nervous--but excited.

you feel patrick sit next to you, on tashi's desk chair. tashi is sitting on her bed, watching. arms crossed, she's not cold, but it almost looks like she's coaching patrick. he wants this too, of course, but he wouldn't be doing this if not for his girlfriend's pushing.

he pushes your hair out of the way, exposing your neck.

"what are you working on?" he's leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. he looks big and strong; maybe you didn't realize just how manly he had become since you met him last year.

"english essay." you say. your fingers hover over your keyboard.

patrick leans forward, easily pulling you into his lap. you don't know where to put your hands, but patrick's are resting on your ass, the middle of your back.

"is this okay? do you like this?"

you nod, fervently. he kisses your neck; it feels like he's worshipping you, and you feel tashi's eyes on you. but she's not jealous, she's excited.

tilting your head back, you tangle your fingers in patrick's hair, it's tacky with product, and you grip it hard. his kisses become deeper and you feel him swipe his tongue under your jaw to soothe the mark he just made. now he moves to your lips. god, he tastes good. you've only kissed two boys in your whole life. you instinctively grind against patrick's clothed cock and you feel him smile against you.

"this is about you. you can use me. however you want."

you nod, not knowing exactly what he means or what you want. it's lazy, your grinding. but it feels so good. patrick moves you to the bed easily and lays down. realizes he's going to have to guide you. god, you're so fucking cute.

now tashi is closer. she is sitting at the desk chair. you both watch as patrick peels his shirt off. tashi is used to it, but you whimper. you touch his chest, run a finger over his abs.

"he's really pretty." you tell tashi. it's almost innocent how you say it. almost.

"he is, isn't he."

patrick is so hard it fucking hurts. he wants to push your head down on his cock, wants to stretch you open, fill you up. but that's not what he's here for. it almost makes it feel better. knowing he's being used like this.

patrick unties your little shorts. kisses your shoulder as he moves the strap of your tank top down. your instinct is to cover up. but they won't let you.

"so pretty. let us see you."

you trust them. and you want them. so you let them.

he peels your underwear off, pulls your shirt over your head. and he admires you.

"i've got the two most perfect girls right here."

you moan and whimper and sigh as his thumb rolls your nipple, his other hand playing with your pussy. you're so wet, soaking the sheets.

you don't know what he's doing. he lays down flat on the bed. his erection is barely hidden underneath his little red shorts. tells you to sit on his face.

you do what you think he means.

"like this?" you look down at him. his mouth is visibly watering; your cunt is so close to his lips.

"just like this." his arms snake around your legs, hands feel up your body. and it feels like heaven when his lips wrap around your clit. his tongue moves slowly at first. the moans coming from his mouth feel good against your pussy and he tells you how good you taste.

"fuck, your little cunt is soaking my face."

tashi is still watching. she has barely blinked. "it really is."

"sorry." you say.

"that's a good thing. you're a good girl." and he slaps your ass. you didn't think you'd like that, but you buck your hips and grind on patrick's tongue like a reflex.

"that's right. fucking use me." he kisses your inner thigh.

so you use his mouth, grind on it. you're pulling his hair and running your hands down his torso because god, it's so hot how hard he is, how you see him twitch when your hand moves closer.

patrick knows you're about to cum. your legs are shaking just like tashi's do. but you're tense, like you don't want to let go.

"cum for me. i want you to."

your breathing is shallow as he sucks on your clit again. harder and harder. his mouth is so warm. but you're moaning so loud tashi gets nervous about someone coming to check on them. so she kisses you as you cum. your fingers tangle into her hair and your mouth hangs open.

patrick looks like he just died and went to heaven. and now, his shorts are wet.

[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—“

[midwestprincesss]

okay since u asked for some nasty shit here’s smth i can’t get off my mind. idk how to decsribe it but i imagine patrick or art would have no problem sharing a girlfriend with each other. like cuckolding but just for the fun of it. i’m going crazy thinking of the things patrick would be saying while watching his gf and art fucking in front of him

YESSS!!!!!!! patrick watching art fuck you and not shutting tf up😵‍💫

all three of you are on the bed, you and art actually fucking and patrick is just watching, stroking his cock. and he's telling art what to do- but it's just for his own pleasure, 'cause patrick is fucking selfish.

"fuck- that's it- wait, take your dick out" patrick instructed his friend, and he listened and pulled out of you. "dip your fingers in her and show me how wet she is. wanna see 'em glisten"

and art did as he was told- both boys somehow ignoring the fact that you were actually in the room with them. art and patrick were gushing about your arousal coating art's fingers and you just stood there, bucking your hips into nothing.

"please guys- stop doing that, just fuck me. fuck me, art, please" you pleaded, but art just shushed you.

"just wait a little bit, sweetheart-" patrick cooed as he lovingly squeezed your thigh, still not touching you where you needed. "lemme clean them up" patrick continued, this time speaking to art, as he took his fingers into his mouth, tasting your pussy indirectly. "fuck, she tastes so good art- you gotta try it"

and art now took his fingers out of patrick's mouth, putting them into his- but patrick slapped his hand away. "no, art. i meant eat her out."

and art obliged, of course he did. he loved you and he loved patrick too- but his feelings towards his best friend were so repressed- the only way he could show his love to him without feeling guilty was through you. doing whatever patrick tells him to do to you.

and so there he was, head between your thighs, tongue lapping at your folds.

"fuuuuuck" patrick groaned, circling his wet tip with his thumb. "rub her clit, art. we want our girl to feel really good, don't we?" he asked, and art hummed at that, sending vibrations through your pussy. your thighs squeezed around his head.

"nuh uh, open up-" patrick said as tapped your thigh, and you spread your legs again. "atta girl" he praised you, and with that you were cumming.

you soon started pushing art's mouth away from you, getting overstimulated- but patrick didn't give a shit about that. "art, slap your dick on her pussy. wanna hear those sweet little whimpers of hers" and so art did what he was told, rubbing his tip at your entrance and slapping his dick onto your pussy, all while you were a whimpering mess.

"soo cute, baby. you sound adorable. keep those coming, i'm almost there" patrick praised you again, stroking his dick faster and faster until he finally came, his cum landing on him, and both you and art.

"man, be so fucking serious, you could've at least waited for me" art groaned, pointing to his dick which was still really fucking hard.

"don't worry, you can fuck her throat. she loves that shit. i'll show you how" patrick said, tapping your cheek as you got up on your knees.

"thaaat's it. good girl. now open wide-" he continued, holding your hair up in a ponytail as art's dick was resting on your cheek. "stick out your tongue, let him rub his tip on it-" and patrick took art's dick in his other hand, rubbing it on your tongue.

you were like two cute little dolls for him. there for him to play with you however he pleases.

[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.”

[myladybelle]

𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter fourteen

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and you’re forced to embrace a life in the sport you’ve been too afraid to claim for yourself. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.9k 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, swearing, use of y/n 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: thanks again for your patience everyone!! i know it’s been a month since the last update but my extracurriculars and class load this semester are insane and i sometimes only get home at 9:30pm so i don’t have too much down time to write x 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐙-𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐓𝐎𝐍. 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 – 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟑𝟏, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗. 𝟎𝟑:𝟏𝟓𝐏𝐌.

Tashi couldn’t believe she was standing in the back alley of a hotel with Patrick Zweig. She had been hiding in the hotel lounge for the last half hour because she knew you were upstairs meeting Lily for the first time, and the last thing Tashi wanted was to ruin that. It was better to strategise against Art’s future opponents and ignore the sharp pain in her chest than to think about you meeting her daughter without her. 

Patrick coming by to talk to her was her last straw. Tashi didn’t hide her irritation, nor how unimpressed she was with what Patrick had made of his life. All that talent and privilege was wasted on him. Scanning him up and down, Tashi made no effort to hide her disdained frown. 

“I’m going to propose something to you,” Patrick declared. He exhaled, sending a cloud of cigarette smoke to Tashi’s face. 

She jerked back. “Can you blow it away from me, please?” 

“Sorry.”

Tashi rolled her eyes. “I don’t know how Y/N put up with the smoking,” she mentioned off-handedly. “She used to say it was the single most disgusting thing a person could do.”

“I never did it while she was around, and I quit the year she won Wimbledon,” Patrick defended himself. “Started up again the night we broke up. Anyway, I want you to be my coach.” 

Tashi turned her whole body to face Patrick and stared. Even though he wore his typical entertained smirk, Tashi knew he was being serious. “What?” she exclaimed, unimpressed. 

“Even if he wins the Open, completes his career Grand Slam, Art’s still gonna retire as someone who’s just really, really good,” Patrick pointed out. “That’s what you guys will have done together.” As Tashi felt her blood boil with anger, she inched closer to Patrick and didn’t bother to keep the incredulous expression off her face. “But imagine if you could turn Patrick Zweig into a guy who wins a slam. I still have a season. I still have one good season, and I need you to bring it out of me.” By the end of his speech, Tashi’s mouth was slightly agape. Her eyes were comically wide, wondering how and why Patrick could feel so entitled to ask this of her. “So… what do you think?” He smiled expectantly, placing the cigarette back between his lips. 

Tashi reached out and slapped him across the face. The cigarette flung from his mouth to the ground from the impact, and Tashi held back from hitting him a second time. “How fucking dare you?” she exclaimed.

From the pain, Patrick groaned, “Jesus Christ!” 

“You want my best piece of advice? Do you want me to coach you?” Tashi goaded him, fixing him with a withering stare. “Okay, quit,” she ordered. “Quit right now. Right the fuck now, quit.”

“You know that when I’m good, I’m one of the best in the world.”

“You are 271st best in the fucking world,” Tashi corrected him. “Everyone forgot about you, Patrick. The only reason anybody knew or cared about you was because of Y/N. Back then, you were her sweetheart. And even if you weren’t playing at your best, it was a hell of a lot better than you’re playing now.”

It was a jab in the gut for Patrick, but he had expected it. He had a better ranking ten years ago, but Patrick hadn’t cracked the top 200 in several years. Realistically, he had no reason to expect Tashi to agree to coach him. The only time he was truly one of the best players in the world was in the Junior League, and that was a lifetime ago. The tennis world hadn’t cared about Patrick Zweig since word got out that you broke up; they weren’t about to start caring now that he was at the end of his mediocre, unmemorable career. 

“I still have a shot,” Patrick protested. It would have been more accurate to say I still want to win her back.

Her eyebrows raised. “You’re 31. You have a better shot with a handgun in your mouth,” Tashu accused. She knew it was crude and unfair, but she was at her wits end with him. 

Patrick scoffed and laughed at the same time. 

Despite everything they’d gone through, he liked it when Tashi was mean. Not only did it feel more authentic to who she was, but it meant he had her attention. Most people would have just walked away. You would have just walked away. You would have told Patrick that he wasn’t worth your time and kept your emotions out of it. That’s just the type of person you were. You could keep her calm on the court and in your personal life, but Tashi’s temper always ran a little hotter than that of her former best friend. 

“I mean, why don’t you go home?!” Tashi wondered. “Go home, ask your parents for a seat on the board, or you know what, matter of fact, ask them for some money. Okay? Go be like any other spoiled kid who has ever amounted to nothing in their fucking life, and stop this performance of being a down-on-your-luck professional!”

The amused grin slipped from Patrick’s face, hardening his expression as he lowered his eyes to the ground. It was a low blow, and it only made Patrick think of how he lost you all those years ago. You can still make something of yourself, you used to say. Forget your family and forget people’s expectations. You were born to play tennis, and you deserve to have your shot at greatness. 

It had been a long time since Patrick heard that kind of encouragement. 

“Tashi–”

“–No, you’re not 20 years old anymore,” she interrupted him. “And it’s not cute to be walking around pretending like you need to grind it out at these bumfuck tournaments, and sleep in your fucking car! And it is–” Tashi scoffed, holding a finger up to emphasise her words– “Unforgivable that you would ask me to devote a single second of my fucking time to help you achieve your fucking dreams! What dreams, Patrick?” Slightly out of breath from her rent, Tashi paused and waited for Patrick to give any indication that he had dreams or goals for himself. “You never had any!” 

Regardless of the truth in Tashi’s words, it was unfair of her to act like he never had dreams. Perhaps tennis had always been a way for Patrick to avoid a regular job and stop relying on his parents, but he had dreams outside of his career. All the things Art wanted—kids, marriage, success, happiness—Patrick wanted them to. But above everything, Patrick wanted you. 

You were the one who rejected his proposal. If everything had gone his way, he would be with you now. A small voice in the back of Patrick’s head reminded him that he was the one who walked out that night and ended your relationship, but clear thinking had no place in Patrick Zweig’s mind, so he cast it aside. 

“Is that what you and Art are doing?” Patrick asked sarcastically. He was tired of Tashi’s preaching and wanted to remind her of the reality of her own marital situation. “Living the dream?” The words permeated mockery and smug gratification.

Tashi laughed shortly. “That is exactly what the fuck we’re doing.” 

Patrick nodded slowly, lips pressed together as he searched every inch of Tashi’s face. “Then how come he’s still hung up on Y/N?” The anger fizzled out of Tashi’s eyes, replaced with a bout of raw emotion she couldn’t keep under wraps. Pure, unadulterated vulnerability spread across her face, hinting at Art’s ongoing love for you. “Maybe the two of you really are living the dream on the outside, but you know he still loves her. The rest of the world might not know it, but I can see right through your perfect marriage act. He’s practically a shell of himself.”

“I think you might be projecting,” Tashi retorted, not wanting to give Patrick the satisfaction of knowing he was right. “Your entire world might revolve around the fact that Y/N didn’t want to marry you, but some of us have moved on with our lives,” she added. “And our careers.”

“Right.” Patrick chuckled, unconvinced by her tough facade. “Does he ever say her name instead of yours?” he wondered, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow. “When it’s really late at night, and he’s tired from practice. Does he lie in your shared bed and tell you good night, and he loves you, but then he calls you Y/N? Because exhaustion is a little bit like truth serum sometimes.”

“What, are you jealous?” Tashi taunted. “Do you wish the last thing Art thought about before closing his eyes was you? After all, it’s been a long time since you used to push your hotel beds together and fall in love with the same girl.”

Patrick grinned, wondering, “If your life with Art is so perfect then how come you hate him?” Tashi paused, leaning back to put some distance between herself and Patrick. “You do. It’s obvious, you do.” Sighing, Tashi looked away and clenched her jaw with irritation. “You can feel him giving up already, even though you know he’s not going to retire until you let him.”

“He is a grown man–” Tashi reminded him. 

“–Sure–”

“–He can do whatever he wants!”

“Sure, but he doesn’t. He does whatever you want,” Patrick argues. “Except now, he’s not even pretending to like it.” Tashi sighed, inching closer as he continued to pick apart her picture of the perfect married family. Patrick was right, Art was done with tennis. Everyone could see it. “He’s dreaming about eating hamburgers again. Watching your daughter, um–” Patrick snapped his fingers– “Uh, Lily, grow up. Maybe doing some commentary on the Tennis Channel. He’s ready to be dead. And you’re starting to realise you might not want to be buried with him, ’cause who is he to you if he’s not playing tennis?” 

Tashi’s jaw tightened as she clenched her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms. Her chest rose and fell with deliberate, shallow breaths, trying to steady herself, but the heat in her cheeks betrayed her frustration. She could feel Patrick’s eyes on her, the smugness barely concealed behind his neutral expression, as though he didn’t feel self-righteous for seeing through the facade of her and Art’s marriage. Her brow furrowed, lips pressed tightly together.

“So that’s what you think he is to me?” Tashi realised angrily. “A racket and a dick.”

For a moment, Patrick said nothing. Then, “Does Art know about Atlanta?” Tashi’s breath caught in her throat, icy tendrils of shock creeping down her spine as his words echoed in her ears. She shivered, her eyes widening as she stared at him, suddenly exposed. “You keep saying you came here because Art needed matches. I think you came for something else,” Patrick continued.

A sharp, disbelieving laugh burst from Tashi’s lips, sounding foreign even to her ears as she shook her head in disbelief. The absurdity of the moment overwhelmed her, and she let out another incredulous chuckle, her eyes narrowing as if to ask, Are you serious? “You think I came here for you?” she cried out. “You think I came here to throw it all away–” Tashi motioned her hand in a circle for emphasis– “For you?”

Patrick’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile, his lake-blue eyes glinting with a quiet confidence that unsettled Tashi. It was as if he held some unspoken truth, something lurking beneath the surface, and the certainty in his expression made her stomach twist in uneasy anticipation. “No, I’m not stupid enough to think you did all this for me. Like always, this is about Y/N,” Patrick revealed. “In one way or another, she’s the one that got away. I don’t expect you or Art to give up on her just because so many years have passed. Just like I’m not going to give up on her.”

Tashi rolled her eyes. “So, what? You think me coaching you is going to help both of us get on Y/N’s good side?” She shook her head sadly, her throat tightening as a familiar lump rose, making it hard to swallow. The weight of what they had done hung between them and you like an unbridgeable chasm, and Tashi knew there was no way to mend what they’d broken. “What we did is unforgivable. Maybe Art could get over it, but we slept together the night you broke up with her, knowing it would break her heart.”

“Maybe that would change if she just saw me,” Patrick suggested. 

“She has seen you. You look like shit,” Tashi retorted dryly. She started to walk past Patrick, her steps quick and determined, but just before she could leave him behind, she stopped and turned sharply. “You're an even bigger idiot than I thought if this is your plan to get her back,” Tashi said, her voice low but commanding, drawing his full attention as she stood her ground. “She’d have to fall in love with Art all over again to be with him, and you know she will if he becomes a part of her life again.” She motioned to the hotel. “She’s upstairs right now meeting Lily for the first time.”

Patrick smiled dejectedly, the corners of his mouth barely lifting as he wondered if it was finally time to give up, the fight draining from his eyes. “So you think I should quit on her?” he asked.

“Don’t you get it?” Tashi wondered exasperatedly. “With Art, she has to get to know him and fall in love with him a second time. With you, she just has to admit that she still loves you,” she explained. 

“I’m going to beat him,” Patrick declared, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “If we both make it to the final, I’m going to beat him.” 

Tashi met his gaze and held it, her eyes softer than they had ever been, hoping he could see the flicker of honesty she usually kept hidden. For the first time, there was a quiet sympathy there that she had never given him. “Even if you could beat him, it wouldn’t change anything,” she corrected him. 

“It’ll break him. You know it will,” Patrick replied. If Patrick beat Art in a match, Art would feel like he lost you all over again. It would be his final strike, and he’d never play a game of tennis again. More importantly, the part of Art that always longed to reconnect with Patrick and you would be shattered past the point of return.

“It won’t make you. Okay? It’s too late for that,” Tashi pointed out. “And it definitely won’t win you Y/N back. Not being a tennis champion will always be your insecurity; your problem with your relationship. Not hers. You wanted to beat Art, but she just wanted you.” 

𝟎𝟓:𝟑𝟎𝐏𝐌.

After finishing the movie with Art and Lily, the three of you ordered room-service ice cream before you excused yourself. Reconnecting with Art had been great, but you weren’t ready to face Tashi yet. 

Exiting the elevator, you felt your heart leap in your throat when a voice greeted you, “So you’ll talk to Art but not me?”

“Jesus Christ, Patrick,” you yelped. Your heart raced at the sight of Patrick leaning casually against the wall, a familiar yet unwelcome presence. His expression was a mix of anticipation and apprehension, as if he had been waiting to talk to you but feared what you might say. “What are you doing here?” you asked, stepping out of the way of people entering the elevator. 

“Actually, I was just talking to Tashi,” Patrick confessed. 

Your features smoothed into impeccable neutrality, not giving a single emotion or thought away. “I didn’t know the circus was in town—guess I missed the memo,” you quipped, unimpressed at the thought of your ex and ex-best friend getting together.

When Patrick laughed, your heart stopped; it was painstakingly familiar, just as boyish and uninhibited as the day you first met him. It was almost painful how easy it was to fall back into old habits with Patrick as you forced yourself not to smile or react. 

“That’s cute,” he mumbled, tucking his hands into his pockets. “But seriously, you and Art are friends now?”

“Art has a lot less to be sorry for than you do,” you retorted, raising an eyebrow. 

Maybe it was residual anger from talking to Tashi, but Patrick didn’t like that you chose to make up with Art instead of him. He searched your face for understanding, mind racing with images of you laughing with Art, the intimacy you shared lingering like a spectre between you. How could you move past your issues with Art while Patrick felt tethered to his mistakes? 

As Patrick stood before you, he felt a knot of insecurity tightening in his stomach, the words tumbling from his mouth with an edge of desperation. “Okay, fine. You’re right, sleeping with Tashi the night we broke up was wrong, but I proposed and you said no. Why am I the bad guy?” he questioned, his voice barely masking the hurt beneath. 

Your heart ached at the thought that he believed you were at fault for your relationship ending, the weight of his accusation pressing down on your chest like a heavy stone. As memories of that night flooded back—Patrick’s tense expression, the ultimatum hanging in the air like a guillotine—tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Your hands trembled as you fought to steady yourself, each breath coming shallow and uneven. 

“Did you forget how I begged for your understanding that night, how shattered I was by your ultimatum?” you questioned, voice hoarse and quiet with emotion. The injustice twisted in your gut, leaving you feeling raw and heartbroken, as if the wounds of your past were being reopened. “I begged you to change your mind, I begged you to give me time and keep dating because I didn’t want to break up. But you would rather end our relationship or force me to do something I wasn’t ready for.”

“‘Force’ you?” Patrick echoed. “I was in love with you, I wanted to start my future with you! You couldn’t even give me a reason why you didn’t want to get married!”

“You couldn’t give me a good reason as to why we should get married,” you argued pointedly. “It was so sudden and you were in such a bad place, I just felt like the entire proposal was driven by your insecurities and fears rather than what it should be about: us wanting to spend our lives together.”

Patrick stiffened at your mention of his insecurities, a grip of vulnerability wrapping around him as he felt himself freeze. The old fear surged back, a familiar ache in his chest, making him acutely aware of how exposed he was to you. You could always see through the carefully constructed walls Patrick had built around himself, just as he could see through yours. When he first met you, it was one of the reasons Patrick fell in love with you. Now, after everything you’d been through together, it was terrifying. 

He swallowed hard, the sting of anxiety creeping in. “I asked you to marry me and you said no. Forgive me if I felt a little insecure and needed to know that you actually wanted to be in this relationship,” Patrick replied. 

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” you insisted. “And I never said no! I said I needed time; I needed to process.”

“If it’s not a yes, it’s a no,” Patrick disagreed with you. 

“You see–” you gestured to Patrick with your hands for emphasis– “This is why we broke up! I never said no! I said that I loved you and that I wanted nothing more than to marry you and have a family someday, but you…” Groaning, you buried your face in your hands and muttered, “God, I can’t believe we’re doing this in public.” You dropped your hands and met Patrick’s tearful blue-green gaze. “You were already done with me.”

“I was ‘done’? By proposing to you, I was ‘done’?”

“No, by not waiting for me to be ready, you decided you were done! I wasn’t asking for our relationship to end, I was asking for time to get my thoughts together and stop freaking out so that I could make a choice! But you made that choice for me when you told me that I had to marry you or you were breaking up with me,” you explained. “My whole life before Stanford, someone else was making choices for me. I always thought that you of all people understood that,” you admitted, referencing your controlling mother and his overbearing parents. “But then you threw it back in my face and told me it was now or never; it had to happen or you were leaving. And no matter how much I loved you, I knew that you had given up. Because if you were truly still in it, if you truly still loved me, you would have known that given the choice, I would have picked you.”

Patrick nodded, pressing his lips together. “You were at the top of your game, and I was struggling,” he admitted. “I needed you to believe in me.”

Your chest tightened at Patrick’s words, the sting of his accusation cutting deeper than you expected. “I did believe in you,” you promised desperately. “How could you think I didn’t? I always saw your potential, I always wanted you to succeed.” Your heart ached at the thought that Patrick felt so alone in his struggles. “I was building my career too, and we were both busy. But I always showed up for you.”

Patrick let out a bitter, sad laugh, the sound hollow and laced with disappointment as he struggled to reconcile the memories of what you once shared with the reality of your fractured relationship. “Yeah, and I was always the one who got left behind. You didn’t care what others said about us, did you?”

“Of course I did!” Your voice cracked from the effort of your cry. “I knew it hurt you, but none of those people knew us! I knew you, and I believed in you and our relationship, no matter what other people said.”

“Then why couldn’t you say yes? Why couldn’t you just take that leap with me?”

“Because I wanted to be sure! I didn’t want to rush into something I wasn’t ready for,” you repeated. 

It felt like the two of you were going in circles, each sentence looping back to the same painful points, as if you were trapped in an unending spiral. You could see the frustration etched on Patrick’s face, and you felt your own simmering beneath the surface. Every attempt to clarify your feelings seemed to muddy the waters further, leaving you more entangled in your past. Patrick sighed, the heaviness of your unspoken emotions hanging in the air. You wondered if you would ever find a way to break free from this exhausting cycle or if you were destined to remain forever locked in this dance of hurt.

“So, you thought I’d just stand there, waiting for you to figure it out? You thought you could just put your life on pause while I tried to keep up?” Patrick asked.

“No, but you weren’t patient. You gave up on us the moment you proposed without understanding what it really meant for me,” you argued. “You could have waited. You could have let me come to you in my own time. But instead, you made it all about your insecurities.”

Patrick’s breath grew shaky, each inhalation trembling as he struggled to maintain his composure, and your heart sank at the sight. You could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the unshed tears threatening to spill over. “Then how come every time I picked up a racket, I thought of you?” he asked. “How come every match I played, I wanted to win just so that—for once—you could be proud of me the way I always was of you?”

“Because you were the one who wanted to prove everyone wrong! I just wanted you, no matter what people thought,” you replied steadily. “I didn’t care about you winning, I cared about your happiness. I cared that you were being so hard on yourself just because Art joined the tour and was playing better than you. I cared so much it hurt! But you didn’t see that. You were too busy drowning in your own doubts to see how much I loved you.”

“You could’ve said yes, Y/N,” Patrick insisted. He shook his head, unable to let go of this one point that had plagued him for the last eight years. “You could’ve shown me you believed we could make it work.” You sniffled, choking back tears. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should’ve waited. But that doesn’t change the fact that I loved you enough to want to spend my life with you.”

“And I loved you too,” you reminded him. “But I would have waited a lifetime for you, and you couldn’t even spare me a minute.” Patrick finally let a tear slip down his cheek before wiping it away furiously as if trying to erase the evidence of his vulnerability. Your heart ached at the sight, realising that, even after everything you had been through, he still wouldn’t fully open himself up to you. “I guess sometimes it doesn’t matter how much you love each other. It’s just not enough.”

𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 – 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟒, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟏. 𝟏𝟐:𝟏𝟎𝐀𝐌.

Patrick sat on the edge of the bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminating the small velvet box in his trembling hands. He had wanted to propose to you for over a year, ever since he purchased the ring and slipped it into his pocket. But as he sat there, heart racing and mind swirling, he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything had changed. You had skyrocketed to fame and success, your career blossoming in ways everyone except you had anticipated—given your incredible talent, hard work, and tenacity to keep improving—while his professional trajectory felt like a slow descent into mediocrity.

As a former junior champion, Patrick had always been compared to Art, who now stood at the pinnacle of the tennis world. Their history together on the court had been golden, two young stars lighting up the doubles scene, but Art’s transition to the professional circuit had been nothing short of meteoric. With his years of training and playing at Stanford, Art had an army of supporters behind him and an incredible team of professionals helping him succeed. He had come onto the scene with finesse and skill that Patrick struggled to match.

Everyone had been right: coasting on talent wasn’t enough in the professional world. 

The media was all too eager to draw comparisons between them, framing Patrick as the one left behind, overshadowed by his former best friend’s rising stardom and his gorgeous grand-slam-champion girlfriend.

Tonight had to be the night Patrick proposed. No other night would do; this was his final chance. It was after midnight, and technically the early morning of the Atlanta Open’s men’s singles final. Patrick felt the weight of impending doom more than anyone else. He knew Art was going to win; everyone did. Art was the brand new golden boy of the American tennis world, keeping up with seasoned players such as Andy Roddick and Mardy Fish. The thought made Patrick clench the ring box tighter. 

Every glance at the ring brought about a fresh wave of doubt. Would you even want to marry someone who was struggling to keep up? You had blossomed into an extraordinary athlete, and every time you spoke of your achievements, Patrick felt a knot tightening in his chest. He loved you fiercely, but the shadows of his insecurities loomed with each passing day. What if you realised you could do better? What if you decided that Art—brilliant, talented, and successful Art—was the man you deserved? The one you truly loved?

It didn’t matter that Art and Tashi were engaged; Patrick was sure Art would drop his fiancée in a heartbeat if he could have you instead.

Shaking his head, Patrick hoped to shake the negative thoughts from his mind, too. He had pictured this moment countless times, but now that the moment had come, he was filled with terror. Patrick stood, pacing the room as excitement and fear swirled in his stomach. His insecurities were at an all-time high, and he felt isolated because he’d been keeping them from his girlfriend. But all Patrick could wonder was how he could propose to you when all he could think about was how far behind he was in the race they were running together? The comparisons to Art haunted him as he silently rehearsed his proposal.

He had to do it before the men’s finals happened in the afternoon, before you realised just how much better Art was than him. Patrick had to be the person who lifted you up. He couldn’t be the one who held you back from being great.

You pushed open the door to your shared hotel room, exhaustion etched into your features as you stepped inside, your shoes pattering softly against the polished floor. You had spent the entire day arranging press engagements for Patrick, switching between arranging interviews and photo ops and phone calls with Elora, who was helping Patrick out for free. You had gone through all this effort to support him during the Atlanta Open, even after he flew out in the penultimate round. 

As you walked through the door, you let out a long sigh, shedding the weight of the day like a heavy coat, and saw Patrick leaning against the wall, a smile breaking across his face.

“Hey, you,” he greeted, his voice warm and inviting. Patrick was proud of how calm and normal he sounded, given how he had raced to throw the ring box in his duffel when he heard your key card swipe against the keypad of your room door. “Long night?” he added sympathetically. 

You nodded, running a hand through your hair, which had fallen out of its perfect style throughout the evening. “You have no idea,” you replied, your tired eyes sparkling just for him. “It feels like I’ve been on the phone for hours talking to people who only treat me nicely when they realise who I am. I hope they’re nicer to Elora when she calls,” you mumbled. “But I’m here now,” you said happily. Wrapping your arms around Patrick’s middle, you hugged your boyfriend tightly and greeted him with a kiss. “How was your night?”

“Terrible,” Patrick replied, nuzzling his nose against your cheek and sighing happily. “My girlfriend up—being the selfless and perfect creature that she is—was gone all day and I missed her very much.” 

You chuckled. “That’s what I like to hear,” you joked. With a startled yelp, you held onto Patrick’s waist as he swapped your positions, pressing you against the wall. You recognised the hungry, desperate look in his lake-blue eyes and smirked. “Wow, you really did miss me,” you mused, resting your head against the wall and admiring your handsome boyfriend. 

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Patrick replied smoothly. “I always miss you when you’re gone. I’m like a golden retriever with separation anxiety.”

You grinned. “I missed you too, Pat,” you promised. There was a shift in the atmosphere. A nervous energy crackled in the air that hadn’t been there in the morning. You studied Patrick’s expression closely, searching for any clues that might explain the sudden gravity of the moment, your brow furrowing with concern. His eyes, usually so full of mischief and confidence, now held a flicker of uncertainty, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that something deeper was going on. “Is everything okay?”

Patrick felt the weight of the ring box pressing down on his mind, an unyielding reminder of what he had planned. “Y/N,” he blurted out, the words tumbling from his lips before he could stop them. “I wanted to talk to you about something. Or, rather, ask you something.”

Your expression shifted from fatigue to surprise, your eyes widening as you registered the sudden seriousness in his tone. “You know you can ask me anything,” you encouraged Patrick, your curiosity piqued. Your exhaustion was forgotten, replaced with pure intrigue.

With every nerve in his body screaming at him, Patrick felt the world around him fade away. His palms grew clammy against the wall on either side of your body, and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest. A wave of nausea washed over him, tightening his stomach as Patrick wrestled with his doubts and insecurities. His mind screamed at him not to do it, warning him that this was a mistake, but deep down, he knew he had to push past the fear.

He needed you to say yes. He needed to grasp onto this moment like a lifeline, believing that getting engaged could fix the uncertainty that loomed over him and his career.

“I know this might seem sudden, but I love you, and I can’t imagine my life without you,” Patrick said slowly, enunciating carefully so you wouldn’t misunderstand. Encouragingly, you cupped his face and nodded for him to go on. The light touch of your fingertips made Patrick shiver, momentarily halting his proposal. Then, he stammered, “W-Will you marry me?”

The air hung heavy with anticipation, and time seemed to stand still as you stared at him, your mouth slightly agape, caught off guard by his unexpected proposal. The sparkle of pure affection in your eyes faltered, replaced by a bewildered look that sent a jolt of anxiety through Patrick. 

He had imagined this moment for so long, picturing a wave of relief washing over him when he asked the question. But now, standing before you, all he could feel was dread, a heavy weight settling in his chest that made it hard to breathe. The uncertain glint in your eyes only deepened his fears, a contrast to the joy he thought he’d see reflected back at him. Instead of the excitement and agreement Patrick expected, he was met with doubt, and it clawed at his insides like a dark, gnawing fear. Each second felt like hours, and Patrick was just about ready to snap under the weight of his insecurities.

“Patrick…” you started, your voice trailing off, as if searching for the right words to piece together what was happening. Your hands dropped slowly from his face in shock. The surprise painted across your face was palpable, and Patrick felt his heart drop when you—his girlfriend—said his full name instead of your beloved nickname for him. 

In that instant, the warmth and excitement he had envisioned for this proposal flickered, leaving only the raw vulnerability of his heart laid bare before you.

[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."

[poppy-metal]

i just feel like being involved with tashi, art, and patrick comes with rules!! for example, u can’t be left alone with art bc although patrick is mean and nasty when he fucks u, it’s art that gets pussydrunk to the point where he’s absolutely mindless. and u cant be left alone with him bc for just as pussydrunk as he gets u get cockdrunk so it’s just hours of art either eating u out, fucking u in various positions, humping each other, or u suckling on his cock and if tashi and patrick aren’t there to control it, y’all go until art’s cock is red and sensitive and he’s shooting blanks and until ur pussy is throbbing and pushing out the many loads that have been dumped inside her! really the only way it ends is when one of yall passes out from exhaustion methinks 🩵

the visual of being so full of cum it pours out of you in a stream just made my head blank. art probably has a short refractory period too, and can cum multiple times in one go before he gets soft, his cock red and raw as it fucks a fourth load into you. its actually crazy how much cum he can expend, sometimes when tashi's watching she just reaches out and squeezes his balls in wonder, just cupping them to feel the way they clench and unclench as they empty a little more cum. squeezes them again when hes done like, "they're still full." ignoring his pitiful whine, "can you go again? i wanna see."

and he can, even though his cock is sensitive and weeping it still twitches weakly inside you, and even if it feels so good it almost hurts, he drags his hips back and forth again and again till he feels - till tashi feels - his sack tightening again. moaning into your neck, as he fucks into the sloppy hole he's filled to the brim with cum leaking around his cock and making wet sloshing slaps echo into the room with every thrust inside.

tashi uses it as a punishment more often than not. making art rub his cock raw inside you until you're both so limp you'd agree to anything she asked, completely drained for the evening afterwards.

[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.

[zweiginator]

need more of the patrick and tashi x tashi's inexperienced roommate i'm going feral like i need them to corrupt her in every possible way

i see you i hear you im with you.

cuz you have had sex before. but not good sex. you lost your virginity to a guy you met freshman year of college and that was all you knew. vanilla, missionary sex that lasted maybe five minutes. six if you count 'foreplay'.

but after what happened with patrick and tashi--you're addicted. and they want to corrupt you. tashi makes patrick touch himself the next day when you're in class. lists out ideas of what he can do to you to see his reactions. everything sounded good to him. but the way his eyes rolled back when tashi mentioned teaching you how to suck his cock--she knew she had a winner.

"perfect." tashi said. "sounds like the most logical step anyway."

"you think she'll want to?" patrick asked, catching his breath. tashi found a washcloth, cleaned the sticky cum from his stomach.

"course she will. she became quite the little slut for us."

they didn't know you dreamt of them. touched your aching little pussy almost every day, too shy to ask them for more, but crossing your fingers there was more to come.

patrick was set to leave in a few days, and you were worried that it was a one-time thing.

but when you got back to your dorm room, it felt like déjà vu, the look they were giving you.

and you were so obedient. always so willing to answer their questions or please them. they adore you. you’re so sweet; they crave you.

“how would you like to learn something new today?” in reality, tashi didn’t know if it would be new. she sort of just assumed you had never given head before.

“like what?” you sat your backpack down, sitting on your bed.

“you ever sucked a cock?” patrick said it in a more lewd manner than tashi would’ve preferred—but it got the point across.

you shook your head. i mean, you almost had. once before. but you never understood why anyone would want to. that was, until you were sitting on patrick’s face. until you watched how he lapped you up, moaned into your cunt and pushed you closer than you thought was even fucking possible. when you turned your head and looked at his cock, how strained it was—god, you wanted to see it. wanted to stroke it and feel how heavy he would be against your tongue. how his breath would hitch and his hands would find your face to grab onto.

“do you want to?” patrick asked, looking at tashi.

“yes.” it was immediate. they smirked at each other. they had corrupted you, made you a dumb little slut for them.

“c’mere.” patrick motioned to you. he sat on the edge of tashi’s bed.

“get on your knees in front of him. don’t worry, we’ll go slow.” tashi said it like she was an extension of her boyfriend. in reality, she was. maybe a part of her felt like this was a release for her. a way for her to fuck you vicariously through patrick’s cock.

you did as she said. patrick’s hands stroked your hair. his thumb pressed against your lips and he told you to open up. that this would act as practice.

“let me feel how you suck on them.”

so you sucked his fingers. took one and then two and eventually three. swirled your tongue around them.

“hallow your cheeks. when it’s my cock you gotta try and be gentle. the teeth can hurt.”

you nodded, suckling harder. suctioning and swirling your tongue. patrick was getting so hard. he pulled his fingers out; a long string of your spit tethered you together.

“i want you naked.” his pretty irises were hidden by lust-blown pupils and you obeyed him. he was hypnotic.

tashi kissed your shoulder as she pulled your shirt off. she helped you with your shorts, and then your panties. she felt how nervous you were, and tilted your chin to look at her.

“don’t worry. you’ll do great. start slow. he’s big.”

you hadn’t thought about the size of him. and as patrick pulled his boxers down and his cock slapped against his toned abdomen, your hands shook.

“here.” tashi grabbed your wrist, spat in your hand. “stroke him. touch him everywhere. he likes when you play with his balls. brush your thumb against this part right here.” tashi ran her thumb over the sensitive crown of patrick’s cock. he whined.

you copied her. “like this?”

she nodded. “good. now stroke him up and down. add more spit if you need.”

you used both hands. spat on him and rubbed his balls. they were velvety; he was so soft and sensitive down there. he twitched and bucked his hips and rolled his head back when you tightened your grip and went faster, faster.

you watched him so intently, trying to see what he liked. he liked it all—but tashi was right. he loved when you played with his balls. so you did it more and more. jerked him faster. used the hot beads of precum that dribbled out of him to make him wetter and wetter.

“now put it in your mouth.” tashi ordered. she was hypnotized—addicted to ordering you around. to dominating her boyfriend without even fucking touching him.

when the head of his cock pushed into your mouth, he groaned. it was a wet, carnal disgusting groan. because he knew his was the first cock to go into your pretty little mouth. and your lips were so stretched around him, so red and wet with spit and precum.

“oh my god.” patrick and tashi said it at the same time.

you stroked what you couldn’t fit into your mouth, but you suctioned and touched his balls and did exactly what they taught you to. even looked patrick right in the eye even though yours were watering.

“good girl. good fucking girl.”

it felt so good to be praised by him. by both of them. you smiled and pulled off his cock and he looked so dejected. he wanted more. but jesus, your smile was so pretty.

“what are you doin-“ he gathered your hair in his hands.

“tashi said you like when i touch you down there.”

you couldn’t even say balls.

and then you sucked them into your mouth and patrick almost screamed. his knuckles were white as he gripped tashi’s baby pink sheets. he was sure he was sweating so hard, dripping onto them.

“fuck yes—“

tashi nodded, leaning forward to pull your hair back. she whispered in your ear.

“he’s going to cum soon. you gonna swallow it?”

you hummed, his pressing a kiss to his balls. licking up his shaft, you nodded.

“good.”

as soon as you reached the tip, you suckled on him, stroking him hard and fast and with a desperate fervor you had never felt before. you needed to make them so proud.

patrick came down your throat; he didn’t even have time to warn you. it was hot and sticky in your mouth but you swallowed it. and you showed them, as tashi held patrick’s head and kissed his forehead, talking him through his orgasm. his breathing was heavy and shallow and tashi listened to his heartbeat as patrick tucked you under his arm. he wouldn’t say it to tashi explicitly but he liked to think you were both his girls.